HiddenDepths

by Angela Claire

  And she was gone.

  Jesus, why the hell did that piss him off so much?

  * * * * *

  Pretending he needed to go see his mother was better than pretending he wasn’t staying in town to see Andrea Prentiss.

  Evan didn’t care about money. Men born rich rarely did, although Evan’s particular brand of insouciance did not include the flip side of that, which was the automatic dependence on it, the almost erotic belief they were entitled to it. The luxuries of his mother’s Upper East Side townhouse—the private elevator, the three stories of space, the priceless artworks—made absolutely no impression on Evan, just as he’d tried to explain to Andrea the night before. Amanda Evans Reynolds was almost, but not quite, as rich as her ex-husband, the Evans fortune being from railroads originally but culled into a more diverse portfolio over the generations. As an only child, Amanda Evans had been spoiled and adored by her older parents, indulged in every whim, including her ill-fated marriage to the worldly Damien Reynolds. And when that marriage ended with her brokenhearted at not being able to replace Damien’s long-dead first wife—as all of Damien’s marriages since the first had ended to varying degrees—Amanda took her only child back with her to live with her parents, who spoiled him every bit as much as they had spoiled her.

  Though his grandparents had been gone for a few years, Evan still missed them. They had been the only model of a happy marriage that he had ever seen growing up, or since then, for that matter. The townhouse, with its casual elegance, reminded him of them. It was the place in New York he hated least of all, although that wasn’t saying much.

  When the uniformed maid brought him a cup of his favorite green tea, Evan nodded at her absently.

  “Why so glum, Evan?” his mother asked. “I just talked to your father. Your brother is going to be fine.”

  Amanda Evans was every inch the pampered filthy-rich socialite, her blonde hair perfectly coifed, her skin smooth and unlined, not from surgery or Botox, but from a lifetime of expensive face creams and good genes. She was slim and healthy and could have passed for at least a decade younger than her real age of fifty-three. Still a very beautiful woman, as all Damien Reynolds’ wives had been, she had never remarried, though Evan knew she had companionship. But marriage after that first disillusioned love had been out of the question for Amanda and, knowingly or not, she had passed her cynicism on to her son. Or maybe his father did that all on his own.

  Though Amanda Evans had been briefly stepmother to all of Evans’ brothers, Damien had never encouraged any of his wives to try to replace his oldest son’s mother. Damien made sure Michael knew that his mother was his father’s only love. And for that reason, Evan suspected Amanda was a little harder on Michael Reynolds than she was on anybody else in the Reynolds family. Except Damien Reynolds, of course. She still claimed she hated him.

  “Why that man insists on keeping contact with me after all these years, I’ll never know. I couldn’t get five seconds of his attention when I was married to him. Unless we were in bed,” she added under her breath. “And now, every time I turn around, his name shows up on my caller ID.”

  Evan sipped his tea. “You don’t have to answer, Mother.”

  “Of course I do. How do I know he’s not calling about you? It is the one thing we share.”

  “Well, I suspect in his mind he was calling about me. Michael is my brother, Mother.”

  “Believe me, there’s no doubt of that. He’s the spitting image of your father. Thank God you have more of the Evans blood in you.”

  Amanda Evans liked to make that kind of observation all the time, but he never had a clue as to what she meant. He had exactly the same amount of Reynolds blood in him as Evans blood, although frankly sometimes he felt as if he had neither. All this money, these things. He was weary at just being around them. He itched to get back to the isolation of his island.

  Was it his fault he wanted to drag Amanda Prentiss back with him?

  “Michael is all right, isn’t he?”

  His mother, for all her bark, was soft-hearted.

  “Yes, he’s going to be fine. He was ordering people about before I even left the hospital.”

  “Good. Good. I don’t know what Damien would do if he lost that boy.”

  Evan neglected to point out that according to her, she shouldn’t care about what Damien would or wouldn’t do. But he suspected his mother had never gotten over her first love, just as Damien had never gotten over his.

