The subject of Annie’s ex was TOL. Totally Off-Limits. Like friendship-ending level off-limits. The guy was basically Voldemort. Darcy suspected that kind of repression wasn’t entirely healthy, but for the girl who was currently inhaling M&M’s by the handful, she probably didn’t have a leg to stand on where health was concerned.
“I’m saying that because of what happened to all of us.” Annie curled and uncurled her fists. “You were cheated on the day before your wedding. You”—she pointed to Remi—“sent your career down the toilet because you slept with the wrong guy. And I was a damned fool to fall for a man whose family hated me.” Her gaze skated over to Lily. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to say for you, but I’m sure you were wronged in the past as well.”
“So all men are evil, is that it?” Darcy shook her head.
“No, not all men. But the ones who treat women like crap don’t get to be crybabies because someone called them on their bad behavior.”
This was exactly why she’d planned to keep Reed as her dirty little secret until the end of time. Because if by some chance they did have chemistry, she’d never be able to go out in public with him…not unless she wanted the wrath of her overprotective friends.
Moot point. Reed isn’t into women like you—that was well established during your last conversation.
“I don’t think he’s going to cry about it. He’s a man of action, it would seem.” She made her way around the circle of chairs, laying down hot-pink flyers advertising their upcoming donation drive on each one.
“What do you mean by that?” Lily asked.
“He said something about the people who created Bad Bachelors not being able to hide behind their keyboards forever. Maybe he’s planning to out them.”
“Typical.” Annie rolled her eyes. “The asshole can’t take responsibility for his actions so he’s going to lash out.”
“Surely people who created an app like that would keep their identities well hidden,” Lily said, nibbling on her lower lip. “I mean, they’ve pissed a lot of people off.”
For once, Remi didn’t have any questions to ask. “They sure have.”
Chapter 12
“Reed is upfront about who he is. I know this will put me in the minority, but I’m not sure people have the right to complain when they try to change someone and aren’t successful.”
—HonestyHurts
Darcy hurried up Sixth Avenue, hoping that a brisk pace would distract her from the fact that she was about to have a meeting with Reed. And not just any old meeting. They were meeting in his office, a.k.a. his natural habitat.
For some reason, that had roused the kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach.
To make matters worse, one of the kids she’d been reading to at work had decided to puke his lunch all over her black pants. And of course it was laundry day. Well, technically, it was laundry day two weeks ago, and now it bordered on literally-wear-anything-that-is-clean day. So there were no clean replacement pants. No jeans. Not even a pair of shorts that might pass as partway decent for an office meeting.
Her only option had been a pair of black, studded cutoffs with a rip in the behind that would show either panties or bare ass, depending on what underwear she’d chosen. Not. Going. To. Happen.
She’d been forced to borrow something from Remi, which was how Darcy had come to be wearing a dress. She shrieked as a gust of wind blew the flimsy skirt around her legs, threatening to reveal the fact that she had on her Thursday panties even though it was Monday. Which wouldn’t have been an issue if it hadn’t been for Pukey McDemon Child.
Just concentrate on what matters—not letting Reed rattle you.
She came to a stop in front of a tall building that screamed you don’t belong here and sighed. Of course the door was trimmed in gold and it looked as though everyone entering had stepped off the cover of Boring Expensive Suits monthly. Should she have expected any less?
Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, she cursed Remi. Her friend had not only laughed her ass off at Darcy’s misfortune, but also had been predictably annoying about what clothes she would and wouldn’t hand over. Remi had been trying to force her to wear a dress for months. But it wasn’t Darcy’s style—too many opportunities to have your ass on display…among other things.
And Remi was a good size smaller than Darcy, and so she claimed her jeans would be too tight. A likely story.
“Come on,” she said to herself as she stared into the gaudy gold mouth of Reed’s building. “It’s just a meeting.”
She hitched her bag higher up on her shoulder and filed into the turnstile behind a man in a navy pinstripe suit. The foyer of the building was grand looking and a board hung on the wall with all the tenants and their floors listed in alphabetical order. She scanned down the first column. Bath and Weston, floor thirty-six.
The elevator was crammed with people, and Darcy huddled into the corner, keeping her bag in front of her to preserve what was left of her personal space. Nothing worse than some stranger getting all up in your grill.
You didn’t seem to mind when Reed invaded your personal space.
Ugh. Why did her brain have to keep flashing up that little memory at the most inopportune moments? One kiss and she’d been stuck on it like a needle catching a scratch in a record. It interrupted her flow with frustrating regularity.
The elevator pinged and Darcy excused herself, trying to get past a man blocking the door. He didn’t move, even on her polite request, so she had to push her way out, using her bag as a shield.
“Inconsiderate jerk,” she muttered as she stepped into the Bath and Weston reception area.
The space was decorated in cool tones. A white reception desk was flanked by a chrome floor lamp and a bunch of white flowers sat in a clear vase. It was a little more minimalist than Darcy had expected. But then again, what the hell did she know about PR firms?
