As Grayson strolled down the hall into his bedroom, he found Richard close behind, his mouth still going. “How do you know she’s not a prostitute? You don’t even know her name for shit’s sake! For all you know she probably skipped out with your wallet, caught a cab for New York, and is at Nordstrom’s right now, buying her pimp-daddy a really nice shirt.”
Without looking back at his friend, Grayson grabbed his tri-fold out of his dresser drawer and threw it at him.
Richard caught it, relieved he was wrong, but continued to berate him. “Okay, so she’s a stupid whore.”
“She’s not a whore,” Grayson corrected as he pulled out a clean pair of jeans and boxers, and laid them neatly on the edge of his dresser.
Richard flipped Grayson’s wallet on the unmade bed to his right and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Fine. Let’s say she’s not turning tricks with you. What if she’s just a lonely, desperate housewife and you were nothing more than a good fuck on a Saturday night?”
Grayson turned his back on Richard and entered his walk-in closet, ripping a white button-up shirt from the hanger, his irritation climbing. It wasn’t so much that his friend was insulting him in the same breath as he was the unknown woman, but that he knew Richard was probably right. What if the woman’s only purpose was to get laid? She kind of fit the criteria. Skipping out before sun-up…never mentioning her name or asking for his. Hell, when he thought back on last night, she never even said one word.
Not a damn thing.
Grayson walked back out to face the music. As he looked at Richard, his unmade bed nagged at him. Without a second’s hesitation, he walked passed his friend and began making his bed while he spoke. “You and I are very different. We always have been, Richard. You were born into money, I wasn’t. You found your soul mate in high school, I didn’t. You’ve traveled the world, and I’m grounded here in Boston. But we do have one thing in common. And that is we’ve always trusted each other. Hence, this business arrangement. So, I’m going to ask you to find that faith in me and realize my name is on those papers too. I may not have a prestigious gallery with my name plastered across the expressways, but I have just as much invested in this club as you do. I’m not going do anything to damage this opportunity or our friendship. But I do need you to trust me.”
“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Richard muttered, shaking his head. “You’re into this chick, aren’t you?”
Grayson ran his hand through his hair, those words settling heavy in his gut. He didn’t like admitting a woman was finally able to get into his heart. But damn there was something different about her. Something alluring…something he had to have more of.
“Yeah, I’m into her,” Grayson admitted grudgingly. “So what?”
Richard came away from the door, peering into his eyes as if he were searching deep into his very soul. “Why? What in the hell did this woman do last night to make Grayson Anders suddenly whipped?”
Grayson rolled his eyes and shoved his friend out of his personal space. “I don’t know.” He threw the shirt he was holding on top of his jeans and stormed out of the room.
Richard followed.
“I’ve never seen you this way before. For the first time in my life I actually want to hear about your little sexploit last night.”
“Not gonna happen.” Grayson saw his keys resting on the narrow end table by the door—the ones his mystery woman must have picked up off the floor and kindly set into place. A whore would never do that.
Oh, but a good housewife would.
A lonely, clean-freak housewife….
Not possible, he told himself. He’d seen many lonely housewives in his day and none of them were ever that quiet. Even if they were shy in the beginning, they were starving for attention and, by the end of the night, they’d be talking his ears off.
No, she wasn’t a hook, and she certainly wasn’t someone’s neglected wife. With a determined grip, he opened the door and leaned against its frame, waiting for Richard to take the hint.
Richard stopped halfway out. “So, now what are you going to do?”
Grayson pushed him the rest of the way out. “I’m going to get a shower and grab a bite to eat.”
“Joyce and I are meeting for lunch. Why don’t you join us?”
Grayson took notice of the way Richard smiled whenever he mentioned his wife’s name. They had been married for over fifteen years, but he still had that look in his eye as if he were newly wed.
He envied Richard when it came to that. Not the fact that he didn’t have to work a day in his life to get where he was, or that he frequented the most exotic and lavish places in the world. Richard was fortunate in finding and marrying Joyce, and that made Grayson wish he could unearth just a smidgen of that kind of woman for himself.
Joyce was a beautiful woman, a five foot ten angel in the body of a blonde goddess. She was just as sweet as she was sexy. What made her even more appealing was that she didn’t know how damn gorgeous she was. She cared deeply about her friends and loved her family with all her heart, Richard being the top person on her list.
Lucky bastard.
“Come on, Gray…Joyce would be happy to see you. It’s been a while.”
Grayson smiled. “I’d love to see her too, but I’ve got things to do.”
“Like…hiring a private investigator?”
“Cute, but no.”
Richard stopped Grayson from closing the door in his face. “All right, fine. At least let me give you a lift to wherever you’re going.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m not going up town. Say hello to Joyce for me.” Grayson closed the door soundly, his mind on one thing—finding the only woman who had ever left him this curious…this determined.
Chapter Five
Grayson turned the corner of his historic brownstone building in the Back Bay district of Boston—a dignified three-story complex turned dance club, which, he doubted, the nineteenth century architects ever had that in mind when they designed the layout—and saw his favorite cabbie, Gerry Sullivan, parked by the curb of Newbury Street.
