The Dominant Male. Sarah Holland
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sultry, sexy brunette stands on the balcony over-lookng Havana. She is wearing a long, slinky red evening dress, slit to the thigh, and a red bougainvillea flower in her hair.
A black limousine pulls up in the aristocratic Havana street below. A liveried chauffeur rushes to open the rear door. A tall, dark and incredibly powerful-looking man steps out, looks up at the brunette on the balcony and gives a slow, ruthless smile.
The sultry brunette looks at the camera and says throatily, ‘I like my men the way I like my coffee…dark, rich and very strong.’
CARILLO’S CUBAN COFFEE, flashes up onto the screen. DARK, RICH AND VERY STRONG.
Rhiannon studied the storyboard. When she’d left for the charity fête this morning, her mind had been filled with Carillo’s Cuban coffee. She hadn’t been able to decide whether to stick with ‘Dark, rich and very strong’ or move to her new idea of ‘When you feel like coming on strong’.
Now she couldn’t care less.
It was a matter of complete indifference to her.
All she cared about was whether or not she would ever see Gabriel Stone again, and whether he would kiss her as he had kissed her today, unleashing that dammed-up passion.
He made me feel like a woman for the first time in years, she realised with a shock.
And I loved every second of it.
But how could he do it in just one brief meeting?
How…?
Ambition had been her lover and best friend for so long that she automatically expected to feel dynamic and excited as soon as she crossed the threshold of Solomon Advertising Associates on Monday morning.
But as she entered the busy black glass building on Tottenham Court Road she felt the same sense of detachment and strangeness she had felt all weekend.
She quickened her step, almost running to the lifts as though from the changes in herself. On the seventh floor people said hello to her as always, and she said hello back cheerily, but inside she felt alien to them, and to the whole business of advertising.
She hurried past Bobby’s little glass office without stopping to wave. He was sitting at his desk, playing with the executive toy she had bought him for Christmas last year.
But there was her own office, just ahead, a beacon of light—her palace, her reason for living. The door was polished oak with a gleaming gold plaque on it which read‘RHIANNON WINDMORR—CREATIVE DIRECTOR’.
Just the sight of it had always made her smile brightly. But today she felt nothing. It was just a piece of brass on a door, that was all—nothing more.
She went inside, closed the door and looked at the trophies, the certificates, the award-winning designs, adverts and accolades collected over the last five years. They seemed so pointless. Just pieces of brass and wood and glossy posters. They weren’t real or alive, they couldn’t make her feel wonderful any more—and they no longer filled her with passionate excitement.
Only one thing, however, had happened to her since she’d left this office at midnight on Friday—Gabriel Stone!
Damn the man! What has he done to me? Is this some kind of magic spell he’s put over me, making me turn my face from my own life and wish for nothing but love, passion, desire…
There was a knock at the door.
Whirling round, she called sharply, ‘Come in!’
‘Morning!’ Jerry, the receptionist, strode in, blonde hair flying, pink lips glossy, high heels flashing. ‘Sorry to disturb, but an urgent package has just arrived for you.’
‘For me?’ Rhiannon took the big white parcel with a frown.
‘A chauffeur just hand-delivered it to Reception. I’m dying to know what’s inside it.’
Curiouser and curiouser, thought Rhiannon, opening the parcel while Jerry watched.
She saw a flash of scarlet-gold silk beneath folds of white tissue paper, and a white envelope nestling among the tissue with the unmistakable handwriting of Gabriel Stone in black.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Rhiannon said through her teeth, heart thudding hard as she tore the envelope open with trembling hands and read the card.
Miss Windmorr,
I’m having an intimate dinner party on Saturday night. It would amuse me if I could entertain my guests with a Welsh Witch. My chauffeur will collect you from your home address at seven-thirty. Wear the costume provided. Come alone.
Gabriel Stone.
How had he managed to find her? Not only here at Solomon Associates, but also to get her home address? Then she remembered him talking to the host and hostess at that charity fête. He had found out that she was engaged to Bobby. It must have been a simple matter to get her work and home addresses.
She looked down at the note in her unsteady hands. It wasn’t just the condescending and insolent tone that offended her. Nor even the curt commands, issued as though she were some kind of minor domestic employee. What made her most furious was the total lack of respect which permeated his letter from start to finish.
‘Gabriel Stone!’ Jerry gasped, reading over Rhiannon’s shoulder. ‘Gosh, you lucky thing!’
‘Lucky…?’
‘Oh, yes! He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen!’
‘Optically challenged, are you?’ Rhiannon snapped.
‘Oh, come on! He’s got more animal magnetism than any man has a right to! You should have seen him when he walked in here twenty minutes ago! Those blue eyes, that tough face—’
‘Walked in here?’ Rhiannon whispered, almost collapsing like a tower of jelly on the spot. ‘You mean—here? He’s here? In the building?’
‘Yes, he’s upstairs with Steve Solomon.’
Rhiannon swayed, aware of the excitement gripping her body like an electric fist, knowing she was a fool to feel it—a lemming rushing blindly over a cliff to destruction. How stupid to feel excited at the prospect of her own unquestionable doom if she ever let him near her.
‘Maybe he’s going to switch to Solomon Associates!’ Jerry mused. ‘All his companies have been with Rawdon and Taylor for years. They’re so old-fashioned, though. Did you see—?’
‘Even if Gabriel Stone does switch to us, I won’t have anything to do with him! Just look at this note! Have you ever seen anything so conceited? Demanding I come to his party like a performing monkey!’
‘I’d perform for him any old day!’
‘Oh, Jerry! Must you think of sex, sex—?’
The telephone rang sharply.
Rhiannon snatched it up, her voice unsteady. ‘Rhiannon Windmorr!’
‘Ah, Miss Windmorr!’ Steve Solomon, the chairman, drawled, like the lazy fat-cat he was. ‘Get up to my office right away, please. We have a potential new client I’d like you to meet.’
‘But, sir, I—’
The line went dead.
For a second Rhiannon just stood there, clutching the receiver with a damp hand while Jerry waited with bated breath.
Trembling, she clumsily put the receiver down.
‘Well?’ Jerry asked eagerly.
‘I have to go up to Solomon’s office right away,’ she said huskily. ‘To meet a new client.’ She smoothed her damp palms on her skirt. How could she face him? She felt so vulnerable…
‘It must be Gabriel Stone!’
‘Yes,