One Summer Night

by Caridad Piñeiro

  After that and their one ill-fated summer night’s kiss at eighteen, both he and Maggie had been consumed with their studies and mindful of their fathers’ wishes. But their more recent encounters had sent heat and protectiveness and need and way too many other sensations cascading wildly over him, making him want to forget common sense for a change.

  Jonathan had been right over a month ago when he’d warned that getting involved with Maggie could only lead to pain. And a whopper of a headache, he thought as he picked up a supersize cup of coffee and a bagel at a local deli before entering the skyscraper where his family’s business was located.

  With a forced smile at the guard in the lobby, he keyed himself through the security turnstiles and walked to the elevators. Forty-some floors later, he let himself into the Pierce Holdings’ offices and was eternally grateful that no one had decided to come into work.

  What idiot would on a gorgeous Saturday like today? the little voice in his head chastised, but he ignored it and kept up the march to his office.

  Once there, standing at his windows and staring down at the huge expanse of Central Park, he couldn’t argue with that annoying little voice anymore about being an idiot. From his office high above the city, he had a multimillion-dollar view. Central Park. Uptown to where a brand-new Pierce Holdings condo complex sat right on the edge of the Harlem Meer.

  But that amazing view was a pricy perch that somehow made him feel like a caged canary. Especially on a beautiful Saturday like this one, when he could have been out for a run on the beach or riding a nice wave. Or maybe just sitting on the great lawn, having a coffee while reading a good book and soaking up some sun. Only he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d read anything other than a business journal or taken a Saturday off for that matter. Which just served to remind him of Maggie again and how she had teased him the night before about coming to work today.

  He wondered if she was also at work or enjoying some time off. He considered how the day might have started pleasantly for both of them if last night had ended differently. How it would have gotten better if it had started with some very satisfying good-morning sex and breakfast in bed followed by maybe even more sex.

  All those thoughts had him getting hard with visions of naked Maggie that, in turn, had the jackhammers going off in his skull once more, reminding him of how complicated it could get to have Maggie in his life.

  He shook his head to clear away the noise, winced, and hurried to his desk where he put down the bag with breakfast and reached into a drawer for some aspirin. After downing the medicine with a mouthful of way too hot coffee, he opened the file with the agreement he had started reviewing the night before and grabbed his bagel, wishing that the local deli would carry pork roll to add some flavor, but that was just too Jersey for the city folk.

  He mindlessly gobbled down the bagel as he read the document. When he was done hours later, the jackhammers in his head had dwindled to the occasional thud of a pile driver. He grabbed his tablet, put his feet up on his desk, and flipped through assorted financial websites to check up on how the markets had finished and what people were saying about the Sinclair earnings report. He’d known it hadn’t been good, judging from Maggie’s mood, but he hadn’t really expected that it would be that bad. Whoever had leaked the report clearly had an ax to grind with the Sinclairs.

  The retail division losses were eating up any profits from their real estate division. Worse yet, the projections indicated that those losses were going to increase in the coming year. Shareholders who weren’t reaping any rewards were not going to want to continue shoring up the retail division against those losses, especially since they could be making a tidy sum instead on the real estate business and on the sale of the store locations.

  My father must be ecstatic, he thought. Like conjuring an evil spirit by daring to say its name, his father appeared in the outer office, a newspaper tucked under the arm of his dark-blue pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit. He wondered if his father owned any other type of clothing or if he’d popped out of the womb in a dark-blue suit.

  As he watched his father stride toward him, it hit him that his father hadn’t always been that uptight and anal. Not that he had been the fun dad or even the cool dad when he and Jonathan were little. His father had always been on the demanding side, with rarely a smile on his face.

  Although Owen could remember a few times he’d seemed happy. Usually at Sea Kiss when they’d run into Maggie and her mom on the beach. A memory came unbidden of one of those days.

  He, Jonathan, and Maggie had just finished building an immense sand castle, complete with a moat that was slowly filling as the tide moved in. Maggie’s mom had been with them, praising their accomplishments, when his dad had marched down in his suit and dress shoes, a dour expression on his face until…

  Until he’d seen Maggie’s mother with them. He’d stopped calling their names and curbed his pace until he stood by them, and slowly, ever so slowly, a smile had crept onto his face.

  He suddenly remembered Maggie’s mom teasing his father about ruining his dress shoes as the wash of a wave inched toward the expensive leather. It had dragged a chuckle from him and a promise that he’d dress more appropriately next time.

  They’d lingered there together, the children trying to protect the castle from the encroaching water. Maggie’s mother and his father had stood there, chatting amiably, like old friends. The animosity between the families forgotten in the bright sun of a summer’s day on Sea Kiss Beach.

  Special times like that one had been few and far between. After their mother abandoned the family, his father had gotten far worse with his demands and hostility.

  Owen was pulled back to the present as his father marched to Owen’s desk and eyeballed Owen’s casual clothes and relaxed stance with disdain. With a grim smile, he yanked the newspaper free and slapped it onto Owen’s desk.

