“Stephanie?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Was that her voice? That distant, wavering thread of sound?
“You might tell me why you blew off one of the wealthiest, powerful men around, honey. And a patron.”
That put a hint of steel into her spine, and she straightened a little. “Do I have to date patrons, Reginald? As a condition of my employment?”
“Good grief, Stephanie! Is that how it sounded? Of course not. I apologize for giving you that impression!”
The sigh of relief escaping her was covered by more profuse apologies on Reg’s part. Stephanie supposed sexual harassment suits, even secondhand, were a concern to savvy employers anywhere. Although hopefully her boss was showing concern for her sensibilities as well. She wondered how she could feel him out regarding his plans for the evening. She’d had an excellent teacher in Sophie insofar as manipulating people went, but she preferred the gentle guidance. She sighed inwardly. There was no help for it. She’d guzzle some champagne and choke down the hors d’oeuvres then hit the road. She could walk to the diner a block away and kill time there. She had a paperback in her purse, and a cup of coffee wouldn’t break the budget.
“Have a safe and profitable trip, sir,” she offered.
“Thanks, my dear. I’ll call you every day.”
Of that she was certain. Mr. Micromanager. But she’d manage just fine. Stephanie dragged herself to her feet, setting her phone down then snatching it back up, turning it off. Knowing Reginald, he would perseverate on their conversation and call her back a dozen times to ensure he hadn’t offended her and to share any number of last-minute suggestions. Like how crazy she was to turn down a “date” with Dace Reynolds. She’d missed a call—her brain registered it after the fact, and she resignedly powered the old clam-shell styled phone back up again. It took forever. What she wouldn’t give for one of the latest models so she could check her e-mail on the fly, instead of having to use the computer at work. Stephanie had to sell her laptop to pay for her ticket here. Damn Sophie.
Yanking the booze from the fridge, she pulled the cork free then tipped the bottle to her mouth and let the icy, fizzing fluid fill her mouth and rush down her throat in reckless abandon. Just what she needed. Or maybe not. The alcohol hit her empty belly with a rush. What the hell, she was due some kind of satisfaction. Stephanie took another swig, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand, smiling at how bizarre she must appear, and so out of character.
Choosing a mystery meat appetizer, she placed it in her mouth, wincing at the unfamiliar taste. Stephanie chewed cautiously, but it didn’t get any better. She made a mental note to change caterers or consult with them over their wares in the future. No wonder there was so much food left over and so little champagne. She spat the food into a napkin and chased the taste with more fizzy. The alcohol again hit her empty stomach with resounding effect, and Stephanie swallowed a giggle. Pissed on the job. She needed to head out.
The display on the phone showed an unknown number, and Stephanie deliberated, not well, the champagne already impairing her judgement. Her finger hovered over the call back button. There was no voice message left, so it could be Sophie who didn’t “talk to machines,” reacting as abhorrently as a princess might that someone would dare not be available for her call. Or her dad, who didn’t ever want his voice recorded. Her gut warned her, and she powered it off yet again, deciding to wait until later. She tipped the last of the bubbly into her mouth and dropped the bottle into the recycle bin. Tipped meant tipsy. This time the giggle slipped past her lips, and she burped, quite indelicately, then laughed out loud. Far too much champagne. Stephanie flicked off lights as she went, noting the ambiance created by the shadowed paintings and sculptures. Maybe it would be okay to stay the night…
Rejecting the idea, Stephanie opened the gallery door and set the alarm carefully, the numbers blurring slightly. Crap. Pissed. She’d always been a cheap drunk. Champagne hadn’t been such a good idea. Her head felt heavy and her body weightless. She needed coffee. Stephanie skipped down the steps in her jeans and casual shirt, the low heeled boots on her feet clocking on the slate, wondering that she didn’t fall on her ass. Blessing the bright lighting on the street, yet oblivious to anything around her, she quailed at the sudden grip on her forearm, the same one bruised the night before.
“Good evening, Ms. Price.” It was unlikely his voice would escape her notice. She’d know it anywhere. She was so screwed.
“Let go of my arm.” Her voice trembled a trifle, but not from pain. However, she was instantly released.
