Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

before I pull it out, the intercom rings. I glance at the time. “My God, seven already.” I place the box down. I hurry over to answer. “Yes, Ryan.”
    “Mr. Michael Grayson is here to see you,” he answers.
    “Please send him up,” I reply, and I’m jolted with rapid pitter-patters of anxiety. I dart off to the bathroom and check my lipstick. The elevator bell sounds off, alerting me of Michael’s arrival.
    I hurry into the foyer, and Michael walks out, dressed to kill in his elegant black tuxedo; his silky hair parted to the side in thick waves. His eyes soft and glowing, leaving me breathless.
    “Ariana, you are exquisite,” he says, studying me with entrancing eyes.
    I blush. “Thank you, and you look dashing as always,” I reply.
    He moves closer, and I inhale his cologne. My eyes grow wide as the scent ignites every private part of my body to life. I look down at my feet and close my eyes for a brief moment visualizing my hands beneath his jacket stroking his warm solid chest as his heat filtrates into my skin.
    I start as he brushes his fingers under my chin, pulling it up, causing the goose bumps to rise. He bends down, and our mouths meet, and his soft, smooth lips kiss mine with pristine care. I feel my cheeks flush, and my body turned to Jell-O. What happened to ‘keep your cool,’ Ariana? I ask myself. That went right out the window.
    “Thank you. You have a certain glow when you blush,” he compliments with a slight chuckle and takes a gentle hold of my shoulders, which has me weak and quivering in the knees. I don’t think I’m going to survive the night.
    “Let’s go in for a drink.” I motion toward the living room, to keep from falling at his feet. I sway, losing balance, and Michael wraps his arm around my waist to steady me, making me gasp for breath from his touch.
    “Ariana,” he says, startled, looking nervous. “Are you okay?”
    I let out a breath I had no idea I was holding. “I’m fine, Michael, don’t worry. I place the blame on you,” I say, shocking the hell out of him.
    “Me?” His head jerks back; eyebrows raised, and mouth open with a stunned look.
    “Yes, you. You’re making me light-headed.” I laugh. “Now, let’s go get our drinks.” I gestured towards the room.
    His eyes widen. “I don’t know if you’re joking or serious, but you just blew me over the edge,” he says and bursts out laughing, sending erotic music echoing throughout the room.
    Michael whistles as we enter the living room. “You have a beautiful home, Ariana.”
    “Thank you, a gift from my grandfather. It was overly generous of him.”
    “It’s breathtaking. How many rooms do you have? If you don’t mind me asking.”
    “Four bedrooms and five bathrooms.” My home is spacious, filled with traditional furnishings. Persian rugs that I purchased when I visited Egypt are scattered throughout the apartment over polished, wood parquet floors. I hired a decorator. I have no sense of taste for interior décor. She did an outstanding job.
    The living room has three sets of French doors. The wet bar is a full-blown kitchen situated across the room with six stools. The commercial size kitchen is on the other side of the elevators. A favorite room of mine is the library, which is located between my bedroom and living room.
    We reach a set of French doors to the terrace, which bestows a spectacular view of Central Park. The sun begins to set beyond the horizon, treating us to a spectrum of orange, pink, and red hues and casting its luminous reflection over the Manhattan skyline.
    The terrace is landscaped with potted flowers and weeping cherry trees displaying an array of colorful leaves. The place is large enough to accommodate close to sixty people, as is the formal dining room.
    I’ve already set a bottle of wine and two glasses on a small hand-painted tile table facing the glass doors. “I thought it would be too chilly to sit outside.” I gestured toward the chair. We sit side by