by Julie Kenner
She frowned. “You are?” He hadn’t struck her as the type.
“Well, not of erotica, but of first editions. You’ve started me thinking about expanding into new territories.”
“Oh,” Joan said, and then, when she realized just what a coup this man could be for the store’s bankroll, “Oh!”
“Maybe you could pick out two or three of your best first editions. Something a serious collector needs. We could meet over dinner and talk about building my collection.”
“Oh, yes. Right.” Joan’s head was spinning. Her guy resolution might be flashing neon orange in her head, but her profit resolution was lit up like a Broadway billboard, complete with soundtrack. If he was really thinking about buying three first editions…
She licked her lips, doing some quick math in her head. “Sure,” she finally said. “Dinner sounds great. It’ll have to be late, though. The store doesn’t close until eight.”
“So we’ll eat at nine.” He smiled, and Joan realized he was willing to accommodate whatever inconveniences she might throw his way. “In fact, why don’t you bring three books and an invoice? I’m sure whatever you pick out will be perfect. I’ll write a check at dinner.”
“Oh.” Joan stared, mildly flabbergasted. “Well, sure. Okay. I mean, I like a man who takes charge.” It was a flirty comment, but she barely noticed. Right then, the possibility of an amazing sale overshadowed everything.
“Good. Then you should like me just fine.” He slipped a card out of his breast pocket, then scribbled something on it. “I’m staying at the Monteleone,” he said. “Do you know it?”
She nodded. Everyone in town knew the posh hotel on Fifth Avenue.
“There’s a restaurant just off the lobby. It’s fabulous. Talon. Does that sound good?”
“Um, sure.” Really, it would be uncouth to leap up and down for joy. Never in a million years would she be able to afford to eat there.
She took the card, the paper smooth between her fingers. On the back, he’d written dinner, 9:00 p.m., Talon. On the front, no job or company was listed. Simply a mobile phone number and Bryce Worthington as if that were all she needed to know. Hell, maybe it was.
“Then it’s settled,” he said. “A little wine, a little literature, a little erotica.” He met her eyes. “Does that sound good?”
Joan swallowed. This wasn’t a man people said no to. And, frankly, her entire body was screaming yes. Not that she intended to listen to her body. Bryce Worthington might be interested in a date—might be using the sale of erotica as a ploy to get her to dinner—but that didn’t matter. Joan intended to stick to her guns.
She licked her lips. Too bad for her.
“Joan?” he pressed. “Are we on?”
She nodded. A silent, professional gesture. As if she delivered erotica every day of her life to men who made her nipples ache and her panties damp.
But her panties didn’t matter. Because Joan was meeting this man only to sell him some erotica. And nothing else was going to happen.
Nothing at all.
A COLLECTOR? Bryce smiled, shaking his head as he slid into the taxi he’d hailed.
“Where to, buddy?”
He gave the driver the address for Leo’s office, then settled back in the worn vinyl seat, thinking about his lie. The truth was, he owned one collectible first edition—Tom Clancy’s The Hunt For Red October—that he’d inherited from his father, a submarine buff who’d bought one of the early copies before the book became a bestseller. Valuable, sure. But not exactly the sort of collection he’d suggested filled the nooks and crannies of his home.
Not that he felt any guilt about the fib. He’d seen the look on her face as she’d sat in the break room. A look of rapture, as if she was lost in thoughts just as erotic as the images scattered over the table. Her fingers hadn’t moved from the gentle curve of her collarbone, but somehow Bryce had just known that in her fantasies, she was stroking and caressing her own soft skin. Touching places his fingers ached to touch.
In that moment, he’d been certain. He wanted to see this woman again, and he was thrilled that his earlier plans for the evening had been cancelled. He’d been invited by one of his model friends to attend the opening of a gallery, a high-profile fund-raiser. He’d been happy to do it. Going out with Suki was always relaxing. They’d been friends for years, but weren’t the least bit attracted to each other despite the rampant rumors in the press.