“I apologize. I hurt you last night.”
Was this the same arrogant piece of work? Stephanie spun to face him and wobbled. His eyes zeroed in on her as his hands shot out to gently catch her shoulders. Too close. She tried to ignore the sensual affect he had on her, conveniently blaming it on the alcohol. But waves of lust rolled up her body, starting right at the tip of her toes, and fever flushed her body. Stephanie shuddered against them.
“Have you been drinking?” Dace’s voice sounded amused and sceptical all at once.
Stephanie straightened to her full height and gave her head the most imperious shake she could manage. Her world spun, and she’d have staggered back without his hold. His body heat seemed above average, and she wanted to curl into him, fortunately getting a grip on her ridiculous urge before acting on it.
“Just a glass of champagne.” That was all she could manage.
“You’re halfway to on your ass, sweetheart. C’mon.” She felt herself guided over the curb and into a big black car. Sweetheart? The big man holding the door actually winked at her, and she squinted back in confusion before bestowing her best smile on him.
Once inside, the world settled. “Where are we going?” Stephanie addressed the fine stuff of his suit. Even sitting, and with her head tipped back on the leather cushion, Dace towered above her.
“My place. We were to have dinner.”
Oh, that smooth, imperious tone. Stephanie heard it through her muzziness because the warning bells of self-preservation rang loudly, cutting through the stupor. She scooted to the far side of the enormous seat, struggling with the disconcerting feeling of her body not quite belonging to her, and narrowed her eyes on him.
“No. We are not.”
“Would you prefer we go to your apartment? It seems a shame to waste the food and effort I went to.”
Right, like she’d let him in her little nest. He’d be like a cuckoo, laying his mark against her will and leaving her to nurture the product. Not. “I was going to the diner.” Pretty specious but it was all she had.
“Nope. Not happening, Stephanie. Or should I call you Steffie? You’ve charmed Reg for him to be calling you by the diminutive.”
Her slow neurons sifted through the implications of that. Oh my God. Reginald gave Dace Reynolds her number. It was untenable. She studied his implacable face and went for the gusto.
“I won’t whore for you.” Her announcement echoed in the closed quarters.
A noise between a snort and a choke emanated from the front of the limo. Dace’s attention snapped that way and immediately back to her. His face darkened, those light-blue eyes icing over, and Stephanie’s stomach clenched, but she held her ground, locking gazes with him, setting her teeth.
* * * *
Goddamn it. It sounded pretty fucking bad, couched in those terms. Dace supposed there was no other way to view it, no matter the perspective. He’d been an asshole, driven by revenge and stung pride. Not that he wasn’t going to fix Sophie’s designer wagon when he found her, but unless he found something unsavory in Stephanie’s past, he wouldn’t pass judgement. Or push his decision on her. Although, he mused, she hadn’t said she wasn’t interested, just that she wouldn’t whore herself.
“I apologize.”
Her remarkable eyes popped wide. “It’s been an evening for apologies.” The g in apology came out like j, slightly slurred, and the rest of the
word trailed off.
Dace shrugged. He’d pursue her cryptic remark later. “Please let me provide dinner, Ms. Price. I assure you I won’t cross any boundaries tonight.” At least not any you don’t want crossed, he added silently.
Her head wagged from side to side, quite solemnly. “No.”
“I’m not giving you a choice. You clearly need some sustenance to counteract the alcohol. My word is good, Ms. Price. Frank can tell you that.”
His driver straightened from the indolent slouch he affected as he expertly directed the car through the heavy traffic. “It’s true, Miss Price.”
Stephanie visibly weighed the words, probably concerned about her impaired judgement. She looked toward Frank, who caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. What was with the man? Frank hated Sophie. And he’d only just met Stephanie. Did he have some kind of radar? Great. His driver had better assessment skills than Dace did, better intuition. Maybe he was wasted as a driver and should be installed in the inner sanctum to screen all callers. Dace managed his annoyance with considerable effort.
“All right. Dinner.”
“Dinner.” And anything else he might persuade her to do because her scent was making him crazy, not to mention the curve of her breasts and the way those jeans hugged her slender thighs. The jerk of Frank’s head drew his attention, and Dace reluctantly met his eyes. Shit. His driver was making him man up. Okay. Dinner.
