by Julie Kenner
Hoping to ignore the feeling, she glanced into her tote at the books she’d chosen. She’d brought several so that he’d have a choice. Most were standard fare—early editions of works by Lawrence and Miller and others. The basic building blocks of a serious erotica collection. The third, though…well, the third was Pleasures. Her favorite book.
If she’d been feeling contemplative, she would have wondered about her motivations in bringing a book that both fascinated and turned her on. Fortunately, she wasn’t feeling contemplative.
She took another sip of her wine, then nibbled on a bread stick to counteract the alcohol that was fast going to her head. She was on her second glass. A mistake, probably, but she hated just to sit there. And so when the waiter had offered the wine, she’d simply accepted.
For the umpteenth time, she glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty. Damn.
She pulled out her cell phone and checked the display screen, wondering if perhaps she’d missed a call. She hadn’t, of course, and then she remembered that she hadn’t given him her number. She had his, though. She hesitated to use it, the act of actually calling to ask where he was too wounding to her pride.
But she supposed she’d rather suffer a slight bruising to her ego than sit there all night sipping wine and getting wasted. She punched in the number, and the phone rang and rang, finally switching to voice mail.
She clicked off, not bothering to leave a message. What would she say? Where are you? That was too pathetic. Have you stood me up? That was too angry. Nothing quite fit, and so she said nothing, intending to wait five minutes and simply try again.
After four minutes, the maître d’ approached. “Ms. Benetti?”
Joan licked her lips. “Yes.”
“Mr. Worthington regrets that he has been unavoidably detained and will be unable to meet with you this evening.”
“I see.” Joan forced the words out, Kathy’s warning about Bryce ringing in her ears.
“Would you care to order? Mr. Worthington made it clear that you were to have anything you requested. His treat, of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated, her mouth dry. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll just finish my wine and get going.” She smiled at the waiter, the picture of a woman used to these pesky scheduling issues. As soon as the maître d’ backed off, Joan opened her purse and pulled out a few bills. As she got up, she tossed them on the table. And then, with as much pride as she could muster, Joan walked out of the incredibly fancy, horrifically lonely restaurant.
“WHY ARE YOU still here?” Joan aimed the question at Kathy. She’d left Kathy with the master key to the store, letting her close up the shop on her own for the first time. She’d never anticipated that Kathy would still be there at 10:00 p.m., sitting in the leather armchair, a book open on her lap.
Kathy shrugged, looking more than a little sheepish. “My roommate had a scarf hanging on the door, and I didn’t feel like going to a bar.”
Joan nodded in understanding. Obviously Kathy’s roommate and her boyfriend wanted some quality time.
Kathy cocked her head, then closed the book on her lap. “Actually,” she said, “that’s a lie.”
Joan blinked. “What is?”
“The scarf. I could go home. But I wanted to wait for you.”
Joan turned, noting for the first time that the door to the stairwell leading up to her apartment was open; Kathy would be able to see her whether she came in through the store or the back entrance. “O-kay,” she said slowly. “What’s up?”
Kathy sighed, then used the arms of the chair to push herself up. She headed to the counter, walking slowly, like someone condemned. “I got my roots done last week, and I started reading this article on Botox while I was waiting.” She grabbed a magazine off the counter as Joan wondered what this had to do with anything.
“And?”
“And I didn’t finish the article, so I kept the magazine—Leona doesn’t care—and I finished it today. Then I was flipping through, and…well, look.” She shoved the magazine at Joan. It was folded over to one of the interior pages.
Joan looked, and as she did, her mouth went dry. “That son of a bitch,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Kathy said. “As soon as I read the article, I figured you’d be back early. I wanted to wait for you.”
Joan grimaced. The article—more a series of photographs, really—showed Bryce with a runway model, apparently known in the fashion world as Suki. According to the text, Bryce and Suki had plans to attend the gala opening of some new SoHo gallery. An opening that just happened to be tonight.