Originally, he’d been disappointed when she’d called to tell him the benefit had been postponed. Now, though, he was glad for the cancellation. It meant that his calendar was open. A rare thing, and extremely fortuitous, especially considering how much he wanted to spend the evening with Joan Benetti.
Unfortunately, she seemed less than enthusiastic about a date. Too bad. He’d sensed a chemistry between them that he didn’t want to believe was one-sided. But she’d hesitated, and Bryce had turned to more creative methods to get her to go out with him. Well, what the hell? Best case, he’d have the woman in his arms. Worst case, he’d end up owning a few first editions. Either way, he certainly couldn’t complain.
After all, the erotica on the table had been intriguing, to say the least. His body tightened merely from the memory, and he shook his head with wonder. Potent stuff.
Erotica had never been in his field of interest, but Bryce hadn’t gotten where he was by turning away from new experiences. From what he could tell, Joan seemed to be an expert on the subject. And maybe, if fate was kind, Bryce could talk her into giving him a few lessons on the subject. He could hope, anyway.
And if the lessons were hands on, well, that would be all the better.
3
FIVE YEARS. He’d been without his beloved Emily for five long, lonely years.
A lump filled Clive’s throat, just like it always did when he thought of her. His sweet Emily. So precious, so innocent.
She hadn’t deserved to die.
Even now he could remember how she’d looked on their wedding day, her brown eyes so full of life, her near-black hair in stark contrast to the pure white of her dress.
His Emily. His love.
Slowly, Clive bent down and pulled the battered suitcase out from under the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the carpet, worn and stained with God-only-knows-what. This was what he’d been reduced to, living in pathetic fleabag motel rooms that could be rented by the hour and had probably never even seen disinfectant. But it was necessary. The motels he’d chosen for the long drive from California to Jersey were cheap. That meant the clerks didn’t even blink when you paid in cash, and they couldn’t care less who was renting the room. That’s what Clive wanted. To be invisible. He’d need to be invisible if he was going to make this work.
Slowly, almost reverentially, he snapped the latches on the case and lifted the lid. He pulled out the flannel pajamas he’d used as lining and there, under the dark green material, he saw them—the shotgun and handgun he’d purchased specifically for this project.
He drew in a breath, anticipation mixing with nerves as the time drew near.
Soon, very soon, that son-of-a-bitch Bryce Worthington was going to pay.
“BRYCE WORTHINGTON? You’re going out tonight with the Bryce Worthington?”
Joan squinted at Kathy as the younger girl brandished the pencil in her hand as if she was going to skewer Joan for not understanding the full impact of the date with Bryce. “Um, I guess so,” Joan said. “I’m going out with a Bryce Worthington. Who is he?”
“You don’t know?” Kathy shook her head in amazement. She was eighteen, a freshman majoring in English lit, and had recently been hired to work part-time in the store. Until today, she’d been in awe over the Dickens serials that Ronnie kept locked in the second-floor vault. Now, though, she’d transferred her enthusiasm to Joan’s date. “You really don’t know?”
Joan sighed. “I really don’t know.”
Kathy performed an exaggerated eye roll while exhaling, conveying the impression
of being both disbelieving and put-upon. “He’s like a bazillionaire. This self-made Texas businessman. And he’s single. All those bachelor-type television shows have been trying to get him to go on, but he flat-out refused them.”
Good for Bryce, Joan thought, her estimation rising a notch. She’d liked Bryce instantly and had had an instinctual feeling that he was a man with whom she’d get along great. Even after all of Kathy’s oohing and aahing, she still wasn’t sure she could place Bryce in the social hierarchy. The way Kathy talked, he fit somewhere between God and Ben Affleck. Big news, indeed.
“You’ve really never heard of him?” Kathy repeated, apparently unable to believe that Joan lived under a rock.
