“No matter what time you wrap up, let’s meet for drinks. Deal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Live a little.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule. I think I may have a long day—”
“Come on, Rebecca. Do it for me, then. No, no. Do it to show Bryce.”
I’m laughing inside now. After all these years, his name still gets a rise out of us. In the grand scheme of things, Bryce was irrelevant. He probably doesn’t even remember that night. Yet to us, his name is a rallying cry that gets us ready to stand up and fight. His name holds a special significance for us, and Sarah knows it.
“You don’t have to go that far, Sarah, but fine. We’ll do it to stick it to Bryce. I’m in. Now let’s get back. I’ve got to get some work done at the office.”
She whistles. Buddy comes running over and she put his leash on again so we can leave. The run back is quieter. We’re both in our own thoughts. Now I can think, but instead, I find my rhythm and take in the sights and sounds. Anyone who’s familiar with running in Central Park knows it’s the best place to get a natural high.
Normally my route is to start with what most people call the six-mile loop, and end with the two-mile Reservoir path—it’s breathtaking along the reservoir. Because we’re running with Buddy, we decide to take the Boathouse route, which we run counterclockwise from the Hundred and Second Street Traverse, down past Seventy Second Street and back to the Boathouse before heading home.
We start to walk to cool down from the run. From this side of the park, my place is closer than her building, so we turn onto my street. We get closer to my building entrance, and I have to do a double take. Standing at my building’s front door is Jonathan Sloan. He’s wearing a crisp white dress shirt and dark grey slacks. He looks incredible—and he’s waving at me.
“I thought you said nothing interesting was going on with you at work?”
“It’s not.”
“So why is Jonathan Sloan waving at you?”
“He’s my boss’s client. How do you know who he is?”
“It’s a small world, Becky. His family and mine know each other. By the way, he sure looks like he’s into you.”
“I—I don’t think—”
She cuts me off before we’re within earshot of him and says, “Watch yourself with this one. Bryce has nothing on him. I’m calling you tomorrow for the blow by blow, so you’d better pick up your damned phone.”
We get to the steps of my building, and Sarah nods at Jonathan before leaving with Buddy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
“Good evening to you, too. I’m here to take you to dinner.”
Chapter 9 - Jonathan
Something tells me Rebecca is not going to be like the other women I date. She’s looking at me, eyes flashing and posture letting on a little more than disdain. I take it in stride. She looks sexy as hell now—so sleek, yet curvy in that sports bra that hugs her in all the right places.
She’s got her zippered sweat shirt wrapped around her tiny waist, and her legs, Jesus. My eyes take a steady glance down her body-hugging tights to take it all in, all the way from her hips to her sneakers. They’re long and slender and firm and just perfect for wrapping around my waist. She looks so damn good.
My mind didn’t need to go there, but hell, after the time I had in Long Island, I’m surprised I could think at all. I needed something to get Claire’s misstep gone from my head. All afternoon after getting back to the office, it was all I could think about. I try to explain it away, defending Claire by telling myself it was poor judgment after such a difficult trauma. Parker’s admission was enough to send any woman over the edge.
It had me retracing my steps, overanalyzing all the time I spent with her since she was twelve. I keep asking myself what I might have said or done to make her feel I was anything other than a good brother. I had never once seen her become physically violent. Whatever it is, she owes me an apology, but I sure as hell am not going to see her in person for another one of her palm prints on my face.
I bury the thought again and return my attention to Rebecca. She’s eying me now that her friend is gone. I know she’ll fall in line eventually, though. Probably once she realizes Sloan and Fairchild business accounts for around twenty percent of her firm’s revenues.
“Jonathan,” she calls to me, her breathing still a little quickened. “What do you feel we’ll accomplish by having dinner?”
I can hear the subdued hostility in her tone. Her violet eyes are stunning as they narrow and pierce through me for answers. She’s folded her arms over her stomach too.
“Is that how Henry, Miles and Rothman employees treat their top clients these days?”
Her composure changes in an instant. Suddenly she’s dropped her hands to her sides. She opens up her stance and smiles nervously.
“I apologize, Mr. Sloan. No, it’s not. It’s the first time a client has presented themselves at my home and invited me to dinner, so forgive me if I’m unprepared.”
“It’s okay. There’s a first time for everything. So how long will it take for you to get changed for dinner?”
She’s studying me now, weighing options and consequences before she answers. “Probably twenty minutes. May I ask what we might discuss during our dinner meeting?”
“Whatever you’d like to know.”
“Alright. So will you wait here, or are you coming up?”
“It’s a nice night. I could probably wait here, but I’m a history buff, and I’ve never seen the inside of one of these historical buildings. Thanks for the invitation Miss Clark. I don’t mind if I do.”
She opens the main door and we take the elevator up to her floor. When we get to her front door, she pauses, and turns to me like she remembers something.
“Sorry about the boxes and the mess,” she says. “I just moved in and haven’t had much of a chance to unpack.”
She opens the door and I’m instantly reminded of my early days in the frat house. When twenty grown men who were used to fulltime maids and cleaning ladies lived together, the outcome was about the same as what’s now in front of me in Rebecca’s place. It’s not dirty—not at all. It’s chaotic.
