If he was honest—and he believed he was ruthlessly so—tiny Madeline loomed large in his psyche. A worthy adversary, too cagey to let out of his sight. Why, if ever she uncovered hard evidence on the Lady in Red, she’d take him down at any cost.
He had to admit that he admired her for that. That she was . . . important to him. That he cared about her.
But not in an affectionate way.
Or so he would have said that morning. He’d also have said he owed her for besmirching him, for causing him some sleepless nights. That he had a healthy interest in making her squirm.
But now he didn’t know how he felt. Except that he wanted to wring her neck.
Finishing a punishing set, he made for the dumbbells and pumped out a set of flys that would have been impossible if he weren’t so pissed.
He worked his shoulders, his back, fuming at her indifference to what he’d made of himself, her utter disregard for his achievements.
Curling sixty pounds with each arm, he let the burn in his biceps fuel his anger.
She was driving him mad. He wanted to shake her. Berate her.
And God help him, he wanted to fuck her.
CHAPTER SIX
“JUST HOW BIG is this place?” Maddie wanted to know.
“I couldn’t tell you dimensions,” said Bridget, “but it occupies this entire floor, as well as the one above.”
Must’ve cost a mint.
“On this level you’ll find the guest suites, the dining room, the gallery. All the rooms where Mr. LeCroix does his entertaining.” The girl spoke with pride. “The upper level, that’s Mr. LeCroix’s private quarters. His suite, the gym, the indoor pool. And then there’s the roof, of course.”
Of course.
“Quite beautiful, it is,” Bridget waxed on, “with gardens galore. A greenhouse, with herbs for the kitchen, and more flowers than we know what to do with.” She swept an arm at the burgeoning vases on every surface. “There’s a fine terrace for parties—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
“Oh indeed.” The sarcasm sailed over Bridget’s head. “We’ve a regular roster of famous folk. Actors and musicians. Even some of those supermodels.”
She dropped her voice disapprovingly. “Eat like birds, they do. Drives Leonardo mad when his lovely food comes back to the kitchen picked over like a sales rack.” Then she smiled. “Not like last night, eh? He was quite pleased with how you took to his carbonara.”
“Right.” In any comparison to supermodels, Maddie could only come up, well, short. “Anyway, thanks for the coffee.” She rose abruptly from the sofa to cut off the conversation.
Bridget got the message and pokered up. “You’ll find breakfast set out in the dining room. Or if you’d prefer, you can ring the kitchen and I’ll bring whatever you’d like.” She did the curtsy again and closed the door silently behind her.
Maddie felt like a heel. She’d snubbed the poor girl over a sudden stab of . . . what?
Supermodel jealousy?
Not possible. Last night’s attraction to Adam was a fluke brought on by a long day full of unpleasant surprises, culminating in an unusual evening in an unfamiliar place. Like any stranger in a strange land, she’d gravitated toward the only recognizable thing, which just happened to be someone she despised.
That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
And just to corroborate it, she’d have breakfast in the dining room. Not because she wanted to see Adam, but to prove she didn’t.
When she got there, after a winding path through hallways, galleries, and a ballroom—yes, a ballroom—complete with frescos and a dozen Waterford chandeliers, she found him standing, as was his unsettling habit, at the window wall, phone to his ear and his gaze on Central Park spreading out umpteen stories below.
His posture was as far from relaxed as she’d ever seen it.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he said with feeling. “I want it back. But more than that, I want the balls off the fucker who stole it. And if it’s an inside job, I want to know about it yesterday.” He paused to listen. “No, keep the polizia out of it. They’ll blunder around and scare the bastard off.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be there in twelve hours and we’ll decide how to proceed.”
He dropped the phone in the pocket of another five-thousand-dollar suit. Then he turned, slowly, an unpleasant smirk on his much-too-handsome face. “Eavesdropping, Madeline?”
Having had all night to regret jumping to conclusions, she knew she deserved that. And here was her chance to be the bigger person and apologize.
