All Tyed Up

by Julia Harlow

  She definitely had an attitude, but that intrigued him even more. He could get lost in those eyes that were moss green in some lights but amber when she glared at him. Most of the women in his circles either catered to him or tried to impress him with their aggressiveness. Neither type of those women did anything for him.

  He couldn’t remember the last woman who’d challenged him or intrigued him. He’d have to send his sister, Vicky, an extravagant gift for arranging the meeting between him and Isabel by finding the Craig’s List ad for the table. She’d recommended the table to Ty for the house he was refurbishing. Because of Vicky’s new baby and the fact that she lived outside of San Francisco, she hadn’t been able to go see it herself.

  Recently, dating had become more of a chore for Ty than a pleasurable experience. With business growing exponentially at Grandin Financial, he’d found himself focusing mainly on three things: business, overseeing the remodeling of his house, and his punishing workouts.

  But Isabel Beachwood had given him a hard-on from the moment he’d set eyes on her. He couldn’t seem to get rid of it. Questions about her pricked him like bramble-bush thorns. Why were there cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of her living room? Was she moving to a larger apartment in a better neighborhood? And why did she only have five dollars in her wallet? Had she simply forgotten to go to the ATM? Worst of all, and the porcupine quill sticking in his chest, was the biggest question: was she involved with someone? The new San Francisco Forty-Niners quarterback? One of his biggest competitors? A co-worker? Her college sweetheart? The acid from the last of the coffee he’d just swallowed burned in his stomach.

  He’d been anxiously waiting for the chance to see her again today and find out answers to these gnawing questions. As he crossed the plaza to his office building, his cell rang.

  “Yes, Kevin?”

  “Um, Mr. Griffin, Isabel Beachwood was here to drop off an envelope for you. I told her she should wait until you came in, but she wouldn’t. She was in a big hurry. I’m sorry.”

  “God dammit!” Ty shouted. “How long ago did she leave?”

  “About five minutes. Sorry, sir.”

  Ty took in a deep breath and exhaled. He knew he shouldn’t be yelling at his assistant. “Not your fault, Kevin. Don’t worry about it.”

  His long strides ate up the pavement across the plaza in front of the building. He estimated it would take her at least eight minutes to get down the elevator, across the lobby, and out the doors. And he’d be waiting.

  Ty was pleased he’d decided to wear the custom suit Enzo Brothers Tailors had just finished. After the first suit they’d made for him last fall, he’d transferred all his business to them. No doubt they were the most gifted tailors in San Francisco, if not all of California. They understood his preference for pairing luxurious, classic fabrics with a more fitted profile. No excess fabric anywhere. The new suit, a navy and light-gray windowpane check with matching waistcoat, was worth every dollar of the five grand it had cost him.

  He leaned against the Carnelian granite wall by the front entrance and trained his eyes on the doors. Before two minutes had passed, he spotted her.

  Sweet Jesus! What was she wearing? A ruby red wrap dress crisscrossed her full breasts, accentuated a far smaller waist than he’d remembered, and stopped several inches above the knee. He’d always been fascinated by dresses that were only held together by a flimsy little tie. One gentle tug and voilà! He wished more women would wear them.

  The color contrasted with her creamy skin and dark tresses, taking his breath away.

  He imagined Isabel wearing nothing but rose-colored bikini panties and a lacy bra underneath. And those cobalt heels made her shapely legs seem to go on forever.

  He became aware of every pair of male eyes in the vicinity roaming all the fuck over her and knew, if he didn’t make a move fast, some slime ball would beat him to her. Just as he reached her, a guy he recognized who worked on the 39th floor was approaching her from behind. Ty swooped in front of her and circled her upper arm with his big hand.

  “Not so fast, Miss Beachwood. We have unfinished business.”

  He thought he heard her groan but couldn’t be sure amid the noise of the lunchtime crowd on the plaza. After he ushered her inside and to the bank of elevators, she spat out, “What are you doing? Let me go!”

  “You don’t seem to follow orders very well, Miss Beachwood. You were supposed to wait for me.”

