Manhattan Mogul: A New York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  Fuck. “I’ll try to make it work.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she says, a little smugly. “I’ll take care of the necessary arrangements with Katherine. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  Shaking my head, I drop the phone and sigh. I have plenty of time to figure out how to get out of it.

  I turn on my computer and sit down behind my desk. Here, at least, I know what the hell I’m doing. Everything about Knight Ventures brings me comfort. Leather soles slapping marble tiles. Elevators that race upward without the slightest hesitation. Rows of desks and cubicles, ringing phones, humming computers—every last one of them bought and paid for by me. Employees I’ve hired, and can fire at the slightest whim. Pitching ideas and acquisition plans with the precision of a general going to war.

  Business is a daily battle, one I relish every day.

  My schedule is packed with meetings and projects but before I can focus on work, I have some other tasks that require my attention. My assistant steps into my office seconds after I bellow her name through the open door, her face as inscrutable as ever. My rough edges never seem to rub her the wrong way. It’s unfortunate not everyone in my life is a paid employee.

  “The team from FIT is in the conference room, awaiting instructions,” she says.

  The Foundation for Innovative Technology is a think tank based in San Francisco. I’m paying them a fortune to evaluate the list of acquisition targets we’ve come up with as alternatives to a NetworkTech deal.

  Mack Duncan’s company can’t be my only option. There has to be another tech company that can get me what I want—with an owner who cares more about the price I’ll pay than my damn personal life.

  “They can wait. First, get me the number of the best locksmith in Brooklyn. Second,” I rattle off Nixie’s address from memory, watching as she copies it on the notepad in her hand. “Do some digging on the owner of the property, and make a few calls criticizing the hazardous living conditions. Crumbling steps, insufficient exterior and interior lighting, an intercom system that doesn’t accurately reflect the tenants’ names. The place is a mess and the landlord should be ashamed of himself.”

  “Is that all?” Her face doesn’t betray the slightest curiosity for my sudden interest in a dilapidated Brooklyn apartment building.

  “Make sure you tell them to get the windows washed.” No matter where she lives, Nixie should wake up to sunshine on her face.

  “Consider it done.”

  Nixie

  Kismet scratches at the door, whining to go out. I blink my bleary eyes awake and frown at my window, trying to figure out what time it is. The glass is so filthy, I can’t tell. It took me hours to fall asleep after Nash left, and he haunted my dreams, too. If not for Kismet, I might pull the covers over my head and stay in bed all day.

  Instead I scribble a note to the building superintendent about the grimy state of the exterior windows, somewhere between a strongly worded complaint and a beseeching plea, and slide it beneath his door on our way outside. It’s not my first letter, and although I don’t expect anything to come of it, it’s worth a try.

  I’ve cleaned the glass myself, many times. On the inside of my apartment, the panes gleam. But I can’t access the outside, and that’s the problem. They probably haven’t been washed in a decade. Maybe longer.

  A brisk walk helps clear some of the cobwebs from my brain and I remember to stop at the bodega on the corner to pick up a can of WD-40, which is conveniently kept right near the register, beside the cans of bug spray. In a city of apartment buildings, squeaky locks are as common as cockroaches.

  An hour later, after Kismet is fed and my sliding lock operates soundlessly, I head to the Pratt campus.

  There are only ten of us in my sculpture class, and we’re each assigned a potter’s wheel, a chair, a lump of clay, and a jug of water. Usually the professor starts off by explaining the theme and scope of our assignment.

  Today she says only, “We’re going to try something different.” Then she dims the lights, turning on instrumental music with a heavy beat and sensual rhythm. “You’re to focus on the feel of the clay in your hands. You can make something, or nothing. What’s important is that you feel. Experience the art of sculpting through your palms.”

  I’ve seen Ghost. Hasn’t everyone? That scene with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, their hands woven together, his front to her back, his thighs pressed against hers, wet clay oozing through their fingers. Does foreplay get any better?

