by Julie Kenner
Screams filled the hall, and Clive knew what he had to do. In one swift move, he yanked the baseball cap off and pulled down the stocking that he’d worn as a skullcap under the hat. The nylon pressed tight, crushing his features. He clutched the gun, then waved it in an arc to encompass the crowd.
To his right, the elevator dinged, and the door slid open. Clive whipped around, pointing the gun at the occupant. “You,” he said, then picked two others from the hallway. “And you, and you. And don’t anyone do anything foolish—I’ve got the place surrounded with gunmen,” he lied.
With the barrel of the gun he gestured them toward the door to the kitchen. “Go.”
They went.
Clive swallowed, bolstering his courage. He had to do this. The blond bitch had ruined everything, and now Clive had no choice at all. Not if he wanted to get out of this alive.
“YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN.”
Angie’s final words still echoed in Joan’s ears. They’d arranged The Pleasures of a Young Woman on the tray with the Brie, the wine and the single crystal wineglass, and then Angie had slid it onto the coffee table. The whole setup made something of a statement, actually, and Joan had to laugh at how completely behind her Kathy and Angela had gotten, how indignant they were on her behalf. But their support didn’t change anything in the end. Joan was going through this alone, trapped in a living room that looked like something Louis XIV had spit up.
She took a deep breath and maneuvered the room, skirting the settee and chairs formed into a conversational grouping around the solid, dark wood coffee table where Angie had slid the tray. As Joan looked down at it, the full scope and idiocy of her plan caught up with her, and her knees went weak. She collapsed into one of the richly appointed armchairs, her heart pounding so hard she was certain Bryce could hear it even from inside the shower and over the low drone of the television.
She swallowed. What in heaven’s name had she been thinking?
From the other room, she could hear the delicate clatter of water in the shower stall. He was in there—maybe alone, maybe not—naked and steamy, while Joan was out in the living room acting like some mindless junior high schoolgirl. Dumb. This had been a very dumb plan.
She needed to get out of there. Escape with her dignity intact and swear Kathy and Angie to secrecy. Maybe she’d see Bryce again, and maybe she wouldn’t. But if she did, she wanted assurances that no one would ever tell him that Joan Benetti had broken into his hotel room bearing erotica.
She stood up, fully intending to grab the book and head toward the door. But as she got to her feet, she realized the water had stopped. Not only had the water stopped, but the antique-gold louvered doors to the bedroom were starting to open. He was coming into the living room!
With no time to get to the door, Joan hit the floor and crawled behind the couch. She scooted backwards until she was between the outside wall and a folding screen with a scene of some royal dude at court. If she got out of this mess, she was going to have a long heart to heart with the hotel’s decorator. The room was positively gaudy.
She sat on her heels, able to see only a sliver of the room through the gap where two panels of the triptych were hinged together. The bedroom doors creaked, and Joan held her breath. And then he walked into her field of vision. Bryce Worthington, wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist.
Joan swallowed, trying very hard not to make a sound when her initial reaction was to mew like a kitten. Jerk-wad or not, the man was yummy. From her hiding place, Joan could see every delectable inch of him. He’d toweled off, but not completely, and his body glistened in the soft light, the tiny droplets of water making him gleam like some Greek god.
His coal-black hair seemed even darker now that it was wet. With his hair slicked back, his face had lost the slight softness that his natural waves had brought. Now he looked ruthless. Predatory. And undeniably sexy. A tingle eased up Joan’s spine and she bit the side of her thumb as Bryce moved through the living room. His stride was confident, controlled, and she couldn’t help but wonder what those powerful hands would feel like on her body.
His skin was a deep bronze, in sharp contrast to the white hotel towel wrapped around his waist, and she imagined him spending hours in the sun, lounging next to a bikini-clad supermodel. A smattering of hair covered what appeared to be a rock-hard chest, tapering down to a thin line that eased below the fold of the towel like an arrow pointing the way toward home. Her fingers itched to touch him, and she wondered how many women had followed that path down to the prize hidden under the terry cloth.
