The thing about Phil: He was a coward. Something in her voice must have convinced him because he backed off. He shouted insults at her from the window as she got into her cab, but he never lifted a finger to her again.
That didn’t stop him from showing up unexpectedly, phoning her at odd times to ask her what she was doing or who she was with. He kept just enough distance that she found it difficult to explain to anyone why it upset her. It wasn’t technically stalking, at least not according to the police, but it felt like it.
It was all too much. She took a couple of gulps of the gimlet and got up to join a group of women on the dance floor who were bouncing around to Holding Out for a Hero. That’s how she felt sometimes. She thought she should be able to get rid of Phil on her own and not look for some outside agency to help her, but what could she do? He stayed on the sidelines of her life, pushed at the boundaries, but never actually did anything illegal or dangerous. He was always vaguely scary, but never more than that.
Where was Captain America when you needed him?
She got out on the dance floor and let herself go, moving to the music, dancing all the anger and aggression she was feeling. She threw her head back and danced for her very life.
And then she felt Phil’s hand close around her arm. She tried to pull away but he held her tightly, and his eyes were filled with something that looked like hate. “You won’t stop acting like a slut, will you?” he shouted at her.
“Let go!” She yanked her arm away hard and his fingernails left bloody ridges on her arm. He lunged at her and nearly got his arms around her waist, but then he was gone. Sophia whipped around and found herself facing a broad leather-clad back.
Phil was shouting, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. The man between them said, “You need to calm down, man, and get off this dance floor.”
“Or what?”
“Or I will escort you off.”
The dancing had all but stopped even though the music was still throbbing around them. Phil’s face was contorted with anger.
“You get away from my girlfriend.”
“She doesn’t look like your girlfriend.”
“She’s my fiancée!” Phil insisted, upping the ante.
The guy in leather half turned to Sophia. “Is that true?”
“No it isn’t,” she said just as Phil tried to sucker punch the guy and got elbowed hard in the face. He went down like a bag of rocks.
“Good, then I don’t feel I have to apologize to you for hitting him like that.”
“Not at all.”
By then the bouncers had gotten to the dance floor. For a moment it looked like they were going to throw all three of them out but her leather-clad hero spoke to them for a few moments, and they picked Phil up and dragged him off.
The music stopped and the dancers faded away. Most of them were staring at Sophia as if what happened was her fault.
“You look a little unsteady. Why don’t you come and sit down?”
He escorted her back to her table, held her chair for her, and sat down beside her. “Do you need a drink?” he asked as he shucked his leather jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. It was hard to avoid noticing how handsome he was with his dark, curly hair, pale blue eyes rimmed with thick black lashes, and a mouth that was absolutely sinful. That she could think that way at all after what had just happened rattled her.
“No. I have one.” She reached for the gimlet but he stopped her.
“You don’t want to drink that. He was hanging around the table before he went onto the floor to bother you. I’m not saying he doctored it, but I can’t say for sure.”
It took a moment to sink in. Horrified, Sophia pushed the glass away. “I think I need to go home,” she murmured.
“Do you need a lift?”
“No!” As if she was going to trust a total stranger alone in his car, especially one who looked like a thug with his leather jacket, tattoos and beard stubble. Then she realized how ungrateful she sounded. “I mean—”
“From what I can see you have every right to be suspicious of men. I can call you a cab.”
“I can do it.” She pulled out her phone and used the taxi app to book a cab. “Fifteen or twenty minutes,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe I could use a drink. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Happy to,” he told her. “Be right back.”
As soon as he had faded into the crowd around the bar, Sophia grabbed her purse and fled. Even if he was completely harmless, the last thing she wanted was to deal with another man that night. She was less-than-thrilled about men in general just then.
She’d lied to him about the cab in order to get away. The estimate had been five minutes, and the cab was pulling up to the curb as she left the club. She got in and said “Go!” and the driver peeled away from the curb. Sophia looked out the back window a couple of times to make sure no one was following, and thought, Damn Phil for making me so paranoid.
She’d never been that way. Before Phil, Sophia had been placid, carefree. She’d had a pleasant suburban childhood, and her first love had, quite literally, been the boy next door. She and Greg had talked about marriage. They’d planned to marry right after high school, but then he got a scholarship to MIT and they decided to put it off until he graduated.
Over the years they’d grown apart, their relationship couldn’t withstand the distance between them. The break-up had been amicable, and they remained friendly, but there wasn’t much more than nostalgia to that friendship now. Greg had recently taken a job at a big tech company in one of the south suburbs, and they hadn’t even seen each other yet, though they had exchanged emails that said, “We have to get together soon.”
But now, every time she met a man she wondered if he was hiding any ugly secrets. She supposed she was angrier with Phil for making her feel that way than for anything else he’d ever done to her.
