by Leslie Kelly
It still sickened her to think she hadn't figured it out sooner. She'd never suspected her father used her career to bilk other people out of their money. She'd been his poster child, his success story, his big sales pitch.
She hadn't found out until the day they arrested him.
"Eve, if you want to back out of this, we will understand," Leanne said finally, breaking the silence on the telephone line. "It's a silly idea anyway. Just because the guy wrote a lousy book doesn't mean he's responsible for how people react to it."
Eve thought about it. Part of her wanted to call it quits right now, just ditch the whole idea and scurry on back to her real life. But another part of her, she acknowledged, probably the part that had inherited the love for a thrill from her no-good father, wouldn't let her walk away.
The main thing stopping her from giving it up was the crazy mix of memories of every moment she’d spent with Sam Kenneman. From the cute guy who’d flirted back a little in the green room, to the determined one who’d turned her down, to the one who’d accepted his boss’s order’s to take her out, to the smarmy jerk who’d made the obnoxious comment in the parking garage, Sam was a study in contradictions.
She hadn’t quite figured out who he was. And for some reason, she wanted to. Whether to pay him back for Leanne and all the other women his book had screwed-over, or perhaps to vindicate him as a guy playing a massive joke on society, or just because her insides tingled and her pulse raced when he was nearby, she couldn’t back down now.
What had started out as a reluctant dare had at some point become a personal mission. Eve just couldn't walk away without one more shot at understanding the man.
"Don't worry, I'm not backing out. I'm going out with him tomorrow night.”
And once I’ve figured out which Sam Kenneman is the real one, I’m either going to walk away laughing, ready to admit he’s just a nice guy with a smart mouth, or I’m going to find out he is the sexist jerk the world thinks he is, make him want me so bad he can’t see straight…and leave him flat.
Sam always spent his weekend afternoons working on his new book. It was the only time of the week when he didn't have stories to do for the magazine, appearances to make, or interviews to sit through, and he took full advantage of the time. The book was ticking right along, nearly writing itself. He didn't question the hot streak. He'd sweated bullets to get 101 Ways to Avoid Commitment completed by his deadline and hoped never to go through so much trouble again. One hundred and one was a catchy number, and had seemed easy when the publisher approached him about the book. Actually coming up with the correct number of insulting, sexist ideas—and the accompanying brief essays to accompany them—had been grueling.
Pausing in front of his computer terminal, he picked up his microcassette, pushed rewind, and listened to his last comment. "Women say slow and sweet...but they often want fast and hot."
He hadn't been too surprised by that one. Sam had interviewed dozens of women over the past several months, sending out questionnaires, going back over surveys and studies found in His World and elsewhere. His readers weren't picking up his books for any deep psychological information, he didn't pretend to be any kind of expert. He wrote to entertain, and his work was generally billed as "one regular guy's opinion." But he still liked to get his facts straight.
As he typed, Sam thought about some of the questions on his survey, and wondered how Eve would answer them. "There's that whole reading question again," he muttered sourly as he shut down his computer to begin getting ready for their date. The vain, brainless twit she’d seemed to be at first probably stuck to cereal boxes and the instructions on a shampoo bottle.
The sharp-tongued one he’d glimpsed a few times? Well, her he didn’t know about.
And her I want to know about.
He wanted that a lot.
After showering and digging his old tuxedo out of the back of his closet, Sam quickly dressed. The tux was still in pristine condition and fit him perfectly. He'd only worn the thing once or twice since moving out of his family's mansion five years before. He hadn't even intended to bring it when he left, but figured his butler just couldn't stand to see Sam's luggage leave without at least one formal black tux. A half dozen others just like it probably still hung on wooden hangers in his old closet at the estate.
Glancing at himself in the mirror, Sam realized it was entirely possible this was the same tux he'd worn to his now-infamous twenty-sixth birthday party. That was his last night in his father's home—the night his well-ordered, conservative world had been shot all to hell with the discovery that his father, Jacob Kenneman, was a colossal liar.
