by Libby Rice
“Who’s speaking?” That low, rough voice returned, reminding her that she hadn’t introduced herself upon jumping in.
Only one man had a chance in hell of seducing her over a speakerphone. She felt a twitch or two where she shouldn’t, and her hopes took on a frantic litany in her head—Ron, Ron, Ron. “I apologize,” she began. “This is Scarlet Leore. I’ll be the JTS project lead.”
“Of course, Ms. Leore.”
The reply that eased from the speaker was cold, devoid of all welcome, a rare attitude for an initial project meeting centered on developing positive relationships between people who would be working closely for the duration. Scarlet looked around. Her colleagues darted glances at each other, then back at her, perplexed by the animosity communicated in those four short words. Suddenly, it became a challenge to maintain her calm façade. Keeping her eyes trained on the speaker, she strove to ignore the dread that accompanied her escalating heartbeat.
“Am I speaking with Mr. Michael?” she asked, again keeping her tone light and businesslike. Pleeeease be Ron.
“No. This is Mr. Blake. Ethan Blake.”
She’d known. Yet her eyes slid closed, and her hands flattened over the glossy conference table, sliding back and forth in a quest for physical affirmation that the world she’d inhabited only moments ago was still with her. The indomitable optimism of the morning crumbled with the knowledge that this couldn’t be a coincidence.
“I’m sorry I came looking for you… you weren’t worth it.”
Ethan had been honest all those years ago when she’d tried to apologize, and his words had crawled into a locked chamber of her heart, only to be let out when she wasn’t strong enough to maintain the barricade. She’d wanted to soothe whatever scars he bore from the experience. Impossible. So she’d tried to repair the logistical damage. To help him get back on his feet. Into school. Moved to a new apartment. But the slide of a check across their café table had been greeted with a killing look and snarled condemnation. In her book, regret over saving her life wasn’t far from wishing her dead.
And now she’d put herself at his mercy.
JTS attorneys were held to high productivity standards. She’d risk her career by refusing to serve a plum client like Atavos, especially after coming so far—thousands of dollars of time poured into the first call alone—and for something so adolescent as personal reasons. Nor could she afford a break in employment or to burn bridges at her firm. She could hear her explanation to the partnership now. You see, one time, when I was young and stupid, I was attacked while strolling the darkened streets of Brooklyn, outside a fight club no less, all alone. Well, long story short, I was kind of stabbed and almost died. And the weird thing is, I blamed the would-be founder of Atavos. He wasn’t my attacker, of course. He’d actually saved my life. But he still went to prison for a time. Maybe we should throw this fish back, yes?
Desperate to look normal, Scarlet let her pen scribble nonsensical gibberish onto her notepad, taking care to appear deep in thought, the whole time reminding herself of who she was and what she’d become. A damn good lawyer and a consummate professional. Ethan had hired her to do a job. Nothing personal. No vendetta. He’d be the first to say she didn’t warrant a second of his attention.
“Hello, Ethan.” Speaking slowly, her voice didn’t crack, and it was all she could ask for. Barely wincing, she added, “Now, about that timeline?”
Because there was only so much jewelry left to sell.
Chapter 5
Ethan saw Scarlet first. She sat at their flight gate, flipping through a magazine while a smartphone buzzed in her lap. How fitting. If he were to e-mail and say, “Jump,” she could reply immediately to ask, “How high?”
She perched in the middle of a row of Naugahyde-and-steel chairs, each flanked by its mirror image to the rear. Her pencil skirt and button-down blouse were no doubt meant to impart competence, but the getup was pure schoolmarm fantasy.
If one were into that.
The years slipped away under his examination. Billboard had been right. She looked flawless, her body petite and perfectly curved, as he’d known it would be. Her blond hair gleamed from a soft chignon at her nape, and her stiff posture screamed, “Look but don’t touch.” When she glanced up at the clock, those honey eyes were apprehensive.
A nice start.
Entering the area near their gate, he bit back angry words. Threats would only amplify her anxiety and have her watching every move. An abundance of caution wouldn’t do.