  “Actually, as it so happens,” he told his mother, “I think Michael’s in love.”

  “What? With who?”

  “A very nice, very tough girl named Vanny Donald.”

  “Donald, Donald. I don’t think I recognize the family.”

  “She’s from Texas.”

  “Ah, oil money.”

  “Not exactly.” He didn’t really want to talk about Michael or Vanny or his father. He didn’t even know why he was here other than, if he was honest about it, to kill time until Andrea got off work.

  He had ordered three dozen white roses to be sent to her at the office along with a note. With any luck, she would come straight from work back to his bed.

  If he managed to wait that long, of course.

  “Well, I don’t know how you’ll ever find a nice girl, in Texas or wherever, considering how you shut yourself off on that island of yours.”

  “Craigslist,” Evan said sardonically.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Mother.” He put his teacup down and stood up, kissing her cheek. “I should get going.”

  “Back to Maine?”

  “No, I’m going to hang around a bit. At least another night.”

  She reached for his hand. “You sure Michael’s going to be okay?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Well, I can’t ever remember you staying in Manhattan a night longer than you had to since you were eighteen years old.”

  Yeah, well, he had to.

  * * * * *

  Andrea spent most of the morning at work explaining to one division president after another that Michael Reynolds was expected to make a fast and full recovery. It even happened to be true, as evidenced by Vanny’s call last night and Mr. Reynolds’ few calls this morning. He sounded very much like himself, except for the fact he had directed her to scout wedding locations as soon as things calmed down. When Andrea pointed out that Vanny might wish to have some input on such a matter, he admitted he hadn’t even proposed yet. Nothing like putting the cart before the horse. In any case, he assured her that Vanny was not the type of woman who had spent her life dreaming of her wedding. He added that he suspected she and Miss Prentiss were remarkably alike on that score.

  As in so many things Michael Reynolds simply assumed about his executive assistant, he was dead wrong. She shuddered to remember the enthusiasm she had thrown into helping plan her mother’s wedding and how beautiful and angelic and happy her mother had looked in her ecru silk, her handsome and powerful groom waiting for her up at the altar. How much she had dreamed of the day it would be her walking down that church aisle, more storybook happily-ever-after than any of the thousand wedding magazines she had devoured at the time.

  How ridiculous that had all turned out to be.

  As she had for eight long years, though, she put the thought completely out of her mind, firm in her Miss Prentiss armor. It had slipped off temporarily with Evan Reynolds, but she had put it right back on, no harm done. She hadn’t answered any of his questions. Not really. And from all she knew about him, he had only casual, sexual relationships anyway. So she was sure she would soon become a distant memory to the handsome, seductive man.

  And she could keep from feeling melancholy about that by continuing to translate this Portuguese annual report for Mr. Reynolds.

  “What language is that?”

  She looked up. Now that was surprising. For all his laid-back airs, Evan wasn’t a Reynolds for nothing. He was apparently as willful as all the rest of them.
The way they had left it, she would have expected he would be on the first ferry back to Maine. Yet here he was, all handsome and casual, in jeans and a green sweater that made his eyes even more sea green than usual.

  “Portuguese. What can I do for you, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “We’re back to Mr. Reynolds, are we?”

  The girl she was training to take her place should the need ever arise, Colleen Grady, looked up quickly from her desk in the anteroom to Andrea’s office. At Andrea’s gaze, Evan looked over his shoulder at the girl. “Who’s that? Miss Prentiss Jr.?”

  The girl cracked a smile. Oh well, she was still in training.

  Andrea held up the report. “How is your Portuguese, Colleen?”

  “A little rusty, I’m sorry to say.”

  “This will be good practice for you, then. Please take this and continue translating it. You can use the library.”

  The girl nodded, taking the report, and went on her way without as much as one flirty glance at Evan Reynolds. Miss Grady did have promise. It was Miss Prentiss who should be getting back to the basics.

  Using her coolest tone, she said, “I thought we said goodbye at the hotel.”