  I don’t expect to feel anything sexual in a room with nine other art students I barely know. But I’m wrong. Spreading my legs around the potter’s wheel, the pedal humming beneath my right foot, I pour water on the already moist clay and wrap my hands around the cool, spinning mound. It warms up quickly, changing consistency and shape as I work with it. The lights are low, and my eyes drift closed as I focus on the tactile nature of sculpting.

  Of course, it isn’t long before thoughts of Nash intrude. I’ve spent all morning forcing memories of last night, memories of him, from my mind. But now, my defenses are down.

  The clay within my hands becomes Nash’s shoulders, his abs, his thighs, his . . . everything. And damn, he feels gooood.

  I can touch him the way I want to, without fearing that he’s comparing me to the mile long list of women he’s been with. Or wondering if he’s counting the seconds until he can go back to his own apartment, his own bed. With clay, there’s no need to think about why we’re completely wrong for each other. There’s no need to think at all.

  For an hour, I give myself over to the joy of manipulating something between my hands. Having the power to build or destroy, add or remove, speed up or slow down.

  And when the lights come back on, I resent the sharp tug of reality pulling me back to earth. I enjoyed letting my mind drift, letting it take me back to Nash. Maybe a little too much.

  Biting back a dejected sigh, I take my foot off the pedal and lift my hands away. In front of me is an irregularly shaped vase. I look more closely, inspecting it. No, not irregularly shaped. It is a heart, slightly open at the top, as if I curled my fingers inward at the very last second. Leaving a gap where it should be fused together. An open heart?

  Or a broken one?

  When I return to my apartment, the building super, Sam, is on a ladder in front of the entrance, replacing a bulb that’s been broken as long as I’ve lived here.

  “Let there be light,” I joke as it sputters to life.

  Sam grunts, reaching for a screwdriver dangling from the brown leather utility belt wrapped around his substantial belly. “Have a list a mile long today. Got your request ’bout the windows, too.” He fits the cover into place, shoves the screwdriver back in his belt, and lumbers down.

  The ladder shakes wildly with each of Sam’s steps. Visions of him breaking his neck in front of me bloom in my mind, and I jump forward, wrapping both of my hands around the metal sides. “Did hiring a window washer make it onto your list?”

  Another grunt as he steps to the ground and slams the ladder shut. “Not mine. But it must be on someone else’s, because I got a message that a crew will be here first thing tomorrow. Already put a notice under everyone’s door to make sure their windows were sealed shut unless they want soap scum getting in. Blinds, too, in case there’s something they don’t want anybody seeing, if ya know what I mean.”

  “Great. Thanks, Sam.” I bound excitedly up the stairs, deciding to check on Mrs. Dwyer to see if she needs any help. I make it to the first landing, then turn back. “By the way, any particular reason for all this activity? Are we all about to be evicted and the building turned into condos?”

  Drawing a fleshy palm over the sweat-beads popping up across his forehead, Sam snickers. “In this neighborhood? Doubt it. Alls I know is, I got a call an hour ago about being personally named in a safety hazard suit if things don’t change. Building’s been this way for years, no reason to sue over it. But the wife gave me a list and told me I needed
to fix some stuff around here.”

  “I’m sure we all really appreciate it.” I hesitate, feeling guilty for adding another item to Sam’s list. But if I don’t ask now, it will never get done. “Is there any chance you can take a look at my lock sometime today? I’m not sure if I need a new one, or if it’s something you could repair.”

  “Sure,” he says, with a fleeting grimace as he glances up the stairs. Sam rarely ventures above the third floor and he’s already climbed to the fifth today. “Oh, that reminds me—there was a guy here earlier while I was delivering the note about the windows. He was standing in front of your door, looked to me like he was trying to get in. Said you were expecting him, but he seemed fishy. I told him to get outta here.”

  Goddamn that man. I mumble a word of thanks to Sam and sprint up the remaining stairs. My phone is out of my purse before I close the door behind me. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that no means no?” I demand, patting Kismet as she sniffs excitedly at my feet.

