“Is this a private party?” he taunted me, feigning surprise by jerking his head backward. I saw the muscles in his throat, heavy and strong. Everything about him suggested power.
“This wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”
He laughed a little. “No, not really.”
“Are you saying you’ve been following me?”
He stopped dancing then and took me by the hand, pulling me from the dance floor toward the bar in the corner of the room. It was only slightly quieter there but at least you could hold a conversation. “I’ll put my cards on the table. I saw you walk into the jury box. I liked your attitude.”
“My attitude?”
“You didn’t like me, did you?”
He was perceptive, at least. “Well, here comes my cards on the table. No, I didn’t like what I saw.”
“And what did you see?”
“I saw a man who believed in his own power, dressed in a suit that was costumed to make him look modest and innocent, but his face couldn’t hide his disdain for the people and situations around him.”
He signaled the bartender, who must’ve known him because he returned instantly with two glasses of wine. I shook my head and pushed one away. “I have a drink at my table.”
“We’ll talk first and then I’ll take you to your table,” he said in a commanding voice.
I could feel the hackles begin to rise but there was something compelling about his presence. Was I falling for that “I’m so powerful” routine?
He sipped his wine and I could see it was an opportunity to think through his next words. “Good girl, you don’t pull any punches. That said, I think you might have misread what you saw on my face. The truth is that neither you nor I should have ever been in that room that day. I was being set up. The man who brought suit against me fabricated the story and I have a bad feeling that someone put him up to it.”
“So, you were innocent? Isn’t that what they all say?”
“Do you automatically assume everyone who walks into a courtroom is guilty?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Aren’t we all guilty of something? Large or small?”
“What are you guilty of?” He turned and settled both elbows on the bar as if my response would take some thought. His question took my breath for a moment. The words that filled the air between us were like verbal swords, parrying to size up the opponent like two determined fencers.
“Perhaps I was guilty of jumping to a conclusion about you. Would that be fair?”
“That would be fair,” he nodded. He took another sip of his wine as though he were looking for his next moves. “You’re here alone.” It was a statement, not a question.
I could be equally misleading. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“Ree-aa-lly?” He dragged out the word, evidence of his disbelief. His voice was mesmerizing. It was deep and a little raspy, textured, and emotional. I hadn’t noticed from the distance of the jury box that his eyes were a brilliant blue, contrasting with raven’s wing black hair. As a blonde, I resented the dumb blonde jokes and it always wished that I had black hair. A part of my womanhood heated up and I realized I was attracted to him. I quickly thought of something else, unwilling to give up my first impression of him. “So, why don’t you introduce me to your friends? Let’s see if anyone claims you?” he needled me.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Of course not. I’d just like to see your date.”
I nodded, pushed the goblet of wine in the bartender’s direction and swiveled the stool so I could bypass the dance floor and walk to my table. Once I got there, I squeezed in next to Tim and wrapped my arm beneath his, laying my cheek on his shoulder. “Tim, this man doesn’t believe you are my date.”
Tim’s face took on a puzzled look. “Well…” I knew I’d made a mistake. Tim had a thing for another guy so there could be nothing but friendship between us. I pinched him beneath the table, hoping he would catch on. He did. “Of course, she’s my date. Did you forget it was my shoulder you tapped on to dance with her?”
The Stillman guy grinned wickedly. “Okay, okay, have it your own way,” he said with a knowing look. We’d made it worse, not believable. He looked toward the entrance and signaled someone. A man walked over to our table. His face was affable, and he certainly didn’t resemble Stillman at all. He was considerably shorter, fair in coloring with a light sprinkle of freckles across his full face. “My friend, William Clark, although friends call him Buddy,” he introduced. Yes, he looked like a Buddy.
Bitsy’s face lit up; there was fresh, untried male in the vicinity! “Hi, Buddy,” she said, going straight for the familiarity jugular. “There’s room here for you next to me.”
To my great surprise, Buddy seemed to like the idea and the people next to Bitsy piled out of the booth to let him take a seat next to her. She grabbed an empty glass, poured beer into it from a pitcher on the table and handed it to him. “So, Buddy, tell me all about yourself.” I knew Bitsy had already had too many pink fizzles; she was obviously gregariously drunk.
Stillman looked at me. I suppose he was waiting for a likewise invitation. I ignored him, clung to Tim’s arm and studied the dancers. “No?” he asked.
I continued to look past him. “I guess not,” he said and dragged a chair from another table to sit somewhat opposite me—just enough to block my view of the dance floor. He signaled a waiter who soon reappeared with bottles of champagne and stemmed flutes for everyone at the table. He was followed by more waiters with trays filled with expensive finger food like shrimp, caviar, small crustless sandwiches and the most delicious-looking squares of some sort of pasta. My tummy growled but I ignored it all and stuck with my nasty Scotch. Stillman just grinned at me as he passed around the food and drink.
“So, Miss Patterson, I wonder if you would share with me, and of course, the group, just what it was that you saw in me that made me your instant enemy?” There were several gasps around the table. He’d bought my own friends away from me and I was steaming.