The towel ended abruptly midthigh, and his legs were just as hard as the rest of his body. Bryce was no flabby businessman spending all his time behind a desk. He worked out. And Joan could picture him on a racquetball court, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over his body, as he pulverized the competition. Bryce had the air of a man who got what he wanted, both on and off the job.
Joan frowned, allowing herself one quick moment of self-pity. Apparently she wasn’t something that Bryce had wanted.
She shook her head, banishing such ridiculous thoughts. Joan had never been a woman who moped around wondering if guys found her attractive. They did. She knew that, and there really wasn’t much point in playing the nïve little cookie. But that didn’t mean that every guy would want her. And if Bryce didn’t want her, then it wasn’t going to dent her ego.
No, what pissed Joan off was the arrogant, casual way he’d tossed her aside…and the carrot he’d dangled in the form of a possible sale. That, my friend, was rude.
Joan swallowed, only then remembering the book. They’d set it on the tray, right under the plate of Brie. And Bryce was heading for the coffee table right then.
The wine was uncorked, and he poured himself a glass, took a sip, then started to reach for the knife to cut a slice of cheese. She knew the instant he saw the book. He frowned, a curious expression crossing his face as he reached down to lift the plate. The book came into view, and his head popped back up, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the door. Another frown. Clearly, he assumed Angie had delivered the book, then left. But he had to know that Joan was behind it.
Was he looking for her? Was he regretting breaking their date?
With pronounced casualness, Bryce set the book on the edge of the coffee table, then cut some Brie and put it on a cracker. He took a bite, then sat in the chair that faced the triptych. Joan tensed, afraid he could see her through the gap, but he wasn’t even looking her direction. Instead, he was looking at the book. He picked it up carefully, then leaned back in the chair, the leather spine cradled in one hand.
Both his feet were on the floor, his knees slightly apart, and from Joan’s crouched position she had a direct view to the shadowed space between his legs. She licked her lips, unable to tear her eyes away. She’d fallen under some erotic spell, and she shook her head, disgusted with herself for wanting a little peep, while at the same time she silently prayed for him to shift just enough so that she could see beyond the murky gray of shadows.
It would be so apropos, really. Her favorite passage in the book was the one where Mademoiselle X, upon visiting friends in the country, finds herself wandering alone down a garden path. She gets lost—of course—and ends up by a small stream. There’s a stone bench, and the gardener is there, resting in the shade in the late afternoon sun. The air is heavy with the scent of lavender, and the young miss crouches behind a dense bush, barely hidden from the virile workman.
She wants only to watch him—to let her eyes feast on this fabulous specimen of masculinity, one off-limits to a person of her elevated class. Soon, though, she experiences so much more than she could have imagined. The gardener, overheated from his work, is lying along the bench. His eyes are closed, but a smile plays along his lips. The young miss has no idea what he is thinking, but she imagines that he is thinking of her. That he has seen her in the gardens and taken a fancy.
Soon, the gardener lifts a hand, wiping his brow. His shirt is unbuttone
d, and has fallen open, exposing his chest and stomach, both a deep brown, undercut with a hint of red from long hours in the sun. His hand, weathered and calloused, rests on his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants. She watches as he breathes deep, his chest rising, as his nimble fingers loosen the laces that hold up his breeches. He slips his hand under the cloth, his fingers stroking his shaft as his eyes close in an expression of tentative ecstasy.
As the young miss watches, the man’s sex stiffens, jutting free of the thin work pants. His ministrations quicken, his breathing becoming more rapid. The man turns his head, his eyes opening, his lids heavy with passion. He faces her, staring straight at her hiding place, a seductive grin playing across his lips. And then, with an inviting smile, he speaks two words: “My lady…”
The memory of the passage teased Joan, and she shook her head, drawing her own thoughts back to the present. She was being ridiculous. From what she’d seen in the store, quite a bit of erotica focused on women touching themselves as men looked on, both hidden and not. Few pieces dealt with women watching men. That was why she was thinking of this passage. Because it was academically unusual. That was all. Not because she harbored any fantasies that Bryce would notice her. And certainly not because she harbored fantasies that he would pull her skirt up, toss her across the couch and have his way with her.