  “I take it you’re upset about the locksmith?” Nash’s tone is clipped, not a sliver of apology dripping from his tongue.

  “Is that what you’re calling yourself these days? What is wrong with you?”

  “Let’s back up. I think we can both agree that a new lock on your door is a necessity, the sooner the better. So I contacted a locksmith this morning. He said he would be at your apartment this afternoon.”

  “For your information, I already asked my super if he would take a look. You can call your guy back and—”

  “If you mean the same person currently tasked with building maintenance, I highly suggest going with someone else.”

  I know Nash is right the second he says it. The only thing I’ve actually seen Sam fix in the months I’ve been living here is the light bulb by the front entrance. But I’ll eat my door, lock and all, before I admit it.

  “It’s my problem, and I’ll handle it.” I pick up Kismet and carry her to my bed. “You need to stop, Nash. Back off.”

  I hang up on him without waiting for a response, do a quick search for “locksmiths near me” on my internet browser, and then turn my phone to silent mode. If Nash calls back, I’m not talking to him. And I’m not letting whoever he hired touch my door, either.

  I need a new lock, but not one bought and paid for by Nash. I wouldn’t put it past him to expect his own key. On my next walk with Kismet, I’ll check out the locksmiths in the area and decide which of them to hire.

  Half an hour later, when a knock sounds at my door, I slide Kismet off my lap and jerk to my feet. I’ll tell Sam that I’m going to handle of the lock myself. He’ll probably be thrilled that I’ve saved him the trouble.

  I yank at the knob, bypassing my usual glance through the peephole. “I’m sorry about the confusion—” The sentence dies in my throat.

  The man at my door . . . isn’t Sam.

  Chapter 10

  Nash

  Back off.

  That’s what Nixie wants from me. My ego is bruised that she’s so emphatic about it, but I’m a big boy. I’ll get over it.

  Eventually.

  Maybe.

  But I’ll deal with that later. After I know she’s safe.

  I quickly dial the number of the locksmith I hired. “Nixie Hyde is at her apartment. I want you to install the highest quality lock on the market, whatever the cost.”

  “Okay, I’ll head over there now.”

  I hang up the phone, still feeling unsettled. Something Nixie said is bothering me. But I can’t put my finger on exactly what.

  No. It’s not what Nixie said. It’s what the locksmith didn’t say. He didn’t mention that he tried installing the lock earlier. I’ll head over there now. Not—I’ll go back there now.

  I hit redial. “Did you try to get into Nixie Hyde’s apartment today? Or examine her lock in any way?”

  “No. I never even went into the building.”

  My stomach clenches. “You never went into the building?”

  “No. You said she lived in 4G. I rang the buzzer several times, and no one answered. But I’m free now, I’ll—”

  I don’t wait for the man to finish his sentence. Running for the elevator, I bark at Simmons. “Tell Jay to pull the car up front. Now.”

  I try calling Nixie but she doesn’t pick up.

  Something is wrong, I can feel it.

  Nixie

  Taking in my slack-jawed expression, Derrick’s lips twist in a bitter attempt at a grin. “It’s a little late for an apology, don’t you think?”

  After a moment of stunned silence, I recover my wits. “Yes, it is.” My attempt to slam the door in his face is thwarted when Derrick sticks out a booted foot and shoulders his way inside my apartment.

  Alarm coils around my intestines as I open my mouth to scream, but before I can make a peep, Derrick’s palm covers my face and he kicks the door closed. Kismet jumps off the bed, her movement dislodging my phone. It falls to the floor and skids across the bare wooden planks, near where she paces at my feet, whining anxiously.

  “Stop it, Noelle. We need to talk.” I smell vodka on his breath, cigarette smoke on his hand. With no other viable options, I open my mouth and bite his fingers.

  “Ow!” Derrick pulls his hand away, although not far enough. It drops to my neck, his thick fingers wrapping around my throat. “For fuck’s sake, I’m here to talk.”