“Can I help you?” The receptionist smiled and cocked her head, her gaze skating over Darcy in an assessing but not intrusive way.
“I’m here to see Reed McMahon.”
Surprise streaked across the receptionist’s face, but she covered it quickly. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yeah. Six o’clock.” She checked her watch: 6:32. “I’m a little late.”
“Yes, you are.” Reed’s voice sounded behind her and Darcy resisted the shiver of anticipation that crawled down her spine as she turned.
There was something about his voice that curled around her. It was rich, smooth. A voice designed with husky-toned demands in mind.
“Consider it payback for last time.” She smiled sweetly and the receptionist bit down on her lip, clearly stifling a smirk of her own.
“Come on. My office is this way.” He gestured for her to follow him. “Let’s get you into a room before you can shoot me down in front of anyone else.”
“That wasn’t shooting you down.” She fell into step beside him. “If I shot you down, you’d be bleeding on the floor. Trust me, that was nothing.”
His lips quirked. “And here I was thinking I’d get lucky because you’re wearing a dress.”
“Not by choice,” she huffed. “And certainly not for you.”
“You got a date then?”
She could tell he’d meant it as a quip, but his lip was stiff, his expression hard around the edges. “What if I did?”
He chuckled. “That’s a no.”
“If I meant no, I would have said it. Am I not speaking English?”
“I’d say it’s more like an ancient dialect of bullshit.” His hand came to the small of her back and he leaned in closer. “You forget, I’m familiar with liars.”
“And you forget, I’m immune to your tricks.”
Darcy felt eyes burning into her back and she risked a glance over her shoulder. People milled around the office, severa
l of them shooting curious glances her way. She tugged on the hem of her dress. It was short, but it wasn’t that short.
“Why are people staring at me?”
“I don’t usually have clients in the office.” Reed pulled his office door open and held it for her. “They’re probably trying to figure out if you’re a celebrity.”
“Oh.” She set her bag down on one of two plush chairs facing his desk, and sunk into the other. “Why don’t you usually have clients in the office?”
“Famous people like their privacy. Wouldn’t be a great idea to have the paparazzi catch a client coming into the office.” He dropped down into his chair. “My services work best behind the scenes. It’s hard to get the public to buy into someone’s rehabilitated image if they know it’s been engineered.”
“Surely the public aren’t stupid enough to think the stuff you set up is being done out of the goodness of your clients’ hearts?” She screwed up her nose. “How gullible are they?”
“Very.” Reed pulled a folder from a stack on the side of his desk and flipped it open. “You’d be surprised what people believe, even when there’s tons of evidence to the contrary.”
For some reason, Darcy’s mind drifted to the day she’d walked in on her fiancé, Ben, kissing their best man. Instead of anger, she’d only felt confusion—had there been signs all along? Had she known deep down that Ben had a secret life? Or had she really been so gullible to believe he’d loved her?
Most of all, why didn’t she feel as devastated as she knew she should have been?
“Which brings me to the purpose of this meeting.” He leaned back in his chair and popped the cuff link at one wrist. The silver knot glinted in the office lighting. “I’ve got a guest in mind that will be a huge draw for the fundraiser. A famous author.”
“Did you manage to get J. K. Rowling?” Darcy clapped her hands together. “A girl can hope, right?”
“Sure, you can hope. Won’t do you much good.” He rolled the cuffs back on his shirt. “I was thinking someone a little more…local. Dave Bretton, to be precise.”
“Don’t you mean ‘a little more controversial,’ then?”
“Ah, so you do know him.” Reed set the cuff links down with a clink on his desk.
“I know of him,” she said. “Enough to say that I’m nervous about him representing my library.”
“He’s a New York Times bestseller. He’s wildly successful.”
She ignored the cajoling tone. “He’s also wildly inappropriate and a drunk. Why would we want a loose cannon at our fundraiser?”
“He’s spent the last couple of months at a rehab facility upstate. His agent says he’s dried out. Turned a corner even.” Reed leaned forward and the scent of his aftershave drifted over the desk to taunt Darcy’s nostrils. Damn him. How did he smell like fresh-cut pine and the great outdoors in the middle of a concrete jungle? “And he’s got a new book coming out. They’ve been keeping it hush-hush.”
“But I suppose you have all the gossip.” She tried to act uninterested. Dave Bretton was a bad idea, but Darcy had been reading his books for years. The last in his series—which was Jack Reacher meets Stargate—had ended on quite the cliffhanger three years ago. “It wouldn’t happen to be the next book in the Martin Pollinger Chronicles, would it?”
Reed’s smile broadened. “It might be.”
“Don’t toy with me, McMahon. Not when it comes to books.”
He opened his desk drawer and reached inside, fishing out what appeared to be a book without a proper cover. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Is that what I think it is?” She squinted. Yep, it was an advanced reader copy of book eight in the Martin Pollinger Chronicles. The holy freaking grail of books…well, until J. K. Rowling wrote another Harry Potter book, that was.