Really.
With determination, she forced her eyes away from the forbidden zone, as if that would force her mind off thoughts of his hands stroking and teasing her. Instead, she looked at his face. Even when he thought he was alone, his expression remained guarded, but she could see the glimmer of interest in his eyes, the slight bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. He was intrigued. No doubt about it. And she fought a spurt of frustration laced with anger. If he hadn’t been such an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, standing her up the way he had, they might have been able to have some serious fun exploring the nuances of erotica. From a purely academic standpoint, of course.
He flipped a few more pages, then tossed back the rest of his wine. He used a napkin to mark the page, then returned the book to the coffee table. The towel was too small, even for his narrow hips, and it was pulled tight across his lap. Joan might not be able to see under the towel, but considering the telltale white tent now formed by the cloth, Joan could safely surmise that Bryce Worthington was at least a tad turned on. Well, good. She hoped he had to take a freezing cold shower. That would serve him right.
As if that was exactly what he planned to do, he stood up, then turned and headed toward the double doors leading to the bedroom. After a second, she heard the television click off and silence filled the room. She shifted slightly to the left and was able to keep him in view. The doors were pushed open, and now she had a clear view of the bed, except for one side of it that was partially blocked by the settee. She considered standing up behind the triptych to get a better view, but dismissed the idea immediately. Too risky. And what was it she wanted to see, anyway?
That question was answered almost immediately. With one quick tug, Bryce pulled the towel off and tossed it on the floor. He stood there naked, his back to her, and Joan stifled a gasp. In all of her dating history, Joan didn’t think she’d ever seen a butt quite that perfect. Nice and tight and totally sexy. Just as she’d suspected, this butt ranked a perfect ten.
But then Bryce turned, and that’s when Joan really saw perfection, and coherent thought vanished from her head like dandelion fluff in the wind. Like Michelangelo’s David, Bryce’s entire body was hard and perfect. Her own body tightened as pure liquid heat rushed through her veins, pooling between her thighs with a dull, persistent throbbing.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Her fingers longed to touch him. To stroke, to caress. And, most of all, to be touched by him in kind.
Not a welcome reaction. Not under the circumstances, anyway.
She was here for payback, not to get turned on. She needed to get out of the room, to run, to escape back to her life where her head worked like a normal person’s instead of like an addle-brained simp’s.
In the bedroom, Bryce stepped into a pair of gray sweatpants which he tied at the waist. When he completed the outfit with a crisp, white T-shirt, Joan released a silent sigh of relief. He was still sexy as hell, but at least the clothing added one more barrier between him and her overactive imagination.
She hoped he would head into the bathroom so that she could make a run for it. But no. Instead he headed back to the living area, looking far too much like a man who was ready to settle in for the night with a good book and a glass of wine.
Joan shifted, her legs already slightly numb from her crouch. This was not good. If he decided to drink a few glasses of wine and read the book, she could be stuck there all night. Her entire body ached at the thought, and she imagined each limb falling asleep in turn until she was curled up behind the triptych, unable to move, and finally found in a petrified state by the maid when she came to clean. Not a pretty picture.
The only reasonable solution was to show herself, to come out from behind the screen and confess to everything. And suffer the consequences, the most obvious of which would be major embarrassment. Not high on Joan’s list, but unless Bryce stood up and headed back into the bedroom, that looked like the only viable option.
That was when Bryce poured himself another glass of wine…and Joan knew that she was stuck. Time to face the firing squad.