Bastard.
So much for her thin hope that he’d simply gotten held up somewhere. Or been trapped in an elevator. Or gotten rushed to the hospital for food poisoning.
“I knew he was a womanizer,” Kathy said. “But I never thought he was a two-timing womanizer.” She grimaced. “I’m so sorry.”
Joan ran her fingers through her hair, certain that the curls she’d forced into place were now going wild. Well, too bad. “Who gives a flip?” she asked. “He’s a prick. I don’t want to have a date with a prick.”
Kathy raised an eyebrow. “I thought it wasn’t a date.”
Joan grimaced, irritated with herself for thinking of Bryce in datelike terms. “Date or not, it was still a waste of my time.”
Kathy grimaced. “He is a prick. And a jerk, too, if he thinks he can get away with this.” She glanced down at Joan’s tote. “And he was just leading you on with the bit about buying some books? Now that was truly tacky.”
That it was, Joan thought. And he shouldn’t get away with it. “I’ve got half a mind to march down to that gallery and make him buy these books,” she said. She’d let the floodgates of her anger open, and now her face was heating with rage. She paced the room, arms waving as she got caught up in her cause. “How dare he waste my time like that! Who the hell does he think he is anyway?”
Kathy nodded vigorously, murmuring both encouragement and condolences. “You should,” she said. “But you’d never get near him. Not at the opening. It’s invitation only.”
Joan frowned. Kathy had a point. “So what should I do? Blow it off? Hang out in the alley behind the gallery? Leave obscene messages on his voice mail?”
For a moment, Kathy’s face remained blank, then a slow smile spread across her face. “How about throwing him completely off guard? Be waiting in his living room when he comes back from his little fling with Suki.”
Joan laughed. “Oh, yeah. That would be great.” She could just see it. Her reclining on the hotel’s plush sofa, the erotic anthology open in front of her. He’d step inside the door, his supermodel on his arm. And then she’d look up and say, “Why Bryce, darling, did you forget we had a little business to attend to?”
She shook her head, dissipating the image. “Too bad.”
“What?” Kathy asked.
“Too bad I can’t really do that.” It was a lovely fantasy, one that was perfectly safe, too, since there was no way she could get into the billionaire’s hotel room.
“Why can’t you?”
Joan lifted an eyebrow. “Duh. The man’s staying at the Monteleone. In the penthouse.”
“Yeah,” said Kathy, her tone suggesting that Joan was an idiot. “And Angie works there, remember?” She grinned. “So what do you say? Want to go pay a visit to Bryce Billionaire?”
Joan licked her lips. It was a stupid, reckless, silly plan. And she went for it in a second.
“Absolutely,” she said. “Let’s go find Angie.”
4
BY THE TIME Bryce made it back to his hotel room, complete exhaustion had set in. He’d just spent eight solid hours answering inane questions from an overeager pup of an attorney, and even though it required no physical energy whatsoever, mentally the whole process had been taxing. He was drained and all he wanted to do was take a shower, drink some wine, kick back with the Wall Street Journal, and then fall asleep.
Only the though
t of Joan kick-started his energy level, and he toyed with the idea of trying to track her down. Unfortunately, he didn’t have her phone number.
As he passed through the suite’s ostentatiously decorated living area, he pulled off his tie, then tossed it on the settee. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed information, looking for the number of Archer’s Rare Books & Manuscripts. The operator connected him, and the store’s machine picked up, dutifully reciting the location and hours of operation. But no human came on the line, and there was no way to leave a message.
Damn.
Frowning, Bryce clicked off. And that’s when he noticed that he’d missed a call. It had come in at about nine-fifteen. Which meant that it could have been Joan, calling to ask where the hell he was. A little surge of anticipation shot up his spine as he punched the button to display the caller’s information.
Nothing. Just Mobile Caller and a number in the 212 area code. Well, at least he knew the caller was in New York. That narrowed the field to about a million possible persons. He was only interested in one.