“Not to worry. You know I could refer an excellent cleaning service,” I say. “If you’re new to the city, I imagine it’s hard to trust some stranger in your place. God knows, Kara probably has you at your desk most of the time.”
Her face goes red, and she nearly lets the door slam behind me.
She glowers at me. “Have a seat, Mr. Sloan. I’d offer you a drink, but it’s hard for me to trust some stranger cleaning my kitchenware too. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a shower and get ready for our dinner meeting.”
“Wait a minute,” I say as she moves away. I know she’s doing her best to contain her fury, but I’m getting a kick out of it. She stops and does a quick half-turn to face me. She spins so fast, her long hair whips around her shoulders.
“Yes?”
We have a momentary stare-down. I’m looking at her, she’s glancing back at me. Our eyes don’t lose contact for at least half a minute. She finally looks away, but before she does, I swear I hear her breath hitch.
“Yes, Mr. Sloan?”
“Relax, Rebecca. I don’t bite…hard. Unless you like that kind of thing.”
She flashes daggers through her darkened blue eyes and turns sharply, shouting a brief “Be right back” before walking away. She heads farther inside the apartment, disappearing down the hallway. Smiling, I have a seat on her sofa to wait. Her apartment is a little dated, but well-decorated, considering the age of the building and the lived-in feel. I notice some framed photos along the hallway and get up again to take a look. There are pictures of her as a child, all the way through high school and college. Her family seems normal—if there is such a thing.
My phone has been buzzing since I left work. This time when I check it, Claire has left two texts. She’s apologetic and regretfu
l. She wants to see me in person tomorrow to talk about what happened. I shake my head, because I’ve already decided I won’t meet her. There’s more than enough dark clouds looming over the Fairchilds and the Sloans. It’s better for me to chalk it up to bad judgment and move the fuck on. I put the phone back in my pocket and continue walking down Rebecca’s memory lane.
I’m about to head back to sit down when I hear a loud shriek coming from down the hall where Rebecca disappeared. It’s immediately followed by a louder thump, and the repeated clanking of metal. There’s no mistaking it. It’s the sound of someone who’s fallen in the bathtub and pulled the shower curtains down with them. The porcelain echo is instantly recognizable.
In three quick strides, I’m knocking outside the bathroom door.
“Are you alright in there?” I call out.
I knock again when she doesn’t answer. “Rebecca? Is everything okay?”
When she gives no reply on the third knock, I try turning the door handle. It’s locked—of course. I brace myself and pull back, then ram it with my shoulder to open it. The door lock gives way with the first try, and I charge in to find Rebecca spread-eagle in the tub, her left hand grasping the shower curtain tightly, and her head has hit the porcelain edge. She’s completely naked and out cold. The water is still cascading down onto her. If she weren’t unconscious, she’d be breathtaking to watch.
“Rebecca?” I shout to her.
She’s not responding. On instinct, I grab a bath towel and place it over her. In case she wakes up, she won’t want to know I had the pleasure of gawking at her gorgeous body. I feel like I’m tensing up. Familiar and panic-filled feelings surface and wash over me, just like they did that night Stephen died. I debate whether to call 9-1-1 or see if I can bring her out of unconsciousness first.
She could have a neck injury, so I lean toward her from outside the shower and squeeze her hand. Her grip on my hand tightens. I think my heart leaps out of my chest with relief.
She’s not dead!
“Rebecca. It’s Jonathan. Jonathan Sloan. Can you hear me?”
With that, she opens her eyes slowly and blinks a few times. She doesn’t seem to recognize me at first, but she’s more shaken up than anything.
“What…I…what happened?”
“Don’t move. You fell in the bathtub.”
A look of panic and sheer embarrassment comes over her face. She gazes down her body and sees the towel. She looks a lot less stressed after that. Her other hand reaches up and touches the back of her head.
“I said don’t move. I’m calling the ambulance. Hold on.”
“Wait! Don’t do that. Give me a minute.” She sits up with little effort and draws the towel around her to cover herself. “I’m sure I’m fine. What are you doing here?”
“Are you crazy, woman? I told you not to move! You were just unconscious. You could have a concussion or a spinal injury.”
“No. I’m sure I’m fine. A little light-headed, but I’m okay.”
Releasing my hand, she tightens her grip on the bathtub to stand up. She’s not listening to me anyway, so I reach under her armpits and help her up.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, still helping so she makes it out of the tub and onto solid ground without incident. She becomes aware that I’m holding on to her, and tries to pull away. I’m ready to shout. I bend forward and pick her up. “Stop fighting me and let me help you.”
I walk carefully through the doorway and carry her to the living room.
I lower her to rest on the sofa. “Stay here.”
“I’m fine, Jonathan. Really.”
“Yeah whatever. Where do you keep your lounge clothes?”
“What? No, Jonathan. I can get my own clothes and dress myself.”
“Like hell you can. You were unconscious for at least two minutes, and I’m already cutting you some slack by not taking you to an emergency room. You’re not moving from this chair until I say so. Now tell me where to find you some clothes. Unless you’re comfortable staying in just a towel.”