“You think you’re entitled to be right,” I said and there was silence at the table as the others waited for his response. It was golden.
“I usually am,” he said arrogantly and tossed a shrimp into his mouth with the accuracy of an NBA player slamming the hoop. He was wearing a thick, Norwegian sweater that made his muscled shoulders even broader. Damn that stirring in my tummy!
“What gives you the superiority to think you’re always right?” I threw at him.
“No, I mean I usually am right. I make it my business to have all the facts and then form an opinion…” he said casually and then added, “…unlike some people who jump to conclusions.” There was another small gasp around the table and I knew I’d lost point, set and match. I wanted to slap him and then kiss him, in that order. What was wrong with me?
Stillman stayed in his place, eating, drinking, and telling stories to the others of his travels around the world. He talked about his father and it was apparent he’d been raised with manners… and with money. He had me trapped and that made me furious. If I ignored him and got up to dance, he’d follow me. If I stayed in my seat, I had to listen with the others because he was certainly monopolizing the conversation. All except for his friend, Buddy. It seemed that Bitsy had hooked herself a live one because she was chattering in drunken animation and Buddy couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Ms. Patterson, would you care to dance?” Stillman asked, deliberately calling me by my last name. He knew everyone at the table already.
I shook my head and leaned into Tim.
“I see. Well, it appears I’ve outstayed my welcome,” he said smoothly and stood up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white card, sliding it across the table until it came to rest against my breasts that slightly topped the table. His fingers lingered, and I could feel my nipples harden. Damn him! “Here’s my card. Send me a text when you’re available,” he said with a wink in Tim’s direction. “I’ll be waiting
to hear from you. Buddy?”
“I’ll find my own way home, Colt,” Buddy called out and Stillman gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded to me and turned away, raising a fingertip to signal a man who was leaning against the wall of the dance club. The man, dressed in a black suit, had an earpiece that glinted in the colored lights. It was obvious he was not there to drink or dance but followed Stillman five paces behind as they left the club.
“Who in the world was that?” Bitsy could hardly contain herself.
I shrugged. “Just the guy on trial. Remember, I told you I had jury duty?”
“That’s Colt Stillman. One of the finest guys you could ever hope to know,” Buddy chimed in.
Bitsy leaned forward and picked up the card, holding it into the light of the candle at the center of our table. Her mouth formed an O. “Do you know who that is?”
I pretended nonchalance. “I told you—he’s the guy from the trial.”
Bitsy passed the card around the table. “Never mind that. That guy is like a bazillionaire! He owns skyscrapers all over town. He’s like the most eligible bachelor there is. How did you happen to run into him?”
“He followed me here.” I tried to say it quickly and briefly, so no one would make a big deal out of it, but Bitsy’s description was far more interesting than my own explanation.
“Oh, my God, are you kidding? He’s interested in you?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” I felt a little insulted that Bitsy thought I was not desirable enough to attract someone like Stillman, but I didn’t want to let on that I found him the least bit intriguing.
Tim spoke up. “So, what was this thing about being my date?”
I pushed at his arm and gave them a quick peck on the cheek. “Sorry to spring on you like that. He was trying to pick me up and I wanted him to think that I was with a guy.”
“Well, I am a guy, but I don’t think he bought the idea that I was your date. I could tell by the look in his eyes, he knew you were lying.”
I shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter,” I said nonchalantly as I scanned the room. “You know, Bitsy? I guess I didn’t realize how tired I am. I’m going to go ahead and walk home, but here,” I reached into my purse and pulled out two $20 bills and slid them into her hand. She looked down and nodded.
“Sure you don’t want me to go with you?” I knew she was being polite; she was wrapped all over Buddy.
“No, you stay and have a good time. It’s been a long day. I’m going to grab Carrie and go home to bed.” Bitsy looked immensely relieved and she waved briefly and blew me a kiss. Voices from around the table said goodnight as I picked up my bag, tossed down one more sip of the wretched Scotch and headed out the door. Within an hour, both Carrie and I were sound asleep. Bitsy told me the next morning that as soon as I left, the conversation turned to everyone plotting to get me into Stillman’s hands, including her new friend, Buddy. Didn’t people have anything better to do?
Chapter 5
Coulter
What was it about that woman that got under my skin? I don’t mean that she irritated me, I mean that I wanted her under my skin, with me on top and only blankets over the both of us.
I’d seen beautiful women before, but they knew it. This one, well, she was different. Didn’t she see the image she drove into a man’s mind? The stunning turquoise eyes? The endless legs and that sweet, yet intelligent innocence that begged me to teach her everything I knew—and I’m not talking about business.
Peter had done his job well. He’d brought me her name, where she lived, details on her roommate and where she worked. She looked the part for a high-class dress shop. With a shape like hers, she’d bring life to a bedsheet. I couldn’t let myself picture her face without getting hard. It was becoming an issue. I could hardly get through a business meeting without an erection, and that made me lose my concentration and become vulnerable. I had to do something about it.
