Silent Desires

by Julie Kenner

  Leo raised a hand. “I know.”

  But Bryce wasn’t to be placated. “And why doesn’t the press ever report how we try to help the folks who end up out of work? No one ever does a story on how much severance we pay or about the people we’ve helped find jobs.”

  He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t help it. He’d worked his way up in the world, and no one had handed him any breaks. He’d bought his first building at nineteen, when he was just a kid earning a living doing construction. The ramshackle building in the warehouse district of Austin, Texas, had caught his eye—some hidden potential had been peeking out from under the grime and calling to him. He’d taken on extra jobs, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion just so he could scrape together the down payment.

  Two years later, he’d fixed the place up, sold it, and turned a tidy profit. He’d liked the cash, but, even more, he’d liked the thrill of putting the deal together. He’d reinvested his profits, turned a few more land deals, expanded into Dallas and Houston, and made his first million nine days shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. A small-town boy done good. And he’d just kept moving up from there.

  Now Worthington Industries bought and sold companies. He had offices in Dallas, Los Angeles, Atlanta and New York, and spent more time traveling than he did in his own house. As president and CEO, Bryce would find a company with a good product and a solid core of staff, but one that was weighted down with debt and excessive overhead. He’d buy it cheap, clean it up, and then sell it again, often to the employee-investors, who ended up buying a company that was more streamlined and profitable than the one they’d started with.

  Yes, some people lost jobs, but that was the nature of the beast. And business wasn’t a charity. The point was to make as much money as possible for as many people as possible.

  “I’m just saying that image is everything,” Leo said. “And your image would be a lot softer if you had a woman in the kitchen and a few kiddos playing in the backyard.”

  “I’m paying you to be my attorney, Leo,” Bryce said, an edge to his voice, “not my public relations guru. And certainly not my social director.”

  “Marj has been on my case for years about finding you a nice girl,” Leo said, ignoring Bryce’s gibes.

  “Who says I’m interested in nice?” Bryce retorted, mostly to egg Leo on. “Besides, my image is fine.” At thirty-six, Bryce was one of the wealthiest and most eligible men in America. He had a love-hate relationship with the press, who—if they weren’t busy reporting that his latest deal was a threat to the civilized world—tended to fawn all over him because of his looks and his money. Considering how many magazine covers his face had graced, anyone not in the know would think he was a movie star. He wasn’t, although he’d dated a few on occasion.

  “Investors like stability,” Leo said. “Home and hearth and all that shit. Especially in an economy like this.”

  “Investors like profits,” Bryce said. “Especially in an economy like this. And I give them that.” He met Leo’s eyes. “I’m not about to get married just so you can haul out some dog and pony show.”

  Leo held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, whatever. You’re a big boy.”

  Bryce nodded and slammed back the last of his drink. That he was. He glanced at his watch. 9:00 p.m. “I want to go over the closing documents on the New Jersey property once more before tomorrow’s meeting. Can you have them ready by two?”

  Leo glanced at his own watch, then scowled. For a second, Bryce thought he was going to complain about getting home to his own wife and family. But then the attorney nodded. “Not a problem. Hell, we can even work on the Carpenter deal. With the press breathing down our back and the employees threatening an injunction, I’m afraid it’s going to blow up in our faces.”

  Bryce frowned. “It’s your job to see that it doesn’t.”

  Leo just nodded. “Don’t I know it. Come on. Let’s head back to the office right now. Jenny should be finished with the changes,” Leo said, referring to his night secretary. “We can proof the pages over a pot of coffee.”

  Bryce shook his head. “You proof them. That’s what I pay you for. I’ll be in at two to go over them with you.”

  “What are you going to do between now and then?” Leo asked.

  Bryce flashed him a grin, then glanced toward the redhead. “Work on my image, of course.”