Her cramped thigh muscles weren’t at all excited about cooperating, and she was slow to stand up. Right as she was rising, the clear tones of Bryce’s cell phone rang out through the room. The man sighed, then pushed himself off the sofa. Unable to believe her good fortune, Joan watched through the gap as he moved into the bedroom and disappeared. A second later, she heard his voice.
“Worthington.”
No more footsteps. No nothing. Apparently Bryce was having this conversation in the bedroom.
Go.
Joan didn’t argue with herself. She forced her cramped legs into gear and hightailed it for the door, thankful for the plush carpet that muffled her pounding feet. When she reached the tile foyer, she slowed, tiptoeing the rest of the way to the door. She gripped the doorknob, turning it slowly until the latch gave, then yanked the door open, preparing to race down the hall toward the staircase.
She didn’t get far. Her path was blocked by two uniformed men in flak jackets carrying automatic weapons, their badges held aloft. She took a step backwards, her heart pounding in terror. Her immediate thought was that she was being arrested for breaking and entering. “I’m—”
“Hostage situation, ma’am,” the taller one said. “We’re going to have to ask you to stay put.”
5
THIS COULDN’T BE happening. There was no way that this could possibly be happening.
Joan stood there, her mouth hanging open. She managed only one word. “But—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the tall one said. He really did sound sorry. The short one just stood there, his gun at the ready. Joan tried hard not to look at it.
“We’re going to have to ask that you stay in the room, keep your door and windows locked, and don’t step out onto the balcony.” He spoke loudly, and Joan twisted to look back over her shoulder, wondering if Bryce had heard them. But there was no sign of him, and she could hear the faint timbre of his voice drifting in from the other room.
Thank goodness for small favors.
Joan swallowed, tiny pieces of her composure finally coming together to form a coherent whole. “No,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis. “No, you don’t understand.” She kept her voice at a whisper. “I have to get out of here. I’m not even supposed to be here in the first place.”
Neither man seemed particularly sympathetic to her plight. They just apologized again and started to step back from the door.
“No,” Joan said, cringing at the frantic tone in her voice. She reached out to brush the short one’s sleeve. “Couldn’t you move me to another roo
m?”
Wariness flashed across the guard’s face, and he paused, staring at her with intense eyes. “Is there a problem, ma’am?” he asked, his tone low and serious. “Are you in danger?”
Joan realized the direction his thoughts had turned and cursed her stupidity. “No, no,” she said. “Nothing like that.” God, what a twit. Some maniac had taken people hostage and she was worried about embarrassing herself in front of Bryce. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“We’re fine.” Bryce’s voice. She felt the pressure of his hand against her shoulder. Well, hell. “What’s going on?”
BRYCE WAS TRYING HARD to remain calm, but it wasn’t easy. There were armed police in his doorway and a woman he desperately wanted to touch looking like she just as desperately wanted to escape.
“A gunman has taken a number of hostages on the ground floor,” the officer said, and Bryce felt his stomach roil.
He tightened his fist. “Do you know the gunman’s goal? Money? What does he want?” His pulse picked up tempo. Had the gunman come for him? He’d never been the target of any sort of crime before, but he couldn’t discount the possibility now, not with the Carpenter deal being so hot.
“No sir, we don’t.”
“I see.”
The officer must have seen concern reflected on Bryce’s face, because he continued. “We’ve secured the remainder of the building and sealed off the gunman’s location. Standard operating procedure. At the moment, we have no concerns for your safety, but you’ll need to stay put.”
Bryce licked his lips, his gaze darting to the back of Joan’s head. She still hadn’t turned to face him.
“And you should be aware that we may find it necessary to cut phone service or power to this grid.”
“Where? I mean, what’s his location?”
“The kitchen,” the short cop said.
Joan turned to look at him then, a pained look on her face. In one fluid movement, he reached out, realizing her knees were giving out on her. “Hey, whoa there.” He caught her around the waist and pulled her close, liking the way she felt in his arms.