She couldn’t stomach it.
Instead, she crossed the room, past a gleaming table long enough to land a Cessna, to the sideboard groaning under the weight of chafing dishes.
Scooping scrambled eggs onto a china plate, she said over her shoulder, “You’ve obviously got a lot going on in Italy. I’ll only get in your way.”
“On the contrary. Your presence is indispensible.”
He strolled up beside her, all nonchalance once more. She caught a whiff of his soap, clean and crisp. No cologne, damn him. She hated cologne on men. She could have added it to her list of grievances.
He lifted the lid on a different chafing dish. French toast, her favorite breakfast. Her mouth watered. But she’d already heaped eggs on her plate. She couldn’t very well scrape them back into the pan.
As she vacillated, Adam took the dish from her hand.
She bristled. “What now? You’re cutting me off?”
“I’m sparing your conscience. The starving children and so forth.”
“There are starving children. Not that you’d care.”
He leveled a look.
Her cheeks heated up. She knew very well his charitable foundation fed children by the thousands. But her mouth had shot off ahead of her brain again, and this time her conscience made her give the devil his due.
“Okay, that was uncalled for.” She swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
His brows rose slightly and he assessed her with those devastating eyes. At this range, she could see every facet, glittering like sunlight off the deep blue sea.
Talk about unsettling.
Then he forked three slices of French toast onto a plate. “The starving children,” he said, “won’t begrudge you French toast. With warm maple syrup.”
Her eyes narrowed. Funny how her favorite foods kept popping up on the menu.
Ignoring her scrutiny, he piled bacon on her eggs and kept them for himself.
“I assume you brought professional attire,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “We meet with Jonathan Hawthorne at ten.”
She sat down three seats away. “Aren’t you jumping the gun? I read through the contract last night, but we haven’t discussed the case. I don’t even know what you want to accomplish today.”
“What I want to accomplish,” he said, shaking an unhealthy amount of salt over his eggs, “is to introduce my counsel in this matter. To wave you under Hawthorne’s nose, so to speak.”
“Hmmph.” She forked in a bite of French toast. And whoa.
It crunched, then squished. Syrup drenched her tongue.
She made a noise in her throat. Squinted to savor the flavors—subtle vanilla, earthy maple—and the texture. Lord, the texture. Crusty outside, custardy inside.
Adam smiled. “Deep fried.”
He filled her cup and she chased the syrupy sweetness with the smoothest, richest roast she’d ever tasted.
A killer combination.
“Okay,” she said, feeling much more agreeable. “Hawthorne’s a prick. Let’s go make him sweat.”
SUITED UP IN periwinkle silk and four-inch pewter heels, accessorized with the diamond studs some guy had given her and the Cartier watch she’d gotten on deep discount, Maddie flashed the Pitbull’s you’re-going-down-asshole sneer in the mirror. She still had it goin’ on. If things went her way, Hawthorne would fold on the spot.
But the
n, things hadn’t exactly been going her way.
Her phone jangled—“Cruella de Vil”—her bestie Vicky’s ringtone, an ode to Vicky’s mother, the evil Adrianna. Somehow, Vicky had taken that malevolent DNA and spun it into gold.
“Hey Mads, how’s it going?”
“Great,” she lied. No way would she tell Vicky about the assignment from hell. Vicky would call Adrianna in a rage, and for nothing. Adrianna would never back down.
“How’s rehearsal?” she asked, shifting the focus to Vicky’s new role in an off-off Broadway play, her second since being fired from Marchand, Riley, and White.
“It’s coming along.” Vicky paused. “Um, listen. We set a date.”
“For the opening? Great, I’ll be there.”
“No. For the wedding.”
“Oh. Well. I’ll be there for that too, I guess.”
“Come on, Mads. Be happy for me.”
Maddie plopped on the bed. “I am, sweetie. I’m glad you’re in love. It’s just”—she rubbed her temple—“why do you have to get married?”
