Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(8)

And light blue eyes she’d know anywhere.

Mostly in her nightmares.

And memories.

Naomi thought she’d come today prepared for anything. Anyone.

But never had she let herself consider the possibility that her interview would be with Oliver Cunningham. Never had she imagined that the boy who’d tormented her mercilessly during their childhood would once again hold her fate in his hands.





WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

Oliver stared in irritated puzzlement at the redhead currently glaring across the desk like she was trying to crush his windpipe Darth Vader–style.

Naomi . . . what was her last name again? He glanced once more at the paperwork. Powell. First impression? Slightly scary. Well, no. That was second impression. His first impression of the woman had been hot. Very, very hot.

Regardless, Naomi Powell was not what he’d expected when Vicky had strong-armed him into conducting this BS interview. For starters, the hair was all wrong. He’d been prepared for silver, not vibrant red. The rest of her was vibrant as well. The people in this building weren’t exactly prone to outbursts of sentiment, but she seemed to crackle with emotion.

Most of the time, Oliver Cunningham didn’t mind living in 517 Park Avenue. Sure, most of the people acted like their silver spoon had been shoved where the sun never shined. And yes, he was the youngest resident by a good thirty years.

But there were upsides. The board had agreed to let him tear down the wall between his kitchen and living room to create a rare, open-concept home on Park Avenue. The change made room for his top-of-the-line kitchen and seventy-inch flat-screen. And though he didn’t particularly relish the “bragging rights” of living in the same building he’d grown up in, he appreciated that he could care for his father while still maintaining his own life. Sort of.

In other words, his place of residence was tolerable. Most of the time.

But then, there were times like now. Times when a rare vacancy occurred and the whole damn building turned more ridiculous than a sorority during rush. As Oliver saw it, the co-op process was little more than an opportunity for octogenarians of the Upper East Side to assert their flawless lineage, delighting in making those who didn’t have some obscure connection to a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller feel inferior.

Oliver tried not to have any part of it, but he’d caved for Vicky’s sake. It wasn’t the longtime receptionist’s fault that with Oliver’s mother dead and his father out of commission, the Cunningham co-op duties fell to him. Like it or not, he had to step up. And to be clear, he did not like it. But since it would be Vicky’s head on the chopping block if Oliver didn’t obey orders and conduct the damn interview, here he was.

Still, Oliver hadn’t been expecting her.

In addition to the red hair and strange animosity coming off her in waves, her face was . . . captivating. She was attractive in that intriguing “look again” kind of way. Her eyes were wide and blue and tilted at the corners, her mouth full and lush and a little bit sulky at the moment. Plenty of freckles that, as far as he could tell, she’d made no effort to cover with heavy makeup. Different from the perfectly symmetrical, made-up features he was used to seeing.

Still, none of this quite explained the death glare Naomi had locked on him. Generally speaking, Oliver didn’t tend to elicit strong emotional reactions from women. Mostly he got a lot of exasperated sighs preceding long, calm dissertations about his inability to demonstrate emotion, followed by a bland parting of ways.

There was nothing bland about this woman.

Instinct took over, and years of following formal societal rules demanded Oliver extend his hand across the desk. “Ms. Powell. I’m Oliver Cunningham.”

Her hesitation was plain, and for a baffling moment, he thought she might actually refuse his handshake.

Eventually she set her palm to his, and though the firm shake was routine, his reaction to it was anything but. His stomach tightened as her palm brushed his, and Oliver clenched his teeth.

Good Lord, had it been so long since he’d been with a woman that handshakes were doing it for him now?

He pulled his hand back and cleared his throat.

“All right, Ms. Powell,” he said, his voice just a touch cool to counter the heat inside him. “I’m assuming if you’ve made it this far, your credit and background checks pass muster, so let’s get right to it. Why do you want to live here?”

He heard her inhale as though trying to get a grip on her temper, although what he’d done to set her off, he didn’t have the faintest clue.

“It’s a lovely building. The prewar architecture is exquisite,” she replied.

His stomach tightened even further. That voice. Low, husky, and seductive as hell.

Get yourself together, Cunningham.

He forced himself to focus on her words, which were as dull as the voice was compelling. Prewar architecture?

He knew plenty of people cared about that crap, but he wasn’t one of them. And for some reason, he hadn’t thought she would be either. Damn. Disappointing.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, picking up the folder and tapping it against his palm as he contemplated the best method for getting her out the door as quickly as possible. Later, a dry-aged rib eye, an ice-cold cocktail, and the Yankees game awaited. Not to mention the two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle he was dying to dig into. Not that he would ever mention the last around the office, or, well, ever. As his former fiancée had pointed out, there was something a little weird about a grown man who enjoyed puzzles.