She glares at me like no one has ever talked to her this way. “Last door down the hall,” she concedes. “Look in the large dresser. Bottom drawer.”
I go find some sweat pants and a t-shirt, and take it back to her. “Here you go. You can figure out underwear after you feel better.”
She gives me another evil eye. I walk into her kitchen and pull a bottled water from her fridge.
“Drink this. How’s your head?”
“It’s fine,” she answers, opening the water bottle. She almost downs the entire bottle. “I’m completely fine. Okay, maybe I’m a little embarrassed, but I feel perfectly okay now, Jonathan.”
“Has this happened before?” I ask, sitting in the armchair opposite her.
“No.”
“So why are you brushing this off like it’s nothing?”
“Because it’s—look, it’s my fault, okay. I haven’t eaten. Kara and I were at court all morning, and then out to see you and your father in Long Island. I should have had something when I got back to the office, or before I went out for my run with Sarah.”
“Well at least I don’t have to give you the concussion test. Your memory is fine. You really haven’t eaten for the entire day?”
“Technically, that’s not accurate. I did drink the other half of the coffee I spilled on you this morning.”
I roll my eyes as she pulls the t-shirt over her head and pushes the towel down her torso, taking extra care to make sure I don’t see anything. I stand and turn away so she can get her pants on.
“Haven’t you heard of carrying a protein bar in your purse or leaving a box in your desk?”
She doesn’t answer. She must be embarrassed enough.
“You can turn around now.”
Turning, I see she’s sitting on the sofa again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Thanks Jonathan. Yes. I’m fine.”
“Okay. Well in any case, it’s settled.”
“What is?”
“We’re not going out anymore.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m ordering in for you, and then you’re going to sleep.”
“I have a few things to do at the office tonight.”
“You’re not going anywhere tonight, and neither am I.”
“Excuse me?” she says.
Her eyes widen as though she’s shocked I would use such a commanding tone with her. At this point, I don’t give a damn what she thinks. She scared the shit out of me, passing out like that. I’m ready to remind her she’s lucky I was around, but I don’t.
“You heard me. You need food and rest. I’m not leaving until I know you’re all clear—even if I have to sleep on this couch overnight. I hope you like Chinese food.”
She pauses and looks at me, and I get the sense she realizes I’m making perfect sense.
“Yeah, sure. Okay.”
Chapter 10 - Rebecca
Embarrassment and dizziness—with a generous dash of desire. They pretty much sum up how I feel after catching sight of Jonathan leaning over me in the bathtub. Oh, and I can’t forget, mortified. When I first open my eyes, all I can see are massive shoulders filling up my vision. I barely recognize him.
Thank goodness he says his name, and God bless him for throwing that towel over me, or I’d probably scramble to get out of his grips, and end up falling on my ass again. When he helps me stand up, I’m relatively grateful for the assistance. It’s when he swoops me up into his arms to carry me into the living room that I get bashful. It’s the rock-hard chest I’m leaning into, and the massive arms wrapped around me that I become unavoidably aware of when my dizziness and blurred vision begin to clear.
I don’t dare tell him I’m still a little dizzy, or he won’t hesitate to cart me off to some hospital nearby to get checked out. I’m also conjuring up all the effort possible to mask my attraction to his insanely masculine energy. The towel is all I have to cover my already hard nipples
, but it’s not enough to hide that I’m getting flushed all over. Good thing running, taking a shower and passing out can all explain these rosy cheeks.
I want to clock him when he tells me he’s getting me some clothes from my room, ordering in, and staying over. That tone he’s taken is not sitting well with me—not one bit. I’m tempted to tell him get the hell out. I don’t bother, because I see in his eyes that he’s not about to take no for an answer. Truth be told, it’s my own damn fault he’s nominated himself as my protector and hero for the night.
A storm brews in my gut, telling me it’s a really bad idea, but also sending my body into a sensual overload of sorts. I curse under my breath as I get dressed, and my stomach starts to growl its displeasure that I’ve not eaten yet. By the time I shuffle to get my pants on, I’m hungry, wound up, and hoping there’s some silver lining to being forced into close quarters with Jonathan Sloan.
He calls for delivery and asks me—no, he orders me—to give him my apartment keys, so he can grab something from his car. I use the time to clear my head and figure out the best way forward.
Maybe this unplanned time will be helpful to Kara’s assignment, somehow.
There has to be an upside, so I won’t have to feel guilty about the pile of work waiting for me at the office.
He comes back with two shopping bags and a small workout bag. Setting down the workout bag, he brings me the two shopping bags.
“This is for you.”
“What’s in there?”
“See for yourself.”
I open the larger bag. It’s a new tablet. “Jonathan. You really didn’t need to replace the tablet. My job will take care of it.”
“You know, there’s nothing weak about showing a little gratitude. I replaced it because it’s my fault that it fell.”
“Well, I destroyed that suit of yours, but I didn’t run out and get you a replacement.”
“I’ll try not to hold that against you. Check the other bag. I had those in my trunk. They go everywhere with me.”
Wicked Bad Boys Page 6