“Are you still mad at Ty? Because, trust me, he’s made up a thousand times over for being a jackass.”
“If you say so.” Tyrell had inched higher in Maddie’s esteem, but she’d never forget how miserable he’d made Vicky before he got his shit together.
Even so, Ty wasn’t the problem. The problem was marriage, an overrated, outdated institution that gave a man altogether too much leverage over a woman. Who needed it? This was the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake. Unmarried people could have sex. They could own property together. Why the compulsion to tie the knot around their necks?
Vicky was too excited to let Maddie bring her down. “It’s the second Saturday in July. Save the date.”
“Whoa, wait. That’s, like, two weeks from now!”
“I know it’s short notice, but we’re working around Ty’s semester and my opening. Otherwise, we’ll have to wait until Christmas.”
“What’s wrong with Christmas? Fresh snow. Twinkle lights. And six more months to make sure you’re compatible.” Maddie did the voice of reason. “Right now it’s all X-rated sexts and nailing each other five times a day—”
“Have you been spying on us?”
“I’m serious, Vic. What happens in six years when you’ve got a kid or two? Ty can basically hold you hostage.”
Vicky sighed, full of sympathy. “Listen, sweetie, neither of us grew up with the Waltons. My mother’s a nightmare. And your father was—is—a hundred times worse.”
No, actually a thousand times worse. But Vicky knew only part of the story, the part where he came down on Maddie like a hammer for everything she did. If she had her nose in a book she was a loser without any friends; if she played with her friends, she got grounded for blowing off homework. If she ate her food, she was shoveling; if she picked at it, he threw it in the trash and she went hungry. If she moved around normally, she was an inconsiderate brat making a goddamn racket; if she tiptoed, she was a sneaky little thief.
She could, literally, do nothing right. And there was no such thing as flying under his radar. If she breathed, he disparaged. It was constant and relentless. And it was just the tip of the iceberg.
Yes, Vicky knew about the emotional abuse, but there was much more that she didn’t know. And still she couldn’t understand why Maddie’s mother hadn’t intervened. “Honestly, Maddie, shame on your mom for not protecting you and Lucy.”
“You don’t know my father.” This was old, painful ground. “He’s a big shot in our town. He runs the town council, the school board. My mom had no money, no skills, no family to fall back on. And two kids he held to her throat like knives.”
A hundred times he’d threatened to take them away from her. A hundred times she submitted so she wouldn’t lose her children.
And in the end, she’d lost them anyway when they left home and never went back.
How, coming from a horrible father and an ineffectual mother, could Maddie ever trust herself to be better?
“Anyway”—she brushed it aside—“you’re happy about your wedding. That’ll have to be good enough for me.”
“Good, because I want you to be my maid of honor.”
“Oh, jeez.” Maddie was touched and dismayed at once. “Are you sure? Because I don’t have a clue about showers and gowns and all that sh—stuff.”
“Don’t worry. Isabelle”—her brother’s wife—“has everything covered. All you have to do is show up and hold the hankies. Ty and I are writing our own vows, so tears will be happening.”
Writing their own vows. Maddie shuddered. The only wedding vow she’d ever make was to never make a wedding vow. If that made any sense.
“I’ll text you as I come up with them,” said Vicky. “You can tell me what you think.”
“I can already tell you what I think. Cor-ny.”
“Just keep an open mind, okay? And don’t forget the hankies.”
“The hankies I can handle. The hankies and the pre-nup.”
Vicky laughed. “I love your optimism. But, seriously, I’m not worried about a pre-nup. Ty’s got a lot more money than I do—”
“For now. But when you’re an A-list actor making twenty mil a movie, you’ll thank me.” It was the only thing she could do to protect her friend, so she dug in her heels. “That’s the deal. You sign, and I’ll carry the hankies.”
“Okay, okay. I can’t fight the Pitbull.”
