Assuming that he did, though, she couldn’t care less whether he won or lost. When she’d first met him, she’d thought he was an egomaniac, an immature, self-absorbed star who cared only about winning, and who would probably have a tantrum if he didn’t.
Now that she knew him better, Ariel understood that Jacob was made of stronger stuff. His apprenticeship in the rough-and-tumble world of European cycling had schooled him in the dangers of over-confidence. He’d suffered his share of defeats, and he always bounced back, ready for more. He was both humble and relentless. He understood that sometimes a win was impossible, but that this was never a reason to give less than his all.
Standing at the finish line, Ariel craned her neck to see if the cyclists were coming into view. She knew it was too soon. Knew that the crowd stretching down both sides of the road would alert her to their approach. But she couldn’t help it. Her heart was pounding with vicarious excitement, the amped-up feeling of the waiting crowd.
As she waited, she realized that she was obsessively fingering the charms on her bracelet. She looked down and smiled. She was holding the tiny gold bicycle Jacob had given her as though it were a good luck charm. She had no idea where he’d found it. When he’d given her the small jeweler’s box over dinner the night before, she hadn’t known what to expect. She already knew she wanted to marry him. But she hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. She stared down at the box. As if reading her mind, Jacob lifted her chin, and shot her one of his trademark heart-stopping grins.
“We both know I’m fast,” he laughed. “But it’s not magic. I worked for it. And I’m going to work to win you for my wife. And I know that will take a little more time.”
Half disappointed and half relieved, Ariel opened the box … and crowed with delight.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Perfect!” How could she explain to him that the charm meant more to her than a ring would have? It meant he knew her more deeply than she could ever have hoped for. Understood, at a gut level, what mattered to her the most.
She wished Jacob could have known her father. She wished her father could have known her Jacob.
They would have talked about Shakespeare, she thought. They would have gone fishing in the Hudson. My father would have come out here and seen Colorado. He would have loved it. The mountains. The rivers. We would have walked through fields of columbines and I wouldn’t have been able to keep myself from dancing.
The ache would never go away. But somehow loving Jacob made it easier. She had learned about love from her father and mother, and every minute with Jacob reminded her. Sweetly.
Not knowing what words could possibly suffice to express her gratitude, Ariel had risen from her chair, rounded the table, and plopped herself down in his lap, her arms around his neck. She’d kissed him deeply, right in the middle of the restaurant. Within thirty seconds, he was asking for the check.
Behind her, Karen and her father were having a tentative but heartfelt reunion. Beth was standing back, giving them space to talk with one another. Ariel was also trying to give them their privacy, but it was hard, on a cramped sidewalk with people pressing in from all sides, and occasional snatches of their conversation drifted up to her.
“ … describe everything,” Karen was saying, “so you won’t miss a single detail. You’d never believe my t-shirt. It’s Jakey on his bike with a maroon background and … ”
Then later, Richard’s huskier voice: “Karen, I want to apologize … inexcusable not to visit … love you so much.”
When Ariel looked back, they were embracing one another, and there were tears in Karen’s eyes and in Richard Hunter’s blind ones as well.
A gasp traveled through the crowd. From farther down the road, Ariel heard cheering, progressing toward her in a roaring crescendo. The leading group was not yet in sight. But she could hear the spectators further down shouting the names of their favorite riders … Ariel thought she could pick out the sound of fans chanting “Hunter! Hunter! Hunter!” She was so excited, she wanted to jump up and down.
When the leaders came into sight, she couldn’t hold herself back. She jumped, pumped her fists in the air and screamed Jacob’s name — even before she realized that he was leading the breakaway, Randall and Steven close behind him. They were riding in a tight pack, several lengths ahead of any of the other riders. Gearing up for the sprint, they stood up on their pedals and leaned forward, beginning to pump their legs faster and faster, muscles bulging from their thighs and their forearms. Their clenched jaws and furrowed brows communicated the superhuman effort they were putting forth.
The line separated as the riders put everything they had into the last hundred yards of road leading up to the finish line. Jacob drew ahead of his teammates, pedaling furiously, a look of pure, intense focus on his chiseled features. Ariel was screaming his name at the top of her lungs, jumping again and again into the air, urging him on with her voice, her body, all of her will.
Jacob swept over the finish line, several seconds ahead of the next rider. As he crossed the line, he sat up in his seat and raised his arms — V for victory — with a look of the purest, simplest happiness on his gorgeous face. Ariel couldn’t help it. She burst into tears.
Behind her, she heard Beth, Karen, and Richard yelling Jacob’s name. As the rest of the riders, followed by the support vehicles, came over the line, the crowd broke apart, milling into the street toward the stage and the podium.
