All the Frogs in Manhattan Page 6

I bought my house in Montauk a year ago, a good deal at two million. It’s an older, Nantucket-style house with its shingled siding and weathered gray exterior. The inside is made up of whites and creams, with big bay windows looking out onto the infinity pool and private beach below.

  It seems excessive to have this four-bedroom home; I’m a single guy who only comes out here for maybe eight weekends a year. But … it’s somewhat necessary to show my face and be a part of the summer crowd. The Hamptons is not only for relaxation. It’s also where some of the best networking and deal making is done.

  Which is why I’m here, dressed in all white during the first official weekend of the season, or the second week of June as everyone knows is sacrosanct in the Hamptons. It’s the party everyone wants to come to, but only a select hundred are invited to. It’s to be seen and see others, to rub elbows. For some, they get their most interesting gossip at this party.

  For me, I’m on the hunt for a new partner who will help me fund my latest brainchild.

  “You know, I could help you start a conversation.” Brynn flashes a smile as she winds a tanned, smooth arm through mine.

  I turned, my gaze landing on the red headed vixen beside me. Brynn was full of sex appeal; the long fiery waves, the striking high cheek bones, flashing green eyes and hourglass figure encased in a white mini dress that looked like it had been painted on.

  She was one of the women I used to hook up with occasionally; she was on the scene and a regular at these parties. I hadn't seen her in a year or so, but when she'd called to ask me to dinner having heard I was in the Hamptons, I knew she'd be the perfect date to the White Party. Brynn could flirt with anyone, even perverse old men who controlled every Angel Fund in the city. The kind of men that I needed to get in front of tonight.

  "Please do," I murmured in her ear, placing my hand along the swooping curve of her lower back.

  If tonight went well, I'd be closing two deals.

  Brynn sauntered up to a man I knew well. Tall with raven black hair, that everyone damn well knew he dyed, and a potbelly. Sinclair Wells. He owned one of the biggest private equity and investment funds in Manhattan, let alone the country.

  “Hi there, sugar. You look like you’re bored.” She pouts a crimson lip at him as he turns, and I see his beady eyes light with taboo thoughts.

  “But how could I possibly be bored with a beautiful woman like you talking to me?” Sinclair, who I knew was originally named Salvatore, was a sleazy Italian looking guy with hair so greasy, it could be used to fry chicken. He takes Brynn’s hand without her giving permission and kisses it.

  “Sinclair.” I hold out my hand and tip my head, the guy already knowing who I am.

  “Anders, well hey! Nice to see you. Is this pretty lady with you?” He’s fishing to see if he can stick his dick in her. Not that she’d be into it at all. Brynn may play nice with this crowd, but she only goes for the attractive ones with money.

  “She is my date tonight, but we are just friends. How have you been?” I need to at least entertain his disgusting stories for a little to be able to launch into the conversation I want.

  Sinclair of course starts telling us about the newest ventures of his; the latest technology in dental hygiene, some kind of toothbrush that cleans so well the user doesn’t even need to invest in dental insurance. And a new line of sports equipment that all of the celebrity athletes are beta-testing as we speak. He drones on about his latest trip to a Texas strip club, and the new house he just bought in Aspen.

  When I finally get my opening, I launch right in.

  “So, I wanted to talk to you about my next idea, and how you can help. I’ve got something big on my plate, and think that no one but you would be able to see the vision and how big this could get.” I was direct in my sales approach, no pussy footing. If he was in, he’d want to hear it. At this point in my career, I didn’t need to sell my ideas; people knew how good I was. That wasn’t cocky either, it just was what it was. I executed above and beyond, and I’d made all of my early investors their money back triple fold.

  Sinclair holds up his hands, stopping my train of thought. “Now hold it right there, Oliver. I’m sure your idea is worth billions, but right now, I’m just too overextended. I’d love to do business with you, but right now, I just can’t. Good luck though!”

  The fat bastard stalks away, eyeing some other ass in a tight dress across the lawn.