He circled around behind her and sat, his back to hers, and breathed her feminine scent. With his head only inches away, her light floral fragrance worked like a fairy’s lasso to the torso, invisibly pulling him into her realm. He’d never recognized the unadulterated power in a well-tailored skirt and the right bottle of perfume.
The rockin’ body beneath doesn’t hurt.
Ethan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn’t predicted the sharp pangs of longing that threatened his smug self-righteousness at how their lives had changed. Word on the street whispered that her poor-little-rich-girl status had swirled down the drain years ago, and from the looks of it, she’d descended a few rungs on the social latter. A little less heiress and a little more working woman.
For the millionth time, he squelched his curiosity. Despite every instinct, he’d never allowed himself to check up on her or to garner even the faintest awareness of the trajectory of her life. He wouldn’t start now.
Whatever her issues, Billboard’s recent comments had been telling. A hotshot lawyer at a respected New York firm was a woman who’d picked up the pieces. And someone with obligations. When he’d given Billboard the go-ahead to contact Scarlet, he’d known it would be difficult for her to turn Atavos away, and he’d relished the idea of holding her perfectly-manicured hand to the fire.
Now, not thirty seconds after spotting her in the airport, Ethan entertained thoughts of wiping the unease from her features. He ached to reassure her that he sought nothing more than her expertise and that he hadn’t set out to wound.
Such reassurances would not be forthcoming, however, because both sentiments were of questionable truth.
Ethan glanced up to see Billboard and Susan making their way to a nearby seat, and he gave a subtle jerk of his head. For now, his people needed to keep their distance. Ethan wanted to confront Scarlet personally, without an audience. Knowing time was short, and the crowd would only grow, Ethan began with a clear message.
“It’s been a while, Empress.” He said the words to her back, knowing it had to be a shock since she hadn’t noted his arrival.
No, Scarlet, I haven’t forgotten.
The day she’d stammered her insincere apology, the title had provoked a telltale flinch. It still did.
Her head rolled back over her shoulder. “Ethan,” she began. Pausing, she seemed to choose her words carefully. Most likely, she contemplated how pleasant she had to be to her biggest client. Finally, she continued, her voice patient as though she were a bank teller explaining a new ATM system to an elderly customer. “I could have refused you. Come to think of it, I still can.”
“And what happens when you get back to the office and tell your colleagues you left me sitting at the airport, counsel-less no less, on my way to complete a business deal you were hired to investigate and negotiate?”
“I tell them you’re an ass and remind them that an ass is a malpractice risk.”
“How so?”
She spun in her chair to face him. “You don’t actually want me here. You’ll be looking for problems. Glitches are easier to find—or to manufacture—when one is looking.” Then she mimicked his deep voice. “Scarlet didn’t do this. Scarlet should’ve done that. Any reasonable attorney would have—”
“What makes you think I don’t want you here?” Not wanting her had never been the problem.
Her nostrils flared. Then she shook her head slightly, averting her face and shutting him out. She looked weary when she murmu
red, “Life’s too short, Ethan.” She placed her magazine in a legal-sized shoulder bag before she stood, turned on her delicate kitten heels, and strode away.
Leaving. Just like that.
Ethan’s mind shrank with fury at the childish stunt. Was this some kind of joke? A game? The Copenhagen deal could make or break a key Atavos product, and she was his fully-contracted ace in the hole. Supposedly the best.
Ethan didn’t let her get far. Splicing through the boarding line to follow behind, he reached for her upper arm just as she would have stepped onto the escalator, bringing them both to a sudden, and less-than-gentle, halt. “You were aware of my identity and our mutual history when you took Atavos on. You’ll do the job you’ve been hired to do, Scarlet, or I won’t sue you, I’ll destroy you. I’ll exploit every weakness you have, and I have a feeling I’ll find plenty.” He gentled his tone, but only slightly. “Don’t doubt it, Empress.”