“I’ll happily hand this over,” he said, holding it out of her reach. “If you agree to have Mr. Bretton at the fundraiser.”
“Bold move.” She folded her arms across her chest, but her eyes were trained on the unfinished cover. “How did you even know I liked his books? A lucky guess?”
“I don’t believe in luck.” When she raised a brow, he continued. “I looked up your Goodreads profile. You’ve read every one of his books and rated them all five stars. I have to say, I found your reading list quite telling.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She frantically scanned her memory for anything embarrassing that might have made it onto the list. Being a stickler for detail, Darcy recorded all her reading activities and didn’t generally care what people thought of her taste in books.
But there had been a phase when she’d read some monster erotica books for fun. Bigfoot’s virgin mistress…or something. Her tummy fluttered at the thought of Reed thinking about her reading something smutty like that. Had he guessed that it’d sent her to bed with an ache between her thighs? Shit.
“How did you find Claimed by Cthulhu? It had mixed reviews.” His eyes danced with unconcealed amusement. “Are you well-versed in tentacle porn?”
“It’s not porn,” she said with a sniff. “Giant squid monsters deserve love too, you know. It was quite an endearing romance.”
He chuckled. “If you say so.”
“Fine,” she said, holding out her hand. “Mr. Bretton can come to the fundraiser if you think it will draw bigger donations.”
“It will. I’m planning to ask him to donate something to the silent auction.”
“But he needs a handler or something. What do alcoholics have, a sponsor? Whoever it is, I want someone there to keep an eye on him.” She narrowed her eyes. “While I appreciate his art, I won’t appreciate a repeat of what happened at Book Expo America.”
Reed nodded and slid the book across his desk. “Deal.”
Darcy snatched it up before she could change her mind. “I know what I’ll be doing tonight,” she said gleefully.
“After dinner,” he said, pushing back on his chair.
“Excuse me?”
“Dinner. It’s that meal at the end of the day that usually happens somewhere between seven and nine.” He slipped his suit jacket off the back of his desk chair and slung it over one arm.
“I know what it is, but I don’t understand why you think our dinners have anything to do with each other.”
“We have more to discuss, and I’m hungry.” He came around the side of the desk and leaned against it.
The pose reminded her of the way he’d crowded her at that bar. The way he’d leaned in, backing her up against the wall and pressing into her so she could feel the hard length of him rubbing against her thigh. Desperate need flashed through her as she remembered how much she’d wanted to reach down and wrap her hand around him to see if his moans would sound as good in real life as they did in her fantasies.
The kiss had been a power play. A negotiation tactic. He wanted her off balance so she’d let him run the show. And it appeared to be working, since all she could do was come up with reasons why she should allow herself to be tempted.
One, take-charge guys didn’t rely on the woman to make the moves. Which was good, because Darcy had no moves. Two, a little practice before she started dating for real might take the pressure off. Three…well, he was damn hot. And infamous. Lord help her, she was curious to see how their antagonistic chemistry would translate into the bedroom.
Bad idea, Darcy. Colossally bad idea. You have to work together until the fundraiser.
She could almost hear her mother’s voice scolding her: He’s not the kind of man who respects women. No doubt Remi and Annie would agree. For some reason that only made Darcy find the whole thing more appealing.
She never had been good at doing what she was told.
“And you were late,” he added. “It messed up my schedule.”
“So order in.” She swallowed. The rebellious si
de of her was gaining strength, whispering in her ear that maybe Reed was exactly what she needed right now.
“I missed lunch and I make it a point to eat one decent meal a day.” He picked up her bag from the chair and handed it to her. “You, me, dinner, business. Nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m not scared,” she said, smoothing her hands over her dress. His eyes tracked her every movement. “But I do understand why so many women are angry at you. If this is how you ask them to dinner, I can see why your reviews are up and down.”
“They’re not up and down.” He held out his arm. “They’re consistently bad.”
“I was trying to be polite,” she huffed. When her stomach grumbled loudly, he raised a brow.
“Can we go now?”
“Okay fine.” She slipped her bag over her shoulder and allowed him to help her up. The strong, warm grip of his hand did nothing to quiet her inner rebel. “Where are we going?”
“Never you mind, Darcy Greer. Let me handle that.”
I wish you would.
* * *
Reed hadn’t intended on taking Darcy to dinner and the excuse that they had more business to discuss was flimsy. About as flimsy as that tease of a dress she was wearing. The second they’d stepped outside into the evening air, the fabric around her thighs had swirled, revealing a flash of ink high up on her thigh.
It was a dress made to be pushed up and bunched in a fist.
“Guess I was right about you not having a date then,” he said. Better to keep focused on teasing her than drooling over her. Not that the two were mutually exclusive.
“You’re an ass,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “You’d better not be taking me to some fancy-pants place where they serve entrees the size of my pinkie.”
He stifled a grin. “Big appetite?”
“Yeah and you won’t like me when I’m hangry.”
“Who says I like you now?” He stuck his hand out and hailed a cab.
“You said I was interesting.” She slid across the back seat and her hem rode up her legs.
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