He hadn't thought about the party in a long time. When he looked back, Sam sometimes felt that night, and the years leading up to it, belonged in someone else's life story. That Sam Kenneman had grown up in the lap of luxury, had been chauffeured to kindergarten in a limousine, who’d gone to ivy league schools on academic scholarships rather than his father’s fortune, who’d been a ruthless businessman who was supposed to step into his father's role as the head of Kenneman Corporation.
This Sam Kenneman ate take-out burgers three nights a week, rarely wore anything other than jeans or khakis and felt lucky if he could find a clean pair of socks in the morning. On days when he wasn't so lucky, he just turned the previous days' pair inside out and wore them anyway.
He wouldn't go back for anything.
His father had tried over the years to guilt-trip him into returning to the family fold, particularly after Sam's mother filed for divorce. But the old man hadn't been able to use the trump card he'd held over him during his college years, when Sam had wanted to go into anything else but the family business. At twenty-two, being told it was his duty to carry on the tradition as the oldest child, and the only son, had felt like a ton of bricks on his back. Sam had caved, doing as his father demanded, focusing all of his energy on Kenneman Corporation.
But after the infamous party, the old argument didn't work anymore. Because on his twenty-sixth birthday, Sam discovered he wasn't the oldest child. He wasn't even his father's only son. His father had a secret life that no one had been aware of until that night. And his father's decades old secret came strolling right into the middle of Sam's country club party and blew the Kenneman's wealthy, secure, prestigious world to smithereens.
The repercussions had been wide and long-lasting. Sam had walked out of the house and had not exchanged one word with his father for months. Sam's mother, who said she'd always suspected her husband had never truly loved her, had taken this as proof positive and walked out. Their divorce was quick and simple. She took him for as much as she could, and he didn't fight back; for once, shamed into giving in easily. Sam's younger sister Lyssa hadn't spoken with their father for four years, only recently coming around since she was pregnant with her first child.
Sam, meanwhile, had felt completely free to live his own life. Finally. And he'd succeeded, at least to his own definition of success, if not to his father’s. That ticked his father off to no end, he was quite sure. The thought brought a smile to his lips.
Shrugging off the memories, Sam swiped a comb through his damp hair, grabbed his keys and walked out of his apartment. He was no longer used to pampering, and had declined Friday afternoon when Diana had offered them a limo ride to tonight's cocktail party. He didn't delude himself that she was offering for his sake. All the men being featured in the special Men of the New Millennium piece were being given star treatment at tonight's event, and Sam knew photographers would be busy snapping candids for use in the two-part feature article.
Twenty minutes before he was to pick Eve up, Sam got into his small red sports car, the one luxury he'd allowed himself to buy with his advance from his latest book. He chuckled when he remembered how he'd dickered with the salesman for two hours, liking the fact it was his own money he was bargaining with. After all, Sam had driven a much more expensive car as a teenager. The keys to it had been literally given to him on a silver
platter by his parents on his eighteenth birthday. An even more expensive one followed on his twenty-fifth. Not that he'd appreciated it. It was amazing how earning something through hard work made it so much more valuable
"Bet it's still parked in the old man's garage," he muttered as he drove through Philadelphia to pick up his date for the evening. His father would never have sold Sam's car, because that would be acknowledging Sam was not going to come crawling back home to the family, a complete failure, as the old man had predicted five years earlier.
Arriving at an exclusive, private condominium building, Sam gave his name to the guard and drove through the gates. He parked, then rode up the elevator to the penthouse floor, wondering how much the magazine had invested in Eve if they were giving her the use of such a ritzy residence.
She didn't answer right away when he knocked. Sam brushed his palm across his jacket, smoothing the fine fabric, and wishing he'd never agreed to the evening. He had a vision of how it might progress.