  “Well, fuck.” I ran my hands through my dark curls and sighed, knowing this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

  “Don’t pout, handsome. Let’s do a shot to loosen up, and we will try the next rich old guy.”

  Brynn pulls my hand and I follow to the bar, reluctant to start on the alcohol but also needing it. She orders us two Johnny Walker Blue shooters and winds herself around me until I can’t help but rub against her slim body. She’s too skinny, and my mind hones in on Gemma’s curves. The way they flare in and out, how her ass and thighs and breasts move slightly when she sways, or climbs on top of my dick.

  Jesus, I’ve only fucked the girl twice and talked to her a couple of times. I’m just hung up on the sex, because it’s fucking good sex. And because she doesn’t ask questions or need reassurance.

  Brynn and I do the shot and move on to the next investor, a German guy who owns almost every building on Wall Street. He isn’t interested in my next project either, and I notice that Brynn is on her fourth gin and tonic.

  By the third person we talk to, she’s stumbling and super handsy. Not that anyone at the party notices, half the people here have been inebriated since noon, but its only nine o’clock and she’s basically giving me an over-the-pants hand job.

  “All right, Brynn … calm down there.” I half-laugh and shrug her off.

  But she’s not having it, and comes at me full on, giggling in my ear and latching her nails into my ass. “Come on, Oliver, fuck me somewhere in that big house. You know you want to.”

  Actually, the idea of pounding away at what I know is a sweet pussy holds absolutely no appeal to me right now. I came here to close one deal, and wrapping a redhead around my hard cock wasn’t it. I need a partner in this venture, the one that will be the biggest project of my career.

  “Not tonight, darling. I’m just not in the mood.” I move away from her again, straightening the white button down she’s been rumpling and dripping her drink on.

  Brynn slurs, and her eyes are so dilated, I didn’t even realize she was this drunk. “But you’re always in the mood. Whatever, Oliver, this is why I haven’t seen you in a year. You lead me on, you lead every woman on. Use us, and then dump us because your precious business means fucking more to you than any woman ever will.”

  She’s spitting her words, and some eyes turn toward us. I need to extract myself from this situation. Now.

  I look around, hoping no one of importance is listening to this. And my eyes land on someone who is so out of place to me in this crowd, I can’t help but blurt out her name.

  “Gemma?”

  My tan, auburn escape route whips her head around, the blond … family or something she is with all flashing me smiles.

  She runs over, her tits bouncing in the split open top she wears. When she reaches me, her small hands grip my forearms, her peach and vanilla scent enveloping my body.

  “Did I ever tell you you’re like a mirage in the desert? Thank fuck, Oliver. Get me away from these people before they wipe my brain and abduct me away to Pleasantville.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gemma

  Five Hours Before

  No matter how incredibly ridiculous my personal and love life can get … in my professional career, I’m a hard-working girl boss who goes above and beyond every single day.

  In the office, I grind. Literally, there are some days I think I cut my teeth so bad I’m bleeding from how many challenges I take on. This week alone, I offered to do the first rounds of edits of this month’s beauty section in Femme to impress my boss. I also wrote
two of the section pieces, perfected them until Medusa got off my ass, attended three launches for new beauty lines, recorded and video edited two in-office tutorials, and got started on the logistics of Femme’s Annual Fall Beauty Event.

  I rarely leave my desk, eat my salad with dressing on the side while sniffing new perfumes or rubbing eye shadow shades on my forearm, and am one of the last people out every night. I love my job, I’m damn good at it, and I support myself. If there is a new something that I want, I buy it. Not that I need to shout it to the rooftops, but I’m an independent woman.

  But … an independent woman only brings in so much. Sure, I can afford my Manhattan rent and a pair of overly priced shoes every once in a while. I go out on the weekends, eat out a lot, pay for way-too-expensive pilates classes.

  What I can’t afford is a house in the Hamptons. Not even to rent one with a bunch of friends for the weekends in the summer.

  So when a cute guy that I had a nice first date with invites me to stay with him at his Montauk house for the first official weekend of the season, there is absolutely no way I’m saying no.

