by Heidi Betts
Then she’d said yes, accepted his proposal and things had slowly started to change. It bothered her. Concerned her, even. But the date had been set, the venue reserved, a caterer hired, flowers chosen... How could she back out now just because her feet were getting a little chilly?
As she kept telling herself, multiple times a day, it would pass. Dragging her thoughts back to the matter at hand, she stalked across the hardwood floor to the kitchen island and slid open the drawer where they kept everyday odds and ends. Pencils and pens, paper clips, a pair of scissors and the thick borough of Manhattan phone directory.
She pulled it out and flipped to the yellow, paid-advertisement section, looking for listings for private detectives or investigators or whatever they were called. Maybe one of them could figure out what had happened to Lily, because she was sure staggering around in the dark. She had no idea where to begin looking for her sister, or even who to call to ask about her possible whereabouts.
As she got closer to the Ps, the directory fell open, and she noticed a stiff business card stuck between the tissue-thin pages. Plucking it out, she turned it over and read the black print on a plain white background.
McCormack Investigations
Corporate. Private.
She had no idea where the card had come from, but judging by the corresponding ad on the page in front of her, it was probably one of the numbers she’d have called, anyway.
Taking the card with her, she marched back across the living room, casting an annoyed glance at Zoe, whose attention had been drawn to the latest issue of Elle.
“I’ll be in my room,” Juliet muttered through her teeth.
Tipping her head over the back of the sofa, Zoe watched her go. With an exaggerated sigh, she closed the magazine and tossed it on the coffee table.
“Okay. I think I’ll go over to the studio to work for a while. Let me know if you want to go out for dinner.”
Even if they made plans, chances were Zoe would change her mind and zip off to some club at the last minute, leaving Juliet to her own devices.
She waited until Zoe was gone and she was alone to pull out her cell phone and dial the number for McCormack Investigations. It took her a few minutes to convince the receptionist that her problem was a serious one and that time was of the essence, though she didn’t go into a lot of detail.
The woman collected her name and contact information, promising to pass her message along and get back to her as soon as possible.
Juliet would have preferred being put on the phone with one of the company’s investigators immediately or being told she could come in first thing in the morning to meet with someone in person. But she knew her dilemma wasn’t exactly an emergency—at least not yet.
And please, God, don’t let it become one. The idea of something happening to her sister made Juliet’s blood run cold.
So she agreed to stay by the phone and told herself not to panic, not to let her imagination race out of control.
She should go over to the studio with Zoe and try to get some work done. Keep her mind off Lily and the phone in her hand that refused to ring, even after five whole minutes of waiting.
Instead, she resumed pacing a path through the middle of the living-room area. Which was much easier without Zoe in the way, distracting her with her sensible arguments and assurances that Lily was just fine.
Step. Step. Step.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Turn.
Step. Step. Step.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Five minutes turned into ten. Ten into twenty.
She stopped. Worried her thumbnail. Tapped her foot. Went back to pacing.
At thirty minutes and counting, she let out a huff of breath and dropped into the center of the sofa, the cushion wheezing at the sudden addition of her weight.
When her cell phone pealed, she jumped and let out a startled yip. She’d been concentrating so hard on making the stupid thing ring that when it finally did, it scared the bejesus out of her.
Heart pounding for more reasons than one, she brought it to her ear and whispered, “Hello?”
“Ms. Zaccaro?”
“Yes.”
“This is Reid McCormack from McCormack Investigations. I have here that your sister is missing and you’d like help tracking her down.”
“Yes,” she said again.
“You understand, don’t you, that she’s an adult and is allowed to leave town without telling anyone where she’s going,” the man on the other end of the line intoned.
Through gritted teeth, Juliet responded, “Yes.”
“And if she left a note...she did leave a note, correct?”
Hoping she didn’t end up with a cracked molar after this conversation, she ground out yet another, “Yes.”
“If she left a note, then she really can’t be considered missing. The police would tell you to wait and hope you hear from her. And that you can’t file a missing-persons report unless there are actual signs of foul play.”
Feeling deflated and more frustrated than ever, Juliet dropped her head and murmured a dejected, “I understand.”
A beat passed before Reid McCormack spoke again.
“So why don’t you come by tomorrow around 11:00 a.m.? I can’t promise anything. I may not even be able to look for your sister. But we’ll talk. All right?”
His low-timbred, slowly spoken words had Juliet’s head shooting up so fast, it left her dizzy.
Had she heard him correctly? Clearing her throat, she swallowed and forced out the only thing she could think of. “What?”
“Come by tomorrow,” he repeated as patiently as a parent spoon-feeding a child, “and we’ll talk.”
“All right. Thank you.” She hopped to her feet in excitement, though she knew perfectly well he couldn’t see her.
“See you tomorrow, then,” he murmured before they said their goodbyes and hung up.
Juliet slapped her phone down on the low coffee table, then headed back to her room. What did one wear to a meeting with a private investigator?