Eve would be dressed to the nines in a little black cocktail dress which would look like the same one worn by every other woman at the party. She'd cling to his arm long enough to assess the crowd, then work her way through all the men there, not satisfied until she'd gotten the attention and admiration to which she was accustomed. She wouldn’t be satisfied until every man wanted her and every woman hated her. Sam had known so many women like her. Hell, he'd dated several of them!
If he ended up being the one to bring her home, she'd invite him in. Then she'd invite him to stay. And he might even be tempted to agree. He didn't feel any emotion as he acknowledged that fact about himself. The woman was lovely and he'd already imagined how tightly she'd be able to wrap those long legs around his hips during sex. He wondered if the vamp act would extend to the bedroom, if she'd be sultry and seductive, or if she was all show. She wouldn't be the first woman he'd known who gained pleasure exclusively in being chased, and never in being caught.
Yeah, that scenario was the one he most expected and the woman most likely to appear.
But it wasn’t the one he most wanted. He couldn’t help remembering her quick wit, her snotty joke about the centerfold, the vulnerable moment when she’d shared a bad memory. He’d caught a glimpse of the other Eve…perhaps she’d be the one who would show up for their date.
His heart skipped a beat in his chest at the thought, and his pulse raced as he waited to find out who would be standing behind the door—not the lady or the tiger. More like the woman or the caricature.
The door opened suddenly, startling him. His eyes widened.
And he began to hope.
"Sorry to make you wait, Sam," Eve said, her voice rushed and out of breath. "The phone rang right before you knocked and the guy seemed to think I was someone named Cara who stayed here a few weeks ago. He was put out to find I wasn't."
She smiled at him, not a come-hither moist lipped invitation, but a genuine grin, as if she was still amused by the telephone conversation. Sam felt like someone had just whacked him in the side of the head with a bag of rocks. He suddenly was incapable of speech, and could barely even breathe. He'd acknowledged before that she was beautiful. But when a genuine smile lit up her startlingly blue eyes, she was absolutely breathtaking.
She was not wearing a little black cocktail number. Her long, slim sheathe dress was pure white. It wasn't obviously tight, as he had expected, just skimming over her noticeable curves, rather than clinging to them. It slid across her body when she moved, teasing rather than flaunting. The high slit revealed nearly the entire length of one curvy leg, and when she turned slightly, he noticed the back dipped down almost to her waist. The dress whispered sex appeal rather than screaming it. He liked it. He liked it very much.
"Come in," she said, lowering her eyes flirtatiously.
Sam walked behind her as she led him into the condo, noticing the exaggerated sway of her hips. He saw the tender skin at the small of her back, the tiny protrusion of the bones of her spine, and had a sudden urge to touch her there. God, she was tempting! He hadn't been so affected by a woman in ages.
When she looked at him over her shoulder, fluttered her lashes and moistened her lips, he nearly sighed out loud. The vamp was back. Too bad. He'd felt a real flash of excitement thinking he was going to meet the woman behind the real smile. The one who had the class to carry off the elegance of her simple dress while still managing to look like a sinful fantasy.
"Can I get you a drink? There's a well-stocked bar." Eve didn't wait for his reply as she crossed the plush carpeted living room and opened the small refrigerator under the wet bar. By the time she glanced at him, Sam had made himself comfortable on a black leather sofa, remaining silent. He was on high alert, knowing a game was being played and that he hadn’t been informed of the rules, and wondering whether he was a player or a prize.
Watching him watch her, Eve tried to keep her focus, to bring her guard back up. She had difficulty reading the man. His features were completely impassive, his eyes assessing, but not at all revealing. She had no idea whether he was truly attracted to her or not. The thought was disconcerting.
Eve had always been able to read men. She'd developed the skill as soon as she hit puberty and began garnering a great deal of attention. She knew how to handle it.