  “Number one, Tyberius, I don’t take orders from you. And number two, what you demanded was ludicrous. As if your assistant would even think of stealing your money.”

  “Not the point.” The doors opened, and Ty took her by the elbow, steering her inside. It was so packed in the elevator that their thighs and arms brushed together.

  When they stepped off the elevator on the 50th floor, Kevin stood up from behind his desk, beaming at her. He was lanky, and his copper-colored hair was cut short. Isabel couldn’t help but like him. This kerfuffle wasn’t his fault, and she hadn’t meant to get him in trouble with the lord of the fiefdom.

  “Good to see you again, Miss Beachwood.”

  She nodded and smiled at him.

  “Hold my calls, Kevin.” Ty ushered Isabel along with his hand on her waist.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once in his office, she stopped just inside the door. Ty leaned against the granite slab desk and curled his fingers over the thick edge, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing his newest pair of Russell and Bromley brown brogues.

  He studied her as she took in the wall of financial network monitors from around the world and the row of clocks from different times zones. He saw her draw in a breath at the staggering view of the Bay Bridge from his corner office windows. Her eyes seemed to be taking in every detail of his office but him.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me, Isabel?” He was embarrassed that he had so little control over his voice. It sounded ridiculously husky.

  “I didn’t want to wait for you.” Her voice was shaky, as if she were, what? Nervous? Afraid of him? Why should she be?

  “Why didn’t you want to wait for me?”

  “Because I didn’t want to see you again.”

  Well, this certainly puzzled him. He wasn’t used to women not wanting to see him. It didn’t happen much. Maybe she was telling the truth, but even if that were the case, he still couldn’t manage to let her go.

  “Why?” Leaning back and stuffing his hands in his pockets, he cocked his head to one side, and his eyes meandered from the top of her shiny hair to the toes of her cobalt blue heels and back up again. He knew he shouldn’t be so blatant about it, but he was enjoying the hell out of her. His pulse quickened, and he felt himself getting hard.

  When his eyes made it back up to her mouth, he thought he noticed her bottom lip quivering. He definitely saw the lone tear that slid down her cheek. Fuck! Before he knew it, he was across the room and in front of her. “Please don’t cry. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. Just don’t cry.” He wiped the tear from her silky-smooth cheek with his fingertip only to have it replaced by another one. He felt the warmth of her lush body and smelled her intoxicating peaches and cream scent. Unable to stop himself, he bent his head and kissed the tear away from her cheek. She jerked back from him.

  “I have to be at work in ten minutes, and I haven’t had lunch yet.” Her words spilled out on a whimper.

  For the first time, he noticed the small insulated lunch bag dangling from her fingers. He felt like the biggest ass in the world. Why hadn’t he realized this? Was he so self-centered that he hadn’t figured she still needed to eat lunch?

  “I’ll have a car take you wherever you want to go, and you can eat on the way. Have you got something to drink? I’ve got cranberry juice, iced tea, and soft drinks. Which would you prefer? Or maybe you’d like something stronger?” He strode over to a mahogany paneled wall, pressed his palm against it, and the doors opened to a fully stocked Viking refrigerator.

/>   When she didn’t answer, Ty grabbed an iced tea and a Coke, dialed his phone, and cradled it between his chin and shoulder while he stuffed both drinks in her lunch bag. What else did she have in there? Some sliced cucumbers, radishes, and carrots in a Ziploc bag, and a small container of yogurt. What the hell kind of lunch was that? This goddess didn’t need to be on some damned diet. He’d love to take her out for a juicy steak and baked potato.

  “Conrad, I need you to take Miss Beachwood to . . .” He raised his brows at her in question.

  Again, she didn’t answer. She probably didn’t want him to know where she worked. He couldn’t blame her at this point. “Take her wherever she wants to go. She’s on the way down now.”

  When Ty opened the door to his office, Kevin jumped up like a child’s jack-in-the-box.