Satisfied, Maddie threw her a bone. “I hope you never need it, Vic. But a pre-nup’s like a condom. It’s better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.”
PERIWINKLE. A COLOR Adam had always favored. Now he reconsidered.
True, it cast Maddie’s eyes an unusual and interesting shade of gray. But gray was the color of the steely-eyed prosecutor who’d nearly nailed him. He preferred the aqua-eyed woman he’d shared a fork with, the warm-blooded sensualist who licked cream off her lips and made carbonara an erotic experience.
He’d plotted last night’s meal for the precise purpose of taking down her defenses. But he’d outfoxed himself, hadn’t he? Because watching her enjoy it had taken down his.
Just as well that things had taken a sharp turn for the worse before he’d made an even bigger fool of himself. Mixing business and pleasure was always a bad idea.
Never worse than with Madeline St. Clair.
Sitting beside her in the limo, he flipped open his laptop and pretended to ignore her. Those silver stilettos were driving him mad. He could almost feel them digging into his back, her legs locked around him—
“Call your Parker,” he heard himself command, the better to remind them both that she was, indeed, his minion.
“He’s not my Parker,” she bit out in an unminionlike tone. “And what am I supposed to tell him?”
“That we’ll pick up John Doe at eleven.”
“Where’re you planning to dump him?”
The disdain in her voice as much as the question brought his head around. “I’m not dumping him anywhere.”
“You know what I mean.” Apparently, the benevolent effects of French toast had worn off, because her eyes were flat. “Which one of your properties are you shipping him to?”
He’d been mulling that very question, but now he closed his laptop and angled his body toward hers. “I’m keeping him with me,” he said, more to be contrary than because he’d thought it through.
“Then you’ll need stuff. There’s a PetSmart on Broadway.” She gave a thin smile.
She’d boxed him, and slickly. It chafed, but he covered it with an impatient nod.
“About Hawthorne,” he said. “You need to know that we have a history. The details aren’t relevant. It boils down to this. He’s offended by new money. I’m offended by blueblood snobs.”
“And I’m offended by both of you.” She spread her hands. “Always an advantage to see both sides.”
How completely she discounted him. It stung like vinegar in
a fresh cut.
“See as many sides as you like,” he said curtly, “but remember whose you’re on. I pay your fee. And I can cut it off.”
“Oh, I remember, LeCroix.” Her scorn was caustic enough to peel paint. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t go near you with a ten-foot pole.”
He set his teeth. Now she’d gone too far. It might be true that she disliked him, maybe even despised him. But sitting in this very spot just yesterday, he’d felt the heat between them flowing both ways.
And last night on her sofa, they were less than an inch from kissing when her phone killed the mood.
So fuck her ten-foot pole, he thought, perversely, and fuck mixing business with pleasure.
He wanted her. He was going to have her.
And she was going to like it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vicky: Tyrell, I promise to always be kind to you, to never deliberately make you mad, and when you do get mad, to meet your anger with kindness.
Maddie: And a hard boot in the ass.
NEITHER MAN WOULD concede home turf to the other, so the meeting took place in a well-appointed private room at a trendy midtown restaurant. A silver coffee service and a plate of mouthwatering pastries sat on the table, along with four china cups.
Two for the duelers, Maddie thought, and two for their seconds.
That’s how it felt, like Adam and Hawthorne were thirsting to draw blood.
Oh, it was all civility on the surface. Hands were shaken, introductions made. But their dislike shimmered like heat waves in the air.
Hawthorne had brought along his own counsel, Jason Brandt, a broad-shouldered Ivy Leaguer with an easygoing smile and raptor’s eyes. He made a point of shaking Maddie’s small hand carefully, as if afraid he’d break it. Then he all but dismissed her as beneath his notice.
Until he saw his silver-haired, big-shot boss go pale. Then Brandt narrowed those predator’s eyes at her. His expression said, I eat little girls like you for lunch.
She flipped him off with a bored glance. She ate big boys like him for breakfast.
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