  THE ALARM ON Bryce’s watch started beeping at one-forty-five, and the redhead shifted against him and pulled the pillow over her head, her bare butt grazing his hip. He slid out from between the sheets, careful not to wake her. After all, the woman—he’d forgotten her name—probably was exhausted. As Leo had predicted, she’d been a wild thing. Exactly what Bryce had needed to get his blood pumping for another twelve hours of posturing and chest thumping in the deep, dark jungle of mergers and acquisitions.

  He found his boxers in a pile on the floor, her bra and panties wadded up with them. His trousers were hanging neatly over the back of a chair where he’d left them, the crease still perfect. He buttoned up his shirt, not bothering to tuck in the tail, and hung his tie around his neck before slipping on his jacket. Her apartment was at Fifty-fourth and Broadway, twelve blocks up from Leo’s office. The September night was warm, and Bryce had energy to burn. He’d walk, then shower at Leo’s office. If the papers were in decent shape, he might even have time to get a run in on the treadmill before the gladiators entered the ring for the nine o’clock meeting.

  A single red rose was in a bud vase at the side of her bed. He’d purchased the flower for her as they were leaving the bar, and now he plucked it from the vase and laid it on the pillow beside her. Then he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

  She really was a sweet girl, and he’d been grateful for the diversion, the few hours away from all things corporate. Now, though, it was time to get back to it.

  The apartment was a studio, so he didn’t have to go far to get to her front door. And as he stepped out onto the landing and pulled the door tight, he remembered her name. Lydia. Nice, but easy enough to walk away from.

  For that matter, they all were. And as he started down the six flights of stairs to the street, Bryce silently cursed Leo. Because for the first time since his parents’ divorce, Bryce was beginning to wonder if there really was a woman out there who could make him want to stay.

  IT WAS THE HEAT that woke Joan up. That murky, almost liquid summer heat. The air conditioner must be on the fritz again. That sucked. Especially since the air conditioner wasn’t even hers.

  Other than the AC problem, Ronnie’s place was nicer than anything Joan would ever be able to afford on her own. And it was only hers until Ronnie found a buyer for the fabulous flat—a one-bedroom apartment with a great kitchen and real hardwood floors.

  Reluctant to leave—both the apartment and the bed—Joan moaned and stretched. Pleasures was still on the bed next to her, open to page one-twenty-three. She trailed her finger over the page, then closed her eyes, remembering the way the delicious, decadent words had played over her body, with a little help from her fingers, of course. She stretched like a cat, tempted to stay in bed and spend a few more wonderful hours with the book and her fantasies.

  Naked, she twisted her body, trying to find a cool spot on the well-worn cotton percale. No luck. She sighed. Just as well. She’d already lazed away an entire Sunday, reading the book, watching television, sipping wine, and then reading some more. Now, it was the wee hours of Monday morning and time to get up.

  With a little groan, she sat up, pushing damp curls out of her eyes before sliding off the bed and padding barefoot to the kitchen. She pulled the door open and stood there, letting the cool air dance over her skin. She shivered, a little chill racing up her spine as the thin film of sweat that covered her body started to disappear.

  Her stomach rumbled, and she scoped out the inside of the refrigerator. Not much in there except Diet Coke and slightly limp carrots. She made a face, then grabbed a soda. At least it would fill her u
p and cool her off.

  She closed the fridge and pressed the cool can to her forehead, closing her eyes and leaning against the stove. Who would have guessed she’d find heaven in an ice-cold aluminum can? Especially when she’d already found it in the hot, sultry prose of the nineteenth-century book.

  Slowly, she trailed the can down over her nose, her chin, down her neck to her cleavage. It felt wonderful, and she was just so damn hot.

  Not that one twelve-ounce Diet Coke can was going to make much of a difference. No, if she really wanted to cool off, she might as well go downstairs to the bookstore and try to do some work. At least the bookstore had air-conditioning. And there was even food in the break room and an honest-to-goodness coffeepot.