Ariel couldn’t see Jacob anymore. Leaving his family, she pushed through the crowd to find him. He was standing beside his bike, near the stage, sluicing himself down with water from a squirt bottle. He was still breathing hard, covered in sweat. He’d unzipped his skinsuit and pulled the top down to his waist, revealing the contours of his gleaming, golden torso, his broad shoulders and taut abdomen. Ariel gasped as a wave of desire, incredibly strong, swept through her.
She was running to him. He raised his eyes and saw her, and his smile grew even wider. Disregarding his disheveled state, Ariel threw herself into his arms. Jacob lifted her from the ground, supporting her whole body against him. She kissed his forehead, his cheek, his chin. His skin was hot. He tasted salty. She wanted more of it, more of him. She found his lips, kissed him hungrily. Jacob’s chest was heaving with the incredible exertion of the race and she knew she should let go of him, let him catch his breath, but when she tried to pull back, he held her. He deepened the kiss, sweeping Ariel’s mouth with his tongue. She moaned into his mouth, nipping playfully at his lower lip. The sound of clapping arose around them. Bemused, Jacob lowered Ariel to the ground and they looked around to see Jacob’s teammates, grinning and applauding.
That might have been the happiest moment of Ariel’s life. Or it might have been when she stood with his family below the stage, watching Jacob on the top step of the podium, receiving his medal. He dedicated his win to Karen. Ariel didn’t mind at all. She wanted, more than anything, for Karen to know how much her brother loved her.
Ariel already knew. She was completely, unshakably, irrevocably certain that Jacob Hunter loved her.
Just the way she loved him.
“What about this Fratello?” Theo had asked during their last conversation. “Is he on drugs? Or Henderson? Anyone on the team? Someone has to be on drugs.”
“Nope.” Ariel had laughed. “How about I write you an article about the power of avocadoes?”
“Genetically modified avocadoes?” Theo sounded perkier. “I’ve been wanting to run some kind of Frankenfood piece … maybe we can get in on the soy controversy? I’ll have to think about this one. We’ll talk when you’re back in New York.”
“We’ll probably talk before I’m back in New York,” Ariel had laughed.
“Exactly,” said Theo, and once she heard him begin to order his coffee, she hung up. She still had a job. That was good. Theo had actually screamed “Hallelujah!�
�� when she’d told him about her and Jacob. “I couldn’t think of any other reason you wouldn’t write the story,” he’d crowed. “I knew it had to be love. Or Rocky Mountain spotted fever. To be honest, I thought there was a fifty-fifty chance.” Then the background noises had faded out. Theo had stopped multitasking. His voice had come through the phone crystal clear as he said, with unmistakable sincerity, “You made the right choice. Ariel, you deserve this.”
Maybe someday she’d even be able to write the real story behind her abandoned article on Jacob Hunter. It turned out to be a little light on the drugs. But there was sex. A lot of sex. She grinned. Sometimes sex isn’t just sex … it’s trust. It’s true love. What would all the cynical New Yorkers think about that scoop?
They’d think it was incredible. Sensational. They wouldn’t know whether or not to believe it. Even her friend Jenna, champion of romantic serendipity, had barely believed it when she’d called to give her the good news.
Believe it. That was the moral, thought Ariel. Every now and then, something seems too good to be true. And it is.
It’s better.
About the Author
Toni Jones grew up in Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado, and she continues to appreciate the special beauty and unique lifestyle of the Western U.S. Her passion for the outdoors and her love of romance go hand-in-hand. She hopes her work will inspire all her readers to get outside and fall in love under the open sky!
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Unmasking Love by Peggy Bird
Edie and the CEO
Mary Hughes
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Mary Hughes
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6429-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6429-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6430-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6430-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com, iStockPhoto.com/Pascalgenest; craftvision; grafikeray
To my wonderful editors, Jennifer Lawler and Nina Ricker. I’m awed by your wisdom and your generosity in sharing your marvelous ideas with me. Thank you for making this book the best it can be.
To my husband Gregg, who inspires me every day.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Chapter One
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Internet Jokes
I loved your viola joke. Here’s one about computers.
What’s the difference between a computer and a trampoline?
You take off your steel-toes before jumping on the trampoline :)
— ED
Smack in the middle of the workday, because her brain was fried, Edith Ellen Rowan made her computer chirp Old MacDonald. Naturally that got her into trouble with The Bitch.
At first, Edie didn’t even register the problem. Four sunny bars bee-booped before it hit her — her computer was playing a children’s nursery song in an office full of conservative, nitpicky ears. Houghton Howell Enterprises was staid like an insurance company’s gray suit (fun was something you had on the golf course, or once a year at the Christmas party, but never ever on the job).
“Suck it to shell.” Edie hit the escape key. As ee-eye-ohhh died, she braced against the proverbial fan scattering the proverbial manure in the form of Bethany Blondelle, known to most of the company as The “B” if they were feeling kindly, adding the “itch” if they were not.