  When I try to move back, Derrick’s fingers curve inward as if he’s trying to palm a basketball, the tendons in my neck giving way beneath the pressure of his grip. A strange look comes over his face as I push at his chest, scratch at his forearms.

  Derrick has never really hurt me. He’s yelled, he’s grabbed me too tightly, he’s shaken me. In his worst moments, there’s been a raised hand I expected to strike, a closed fist that stopped just shy of making contact.

  But he’s never choked me before.

  My vision blurs at the edges as I try to take a breath and fail. Finally, I manage to break his hold and jump back, rubbing my throat where I still feel the clutch of his hand.

  This isn’t the Derrick I know.

  And when the misty haze clears, I look at him, really look at him, Derrick seems as shocked by his behavior as I am. He blinks at me, tugging at his ear in a gesture of embarrassment. I cross my arms. Still wary, but certain that that strange, eerie version of him is gone. “You said all I need to hear months ago.”

  “What you heard—” Derrick shakes his head and makes a sound somewhere between and a growl and a groan. “It’s not what you thought.”

  I roll my eyes, then glower at him. Nerves have given way to indignation. “Do all of you get some sort of playbook when you go through puberty?”

  Confusion slackens his jaw. “What? Who?”

  “Men,” I spit, as if the word itself is an insult.

  I thought Nash and Derrick were out of my life and now, in the span of a few hours, they’re back. Both of them. “It’s not what it looks like. It’s not what you heard. It’s not what you thought,” I mimic, deepening my voice and reaching down to give my crotch an adjustment. “I mean, can’t you guys put a little more thought into it?”

  A storm cloud rolls over Derrick’s face, my rant seeping into his inebriated mind. “Are you seeing someone, Noelle?”

  My gaze falls to his hands, now clenched into stiff fists at his sides. But I’m too mad to back down. “You barge in here and think we can have a conversation? Are you kidding me?”

  “I want to know. I deserve to know.”

  “You don’t deserve anything from me anymore, least of all an explanation.”

  “We have history together. Years where I looked out for you, took care of you. Loved you. You can’t erase all that just because you overheard me talking to my bookie. I was saying whatever I could think of to get him off my back.”

  Of course we have history together. Not all of it is good, though. For a long time, Derrick merely treated me like a kid sister. But eventually things changed. His voice dee
pened. I grew breasts. All my friends had crushes on Derrick, and I began to see why. An awkwardness sprung up between us that wasn’t broken until the first time he kissed me. From that moment on, our love was all-consuming.

  Really. It consumed me.

  He was controlling and possessive. At first, I chalked it up to love. Derrick simply loved me so much that he needed to know where I was at all times. He wanted to be with me so much, of course he resented any time I spent with anyone else. And he was just looking out for me when he scrolled through my emails and texts, never allowing me to install a password on my phone.

  I can’t remember exactly when Derrick’s love began to feel less like a warm blanket and more like a mouth gag. I tried to break up with him, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. The more I told Derrick I didn’t want to see him, that I needed space, the more often he showed up. Behind me in line at Starbucks. On the treadmill beside mine at the gym. Across the street as I walked home. Everywhere.

  And I never knew which Derrick I would get. The easygoing guy who would splash through puddles in the rain, holding my hand, laughing with the delight of a kindergartner. Or the man who was frighteningly on edge, his jaw clenched, hands fisted, ready to lash out at anyone, including me, for the slightest transgression.

  Maybe Derrick does deserve an explanation from me. Maybe we’re overdue for a long conversation—not just about what I overheard, but about our entire relationship. It stopped working for me well before I left.

  But not now, not like this. “Fine. When you’re sober, we can talk.”

  His flush deepens. “No. Now.”

  Kismet puts herself between my legs and growls, something I’ve never heard her do before. I shake my head. “Derrick, if you really want to talk, and not lie or try to intimidate me, we’ll do it another time.”