“Really,” Joan said, more defiantly. She’d never paid a whole lot of attention to that rich celebrity stuff. She would happily follow the careers of musicians, actors and authors she liked. Even politicians, whether she liked them or not. But she did not follow the careers of big-shot businessmen.
Kathy just frowned, shaking her head a little.
“What?” Joan asked, sure the freshman was about to deliver a lecture about staying up on current events, though Joan was willing to debate whether Bryce’s eligibility really was newsworthy. Especially since, as much as Joan might fantasize about a fabulously wealthy knight taking her away from all this, her odds of winning the Powerball lottery were significantly better than winning the heart of Bryce Worthington or any other man with a well-stuffed bank account. That was just too much like some unrealistic fairy tale.
“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” Kathy said. She wore no makeup, her fuchsia hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and she wore tight blue jeans with an equally tight tank top under a loose pink blouse. Even so, the impression she conveyed right now was matronly.
Joan ran her fingers through her hair, as annoyed as she would be if it were her mother giving her the third degree about a date. “There’s no way I can get hurt, Kathy. It’s not a date. I’m just meeting him to deliver some first editions. Purely business.” That was her plan, and Joan didn’t intend to veer from it.
“Uh-huh,” Kathy said, clearly not convinced.
Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. We’re just having dinner. Grown-ups are allowed to have dinner without having sex and dating and all that attached to it.”
Kathy’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you having dinner?”
“Talon,” Joan announced, still reveling in what she considered a dining coup.
“Uh-huh,” Kathy said, a mysterious edge to her voice.
Joan frowned. “What?”
“He’s staying in the penthouse. He probably plans to ply you with wine and then take you up his private elevator for a quick tumble.”
Joan certainly hoped not, because if that was his plan, she could already feel her resolve slipping away. “How do you know where he’s staying?”
“Angela,” she said, referring to her sister. For a second, Joan was confused. Then she remembered that Angela worked at the hotel. “He orders from the restaurant, and they send Angie up to deliver.” She shook her head. “The penthouse is so huge she’s never even seen him. She just leaves the tray in the living room. But she says it’s worth it because he tips like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Well, then. See? He’s nice.”
Kathy snorted.
“Oh, come on, Kathy. What’s the big deal? He wants to buy some books and learn more about the field.”
“Oh, Joan-ie…” Kathy shook her head a little, then picked up a pile of books that had recently been entered into the inventory system. She headed for the stacks, but not before shooting Joan a look that practically screamed you poor naive creature.
Joan exhaled in frustration. At twenty-four, she always felt young in comparison to Ronnie, who’d already celebrated her thirtieth birthday. Around Kathy, though, Joan felt positively ancient. So she found Kathy’s maternal tone a bit grating. “What?” Joan said, unable to prevent the note of exasperation lacing her voice.
“He’s a total womanizer,” Kathy said. “Last week he went out with some supermodel, and then the week before that it was some trust-fund type with all the right clothes and the right haircut.”
“Oh.” Joan ran her hand through her hair. “So what? The point of dinner is to talk about the books.” All true. And yet she was having to convince herself even as she spoke. She didn’t know the first thing about Bryce Worthington’s background or habits, but she did know that something about the man blew her away. And the possibility that she was simply one in a long line of conquests rankled.
“Joan?”
She shoved the thought away, realizing she was being ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. It was a business dinner. Business dinner, business dinner, business dinner. She said it over and over in her head, trying to make sure it stuck.
And that was when she realized…this dinner with Bryce Worthington wasn’t just an opportunity to bring a little cash into the store, it was a boon to her overall business resolution. Not even twenty-four hours ago she’d been bemoaning her lack of business skills. If what Kathy said was true, this guy was even more on top of the business world than Joan had suspected.
And if Joan played her cards right, maybe she could get Bryce to give her a business lesson. She only hoped the price wasn’t too high. Because as much as her libido might want to, she didn’t intend to break one resolution in order to satisfy the other.
TONIGHT.