Since there was no other way to know, he dialed the number. One ring, two, three, and then, “Hi, Joan here. Well, not really. But just leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” A pause, and then she added, “If you’re lucky,” in a voice that evoked images of black lace and satin sheets.
Bryce grinned. He barely knew the woman, but already he knew the message was just her style. Once the beep sounded, he spoke. “Joan, it’s Bryce. I’m sorry about tonight.” He gave her a quick rundown of why he’d been detained before continuing with, “Can I make it up to you? Give me a call.” He left his number again, as well as the number at the hotel, then clicked off. If he didn’t hear from her by noon, he’d send a dozen roses to the store. He hadn’t met a woman yet who could resist roses.
He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. Good. Just enough time for him to take a shower. By the time he got out, the waitress would have delivered his wine and Brie, and he could relax. If he was lucky, maybe Joan would return his call. If that were the case, he’d happily exchange a relaxing night in bed for…well, a not-so-relaxing night in bed.
Until then, though, he was going to take it easy. He headed for the bedroom and tuned the television in the armoire to the financial news, half listening as he stripped down. He found a pair of sweats and a package of T-shirts in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He tossed the clothes onto the bed, then headed into the bathroom.
With Joan on his mind, Bryce stepped into the shower stall, succumbing to one universal truth—if there wasn’t a woman around to relieve a man’s tension, the next best thing was a scalding hot shower.
“YOU GUYS ARE going to get me fired,” Angie Tate said. “I’m supposed to already be off my shift.” She shook her head, one fist propped on her hip as she aimed a sharp stare at Joan and Kathy. If it weren’t for the tug at the corner of her mouth and the gleam in her eye, Joan would have guessed that Angie would nix the project right then.
But she didn’t. Instead, she just pointed at Kathy. “You, go on home. And you,” she said, switching her aim to Joan, “if anyone even looks like they might have a clue what we’re up to, then you’re my best friend from California, you’re in town for the week, and I thought you’d get a thrill riding up to the penthouse with me.”
Joan nodded, still unable to believe her good luck.
“So you’ll really do it?” Kathy asked.
Angie shrugged. “Sure. I mean, it’s Bryce Worthington. If I can’t have him, it might as well be someone I sort of know.”
Joan shook her head. “I don’t want him. I just want to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Uh-huh,” Angie said, but she didn’t look like she believed it. Her gaze drifted from Joan’s stiletto heels, up her stocking-clad legs, and then over the extremely short, extremely flirty dress that Kathy had helped her pick out. “Purple,” Angie said, as if that summed everything up.
Joan supposed maybe it did. Purple was seductive and passionate. Joan wouldn’t have let herself cross over into date-land with Bryce, but he didn’t know that. And she wasn’t above letting him know exactly what he’d missed out on. “Purple,” she confirmed.
Angie grinned, the expression knowing, and Joan smiled back. Then she frowned and turned toward the elevator. “So I’m just going to ride up with you?” The plan seemed way too simple.
“Sure. There’re always lots of people hanging out in the hall. You can wait here while I get his tray, and then we’ll go up together.” She shrugged. “I’ll let you in the room. What you do once you’re in there is your business,” she added with a leer.
“What I’m going to do is chew the bastard out,” Joan said. “If he’s even there.” She turned to Kathy. “He’s probably still at the opening.”
Kathy shrugged. “So you wait.”
“I’ve never seen him,” Angie explained. “I mean, not in person. But he’s got a standing order for wine and cheese at midnight. I leave it in the living room, and he gets it after I’ve left.”
Joan licked her lips. “He’ll know you let me in. Who else could have? What if he gets you fired?”
Angie tugged at the collar of her uniform. “Believe me,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
Joan frowned, but didn’t back out of the plan. The truth was, she wanted this too badly. And not just the chance to read Bryce the riot act. No, even though she wasn’t about to admit it to either Angie or Kathy, she simply wanted to see Bryce one more time. He might have acted like the biggest jerk in the world, but he was a jerk who’d made one hell of an impression on her.