  “Thanks for coming down with me, it’s going to be a lot of fun. Especially now that you’re here.”

  Dean Frontero smiles at me, his large hand coming off the gear shift of his Mercedes coup to squeeze mine as if he was anticipating a great two days.

  And if I let my guard down for one minute, I could admit that I was too. I’d been on some shitty dates lately, had seen the bad side of men in the city and how love in Manhattan was buried beneath the grimiest sewer. But then I’d gone out with Dean three days ago and we had hit it off.

  He was everything I was looking for. Charming, good looking, self made, held a steady job. He worked for the District Attorney’s office, and when I wasn’t imagining how he’d look starring in one of my favorite crime shows, I was admiring his Kennedy-like good looks. Dean was an all-American blond with dimples to match, and his Polo cologne couldn’t be more obvious if it tried.

  I liked him so far, we were having fun. Conversation was good and he really seemed to be down to earth.

  “Me too, I’m excited to get on the beach. My toes haven’t felt the sand in too long. So what are we doing tonight?” I flick a piece of lint off of my new blue and white striped sundress.

  Being that I can’t really afford a Hamptons house, I don’t go there all that often. Therefore, I don’t have a Hamptons wardrobe. So as soon as I found out I was going, I made an emergency trip to Bloomingdale’s and snatched up every preppy, striped, white item of clothing I could find on the rack.

  Sure, I may have maxed out my credit card, or came close to it, but the allure of the Hamptons was too great to resist. Sometimes, as a woman, I know that my bank account is stumbling. But I need the strappy Steve Madden sandals anyway. Because if a great pair of shoes can make my life better, I’m investing in them.

  “Tonight, I’m taking you to The White Party. Some years it can be a bore, others it’s really fun. I hear that there is a famous DJ going, so hopefully that will make it fun? If not, we can walk down the beach back to my house. The people who host it every year are basically our neighbors.”

  Dean flicks on a blinker for the exit to Montauk, and my insides dance. I’ve heard about the White Party. It’s the most exclusive, infamous party in all of the Hamptons, much less New York City. I’m going to be rubbing elbows with some of the most elite people in Manhattan, or internationally. These people control the status quo of things, they have seen worlds a girl from New Jersey can only dream of. I’m not only excited to get to know Dean more, and possibly start something new and romantic, but I’m thrilled to go behind the curtain and see how the other half lives.

  “Does everyone really wear white? Or does like, one daring person come in in all black and wow? Like Cinderella, everyone is looking at her and then she loses her stiletto on the pool steps.” I get it, I babble when I’m nervous.

  And being in a nice car with a hot guy on the way to his million dollar home equals arm pitting, knuckle cracking nervousness.

  Dean looks at me with a sideways smile. “You’re hilarious, you know that? But don’t think this car is turning into a pumpkin, I paid too much for it. I may be able to find you some horses somewhere in Montauk though, if you need your carriage pulled.”

  Sexy and could also banter with me, check. Next he was going to tell me he had to have a penis reduction surgery, and his dick was still ten inches long. He could pull my carriage right down to city hall and slap a ring on that left finger if so.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, Gemma. I had to remember Oliver’s teachings and keep a cool head about me. No guy wanted Taylor Swift in her “Blank Space” music video. But I could go fucking crazy if needed …

  Dean pulls off the main road of what I assume is Montauk, because I’ve never been here, and onto a secluded lane that has private drives, leading to houses I can’t see. I open the window to smell the salty scent of the ocean. Just the fragrance calms my nerves, and I realize that I just need to relax and let the weekend take me where it wants.

  A few minutes later, we’re pulling off the road loaded with greenery and sand, and onto a gravel drive with trees rising up around us. It’s like some mystical land where rich people who eat caviar and drink Prosecco live on the weekends. The scenery is beautiful, the air smells of the rough sea, and everything just has this … opulence about it. I kind of do feel like a fairy princess.

  “Home sweet home.” Dean’s deep voice falls on deaf ears.