Her cool reserve had earned her the reputation as a bitch, but since it was a neat defense to avoid unwanted attention, she hadn't really cared. Well, she hadn't cared what the men thought. The fact that girls, and later women, labeled her the same thing based purely on her appearance had hurt. It hadn't been easy going through her teenage years without a single female friend. Thank God for Leanne, Ruthie and Diana.
She had to admit this man had her stymied. At times yesterday, and for the first moment when she'd answered the door this evening, she'd seen the admiration in Sam Kenneman's eyes. Against her better judgment she'd reacted to it. The man was just too attractive to completely avoid indulging in just a bit of fantasizing, and he’d definitely popped into her mind when she was lying in the big, lonely bed last night. It was a shame he wasn't merely someone she'd met by chance, so she could see where these mixed feelings and emotions would lead.
But he wasn't. He was her target, and her mission was to break his heart. That, or prove him to be a fraud—prove a nice guy lurked under the smug, womanizing shell. She’d found herself hoping for that more than she should, given the fact that he was supposed to mean absolutely nothing to her.
Either way, she was here under false pretenses and it wasn’t like they could possibly have anything real.
Eve paused as she retrieved two glasses, realizing he'd never answered her question, and glanced toward him. "Well?" she prompted.
"Well what?"
"What do you want to drink?
"I never said I wanted a drink."
Eve flushed. Score one for the heartthrob. She took a deep breath to control her brief stab of anger, then pasted a languid expression on her face and tried again. "Are you sure I can't tempt you?"
He never blinked. "I'm sure, Eve. Not interested."
Hearing his double-meaning, Eve tightened her fingers around her glass. If it had been of a lesser quality, it may well have snapped apart in her hand. It took every ounce of control she had to avoid letting Sam know his barb had struck home.
“Well, I’m going to have one,” she insisted, knowing she’d need a little liquid fortification. Probably not wise, considering he already had her on her toes, but sipping a cold drink might keep her from saying something she shouldn’t.
“Help yourself.”
She did, splashing two fingers full of scotch in a glass, adding soda and ice, and swirling the glass to mix it.
“So how’s the condo?” he asked, glancing around the room. She could tell by his widened eyes that he was as impressed as she had been.
“Beautiful, of course. It’s a shame it’s empty most of the time.”
“Well, maybe if the shoot goes well, you’ll be in
vited back.”
“Maybe since you’re one of the ‘Men of the New Millennium’, you should be staying here too,” she said, adding a suggestive breathiness to the already suggestive comment.
Her intention obviously went over his head, because he chuckled as she walked over and joined him on the smooth leather couch. “This is a little out of my league.”
Hmm. Maybe now. But judging by the research she’d done, this exclusive lifestyle certainly had been a part of his past. The curiosity was killing her on that subject, but she knew she couldn’t broach it, not without making him wonder why she was so interested in his background.
“Besides, I thought this was only a one-bedroom place.”
His silky tone and quick switch-back to what she’d really been suggesting caught her off guard for a second. She sipped her drink in a stall for time.
“So where do you live when you’re not being put up in luxury by publishers?”
Grateful he’d given her the chance to change the subject, she blurted out the truth. “About an hour outside town.”
“This town?” he asked, surprised. “Philadelphia?”
Wishing she’d just sipped again and figured out a better answer, she nodded.
“Huh. I figured you’d be based in New York, L.A. or something.”
“Been there, done those,” she admitted, telling only the truth.
“And?”
“And I find I’m happier living a simple, quiet lifestyle,” she said, immediately knowing that didn’t fit in with the blonde-bimbo spiel she’d been trying to convey. But she wasn’t an actress, a secret agent or a spy; she just wasn’t cut out for this double-lifestyle, lying, making up details at the drop of a hat. The whole thing was already exhausting and she’d been at it for only a day!
“What about you?” she asked, knowing he was keeping secrets of his own. “Where do you live?”
“I have an apartment downtown.”
And a mansion in the burbs?