  “Your next appointment is here, Mr. Griffin. I put them in the front conference room. The members of the App Team are all assembled.”

  “Good. Tell Dominic to get started. I’ll be there shortly.”

  After they stepped onto the elevator, Ty used his passkey. They were down to the ground floor, out the front of the building, and to a metallic black Maybach idling at the curb in mere minutes. A Steven Segal look-alike complete with rat-tail was in the driver’s seat. After Ty opened the door for Isabel, helped her in, and closed it, he leaned in the front passenger window, resting his palm on top of the car.

  “Take her wherever she wants to go as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.” Conrad checked for traffic over his shoulder and pulled onto California Avenue. Ty watched until the black car disappeared into the sea of afternoon vehicles.

  All through the two-and-a-half-hour meeting after Isabel had gotten into the Maybach, Ty was so distracted by what had happened with her that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Was he so used to lording over his underlings that he’d lost sight of what it was to be around a young woman who wasn’t in his employ? What the fuck was the matter with him? She had obviously been uncomfortable by the way he’d acted. And his unabashed scrutiny of her seemed to push her over the edge. He was no doubt the most insensitive jackass on the planet.

  He shoved his Aeron chair back from the conference table with a rumble of wheels on the tiled floor and made his way to the windows where he tapped in a number on his phone.

  “Conrad, is she okay? Did she eat her lunch? And where did you drop her?”

  He listened as Conrad replied that she was quiet, and no, she hadn’t eaten her lunch, but she’d sipped some iced tea. Then he told Ty where he’d dropped her.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuck!”

  All eyes from the conference table shot to him. And he couldn’t have cared less.

  Chapter 3

  One of the things Isabel loved about San Francisco was the abundance of dog parks. She and Pilot had tried out half a dozen of them, and several more were on her list.

  The muscles in her arm throbbed as she threw the slobbery tennis ball for what seemed like the millionth time. She still hadn’t figured out what his fascination was with tennis balls. She only knew for certain that Pilot would always outlast her—his drive to catch that ball was unrelenting. But she reveled in watching his athletic body launch high into the air to snag the ball without ever failing to catch a single one.

  As she tossed the ball again, her thoughts wandered again to the events of that afternoon with Ty Griffin. Even though she still couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had upset her about the way he’d stared at her, she knew for certain that he hadn’t meant to upset her. After that happened, he’d arranged for Conrad to drive her back to work. She remembered the way he’d leaned into the car to give his driver directions. He had an easy manner about him but, at the same time, was masterful in the way he handled himself. She couldn’t help but imagine how that might translate in bed.

  It was almost seven thirty when they headed back up Seneca to the Excelsior District. Other dog walkers smiled and waved at her along the way. The May evening was mild, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees overhead, stirring the scent of freshly turned earth. The small gardens lining Seneca were ready for spring planting, and she couldn’t wait to see the riot of colors they’d produce in a few weeks’ time.

  Isabel should have been packing for the move to Ellen’s on Saturday, but the idea depressed her so much that she’d taken Pilot to the park instead. Since it was only Tuesday, she could easily start tomorrow and get the packing done in time. She didn’t have that much to move, anyway. Ellen told her a friend would loan her an SUV so she wouldn’t have the expense of a moving company or rental truck. A tank of gas to repay Ellen’s friend wasn’t bad at all.

  Her meager belongings consisted of bedroom furniture, a small loveseat and upholstered chair, a trunk that served as a coffee table, boxes of books and kitchenware, lamps, a few prize pieces of Delft Blue and art, her clothes, toiletries, and other personal items. That was about it. Her rooms in the Victorian were small, and because she despised clutter, she was stringent about what she accumulated in the way of possessions.

  Ellen lived and worked in a large converted loft in the posh Mission District. With exposed brick walls and pipes, huge windows, and tongue-and-groove oak floors, it was an ideal space for Ellen to pursue her painting.