The only detectives she could picture were the television and pulp-fiction type—Magnum, P.I., Sam Spade, Columbo. But somehow she couldn’t imagine showing up in a hibiscus-covered blouse or ’30s-style dress and wide-brim hat.
Thanks to her role at Zaccaro Fashions, her closet was bursting at the seams with clothes to choose from. Surely she could put something together by tomorrow morning.
As she fingered through hangers and studied her shoe choices, she found herself pushing aside Mr. McCormack’s assertion that he might not be able to help her find Lily, letting herself believe that he not only could, but would.
Five
Lily arrived at Ashdown Abbey bright and early the next morning—but not without a struggle. She’d only gotten about four hours of sleep before her alarm had rudely awakened her and forced her back into the land of the living.
Gulping down her third cup of coffee since reaching the office, Lily sat at her desk and prayed she would be able to hold her composure when Nigel stepped off the elevator.
After saying good-night and slipping into her apartment, she’d gone to the bedroom and changed into a pair of simple cotton pajamas, then returned to the living room with all of the printouts and information she’d managed to sneak out of Ashdown Abbey earlier.
Her movements had been so calm and deliberate. Robotic. Because underneath it all, she was a beehive of confusing thoughts and conflicting emotions.
She was not in Los Angeles to have her hormones go haywire just because she was in close proximity to a handsome, charming Brit. He was supposed to be her enemy, for heaven’s sake.
But her hormones were going wild, distracting her and throwing her off her well-planned-out path.
Not just because Nigel was an attractive man. She’d met handsome men before. Met them, worked with them, dated and even slept with a few.
Good looks were nice, but she wasn’t so weak that they could push her over the edge into t
otal stupidity. Nor could a thick British accent, no matter how toe-curling it might be.
No, there was something else about Nigel that had her pulse thrumming and her head spinning like a kaleidoscope.
She actually kind of liked him so far, despite her preconceived notions of who Nigel Statham must be—a rich, entitled CEO, not above stealing another designer’s ideas to advance his own agenda.
But would a rich, entitled thief ask her opinion on something as important as hiring choices and then actually listen to her answer? Would he compliment her on her insight and walk her to her door at the end of the evening?
The worst part, though, was the kiss. A simple kiss on the cheek, not much different than she’d received a thousand times from older acquaintances, uncles, even her own father.
Then again, it was so not like a kiss from her father. Light and on the cheek, yes. To anyone who might have been watching, it would have seemed to be exactly what it was—a polite, friendly good-night kiss. A thanks-for-a-nice-evening, take-care, sleep-tight kiss from one friend to another. Or in this case, a man to a woman he’d only recently met.
But Lily knew differently. Or at least she felt differently. Never before had a simple kiss on the cheek caused her temperature to rise. Her heartbeat to kick into a gallop. Her stomach to launch into a series of somersaults that would put an Olympic gymnast to shame.
And that was all at only the first touch of his lips on
her skin.
She’d expected him to pull away almost immediately. A quick peck, that’s all. It was almost what she’d hoped for, because then her vitals would return to normal.
For some reason, though, he’d lingered. Not long enough for the moment to become awkward, but certainly long enough for everything in her to turn warm and liquid, and for her chest to tighten as she held her breath.
One-one thousand.
Two-one thousand.
Three-one thousand.
She’d begun to count silently, the way she and her sisters had when they were young, playing hide-and-seek. Until she worried that lack of oxygen might start to make her light-headed.
And then he’d pulled away. Straightening to his full height, and gazing at her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.
Murmuring another quick, mumbled goodbye, he’d turned on his heel and marched away.
He’d gone, but the aftereffects of the kiss had remained. Through the rest of the night and into this morning.
She could swear she still felt the brush of his mouth against her cheek even now.
And wasn’t that going to be a terrific way to go through the day? Imagining ghost lips dancing along her skin. Wondering if the look she’d seen in Nigel’s eyes just before he’d walked away had been desire...or distaste.
Taking another long swig of coffee, she let the strong, hot brew slide down her throat and trickle into her system. A caffeine IV would be better. Then again, so would a nice shot of vodka. Or maybe a splash of whiskey to make the coffee both smoother and more potent.
Fingers flexing around the ceramic mug, Lily told herself to stop being so flighty. She wasn’t here—in Los Angeles or at Ashdown Abbey—to daydream or wax poetic. And she certainly needed to get her act together before Nigel arrived.
Thoughts of that stupid kiss and what it might or might not mean had kept her up half the night. They didn’t need to distract her all day, too. Especially since she had much more important things to focus on.
One was pretending to be the perfect personal assistant for Nigel.
The other was digging and snooping to see what else she could find concerning her stolen designs.
She’d gone through the California Collection design printouts as much as she could last night before finally succumbing to exhaustion and crawling into bed, but she could barely remember a thing about them now. A second and possibly even third run-through was definitely called for. Of course, she couldn’t do that until tonight when she was home and alone again.