If Big Gerry was anything, besides the obvious, he was predictable.
Every morning, Grayson would find Gerry’s shiny gold taxi, with its motor running, waiting to take him to his regular coffee stop at Starbucks on Beacon Street. This suited Grayson just fine. He was a man of routine and having Gerry, a witty Irishman with a knack for being a bit off the wall, as his personal escort made the short ritual commute anything but ordinary.
With a skip in his step, Grayson reached for the back door handle and slid inside, getting a sideways glance, right off the bat, from Gerry as he settled into the slick, black vinyl seat.
“Late to rise today, huh? Wouldn’t have anything to do with that sexy brunette skirt I took home this morning from your club, would it?”
“It might.”
Gerry shook his head and looked out his side window before pulling out. “You certainly know how to pick ‘em, Mr. Anders.”
Grayson looked into the rear-view mirror, catching Gerry’s slight lag on the last part of his statement. “Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”
“Beause she’s not exactly your type. I mean—” Gerry stuttered. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Anders, she’s definitely not out of your league. Few women are. But she’s just not the type of woman I think you’d be interested in.”
Contrary to what Gerry believed, Grayson was doubly interested now. “You know her?”
“Sure. She’s a painter…artsy fartsy kind. Owns some little shop down on Charles Street. But I think she said something about having to move…economy sucking, something like that. Course she didn’t actually say it—”
“What’s her name?” Grayson interrupted.
Gerry’s dark brow fell over the rim of his eyes in the reflection of the rear-view. “You slept with her and you don’t even know her name?”
Grayson sighed, not expecting to get judgment from a bristly cab driver. Richard, yes.
But not Big Gerry. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, turning up a crisp hundred. He tossed it over the front seat. “Will that help you to remember her name?”
“Shit, for that much I can tell you what color her panties were.”
“I already know that,” Grayson stated with a wry grin. “I’m looking for her name, and if you take another gander, I’m betting that dead president is worth an address as well.”
Gerry glanced in his rear-view again with hard, serious eyes. “I could lose my job if I told you that.”
“Only if your employer found out,” Grayson said, staring back. “Don’t worry…I’ll pay my fair separately.” He let Gerry think a little as he drove east down Commonwealth, and waited until they reached the red light at Berkley, before adding, “Isn’t your wife’s birthday coming up? You could buy her something really nice with that cash. Take her to dinner at one of these snazzy Back Bay restaurants. Women love that shit.”
Gerry made a hard left onto Berkley. “For someone who thinks he knows so much about women, you sure have forgotten the basics of Women 101, like introducing yourself.”
Grayson looked out his window. No arguing there. But introductions weren’t necessary last night. Between the two of them, there was enough chemistry to say all that was needed. They wanted each other from the very first glimpse into each others’ eyes and no amount of words could have said it better than the universal language of a passionate first kiss.
Their passionate first kiss.
As they merged onto Storrow, Gerry interrupted his pleasant thoughts. “Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Anders, that she didn’t tell you her name ‘cause she didn’t want to be found?”
“It did. But I don’t believe it.”
With a sigh, Gerry went back to his brooding behind the wheel. As Grayson had hoped, the persuasive hundred dollar bill sitting beside him kept the blue collar cabbie from playing the ethical card.
“Her name is Chloe,” Gerry finally muttered. “Chloe LaRoche. And I already told you she lives on Charles Street. You’re not getting anymore than that.”
Grayson heard the irritation in Big Gerry’s voice. “You’re taking this a bit personally. I just asked for her name. Are you her brother or something?”
Gerry made a right at Revere, and another on Charles Street before he pulled over to the curb and threw it in park. He twisted around in his front seat and eyed Grayson intensely. “Look, Mr. Anders. Chloe is not like any woman you’ve ever met.”
Grayson smiled and leaned back in his seat, tossing his arm up over the seat. “I know that. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on her. That’s exactly why I want to see her again.”
“Then I’ll put it to you straight. If you break her heart, I’m going to have to personally kick your ass.”
Grayson’s eyes widened and he sat up straighter in the backseat. He didn’t expect to be threatened by a cabbie, nor did he expect it to be dished out by a man he’d known for years. “Whoa, big guy. I’m not going to break her heart. I just want to find her and offer her a position at Gyrations.”
Gerry cocked his brow. “Chloe’s not going to want to tend bar. She’s an artist. She paints people in dramatic colors and positions…stuff my wife would kill me for, if I brought that shit home.”
“I didn’t say anything about tending bar. I want a dance partner for my studio, which is opening next month, and she is the only one who’s ever come close to fitting the criteria for the position.”
“Are you telling me…” Gerry asked, his eyes the narrowest Grayson had ever seen them, “Chloe can…dance?”
“Yes,” Grayson said matter-of-factly. “What’s so strange about that?”