  Because I’m too busy staring at probably the nicest, hugest, most freaking amazing house I’ve ever seen. It’s pure white, in that old style of siding that most beach houses have. The windows are almost floor to ceiling everywhere in the home, and flowering trees and shrubs pour over the garden beds. Trellises and cute little lawn accents dot the rolling green property, and I can see through the entire house at this time of day.

  Out to where a cliff drops down and the ocean roars up beneath where the house sits.

  “Dean. Are you kidding me?” I can’t help but fangirl over this place he’s taken me to.

  “What? You don’t like it? Fine, I guess we can go back to Manhattan.” He fakes the motion of putting the car in reverse before I slap my hand over his.

  A laugh bubbles out of his mouth at my over the top gesture.

  “Don’t you dare take us back to that slimy city. I’m never leaving this place.” I don’t wait for him to tell me to get out of the car, because I set one flat-footed sandal on the gravel and stretch my body until my spine cracks.

  “I guess that means you’ll be spending a lot of time with me.” His dark brown eyes roam over me, and a tingle goes up my spine.

  Yeah, I wouldn’t mind spending an eternity with this man, in this house. The thought both shocks and excites me. I don’t know him from Adam, but from everything I’ve seen so far, I’m living in my own romance novel with this one.

  Maybe Oliver is wrong. Maybe there are Prince Charming’s still out there.

  Dean grabs our bags from the trunk and walks to the door. After he unlocks it, he pushes inside, letting me into the charming foyer of his Hamptons house. It’s all sleek and chic beach decor, beautiful and somewhere out of a Home & Garden magazine.

  He gives me the tour, and the whole time we walk we steal touches. A caress here, a flirt there. I keep saying it, but everything about him, about his house and demeanor, is charming. I’m practically swooning by the time he shows me to a big luxurious bathroom and tells me I can get ready in it.

  “I know how women like to take their time doing their hair or makeup, or whatever it is you do in here that leaves you looking like a supermodel. Just meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready. Take your time. Relax.”

  He leaves me with a very fluffy looking bathrobe, and I twirl in a giddy circle as he closes the door. Full on teenage girl crush dancing, and I don’t even care. I’ve hit a jackpot, and the night and weekend have only just started.


  I take an overly bubbly bath, washing my body and hair with the expensive bath products. Would it be rude to throw one in my overnight bag to bring home?

  After the relaxing tub session, I split my hair into sections and take the time to blow dry it into long, silky waves. Blow drying my own hair with a round brush is more of an arm workout than any celebrity trainer could give me.

  My makeup goes on perfectly, another good sign for tonight's date. I'm nervous, but not overly so to the point that one winged cat eye looks great, and the other looks like someone punched me in the face. Both winged eyeliner strokes are perfect, and in the world of women, that's like God basically gracing you with his presence.

  By the time I put on my outfit, I'm brimming with so much confidence that even Queen Bey herself would bow down. I bought the most stunning outfit for tonight, and it highlights everything I want it to highlight. And hides everything I want it to hide. I've chosen a stark white romper with a plunging V neckline and cute fluttering lace cap sleeves. It's cute but cunning, sexy but sophisticated. It showcases my legs, which could be tanner but small victories, and I decided to go outside of the box with siren red wedge heels.

  As I'm smoothing myself over with a last look in the mirror and securing the gold chain necklace around my neck, I hear voices coming from downstairs. Confused, I crack the door open and listen. Odd, I thought Dean and I would be alone this weekend, and my chest fills with disappointment. I kind of wanted him all to myself during the portions of the evening that we weren't being social. The fact the he didn't give me a heads up is kind of annoying.

  But then another thought occurs. Maybe he invited a few friends over for some drinks before the party. And in that case, he wants them to meet me. I don't dare let my heart flutter, for I could be jumping ahead and assuming. But I can't even help the tingle of excitement that radiates through my pores, because a guy wanting to show you off is always a good sign.

  I decide it's time to make my debut, and head down the stairs in the direction of the voices.