******
Though his grip didn’t hurt, Scarlet stared at Ethan’s hand. Touching was fine. Wanted. The days of flashbacks and phantom pains at the slightest human contact were behind her. Yet unsolicited touches remained challenging and angry ones unbearable.
The appendage wrapped around her arm was strong and calloused, with blunt fingernails. A bruise marred the tanned skin of his forearm, calling attention to the raised veins that still tracked from beneath his sleeve to his thick wrist and then across the back of his hand. Looking up at his face, she took in the strong lines of a tanned throat that bisected impossibly broad shoulders and the hard, uncompromising profile it supported. His was the face of a man who, no matter what else, won.
Ethan may have given up fighting for his supper, but everything about him screamed that the boxer was still in there.
“You’re crowding me,” she whispered, knowing he could feel her arm quiver beneath his fingers. The involuntary tremor only increased as she stiffened against it, while a chaotic fog filled her head like a balloon. Breathe, goddamn it. In then out. She followed her own instructions, managing a long, ragged inhale. Again.
“You okay?”
The question sounded fuzzy, like he’d yelled it through a mile of cardboard tubing. His big body was over-the-top, and she wasn’t used to letting people, even the smaller ones, so near. She shook her head, and as soon as she could project her voice, she added, “Let go, Ethan, please.”
His hand slid away immediately, and when she looked up, she saw concern banked in the obsidian of his gaze. Worry he didn’t want to feel warred with the anger he did. She realized that, for very different reasons, neither of them wanted to recall the events that had torn them to pieces. Yet the memories were like living, breathing beings hovering between them. Their very own ghosts of Christmas past.
“I’m sorry,” he said, albeit reluctantly. This time he was the one who appeared to search for the right words. “This may have been a mistake—for both of us—but what’s done is done, and we’re booked to leave in fifteen minutes. If I don’t show up in Copenhagen, someone else will. Atavos can’t afford to lose Optik, especially for the wrong reasons.”
His hand smoothed over her blouse where he’d touched her arm, gently pulling the fragile fabric straight. “You’ll board that plane, through persuasion, blackmail, force… whatever it takes.”
Drawn to his lighter, now almost hesitant touch, she let him stroke her while her vital signs returned to normal. “You’re right on one count,” she said sadly. “This is a mistake.”
The smile he gave her was cold, but the soft stroking along her arm didn’t stop. “Probably won’t be your last.”
She shrank back. Abruptly, her chest ached. Not because he was being an ass, but because she’d allowed herself to indulge in tormented fantasies that he wouldn’t be, and now she reeled with the backlash of disappointment. Wanting him to be different didn’t make it so, and between them, bygones could never be bygones. If she were honest—something she’d decided not to be with herself until this was all over—she’d wanted much more. Now, she saw the project for what it really was.
A trap.
Rubbing the exposed skin at her sternum, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to get some water. That’s all, Ethan. I wasn’t leaving.”
“Hell,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll see you onboard. We’re in coach since we booked last minute.”
“Fine.” She stepped onto the escalator, relieved to be beyond his reach. “Optik awaits.”
Minutes later, Scarlet settled into her seat, anticipating her first glass of wine from the flight attendant. Never much of a drinker, she planned to rock a slight buzz to sooth her tattered nerves. They would fly direct to Frankfurt before hopping a second flight up to Copenhagen. She situated her lap blanket and headphones and focused on relaxing before what she hoped would be a seven-hour nap.
The previous night had been restless. Ethan had teamed with her troubling finances to occupy her thoughts until dawn, crowding out all possibilities of sleep and leaving her exhausted for reunification day, as she called it.
Their reunion had definitely started with a bang. But the debacle had been more her fault than his. She’d been so prepared for a confrontation she’d unwillingly caused one. Worse, Ethan was right about her limited choices, and for all her denials, he was dead-on about her so-called ruin-ability. Yet only a fool would fail to seize the career-defining opportunity he offered. And her new motto, carpe diem, didn’t allow her to let life-altering chances pass her by.