Clive held his hands out in front of him, the muscles in his chest and arms tight as he lowered himself slowly in a deep knee bend. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm. The trick was to stay calm.
He completed five sets of ten each, his balance never wavering. He was ready. He was calm. He was in control.
Slowly, he stood up straight, feeling remarkably light. “Tonight’s the night, Em. Tonight, that bastard dies.”
He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. A prayer for success on his mission as he fought the evil that was Worthington. The man was vile. A pathetic, money-grubbing snake who didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than himself and his projects.
He was the reason Clive got laid off. And he was the reason his beautiful Emily had died. Oh, Worthington hadn’t given her the cancer. But he’d killed her just the same. He took away her health insurance. Took away their income. And in the end, his fragile, beautiful Em just hadn’t had the stamina.
She’d left him. Left Clive all alone.
The papers had said that Worthington had made a fortune on that deal, and now there was talk of another takeover. Some shipping company. And Worthington was so smug. Business, he called it. Just business.
Bastard.
So he’d made a fortune, had he? Well, now it was time for Worthington to pay the price. And he was going to pay it to Clive. With his life.
Just like Em had paid.
BRYCE GLANCED at his watch, frowned, and lost his train of thought. Not hard considering the ridiculous array of questions the attorney had been throwing at him throughout this absurd, interminable deposition. He forced a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Certainly.” The attorney on the other side of the table, a freckle-faced kid who reminded Bryce of Opie and couldn’t be more than five minutes out of law school, turned to the court reporter. “Could you read back the question, please?”
As the reporter started to comply, Bryce held up his hand. “Wait.” He turned to Leo. “Can we take a quick break?”
“Off the record?” Leo said to Opie, the words purportedly a question, but his tone allowing no room for dispute.
The young attorney nodded, waving his hand as if he was the king granting a pardon. Bryce pushed his chair back from the conference table, then headed out of the conference room, Leo at his heels.
“I need to go,” Bryce said, cutting to the chase as soon as the door clicked shut behind them. “This has been dragging on for hours now. It’s a bunch of BS, and I’ve go
t better things to do with my time.”
Leo ran a hand through his hair, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Bryce knew the reason, of course. The shareholders in Carpenter Shipping had hired themselves a big-shot attorney and had gotten a temporary restraining order that morning. In an effort to resolve the dispute and keep the deal moving, Leo had offered to present Bryce for a deposition.
Bryce had agreed. But his patience had worn thin. “He’s not even focusing on the sale,” Bryce said. “The kid’s fishing, and he’s wasting time doing it.”
Leo nodded. “I know. The kid’s green. But so far he hasn’t established one element of his claim. There’s nothing to support converting the restraining order into a permanent injunction, but if you walk out now, he’ll just tell the judge he wasn’t able to finish.” Leo shrugged. “I’m betting another hour. At most.”
Bryce frowned. As much as it rankled, he knew Leo was right. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m supposed to be on a date. Give me a few minutes to make a call.” As soon as Leo headed back into the deposition, Bryce turned on his cell phone and dialed the restaurant. The maître d’ promised to relay the message to Joan—he’d been detained and would call her in the morning.
He hated doing it, but he didn’t want her sitting there waiting. Opie might have only an hour’s worth of questions, but he might have three. And although it was late, Leo wanted to keep going rather than spend the day tomorrow in depositions—time that should be spent on the New Jersey project.
He switched off his phone and headed back into the abyss. He hoped Joan was available tomorrow. Because if Opie was making Bryce miss out on dinner with the woman altogether, then the young attorney was really going to see the full force of Bryce’s wrath.
THE HOSTESS HAD SEATED HER even though Bryce wasn’t there yet, but now Joan was wishing she’d waited in the bar. She felt horribly conspicuous sitting all alone at the small, intimate table. Just feeling that way bothered her. She’d been everywhere—from truck stops to black-tie affairs—and this was the first time she’d felt truly out of place.