Once she was home, she took a long, hot shower and crawled into bed with a glass of brandy and her library book. Reading was one of the few things that took her mind off of her problems. She read herself to sleep, waking just before dawn to find her nightstand light still on and the book lying on her chest. Moments like that were always so satisfying.
The next morning she was making coffee when her doorbell rang.
“Yes?”
“Um, hi. It’s the guy from the club. The one you left holding a fresh drink?”
Sophia’s gut clenched. “What do you want?”
“I want to return your phone. You left it on the table.”
“Oh. Okay, thank you.” She buzzed him in, and opened the door, but left it on the chain.
In the cold light of day he was, if anything, even more handsome than he’d been at the club. Unnervingly so. He was standing in the hallway in a black tee shirt and worn jeans, looking like someone’s birthday cake. He held the phone out and she reached through the gap and took it.
“Thank you.”
“Two things,” he told her, “and then I’ll go. First, I put my name and number in there in case you ever need help. This isn’t a come-on, it’s genuine. My sister had a stalker and it shattered her peace of mind for years. If I can help, I will. Otherwise you can ignore it; no harm, no foul.”
She didn’t reply.
“Second. Please consider talking to someone. I also put the name and number of my sister’s counselor in there. Again, there’s nothing attached to it. But she helped Joanie.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He frowned and pitched his voice low. “Are you okay right now?” he asked. It took her a moment to get his meaning.
“You mean is he here? No, he’s not. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.” Sophia was embarrassed. “Just a minute.” She closed the door and unchained it. “I’m sorry. I’m still rattled about last night. I shouldn’t be; he still shows up where he’s not welcome. Would you like to come in?”
“No. I’m not going to intrude. That wasn’t my intention.”
“I j
ust made a fresh pot of coffee. You’re welcome. Really.” She was so ashamed at having behaved as if this guy was the enemy when the truth was that he was the only person who had ever unreservedly stood between her and Phil. Everyone else, even her family, had been ambivalent about the situation at least occasionally.
“If you’re sure. I don’t want to be part of the problem.”
“You’re not. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for what you did. You had no way of knowing how violent he might have been, but you stepped up. I really appreciated that. Please come in.”
“Thanks.” He followed her to the kitchen. “I’m Daniel, by the way. Daniel Buchanan.”
“Sophia Eklund. But you know that. Silly of me. Please sit down. I got up early and went to the bakery on the corner, so there’s a pecan coffee cake. I hope you like them.”
“Love ‘em,” he said.
She poured two cups of coffee and set the coffee cake on the table. There was an uncomfortable silence as they whitened their coffee and Sophia cut slices of coffee cake, but then they both started talking at once.
“I’m sorry. You first,” he said with a laugh.
“No, guests first.”
“I was going to ask if you’re comfortable talking about that guy. If not, it’s okay, that’s your business. But if you did…” He let the thought trail off.
Her first instinct was to say no, she wasn’t particularly comfortable. But again she was reminded that he had done for her what no one else had ever done. Maybe she owed him an explanation.
“I met him about four years ago,” she began. “He was a blind date. We hit it off, seemed to like the same things. But later I began to realize that he’d been lying about the things he liked just so we’d have things in common.”
Daniel was nodding as he listened. “And once you were hooked, he tried to make you change and like his stuff, right?”
“Yes! Oh my gosh, is that what happened to your sister?”
“Yeah. It’s a control thing, I guess. I don’t get it, really, but I gather it’s not uncommon.”
“He made me think that everything I liked was shit, that I had no taste, no intellect. Sometimes I’m no even sure what it is I do like anymore. I haven’t listened to music in months.”
“What did you listen to before you met him?”
“I liked oldies.”
“Like how old?”
“Forties, fifties, sixties.”
“Beatles?”
“Oh yeah!”
“Good. You need to listen to them again. They’ll remind you of who you are.”
“I got rid of all my CDs when we lived together. But I can buy some new ones. That’s a good idea,” she said, feeling more hopeful. “So what do you like to listen to?” she asked, figuring he’d say country rock, or metal, or maybe electronic music.”
“Mostly classical these days. You look surprised. Did you think I’d say ZZ Top or something?”
Sophia laughed. “I didn’t know what to think. I’ve never actually met anyone like you.”
“Oh, the tatts and all?”
She nodded. “It’s a little scary.”
“Yeah, I guess. Souvenirs of my misspent youth.”
“Were you a reform school boy?”
That made him laugh. He threw back his head and laughed out loud. His teeth were strong and white. Sophia had never seen anyone with sexy teeth before.
“I was a prep school boy. This is all in reaction to a very conservative upbringing.”
“Prep school? Private?”