Ethan Blake had her over a barrel. He knew it, and he wasn’t afraid to exploit the advantage.
The realization hit as the man in question sauntered down the aisle and slid into the adjoining seat.
Chapter 6
Ethan watched through slit lids as Scarlet ate her in-flight lasagna with all the fervor of a beaten-down Emily Post. While the table manners of her past had sent him into carnal orbit, today she was delicate and controlled, lifting each small bite to her lips and chewing—he swore exactly twenty times—before swallowing. The marked joy was missing from each forkful, but at least she ate.
The wine? Now that she drank like a woman intent on forgetting all about her seatmate and lulling herself into an alcohol-and-chronic-fatigue-induced coma. Like the timid eating, her obvious lethargy was an unwelcome realization. At least he could pinpoint the source of her nerves. Him.
Susan had made sure Ethan shared a row with Scarlet and an empty seat, a request she’d grudgingly but efficiently granted. Despite the clear opportunity to catch up on years spent apart, neither he nor Scarlet spoke a word. Their seat screens sat dark and headphones stayed stowed. Ethan silently observed—and she did, too, if he wasn’t mistaken—learning preferences, noting mannerisms, even matching the cadence of breath.
Like foreplay.
His body tightened at the thought. Only after Scarlet had slumped into sleep did Ethan’s focus shift from the strain of having her near—all that inviting warmth imminently accessible—to the research he’d long-denied himself. Accessing the onboard Wi-Fi, he trolled the Internet for all things Scarlet Leore.
Most of the last several years had gone undocumented. He found only brief blurbs announcing her graduation from Yale Law and her decision to join Jahn Tremane & Spellman shortly thereafter. Her firm bio included a professional headshot along with a synopsis of her legal experience and publications, a slew of speaking engagements, and an impressive list of previous deals she’d negotiated. Scarlet exuded “accomplished professional” on paper, but any idiot could craft a brilliant résumé. Whether she was worth her salt, and his money, would prove out over the next few weeks.
Apparently, she wasn’t a fan of social media. Good girl. The deal was highly confidential, and foregoing hourly updates didn’t gel with the Facebooker set. Ideally, the world wouldn’t know Atavos had hired Scarlet, or that his legal team had descended on Copenhagen, until the deal was dead or done. Pre-closure knowledge bred too much deal-tanking speculation.
Co
ntinuing his search, Ethan noted a brief mention of the relationship between Scarlet and her father. A Times society article dated about seven years prior called Tripp Leore and his only child “distanced,” though it didn’t go so far as to say estranged. The piece must have been written around the time Scarlet had finished undergrad and returned to New York from Stanford. She would have been searching for a suitable philanthropic opportunity, or possibly work in the arts, something that required beautiful clothes and regular appearances in the society pages.
Surprisingly, she’d gone straight to law school. He wondered who footed the bill for the former debutante’s three years at one of the country’s most exclusive—and expensive—private institutions. Perhaps they weren’t close, but Daddy had surely gone all-in for that one.
Scarlet shifted next to him, and a small, distressed sound floated through the silence of the cabin. The window shades were drawn to emulate night as they floated above the Atlantic. Most of their fellow passengers were either sleeping or trying to behind eye masks and noise-cancellation headphones. Glancing over, he saw Scarlet’s unfocused gaze latch onto the only light available—his glowing computer screen.
“You’re reading about me while I sit here,” she said dully. “How tactful.” The words expressed surprise. The tone said she’d expected nothing less.
He ignored her look of woozy disgust. “What happened with Daddy Dearest?”
“You know what happened,” she answered with a hint of a slur. “You’ve read all about it.”
Okay, he thought, not entirely sober. He handed her a chunk of cheddar leftover from his own meal. As he reached out, the back of his hand lightly grazed the giving flesh of her right breast, shooting a killer buzz up his arm. Before he could draw back, she crooked her neck, absently searching her chest for the source of the sensation.
“Eat this,” he ordered. “And maybe I want the story straight from the horse’s mouth. You two were tight when you took me down.”