The drive to his condo was made in silence, and Stephanie kept her distance, staring out the window, ignoring him. It infuriated Dace in one aspect but gave him the opportunity to study her without having to deal with her shields. The alcohol had relaxed her, yet there was a certain tenseness about her. What was she doing, drinking alone at the gallery? Had he pushed her into hiding? Did she have a problem with booze?
Dace supposed she regretted entering his vehicle because she’d lost whatever advantage she had in avoiding him. Her beautiful hair curled in riotous waves around her shoulders and down her back, disappearing where her body met the seat. The sage-green shirt was obviously well worn, and it set off her creamy skin. He remembered how soft the fabric felt beneath his hands, so often laundered, too. Her jeans fit well, but weren’t any designer brand he was familiar with, and seeing as his company knew the fashion industry inside and out…well, it appeared Stephanie Price didn’t spend her pennies on high-priced fripperies. Her boots were better quality, probably because her feet were so narrow. She wouldn’t be able to buy standard footwear. The same fine gold necklace adorned her throat, and tiny gold hoops nestled in either earlobe. Other than that she wore no jewellery.
Even her scent was different than Sophie’s musky, alluring speciality. Stephanie smelled of fresh, cotton bed sheets. Dace smiled to himself at the not-so-subtle comparison, but it was true. She reminded him of bed. Of fresh linens. He felt his smile deteriorate and resisted the urge to cover his mouth, knowing it had just curled in derision. It wasn’t about making this woman special and different from Sophie. Blood would tell, and no matter how he’d rethought his earlier plans, she would help him even as he kept emotional distance. Dace wasn’t getting burned again.
Tearing his eyes from her, Dace faced forward, ignoring any inadvertent eye contact with Frank, hugely aware of the little bundle of woman pressed up against the opposite door. If it had been Sophie, he would have raised the privacy screen and taken her right on this leather seat, her dress up around her waist, panties on the floor, her pert little ass squeaking across the fabric, her voice filling the car with all of those insincere squeals of passion and pleasure. She’d done anything he wanted sexually, but Dace now understood it was to cloud his mind with lust, and not really to please him and meet his needs. He didn’t doubt she’d orgasmed, because he knew women’s bodies, but Sophie’s pleasure had been selfish. She seemed incapable, probably unwilling in retrospect, of holding off her climax until he allowed it or joined with him. His cock wilted, and Dace stared down at himself in consternation. Yes, that bitch really made him second-guess himself in all avenues.
The car drew up in front of his building, and Stephanie stirred. Her fresh scent wafted to his nostrils, and his gaze grudgingly returned to her. His cock mustered an advance, and Dace cursed inwardly. He was going to do himself an injury. He made another decision.
“Take Ms. Price home, Frank. See her right to her door.”
He climbed out of the limo, ignoring the look on Stephanie’s face. Her succulent mouth parted, and her amazing eyes flew wide. Something vulnerable flashed in their depths that Dace refused to speculate about before she shuttered them. He slammed the door shut and pounded once on roof, turning on his heel to stride into the entrance. He’d find another way to take care of Sophie Price, one that didn’t include any involvement with her sister.
Chapter Four
The champagne had addled her wits, true, but Stephanie was thinking clearly enough to feel. She was shocked, surprised, and, sadly, humiliated. She supposed that one Dace Reynolds, Mr. Oh So Handsome and Special, had taken her full measure in the car and found her lacking. Her clothes were serviceable and fit her well, she was clean and nicely made up, but she was an employee, nothing more. Stephanie didn’t look anything like Sophie or the woman he’d met the night before, all gussied up. Dace had clearly come to his senses and carelessly hurt her feelings in the process, rejected her like yesterday’s bread. Tears filled her eyes, and she furiously blinked them back. Damn champagne. She was furious with herself at allowing even such a tiny flicker of hope, hope that she might actually have an actual date with such an amazing man.