“Yup. Andover and then Cambridge. My folks wanted me to go to Yale, but I dug my heels in and held out for another country.”
“You are just full of surprises.”
“You know what they say about books and covers,” he reminded her.
“Let me get you some more coffee.” As she poured she said, “So what do you do? Lawyer? Doctor?”
“Lord no. I own a tech company.”
“Not Buchanan BioTech?”
“The same. You’ve heard of it? I’m surprised.”
“The company I work for insures it. You’re pretty diversified if I remember correctly.”
“You do,” he told her. New stuff is like candy to me. Right now we’re working on 3D medical printing, and it’s fantastically exciting. We can print new skin for burn victims. It’s like science fiction, but my company is doing it.” As he spoke about it, his eyes lit up and it was clear that he believed passionately in what his company was going. Listening to him was exciting.
Finally he said, “I’m sorry, I get wound up about these things. I don’t mean to go on and on.”
“No, honestly, it’s so interesting. I had no idea.”
He shifted the conversation over to her job which, by comparison seemed humdrum, yet he listened with the same rapt attention she’d felt while listening to him. She hoped he wasn’t faking it. And as she wondered that, she began to feel uneasy again.
He must have seen it in her eyes, seen her withdraw a little from the conversation. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“My life isn’t all that interesting. Not by comparison.”
“Why compare it?”
“You can’t possibly be interested in what I’m saying.” She meant it to end the conversation, but it came out as an accusation, and he caught it.
“I should go. I’m making you uneasy, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just… I don’t know what’s real with people anymore.”
He nodded. “The odd thing is that if you’re very rich, or very famous, it’s the same. You never really know what people want from you. You take care, Sophia. Remember, if you need any help, I’m here, and so is Doctor Forster.” He tapped her phone, grabbed one last slice of coffee cake, and strode to the door.
Sophia was transfixed by his sweet, round backside, a feeling that was utterly at odds with her anxiety, and it made her laugh out loud.
He half turned. “What? Did I sit in something?”
“No. I’m sorry. It would be difficult to explain.” At least without turning about fifteen shades of crimson. She jumped up and followed him to the door. “I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome. See you.” He slipped out and was gone before she could say what she really wanted to say which was, “Stay. You turn me on. You confuse me. Go. But stay.” And, “I want you.”
Thank goodness he moved quickly. She shut the door and leaned against it, a big, goofy smile on her face. She didn’t want to feel this way about any man right now, but it felt a little sweet at the same time.
Daniel had entered his name in her phone with “ICE” next to it. ICE? She had to look it up on the Internet, and discovered that it meant “In Case of Emergency.” It was what some people did when they made entries in their contact list. ICE meant that those were the people to be called if something bad happened to the phone’s owner.
She sat down and added ICE to her parents’ entry, and to the one for her aunt Elaine, who lived in San Francisco. Then she looked Daniel up and found that he had a Wikipedia entry. She’d never known anyone who had a Wikipedia entry.
Daniel Gavin Mathieson Buchanan was thirty-four years old. He had a distinguished pedigree, being the son of Thomas Stewart Buchanan, a real estate tycoon descended from the Earls of Buchanan in Scotland, and Carolina Mathieson, the daughter of actress Philippa Paige and producer George Mathieson. He had one sister, Joan Mary Buchanan Roth.
Daniel had been married at seventeen to an Irish girl he met at Cambridge, much to the dismay of both families, but the marriage, which was, by all accounts, very happy, ended tragically when Siobhan Buchanan died in a riding accident less than two years later.
“Oh how sad,” Sophia murmured.
Daniel threw himself into work, founding a medical research lab named Drake Scientific where they did research on brain injuries and how to prevent and treat them. Five years later, the c
ompany was bought by a huge biotech company, and Daniel rolled the money over into Buchanan BioTech. It was estimated that by age thirty, Daniel Buchanan had been worth a billion dollars in his own right.
“Holy shit,” Sophia said. “Holy shit.”
She read about his family life, including a terse version of his sister’s stalker incident, as the author of the page called it. It made her sick to read that after several years of harassment, Joan’s stalker tried to kill her in a knife attack at the family home in Martha’s Vineyard, but Daniel and his father stopped the man who was now behind bars.
She wished she hadn’t read that part.
Daniel’s hobbies were racing cars, classical music (he was an accomplished pianist!), martial arts, and sailing. He’d been the producer for his grandmother’s last film, Stars of the Southern Cross, a film about a woman who had been sent to a penal colony in Australia in the late eighteenth century, and who had lived to be nearly one hundred and had fought for aboriginal rights. Ms Paige had died only days after the film was greeted with critical praise at Cannes. Daniel was noted for being, not precisely reclusive, but very reserved, and disinclined to speak to the press unless he had something to promote.
SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance Page 60