A few yards down the hall, she heard the hum of the elevator and the whoosh of the doors as they opened and closed. Rushing to set aside her coffee, Lily took a deep breath, straightened in her chair, and started typing nothing in particular in an effort to look busy.
* * *
Nigel spotted Lillian the minute he stepped off the lift onto his office floor. If it was possible, she looked even more lovely today than she had last evening, and she’d looked quite stunning then.
Perhaps because he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for the “sexy librarian” type. Her hair was pulled back in a sexy bun, bookish, dark-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. Her jewelry was understated. She wore a red blouse that opened at the throat to reveal just enough pale flesh and shadowed cleavage to make a man’s libido sit up and take notice.
She was seated behind her desk, so he couldn’t tell what she was wearing from the waist down. What he imagined, though, was tight and formfitting, showing off her legs and posterior to perfection. On top of that, he imagined her perching on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, shoe dangling from the toe of one foot, nibbling seductively on the end of her pen.
Oh, yes—naughty librarian, indeed. Or more to the point, naughty secretary. Which was the thought that had plagued him all through last night.
An affair with his secretary was not only bad form, but an extremely bad idea in general. As was allowing himself to be distracted by ungentlemanly and very un-bosslike thoughts about her.
He’d spent an inordinate amount of time unable to sleep, kept awake by memories of their dinner together and that kiss at her door just before saying their good-nights.
For a kiss akin to one he might give his mother or a beloved aunt, it had rocked him back on his heels and made him sorry he had to walk away.
Worse, though, was that the thought of that one simple kiss on the cheek had snowballed into a thousand other thoughts and images he had no business thinking.
Lillian perched on the edge of her desk, shoe dangling from her toes was only the first of many. The wee hours of the night had also been filled with more erotic fantasies.
Pressing Lillian up against the door to her flat and kissing her for real. On the mouth, with lips and tongue and unbridled passion.
Walking her backward into her flat and taking her on whatever surface they bumped into first. Table, counter, sofa, coffee table...even the floor itself.
Bringing her home with him and making love to her in his own bed. On satin sheets, with moonlight streaming across their naked bodies and bringing out the highlights in her dark blond hair.
The one that was bound to cause him the most trouble, however, was of watching her saunter into his office under the pretense of work, only to have him strip her of those sexy schoolmarm eyeglasses, pull the pins from her upswept hair and shag her brains out in the middle of his desk.
It was the single, red-hot thought spiraling through his mind and making it decidedly uncomfortable to walk the remaining distance to his office. She lifted her head as he approached, and he hoped to heaven she didn’t notice the state of his arousal behind the zip of his otherwise pressed and pristine trousers.
“Good morning,” she greeted him.
If her smile seemed a bit stiff or falsely bright, he pretended not to notice. She wasn’t the only one feeling awkward and uncomfortable over whatever had passed between them last night.
“Good morning,” he returned without inflection, studiously avoiding eye contact while he reached for the morning’s post on the corner of her desk and flipped through.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
Her smile slipped, uncertainty skating like clouds across the sky-blue of her eyes.
Nigel blew out a breath. He was being a bleeding sod, and he knew it. It wasn’t her fault that he’d gotten very little sleep and woken up about ten feet to the left of the wrong side of the bed.
“I would love a cup of tea, though,” he said in a
much kinder voice.
She nodded quickly and rose, going around him and her desk to the small pantry that was tucked away at the far side of the reception area.
He watched her cross the expanse, her long legs eating up the space in record time. The slant of her three-inch, open-toed shoes made those legs look even longer, more taut. And her skirt—which turned out to be short and black—encased her buttocks like a second skin.
Not exactly conducive to quelling his arousal. The only thing that might help with that was distance. And possibly being struck blind.
Since the latter wasn’t likely to occur in the next few minutes, he opted for the former. Taking the stack of envelopes with him, he moved into his office and took a seat behind his desk.
He’d just logged on to check his email when Lillian appeared carrying a full tea service—the one he’d ordered when he’d first come to work in the States, but hadn’t seen hide nor hair of since. When he’d requested a cup of tea from his previous assistants, they’d all brought him a big, clunky ceramic mug with a nondescript tea bag bobbing in a pool of lukewarm water.
Nigel sat back, waiting while she set the tray on the edge of his desk and proceeded to pour already steeped tea from a china pot into a china cup. Through a stainless-steel strainer and complete with matching saucer, no less.
“This is a surprise,” he said.
She raised her head, meeting his gaze. The question was there in her eyes.
“I was expecting something much simpler,” he explained. “Aren’t you Americans fond of tea that comes in bags?”
“We are,” she answered. “Very. Probably because it’s a lot easier than all of this.” She waved a hand to encompass the tray and its accoutrements. “But I’ve heard you Brits are much more particular about your tea. And that you don’t think we Americans could brew a decent cup to save our lives.”
His lips quirked with the urge to grin. “We sound like a demanding lot with sticks up our bums.”