She ducked her head, and after a moment the car started up, moving almost silently into the street, blending with the other traffic. Stephanie watched from the corner of her eye as the buildings slipped by, then the cross streets until she recognized familiar landmarks. Frank obviously knew where he was going. All the while Stephanie worked intently at packaging up everything Dace Reynolds, tying metaphorical strands of her will tightly around any memory or thought until she was able to tuck the bundle away in some dark recess of her mind for now. Until she felt better able to deal with it, as in never.
Frank opened the car door closest to the sidewalk, and she scooted across the seat to disembark, too embarrassed to look at the man. He was quiet, perhaps respecting her discomfort, and she caught his hand gesture that she precede him. One, two, one, two. Her heels again struck the solid surface beneath them counterpoint to the quiet as he escorted her into her building in utter silence. The stairway echoed with their footsteps, and Stephanie could hear his deep breaths as they climbed. It occurred to her she was alone with a strange man and about to allow him entry to her apartment, but it didn’t matter. She wanted to be comfortably numb and planned to fall on her bed and sleep until Monday. He could do whatever. He exuded kindness and understanding. Pity would have scalded the flesh from her bones, but she detected none.
Frank gently took the keys she fumbled from her purse and opened her apartment door. He scanned the room after flipping the light switch and again motioned for her to go ahead. Stephanie knew she ought to say something, anything. He’d been witness to something incredibly hurtful and personal, and she didn’t even know him.
“Thank you for the ride home. I appreciate it.”
His heavy features softened, dark eyes warming. “You’re welcome, Miss Price. What can I get you to eat?”
Stephanie’s stomach growled on cue. But she shook her head, instantly regretting it. She fought the lack of equilibrium. His head cocked to one side, and one brow quirked. He crossed to the fridge and looked inside, then chose random cabinets to do the same.
“I’ll go pick up some takeout.”
“No!” The response cracked through the air with such a desperate sound, and she hurried to mitigate it. “I’m fine, really. Just haven’t had time to do any grocery shopping. I ate leftovers at the gallery and unfortunately guzzled some champagne.”
Stephanie forced what she hoped looked like a self-depreca
ting smile and willed the half-truth to work. Frank stared at her searchingly then nodded. Her insides slumped in relief, but she kept the damn smile on her face.
“I’ll head out then, Miss Price. You have a good evening.”
She nodded, wondering if she should offer her hand. Frank was such a kind person, not like—not like anyone she wasn’t ever thinking about again. He pulled the door open, nodding his approval at her deadbolt. “Good choice, Miss Price. Your landlord is smart to protect his tenants.”
Stephanie couldn’t help the tiny snort of cynical laughter falling past her lips. Frank looked at her and then the deadbolt. “You’re a smart woman, and talented, too. Good night.”
Stephanie stared at the door for a few minutes then willed her feet into action, crossing to shove the hardware into place. Frank was like a big, protective brother. She sighed for what she’d never had and took herself off to the bathroom, running a hot bath, tipping the last of her bath salts into the steaming water. Island cotton. It’d be awhile before Stephanie could treat herself again, although she still had some of the body fragrance spray. She pulled her clothes off and lowered herself into the welcoming tub of water. It was a deep, heavy, old-fashioned unit, probably around since the building was constructed, and it was a perk, like the additional daylight and quiet. Stephanie soaked in comfort for awhile, ignoring the weight in her head. The champagne soaked out of her pores, and she contemplated the cheese and crackers in her kitchen. There was an apple, too, a wilted pathetic thing she’d actually bought on a whim for the horse that drew the carriage in the park. She supposed she took precedence.
The flood of tears took her by surprise, breaching that solidly constructed dam, pouring from her eyes and from her soul. Stephanie literally couldn’t blink against them. Her face was awash in salt and liquid, hot and scalding, and she dipped her hands into the bath water to throw it over her features in an attempt to ease the sensation. She cried for her mom, for growing up with two empty people and an aloof stepmother, for all the intervening years with no one to love her, the struggles to gain an education while shuffling Sophie’s misadventures. And she cried with the humiliation of being rejected, found lacking once again, by a man she’d thought was better than that despite his arrogant façade. The pain beneath his protective exterior had appeared obvious to Stephanie because she thought she knew exactly what he felt. But she’d been wrong about him, and her poor judgement hurt the most of all.
The Decision (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 4