I knew she wouldn’t call or text me. She might not have even taken the card with her. I knew Buddy would put in a good word for me—in fact, I counted on it. Buddy had been on me to find a woman and settle down—if for no better reason than he wouldn’t have to be my “date” all of the time and could start a life of his own. I was amazed how friendly he was that night. Normally, he was a bulldog. I knew he wasn’t drunk; he never let himself lose control. Surely, it couldn’t have been the girl—Bitsy? Was that her name? She seemed scatter-brained, but then it could have been the booze.
I had my hands full with the business, but I was so pre-occupied with Gwen Patterson that I knew I’d have to resolve my infatuation with her before I could return to my normal productivity. I knew the only solution was to let it run its course. I’d been there several times before. I looked at women like business acquisitions. They seemed tantalizing and perfect until I had them; that’s when I lost interest and moved on. I knew it was a crappy way to treat women and that’s why I seldom got involved and never with someone as clean-thinking and decent as Gwen. She was too easily manipulated and would be a mental crime scene when I moved on. I almost felt like a vampire—wanting someone’s lifeblood and yet knowing they would be dead after our encounter. It was unconscionable. But, it was true.
I couldn’t do that to her; I couldn’t take away that fresh innocence and leave behind cynicism and regrets. I’d sold my soul to the devil to get where I was and now the devil was demanding his due. I had to pay it—not Gwen.
So, I forced myself to put her out of my mind. It was like trying to kick an addiction. What the hell is the matter with me? I don’t even know her; not what she likes or hates, not where she’s been before, how she was brought up, what turned her on. I knew nothing.
That, in effect, was what made her enticing. I’d had enough therapists who found it their solemn duty to explain that to me. I wanted a family, wanted a son or daughter to teach what I’d learned and mastered. There had been women; beautiful, smart creatures who would have made excellent mothers. The cycle repeated itself. They were perfect, they were a commitment, they became flawed in my mind and I’d justified leaving.
I’d sworn off women, but for some niggling reason, Gwen was different. She emitted an organic genuineness that separated her. I couldn’t analyze her because I didn’t understand her. I was cynical—that much I knew about myself.
I had to spend some time with her but not get involved. I had to learn to break the cycle, to accept her without expectations. Maybe that’s why she’d been put in my path.
I was justifying again. Damn!
* * *
It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon. First of the week business had been resolved and the books hadn’t filled for mid-week yet, so I was in the rare position of having little to do. Or had I set it up that way subconsciously?
How was it then that with all my new-found good intentions, I wound up parking across the street from Blaze, like some kind of cop in a stake-out? How did I not look conspicuous? Sunglasses and lowered windshield visors and all? I was looking to get caught. It was the only believable rationale. I told myself I was using behavioral therapy. Be close enough to see her, watch her, but only from a distance. I could go through my cycle as normal, except I’d keep her out of reach. She wouldn’t get hurt. It was an excellent plan. Then why was I climbing out of my car and crossing the street to follow her into that restaurant?
“Hello there.”
She looked up from her salad, a fashion magazine spread open on the table in front of her. “You.”
“Oh, so you remember me?”
She closed the magazine and motioned to the chair opposite her with a fork. “You may as well sit down since you’re going to such trouble to follow me.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.
“I… well, okay. Let me grab a sandwich and I’ll join you.” I signaled a waiter and ordered a Reuben and a cup of coffee.
“That’s an odd combination,” she observed.
“Really? Why?”
“Well, I guess most people would order somethin
g cold and cleansing, like tea, to counter the spiciness of the corned beef and sauerkraut.”
“Would they, now? You study people, do you? Or are you just trying to impress me?”
She looked down to her salad sheepishly and a thick lock of her hair dropped forward. She pushed it behind her ear in a habitual gesture I guessed she did a hundred times each day. I felt bad for snapping at her—she was probably caught off guard and said the first thing that came to mind. After all, I had ambushed her. I wondered why people chose hairstyles that needed tucking, straightening, pushing out of the eyes and so forth. Why not cut it or secure it with pins? It just seemed so… inefficient. Oh, that’s good. You’re already getting to the critical part of the cycle. Heck, I might have her out of my system by bedtime. Yeah, right.
“Yes, always have.”
I’d been so deep in my introspection that I lost the thread of our conversation. I covered quickly.
“Why is that?”
She took another bite and tucked that strand behind her ear. “Not sure, really. I think maybe because I’ve always liked people, so I pay attention to what they say and do—you know a sort of respect thing.”
She knew I’d been daydreaming. She could see right through me!
“May I ask you something?” She was looking at me directly and I could see she was focused on my eyes. I knew they were unusual and wasn’t surprised. I was often complimented on them. I nodded to her to ask.
“Are you really so cocky and self-important that you think you can invade my life when I’ve clearly asked you to leave me alone?”
It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice in my face. I wasn’t used to being treated that way. When you grow up with money, people tend to try flattery and other means of getting in your good graces. Insults had never sat well with me. Why was I tolerating those from her? “Well, I might ask you something.” Her eyebrows rose waiting for me to continue. “Are you always this rude to people who would like to get to know you?”
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