Gerry looked completely dumbfounded. “Because she’s—”
“Right there!” Grayson exclaimed, his face pressed against the pane of the cab window to get a better look at a dark-haired woman strolling down the sidewalk past them. “There she is! Sorry, Gerry, I have to go.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and tossed the bill in the front seat, flinging open his door as he called her name.
“Mr. Anders, wait!” Gerry yelled after him. “There’s something you have to know about Chloe!”
But Grayson didn’t look back. He ran down the sidewalk, his eyes fixed on thick dark tresses and a beautiful pair of legs in black heels.
****
“Chloe!” Grayson called for the third time as he dodged between a dog-walking woman and an elderly man in a suit. She was definitely within earshot, but the woman never turned around. For a moment, he began to think Gerry had purposely told him the wrong name like a protective older brother would, until he finally caught up and jumped in front of her.
“Chloe,” he said breathlessly, staring into the dark sunglasses resting on her cute little nose. “Didn’t you hear me?”
The woman slid them down and looked Grayson over thoroughly, revealing that she was not the woman he wanted, but available nonetheless.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Grayson apologized. “I thought you were someone else.”
The woman continued to gawk at him. “She’s a lucky woman.”
An uncomfortable laugh escaped Grayson as he shifted his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. He’d never been embarrassed when talking to a woman, especially one who was blatantly interested in him. So what the hell was so different now? “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, it was no bother at all,” she droned, her voice taking on a deep husky tone.
Grayson smiled politely as he walked away and looked up into the sky, smiling, knowing her eyes were glued to his ass. He wondered how many women in the past had felt the heat of his stare on their departure.
To many to count, he was betting.
Trying to shake the near-salivating woman from his mind, he couldn’t help but realize the change in him. By now, he would’ve normally glanced over his shoulder to check out what the woman had to offer in her trunk—without her knowing, of course—yet, he had no desire for it.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Food.
That’s what Grayson decided he needed as he strolled down Charles Street. It was near noon and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet. He looked up from the brick-laid walk and Beacon Hill Hotel and Bistro caught his eye, with its BHHB initials on a small black sign above the door.
Yeah, he loved this place. Loved the atmosphere and the stained glass behind the bar inside. With his stomach growling, he loved the idea of scarfing down their roasted pepper frittata with onions, potatoes, and cheese. No one made a frittata quite like the Bistro.
If he had to think about it, no one knew the Beacon Hill area quite like the cute little maitre d’ of the Bistro. She was a Boston native—an enthusiast more like it—and had always been more than eager to assist him in finding the perfect meal for his numerous dates, or saving the best table for him at a moment’s notice. Perhaps she’d know where a certain artsy-fartsy painter, as Gerry called her, resided on this very street. He was not afraid to walk up and down this historic avenue, and peer into the windows for her beautiful face.
But asking Vanessa seemed like a better idea, and less desperate.
He crossed over Chestnut Street and jaywalked to the Bistro door, shaded by trees and a narrow green awning. Opening the door, he held it for a curvy, pixie-haired blond, clutching an ensemble of shopping bags from nearby stores, and entered behind her, his mind only on the curves Chloe possessed.
He skirted the “bag lady,” passed the hostess stand, and sat down at the bar, barely noticing the voluptuous woman taking the order of the person beside him. He picked up a menu and flipped to the lunch section, strolling through it out of habit, even though he already knew what he wanted. While a piping hot, cheesy frittata sounded so damn good to him, the thought of Chloe in his arms sounded better.
The sooner you eat, the sooner you can have her in your arms.
He cleared his throat and the waitress looked up from her pad. “I’ll be right w
ith you, Sir.”
The look on her face gave him the impression she’d help him next, even though others were before him. She jotted a few things down on her menu pad and sauntered a few steps to her left until she was directly in front of him and leaned just a tad forward on the bar.
“What can I get you?” Her eyes drank him in.
“I’m looking for Vanessa. She working today?”
Disappointment fell across her face as she glanced around the restaurant. “She’s here, but I think she’s busy. Anything I can help you with?” Her eagerness was unmistakable.
“It’s possible. How well do you know this area?”
She turned her mouth under. “Well enough. Why?”
“I’m looking to purchase some art for my dance studio opening soon. I was told there was an artist who has a quaint gallery on Charles Street. Do you know where I could find it?”
“I know of one, but not sure if she’s got what you are looking for.” Her hint was subtle, but Grayson knew exactly what she was hoping—that she was what he might prefer.
“Got an address?” he asked, ignoring her intimation.
She sighed and tore a blank paper from her pad, writing it down. “She comes in here every Sunday, but I’ve not seen her. She must have found a reason not to eat today.”
“Really…” Grayson said, his heart leaping as he took the paper from her. “What does she order?”
“She always hands me a slip of paper with roasted turkey breast sandwich, Swiss cheese, green apples, onions, and brioche written on it. Same thing every week.”
Grayson never had it, but today he was feeling adventurous. “Make that two. To go.”
“Sure thing,” she said with a wink, letting him believe she was not giving up on him. “It’ll be just a few minutes.”
Unforgettable Heroes Boxed Set Page 125