  “I thought my day was perfect when I heard about the Sinclair earnings reports, and then I saw this.”

  “Good afternoon, Father,” Owen said, eased his feet to the floor, and slowly straightened in his chair. As he did so, he realized that the paper was open to the gossip section. The first article was about his impromptu dinner with Maggie and featured a grainy cell phone photo of them smiling and holding hands as they walked out of the restaurant.

  “So is it true? You and that Sinclair woman had dinner? Together?” his father said, icy derision chilling every word. It was a tone Owen knew well but that was usually reserved for one of Jonathan’s newsworthy escapades. Come to think of it, this was Owen’s first time as the center of attention in the gossip column, which was both uncomfortable and exciting.

  Take that, Jon. Not so boring and reliable anymore, he thought before answering his father calmly.

  “Maggie and I had dinner. Big deal.”

  His father’s bushy, silver-gray eyebrows flew upward. “Maggie now, is it? When did the two of you get so chummy?”

  “Father, we’ve known each other since we were kids. Of course I call her Maggie,” he replied, his frustration growing with every word.

  Cold, gray eyes narrowing, his father considered him carefully, making him feel like the proverbial bug under a microscope. A bug that his father delighted in squishing in one way or another whenever he could. It made him worry, because his sharp-eyed father was sure to notice that something was different, even if, at the end of the day, nothing had really happened with Maggie, though a part of him wished it had.

  “You’re up to something, Owen. You never were a good liar.” His father beat an angry rhythm with his hands on the arms of the chair, and a tic pulsed along his jaw as he ground his teeth together.

  No, he wasn’t, but if he was going to deal with what was happening or not happening with Maggie, he’d have to think of something and quickly. That’s when it hit him.

  “You always told me that, Father. You also tol
d me time and time again that I wasn’t very ruthless considering I was your son.”

  “You’re not. If you were truly my son, you’d have found a way to put the final nail in the Sinclairs’ coffin.”

  While his father didn’t actually wring his hands like the evil villain in a bad B movie, Owen could picture him doing just that. His father had become as one-dimensional as one of those movie villains with his focus solely on one thing—destroying the Sinclairs.

  “Why do you still hate them so?”

  His father jerked back as if struck, but then regained his composure and glowered at Owen as he said, “You know why. Her father was my best friend. My partner. Those properties were very valuable to the business we had together.”

  But the properties hadn’t gone to the business the two men had owned together at the time, Owen thought. Bryce Sinclair had gifted the real estate to his newlywed wife for the expansion of her family’s stores.

  Glancing away for a moment, because his father’s unwavering scrutiny was becoming unsettling, he said, “The banks won’t be loaning them any more money, so Maggie needs someone who can provide the funding. Someone like me, but Maggie’s not stupid.”

  His father wagged his head, a confused look on his face. “I’m not following you, Owen.”

  “Maggie needs to believe that I’m a friend. That I care about her and want to help. Once I accomplish that, I’ll offer her a deal she can’t refuse,” he said, formulating a plan on the fly and hoping that would be enough to convince his father.

  A heavy silence followed as his father continued examining him, looking for any telltale signs about what Owen truly intended. But then, surprisingly, his father relaxed, smiled, and actually did rub his hands together with villainous satisfaction.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you, Owen. But I’m not sure you can pull it off.”

  “I can, Father. I’m your son after all,” he said, even if the words made his gut twist with disgust. He didn’t like lying, but being able to explore what was happening with Maggie was worth the deceit.

  His father rose from his chair and jabbed a pointy finger in Owen’s direction. “Make sure that you do, because if you don’t—”

  “You’ll do what? Disown me? Cut me off the way you cut off Jonathan?” he said, but the answer was clear from his father’s face.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Owen,” he warned, but his voice wavered a bit, almost as if he was fearful that Owen would.

  Hope sprang into Owen that his father might actually reconsider, but then with a sharp glare, he tacked on, “You’re the only son I have left.”

  Without a second’s pause, his father stomped out of Owen’s office, leaving him to consider his father’s threat. Seven years earlier, his father had disinherited Jonathan after he had refused to return to college and begun his adventurous ways. His father’s parting shot and cold stare confirmed that he would do the same if Owen defied him.

  Could I handle that? he wondered. For too long, his identity had been tied to his position at Pierce Holdings. His income had been tied to the company as well, although because he was as anal and responsible as his brother teased, he had built a tidy little nest egg for himself. He had enough to survive being disowned if money alone was the issue, but it wasn’t.

  He liked what he did. He wanted to steer the course of the company for the future, and to do so, he had to please his father.

  Even if it keeps you from having a real life? the little voice in his head challenged.

  Sadly, Owen wasn’t sure if he’d know what a real life was if it bit him on the ass, but he sure would love to find out what it might be like, especially if it included Maggie Sinclair.

  Chapter 7

  When the going got tough, the tough called for an emergency meeting of best friends, minus Tracy of course, since she was the reason for the emergency meeting.

  The bottle of cabernet was open and breathing on the breakfast bar. A backup bottle was close at hand, along with champagne, just in case some celebrating was in order. Connie’s West Coast trip had been for a client trying to finalize a merger. Maggie hoped the meeting had gone well.