  “You said goodbye.”

  “You said you were leaving.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  A delivery boy came in with three dozen white roses and deposited them on her desk, leaving without a tip as Reynolds Industries maintained a “tip” account with every florist in the area. From the nonchalant way Evan tried not to look at the flowers, she knew immediately who had sent them. She read the card aloud for good measure. “‘Meet me at my hotel after work’. The roses are lovely, Evan, but I don’t respond to summonses.”

  “Unless they’re from Michael?” he added immediately. “Not that I resent having my brother give my hook-up orders. Michael gives everyone orders. And everyone obeys.”

  “Do you still have some crazy idea that I’m sleeping with your brother?”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure you haven’t been sleeping with any guy but me for a very long time.”

  She looked at him, considering. “How about a woman? I’m surprised you didn’t think of that.”

  He grinned. “Bring it on. I love three-ways.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not to my particular taste, but I’m pleased to note how open-minded you are. What do you want, Evan?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m flattered by your interest. Really, I am.”

  “Not what I was trying for.”

  “But I’m not interested in anything long term.”

  He said nothing for a second. Then, “Okay. If you say so. How about one more fuck for the road?”

  Colleen Grady suddenly came back in, an older, well-dressed gentleman in tow. Oh bother! Who was this? She thought she had canceled all Mr. Reynolds’ appointments.

  “Miss Prentiss, this is Mr. Jack Tottingham, an old friend of Mr. Damien Reynolds. He heard about Michael Reynolds and was wondering if the elder Mr. Reynolds was available for, er, consolation.”

  Miss Grady had a lot to learn. Bringing anyone in for an unscheduled appointment with Michael Reynolds was unheard of. One with Damien Reynolds was unthinkable.

  She gave Mr. Tottingham a cold stare, but unfortunately he was staring at her with what looked like amazement. Tottingham. Tottingham. It didn’t sound familiar. She frowned.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Damien Reynolds is unavailable. If you’d like to leave your card—”

  “Do you know you’re the spitting image, young lady, of Angelica Stavros?”

  Chapter Three

  Now that the moment had come, Andrea felt pretty calm about it. Actually hearing the name spoken in her presence, linked to her, didn’t even cause her to catch her breath. She doubted her complexion even reddened. Evan Reynolds was staring at her, of course, but he’d been staring at her since he got there. It had nothing to do with that long-forgotten name or this man whom she really did not recognize.

  She smiled at him condescendingly. “You’d be surprised how often I get the line that I look just like someone.” She added in an aside to Evan, “Usually it’s when I’m seated on a barstool.”

  “I’m surprised you ever relax enough to make it into a bar,” Evan quipped.

  “Who’s Angelica Stavros?” Miss Grady asked and Andrea glowered at her.

  “I’m afraid we’re really quite busy here, Mr., er, Tottingham, you said?”

  “Angelica Stavros was a Greek heiress who died quite some time ago,” the older man explained.

  “Are you Greek, Miss Prentiss? With your coloring, I wouldn’t guess that,” Evan said.

  She gritted her teeth. “As a matter of fact, I’m not Greek.”

  “Mrs. Stavros wasn’t either,” Mr. Tottingham threw in. “She was married to the Greek shipping magnate, Fredrico Stavros.”

  “How fascinating.” She stood up, her ultimate signal for someone to leave. For good measure, she added in a clipped tone, “Miss Grady, please show this gentleman out.”

  Just then, Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Damien Reynolds, had the bad timing to make one of his increasingly infrequent trips to the office. Still tall and imposing with a full head of white hair, Damien Reynolds strode into the office with the gait of a man decades younger. As was always his way, he initially ignored everyone in the room with the exception of anyone to whom he was related by blood. Stopping short in front of his youngest son, he exclaimed, “Evan! My God, what a surprise. What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

  Andrea witnessed the relaxed Evan Reynolds stiffen a little in his father’s presence. “Fine, Dad. I stopped by to see Miss Prentiss.”