  Besides, she had tons of work to do. Ronnie had already been gone for almost twenty-four hours, which meant Joan had only twenty-nine days left to put her plan into effect. And if she went down now, she’d have four hours of uninterrupted work before she had to open the store.

  She’d worked it all out in her head. She might have blown off college after only two semesters, but she had street smarts. The store hadn’t been doing that great lately, so Joan’s plan of attack was two-tiered. First, put together an exceptional catalog that would blow Ronnie away when she returned. And, second, increase the patronage—and the receipts—at the store.

  The catalog was the easy part. The store did two catalogs a year, usually putting out a catalog focusing on erotica in the summer. Last summer, though, had been unusual, and the catalog had come out a few months late. Surprisingly, the issue had the best response ever, so Ronnie had decided to permanently bump the mailing date from August to early October.

  Although Joan and Ronnie had worked together on it some, Ronnie had left most of the responsibility to Joan. And she intended to ace the project. Considering her rather intimate familiarity with the store’s erotica inventory, she didn’t foresee any problems on that score.

  The business end was more troublesome. She made a mental list of her strengths and weaknesses. As her strengths, Joan counted her enthusiasm and the knowledge she’d gained about the industry over the past few years. Plus, she was a natural people person. Once a customer came into the store, she could usually get him or her to buy. Especially the hims.

  Her weaknesses were worrisome. She didn’t know much about running a business. Bookkeeping and strategizing and managing employees and all of that stuff, stuff that was so beyond her knowledge she didn’t even know what questions to ask. She could learn, sure, but she had to learn fast. And she had to fit all of that learning in between doing the catalog and running the store.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off the fear that she’d end up doing all this for nothing and Ronnie would either bring in another partner or knock the store’s hours to so few that Joan wouldn’t be able to afford to work there anymore. If that happened, Joan really didn’t know how she’d stand it. She loved her job. All of it. The work fascinated and inspired her, something no other job ever had. And she adored Ronnie, who’d taken a chance on Joan when she was a twenty-year-old college dropout.

  Over the years, Ronnie had been a great employer. But now Joan wanted more. She wanted to be a partner. And to do that, Joan needed to prove to Ronnie that she had the right stuff, that she knew how to run a business.

  Considering she didn’t know how to run a business, she wished she had a teacher, someone who could answer her basic questions and push her in the right direction. But she didn’t.

  But Joan had managed a lot of things on her own. She could manage this, too. It was simply a matter of finding the way.

  2

  JOAN SAT at the table in the break room, trying desperately to focus on the erotic books and ephemera spread out in front of her. Not an easy task. She’d contemplated and analyzed the stuff for almost three hours, and she’d made some serious progress on the catalog. Now, though, her concentration was fading. Instead of feeling clever, she was turned on.

  She sighed, her fingers stroking a decadent illustration showing a woman touching herself intimately. A man—hidden in the shadows—gazed at the woman with lust in his eyes. The artist, who’d used a mixture of blacks and grays to draw out the shadows, was unknown, and Joan couldn’t help but wonder if there really had been a model. Had she been spread out on the chaise, just so? Did she know the man was watching her? Did she fantasize that he would move slowly toward her and then press his hands on her breasts, her belly, trail fingertips down her until he cupped her sex, finding her wet and wanton, turned on by nothing more than the direction of her own thoughts?

  Joan’s body quivered, as if she could make the fantasy her own. The truth was, as much as she loved working in the store, the nature of its product could be quite, um, distracting. Then again, it was those very distractions that she liked so much.

  With a little smile, she set the print aside before moving on to the remaining images scattered across the tabletop.

  That one was definitely going into the catalog.

  THE NEW JERSEY DEAL wasn’t going to happen, not today anyway. Which meant that Bryce was stuck in Manhattan for at least another day, probably two. Maybe more.

  He thought of his spacious house in Austin, built on five acres high in the hills overlooking Lake Travis. The manicured lawn, the swimming pool. And the trees. Lord, how he missed the breeze through the trees at night. He’d been in Manhattan now for a full week, and that was five days too long. He liked the city, loved its vibrant energy. But he loved his home more. And it irritated him that the delays keeping him in the Big Apple were all the result of sloppy work by his subordinates.