Shoulders hunched and breath held, Edie waited. She’d only been trying to motivate her people. Managing a team of programmers at HHE, a firm that sold innovative (read: expensive) solutions in accounting for large companies (read: deep pockets) wasn’t easy. Her team members were getting as fried as she, and so she’d proposed the music-writing contest.
Nothing happened. Edie gradually relaxed.
The Star Spangled Banner burst lustily from Jack’s cubicle next door. Edie groaned.
“What the HELL is that NOISE?” Bethany had her vocal caps lock on again. This would be bad. “Who’s making all that racket? Edie? Edie!”
Edie face-palmed. The contest was supposed to be a bit of fun, not cause for Armageddon. She’d have preferred to ignore The B, but “Bethany” and “proactive” were so synonymous they were hyperlinked on Wikipedia.
Sure enough, a long leg popped through the opening of Edie’s cubicle, followed by the lady herself in eye-bleeding red.
Bethany’s fashion sense was from the DoMeHard channel. Her snappy skirts were hemmed just below her panty line. Today’s suit also featured a plunging sweetheart neckline, a chunky citrine necklace getting suffocated in her Wonder-enhanced cleavage. Her long, sleek hair was dyed crayon yellow #6.
Edie looked down at her own lacy teal tee, navy pants and wool blazer and wondered if she was underdressed.
Nah.
“What is the meaning of this racket?” Bethany leaned on Edie’s desk, looming over her. Invading personal space — “A” in the ABCs of corporate dominance.
“Project Pleiades. We had a month to deadline — until your good buddy Junior chopped that to a week.”
“Respect, Edie. Mr. Howell, not ‘Junior.’”
“I’ll respect Mr. Pharaoh Howell when he respects the workers. That deadline is a nightmare. My team has been working twelve-hour days and more. I’ve tried to push back, but you know Junior. Only the Evil Overlord can buck him.”
“Stop it.” Bethany tossed her head, a fleeting remnant of the girl Edie once knew. “The issue is not our executives. The issue is that … racket.” She waved her hand toward Jack’s cubicle, where the anthem was on its final verse.
“Handling Stress 101, Bethany. Work on something else.”
“Playing music on company time?” Bethany glared down her high-bridged nose. “Stupidity 101. You should listen to me if you want to go anywhere in this company.” She pointed to her cleavage, fingertip disappearing to the first knuckle. “After all, my team’s twice the size of yours.”
“Bigger isn’t better. It’s all about how you use it.” Edie grinned. “How about you run your team and I’ll run mine?”
“You don’t run your team.” Bethany sneered. “They run you.”
“It’s called empowerment.” Edie took pride in her outspoken team. She wanted her grandparents, hard-core sixties protesters, to be proud of her. They’d raised her from a little girl when her parents had died, and she loved them to pieces. “It’s a proven management style.”
Jack’s computer shifted to A Hundred Bottles of Beer.
“Management?” One corner of Bethany’s perfect lips curled. “The only
management I see is mis-management.”
“Ba-dum-bum.” Edie was suddenly tired of the whole conversation.
And, as Jack’s computer continued to tweet bottles down, doubt gnawed at her. It was quite a racket.
“Other people are trying to work.” Bethany went for the kill. “Keep your hooligans under control or I’m going to have to tell Mr. Kirk.”
Edie suppressed a moan. Of all the straight-laced overbearing big shots at HHE, Edward Everett Kirk, president and CEO, was the biggest, straight-laciest. Like laced corsets … naughty corsets in Kirk’s competent hands —
“The way you two fight, it’s only a matter of time before he gets fed up and fires you.” Mme La B’itch drew a red-enameled nail across her slim throat.
Edie winced. “It’s called ‘corporate unfriending’ now. And I couldn’t help the janitor incident. Or the thing with the Super Soaker. Look, I’ll talk to my people. Just cut us some slack, okay? We’ve been working ridiculous hours.”
“Edie, you idiot. Has it ever occurred to you that your ridiculous hours are because of you?”
Them’s fightin’ words. Edie raised narrowed eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
Bethany leaned knuckles on the desk. “Only one kind of project manager confuses effort with efficiency: a bad one.”
“Enough.” Edie jumped to her feet, nearly head-butting Bethany. “Outside. Now.”
“And freeze my butt off? Hardly.” Bethany’s nose was inches from Edie’s. “You have absolutely no decorum, do you? That shouldn’t surprise me, considering the hippies who raised you.”
Edie lost it. “My grandparents were heroes! They fought for what they believed in, rallied at protest marches — ”
“Pretty stories. Your grandpa was a long-haired unwashed bum. Your grandma wasn’t much better than a free love hooker.”
Heart to Heart Page 136