“Okay,” Kathy said. “Give me a hug for good luck, and I’ll hit the road.”
Kathy gave her a squeeze, and then Angie looked her up and down. “You ready?”
Joan glanced from one to the other. “Ready,” she said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
ANGIE WAS RIGHT. The employee-only hallway between Talon and the service elevator was anything but employee only. Lots of folks seemed to be coming and going, and twice Joan had to press herself flat against the wall to avoid being knocked down by a room-service waiter racing down the hall with a cantankerous cart. Twice she saw the hotel manager— Angie had pointed him out—and both times Joan tried to conjure the appearance of someone busily standing around in a hallway. She must have succeeded, because the manager paid no attention to her whatsoever. Good.
Actually, everyone essentially ignored her, too busy going about their various tasks. Which was more than fine with Joan. Except for the occasional appreciative glance toward her cleavage, she was pretty much invisible to the waiters careening down the hall with their carts and the uniformed hotel staff passing through on their way to do hotel-type stuff. A guy in a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and toting a duffel bag, parked himself near the elevator, but he didn’t look at her, either. Just kept staring down at his ugly combat boots.
Joan shifted her weight from one foot to the other, antsy. This was stupid. She’d never been a vindictive person—well, okay, maybe a little—but was it really worth it? So he’d stood her up. So he was a jerk. Big freakin’ deal. She’d dated tons of jerks, but she never staked out their apartments.
All true, but this was business. And the business world was dog-eat-dog.
Mentally, she rolled her eyes. She might not admit it to Kathy, but she had to admit it to herself. And the painful truth was that she probably would have walked away—would have backed off from pure bitch mode, gone home, and drowned her sorrows in a bottle of merlot—if it weren’t for the memory of the piercing heat of his eyes, and the way her stomach had done somersaults when he’d looked at her. Before he’d stood her up.
Her head had wanted the meeting for business purposes…but a secret little part of herself had wanted so much more.
Anger and indignation made her stay. That, and the fact that Angie suddenly slammed backwards through Talon’s kitchen door, a tray of wine and cheese balanced
on her hands. “Okay, Joan. You ready?” Angie glanced at Joan as she shifted the tray to one hand, then pushed the elevator’s call button.
Joan sucked in a breath and replied with the only possible answer. “Abso-freakin’-lutely.”
IT WASN’T SUPPOSED to happen this way. He was supposed to get on the elevator with the waitress. Every night he’d watched, and every night she’d gone up to Worthington’s room alone.
But not tonight. Tonight she’d gotten on the elevator with some little bitch—and before Clive could react, the elevator doors had slammed in his face.
Damn it all to hell.
Now what did he do? He didn’t know. He’d had it all planned out, and she’d gone and screwed it all up for him.
Deep breaths. That’s what he needed. He told himself to take long, deep, calming breaths. Yes. Right. Okay. It would be okay. The solution was obvious, so obvious that he almost laughed out loud.
He’d simply come back tomorrow.
Worthington ordered the same wine, the same cheese, every single night. The girl would deliver it tomorrow, just like she had today. And the blonde wouldn’t be there. The little waitress would be all alone, and she’d do exactly what he told her. He’d make her let him into Bryce Worthington’s hotel room…and then he’d be face-to-face with the man.
And then—
“Can I help you?”
Clive started, but remembered to keep his head down. “I’m…I’m just—”
He shifted, and the damn duffel tumbled free, the butt end of the shotgun spilling out.
“Okay, buddy, hands on your head.” The guard was all bluster and action now, and Clive knew that he’d totally messed up.
He lifted his left hand up slowly. But his right was still in his jacket, his hand tight around the butt of his Glock, his finger hard against the trigger. He fired. And the guard went down.