  Grabbing a tray with cheese and crackers, she strolled to the coffee table and placed the tray there. She hesitantly sat on the sofa and nervously rubbed her hands across her thighs as she remembered what had happened there days earlier. If one soul-searing kiss—okay, make that more than one—could make her feel so awkward, what would happen if they had taken it further?

  Would she have to redecorate to erase the sinfully delicious memories?

  As it was, she’d had to repurpose another bowl to hold the shells that had survived that night’s misadventure. The shells she’d once gathered with such love on Sea Kiss Beach now mocked her failure with Owen.

  Owen, she thought, and her gut roiled with a mix of need and fear.

  Damn it, fear, she acknowledged, hating that Tracy had been right.

  She was afraid of her fascination with Owen. Afraid of dealing with it the way anyone would when they were attracted to someone else. Well, at least how anyone would if they weren’t a coward.

  But then again, she had reason to be afraid. She’d lost her mother, and the pain of it was still with her. She knew it was still with her father. On the heels of her mother’s loss, there had been the absence of Owen and Jonathan for years and the distance between them. Add to it the fear that if Owen and she became close again, it wouldn’t last, or that, if it did, it would be messy and complicated.

  If she wasn’t so concerned about Tracy and her situation, she’d want to strangle her for creating the brain equivalent of an ear worm. Forcing that recurring thought from her head, she tidied the cushions on the sofa. Again.

  By the time she’d brought the wine and glasses over, someone was ringing the doorbell.

  She hurried over and threw open the door.

  Emma was there, hands loaded down with an overnight bag and a tray of pastries that she thrust at Maggie.

  “Connie always wants sweets, and we had a bunch left over from the afternoon engagement party. Lots of women trying to lose weight for the wedding means more goodies for us,” she said with an easy smile.

  “Did Carlo make them?” Maggie asked as she brushed a kiss across Emma’s cheek.

  Emma’s smile brightened, and a dazzling gleam erupted in her gaze. “Of course. Who else but my fabulous caterer?”

  “Who else?” Maggie repeated with a knowing grin and walked to the kitchen to put the pastries in the fridge.

  When she returned, Emma had already tossed her bag by the side table and comfortably plopped herself on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath the hem of her dress. She reached for the wine, poured herself a glass, held the bottle up in the air, and said, “Want some?”

  “More like need some,” Maggie replied and took a spot in the chair opposite her friend.

  “Rough week?” Emma asked, although her observant, green-eyed gaze normally didn’t miss a thing. That perceptiveness had served her well in her wedding planner role.

  “Rough few days,” Maggie said, but she didn’t get to expand on it further as the doorbell rang again. She stood to open the door, but Connie tossed it wide and marched in, bag in one hand, bottle of Cuervo in the other.

  She waggled the bottle in the air. “Definitely going to need this. Working on a Sunday’s always a bitch. Having to deal with Tracy on top of that…”

  Maggie hugged her friend hard, snared the bottle from her, closed the door, and steered her toward the couch. “Take a load off and start with a glass of wine.”

  Connie walked to Emma, bent, and embraced her before settling into the spot next to her on the sofa.

  “Does the fact that you’re still in your suit mean you came straight from the office?” Emma asked.

  Connie nodded and eyeballed her friend. “And you look done up for
a big gig. I’m assuming you came straight from there, which I hope means Carlo goodness for us.”

  Emma grinned and ran her hand across the very feminine and yet demure floral motif dress. The bright summer colors were the perfect foil to her strawberry-blond hair and cat-green eyes. “It does, and I can see you need it after the Tracy thing.”

  Maggie walked to the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room, placed the tequila bottle there, and hurried back to her chair. “Tracy was in rough shape when I saw her on Friday,” she began. “Any better today?”

  Connie shrugged and grimaced. “She’s still hurting, and who can blame her?”

  Although the question was rhetorical, Emma shot up her hand. “We tried to warn her. Repeatedly. She wouldn’t see what was right in front of her face.”

  “She was in love. You know how much Tracy wants that happily ever after,” Maggie said in defense.

  “I got the feeling she was kind of cured of that kind of fairy tale after today,” Connie said and looked down at the wineglass as if searching for an answer.

  “What do you mean?” Emma asked.

  With another shrug, Connie raised her gaze and skipped it from Maggie to Emma, and then back to Maggie again. “She’s different this time. More settled. Less Tracy.”

  Something clenched in Maggie’s gut with that statement. As much as Tracy’s romantic spectacles had been alternately amusing and worrisome, there had always been something uplifting and hopeful about Tracy’s unflappable belief in romance.

  “Will she be okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, will she be okay?” Emma chimed in, worry darkening the green of her eyes to an emerald hue as she bit her lip. Emma might seem tough on the outside, but when it came to those she loved, she was all marshmallow gooeyness.

  Connie sipped her wine thoughtfully and eyed the two of them with a penetrating stare. “She said I could share our discussion with you because we will be there for her.”