  “You did? Why?”

  Sometimes, for all his good breeding, social graces seemed to be lost on Damien Reynolds. Evan’s mouth quirked up on the side. “I was trying to get her to go out on a date with me.”

  A euphemism if she’d ever heard one, but she had enough problems at this point with Tottingham still standing there. She wasn’t about to quibble.

  Mr. Reynolds glanced from his son back to her. “Oh well, I’ll stay out of your hair, then.” He handed his overcoat to Miss Grady, saying, “And who the hell are you?”

  “She’s an executive assistant trainee, Mr. Reynolds,” Andrea explained, not bothering to supply Colleen’s name as the old man wouldn’t care to have it.

  “Damien, it’s me, Jack Tottingham.”

  Damien turned to the voice, his usual haughty expression softening a touch. “Tottingham. What are you doing lurking there? Why didn’t you say something?”

  The men shook hands.

  “I heard about your son and was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d just stop in and see how you’re faring.”

  “Bullshit. What do you want?” He ushered him toward his office, saying over his shoulder, “Interrupt me if Michael calls, will you, Miss Prentiss?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  When the door had closed behind them, she noticed Evan staring at it. “Goodbye to you too, Dad,” he muttered.

  “Don’t you have some Portuguese to translate?” she snapped at Miss Grady, who was hanging her boss’s coat on a wooden hanger in the front closet. It was all her fault for bringing Tottingham in here in the first place, quite a breach of etiquette, which under other circumstances she would have been sure to address in thorough detail.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Miss Prentiss. I was just getting a drink of water and he tapped me on the shoulder. I thought I’d better bring him in.”

  She refrained from giving a lecture and opted for a dismissive glance, which caused the girl to disappear in seconds.

  Evan was still staring at his father’s closed door. “I always hated coming here.”

  She ignored the stab of sympathy she felt at that, and said coldly, “I didn’t ask you to come here. In fact, I’m asking you to leave.”

  He focused his green eyes on her once more. “Without my fuck?”

  Her cell phone ra
ng and she ignored it, allowing it to go to voicemail.

  “Wow, I’m flattered now. You ignored your phone.”

  She said nothing.

  He ran a hand through his ruffled brown hair in what looked to her to be an uncharacteristically agitated gesture. “I’m sorry, Andrea, but I just don’t get you.”

  “There’s nothing to get.”

  “Just Perfect Miss Prentiss. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  He dug his hands in his jeans pockets and she tensed, although it had nothing to do with him. She was feeling that old, horrible panic seep back into her. If Tottingham had made the connection, it could come back to haunt her. She couldn’t stay. She’d make a phone call or two, but it was as good as sealed once he said the name Angelica Stavros.

  Evan stepped a little closer and she deliberately stood her ground.

  This was why she didn’t see men. She knew it was. This and whatever twisted, scarred hunk of flesh of a heart her adolescence had left her. She didn’t know what she had been thinking to let Evan Reynolds’ sweet smile and seductive ways make her forget it. Forget this drumming in her head, the clammy palms and shortness of breath.

  It had been a long time, but the feeling was just as fierce.

  She fought it down and said coolly, “I enjoyed our time together, Evan. But not only do I not want anything long term, don’t even call me next time you’re in town. I don’t want to see you again.”

  He laughed. “Because I came to the office?”

  “Because I don’t.”

  He shrugged. “Fine. I’m not going to turn into one of your swooning admirers or anything. We had a nice time. End of story. Do you read poetry, Miss Prentiss?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Check out ‘To His Coy Mistress’ sometime. You and your cell phone can enjoy eternity together.”

  “Is that some kind of a threat?”

  “More of a literary allusion.”

  “Goodbye.”

  For all he had acted as if he was going, he stayed rooted to the spot, watching her. Usually she could freeze a man out in seconds flat. But she had never already slept with them, enthusiastically, on two separate occasions. No doubt that made it a little more difficult.