  Generous to a fault when it came to Isabel, Ellen must have still harbored guilty feelings from all the years of torture she’d put her through. She’d insisted on covering all of Isabel’s expenses, whether she found a job or not. Isabel was far too independent to ever take a handout from anyone. She was prepared to open a joint bank account with Ellen and deposit her monthly rent and share of expenses if Ellen gave her any guff about it.

  While she waited for Pilot to finish lifting his leg on a boxwood bush, Isabel thought about the events that had brought Ellen to San Francisco. She’d moved here and purchased the loft nine months ago after her cheating Wall Street husband had divorced her for his secretary. Isabel knew all too well that it was yet another example to Ellen that she was unworthy of anyone’s love. Isabel felt the pain almost as deeply as Ellen.

  For two months after the divorce was final, Ellen had lived on nothing but orange juice, tea, and cigarettes while her size six body shrank to a size two. Even though Roger Whitaker had ensured that Ellen would be financially set for decades, it was a prime example of money not buying happiness.

  It wasn’t merely the end of her marriage to Roger. The Whitaker’s had welcomed Ellen into their family with a genuine warmth and acceptance she’d only ever fantasized about. They thought her acerbic tongue and prickly views on almost every subject were quirky and clever, instead of anti-social and rude, the usual reactions to her.

  Her fledgling artistic career had blossomed under their auspices. The Whitakers came from a long line of old money and art patrons, and their connections were impeccable, endless and uber-wealthy. Ellen’s Master of Fine Arts degree from the University of Cincinnati College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning seemingly couldn’t have been more esteemed by anyone other than the Whitakers.

  Isabel and Pilot were rounding the corner to the Victorian when she remembered what had happened next. Before long, Ellen had become the new darling of the Whitaker’s large circle of friends and acquaintances in the Manhattan art scene. Her detailed, outrageously vibrant landscape oils were featured at the hottest gallery openings and sold at sky-high prices. All the Manhattan movers and shakers had to have an Ellen Daniels Whitaker on display or, better yet, own one.

  Roger and Ellen had bought a tract of land near Lake George where they planned to build a weekend getaway. Ellen treasured the open land at the base of the Adirondack Mountains and spent weekends living out of a pitched tent, painting the dense birches and wildflowers. She felt as if she’d been reborn into a dreamy fairy tale.

  Then, as suddenly as a shooting star in the night sky, it all vanished.

  Both Isabel and Ellen hoped the change of scene in San Francisco would be a positive and hea
lthy one for her. Ellen had started by transforming her petite, blond, all-American appearance to an edgier persona with a wardrobe of dark leggings, black boots, silk tops that fell off one shoulder, and chunky silver bracelets and earrings. She’d found a hair stylist who clipped her long, fair locks into a jagged style that whipped blades of blond across her high cheekbones and swan-like neck whenever she moved her head.

  ~~~

  Pilot followed at Isabel’s heels as she made her nightly rounds, checking door and window locks and switching on outside lights. When she’d finally curled up in bed on her side with her knees tucked up to her chest, Pilot stretched his body out on the floor as close to her side of the bed as he could possibly get. His work was done for the day. His alpha-mistress was safe. She dangled her hand over the side of the bed and received a wet kiss from his long pink tongue.

  ~~~

  The alarm blared an hour earlier than usual. Isabel knew from experience she could get more information about possible tech jobs in the hour between seven and eight in the morning by listening to conversations at local coffee houses than in days of networking, hobnobbing, and scouring TechCrunch. Promising Pilot a longer walk when she got home, she headed out to the most popular coffee houses: Four Barrel, Blue Bottle, and Philz.

  Foregoing the cappuccino she really craved, Isabel settled for a less-expensive drip coffee at Philz, reminding herself that her financial situation was on the verge of being dire. Even though she’d be getting a rent deposit back after she moved out and she had an emergency fund set aside, from now until she found a job, she’d need to pinch pennies in a city that had recently become one of the most expensive in which to live.

  She moseyed around each coffee house, keeping her ears open. But most of what she overheard this morning had been related to Baycrest and Grandin, a done deal and no help to her at all. She decided to head to Baycrest Enterprises early and put out some feelers online.