  If this thing didn’t get wrapped up soon, heads were going to roll.

  With a frown, Bryce glanced at his watch. Not even 9:00 a.m. They’d called off the meeting thirty minutes ago, which meant that his all-nighter had been for nothing. Except for his brief sojourn in Lydia’s apartment, he’d been up for thirty-six hours, doing little more than working on this deal, and now it was going to all fall apart because the company he wanted to buy was being fined by the EPA for dumping toxic waste. Not exactly the kind of acquisition the board of directors would approve of, and Bryce was livid that his people hadn’t discovered the agency action sooner.

  That was, after all, the whole point of due diligence.

  Damn it all to hell. He ran a finger through his hair, cursing incompetence generally and wishing for the good old days when no one reported to him but himself. Back then, he knew the job had been done right because he was the one who’d done it. And on the rare occasions when there was a screwup, he knew perfectly well where to lay the blame. Right at his own two feet.

  Now he had to deal with committees and boards and shareholders. He had a hell of a lot more money than he used to, but on days like this one, he had to wonder if he was having as much fun.

  On the street to his left, traffic moved by at a snail’s pace and horns blared, as taxis and commuters fought for space on the road. He’d been walking ever since seven, not watching where he was going. Just moving. The Big Apple wasn’t really that big; he certainly hadn’t feared he’d get lost.

  And now here he was, somewhere far away from the familiar sights and sounds of Times Square or Wall Street, pounding the pavement, working off his frustration on the streets of Manhattan. His shirt clung to him, damp from the combination of his exertion and the dense humidity. He still wore his suit jacket, and now he took it off, hooking it on a finger and tossing it over his shoulder. And as he did, he took a look around, delighted by what he saw—rows and rows of brownstones, the type that used to cover the island before the big conglomerates moved in with their skyscrapers and changed the skyline.

  Bryce had no problem with skyscrapers. Hell, he owned three. But it was the older buildings that still held his heart. The kind of structures that not only reflected history, but were history. Homes and businesses that had stories to tell. The kind of stories that fascinated Bryce.

  He slowed his pace,
taking time to absorb the scenery and scope out the neighborhood. The family-owned brownstones had mostly been converted to apartments above retail space long ago. Even so, the area was quaint, and he began running through the familiar calculations—purchase price, the cost of necessary improvements, potential profit once he turned the property.

  Not that deals were easy to come by in Manhattan. Prices were on the rise once again, and Bryce knew the market well enough to realize that finding a steal was unlikely.

  Which was why the Apartment for Sale sign in the bookstore’s window surprised him. He paused, taking a step back so his gaze could take in the whole building. It was five stories of utter charm, with flower boxes under the windows on the fourth and fifth floors, and a wrought-iron railing leading up to the main entrance. The door was glass, and through it he could see a cozy antiquarian bookshop. The store’s name, Archer’s Rare Books & Manuscripts, was etched on the glass, and was also painted on a hanging sign that faced oncoming pedestrians.

  He slipped his jacket back on, then stepped to the door and turned the knob. He pushed the door open, smiling to himself as the little bells tinkled to announce his entrance. Charming. He stifled a grin, anticipating the imminent arrival of a short, balding man with half-glasses and a ruddy complexion. Instead, he saw a tousled blond sex kitten in a tight black skirt, lavender glasses, matching fingernails and triple-pierced ears.

  She stepped in from a back room, her huge blue eyes wide with surprise. “Oh,” she said, a delightful blush blooming on her cheeks.

  She drew in a breath and licked her bright red lips, and Bryce had the feeling he’d interrupted something, though he had no clue what. He half smiled. Maybe she kept a lover hidden in the back room. The thought amused him, and he couldn’t help but wonder how those well-defined thighs and that perfect rear would feel under his touch.