Indiscreet (The Discreet Duet Book 2)

by Nicole French

  “It’s okay,” he said slowly, and I found myself rolling my eyes at his playful tone before I could stop myself.

  “Sorry,” I repeated, but the babbling stage was over.

  “Your name?” he prompted again, releasing my shoulders and standing back up straight.

  It was then I realized again just how very tall he was. A frame that must have been close to six-four filled out a charcoal-gray suit in a way that made me wonder just how much time he spent wearing a suit and how much time he spent at the gym.

  “Yum,” I whispered before I could stop to think.

  “Your name is Yum?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, flushing an even deeper red. “Christ. Sorry. It’s Skylar.”

  “Skylar Crosby?” he asked quickly.

  I frowned at him. I wasn’t cold like Bostonians, but as a New Yorker, I had a deep suspicious streak. A stranger knowing my name definitely qualified as suspect.

  “Yes…” I said, taking a few steps backward. “How did you know that?”

  “I make it a point to know all of my employees’ names,” Sterling said with a brief, white smile. “Even the interns. Skylar’s a memorable one.”

  Even though it was snowing outside, that was when I truly froze. The dots connected, and I suddenly realized who this was: Brandon Sterling, the elusive name partner at the firm he also founded. He was a legend in the office, but hadn’t been seen once by any interns. That in and of itself wasn’t unusual—we were disposable labor, so most of the partners were unlikely to take much interest. But even most of the junior associates who oversaw our work had never met him personally. He was a phantom.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I breathed. “Jesus Christ.”

  “No, just me, I’m afraid,” Sterling replied with another bright smile. “Although it’s a nice comparison.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” I spluttered. “Oh my God, oh God, I was intruding on your home, and I really shouldn’t have. A friend of a friend invited me to wait for a car inside because of the weather, but it was completely inappropriate. I only went upstairs to find cell reception, I swear, and then you walked in…”

  Shut up, shut up, he already knows this, shut up! My inner dialogue went crazy trying to censor the blather again pouring out of my mouth. When I looked back at Sterling, I was mortified to see him trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

  “Ms. Crosby,” he interrupted gently with yet another knee-weakening smile. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m just…very sorry for intruding,” I said lamely. “And for babbling. It’s something I do when I’m…”

  “When you’re what?”

  “Um, nervous,” I admitted.

  “You’ll have to fix that if you want to be a litigator,” he joked, causing me to turn bright red all over again. Fuck, could things get any worse? Although I wasn’t sure I wanted the job at Sterling Grove, it would have given me a springboard to any other I wanted. I could kiss that opportunity goodbye.

  “It’s all right,” Sterling said yet again, patting me gently on the arm.

  In the cold, his touch seared through the heavy wool of my jacket. He shivered, and for the first time, I realized he had chased me into the snow in just his suit and very expensive-looking leather shoes, which were already getting watermarks from the snow around the tips. I looked down at my feet. My Manolos were also as good as ruined.

  “I’m going to head back inside,” he said, tossing back toward his house. “Care to join me?”

  “Oh no, sir, I’m really fine,” I said. “The T is just down this path, and it goes right back to Cambridge.”

  Sterling glanced at his watch, which also looked very shiny and very expensive, but not flashy like that fool’s from the bar. Subtle. Tasteful.

  “It’s almost one,” he said. “You probably already missed the last train, if you don’t get robbed in the park on your way there. Come on. My driver’s out of town, but I can call you a car while you wait.” When I hesitated, he reached out and squeezed my hand before letting it go, an intimate gesture that seemed to surprise him a bit too. “What kind of boss would I be if I made my interns stay until after midnight and didn’t give them a ride home?”

  “Um…” For some reason, I couldn’t quite tell him that his office wasn’t the reason I was out so late.

  “Let’s go,” he said again in a tone that brooked no argument and started to make his way back through the snow.

  Someone (most likely Ana) had wised up to Sterling’s arrival. A large fire was alive in the fireplace when we reentered the house through the double-door entrance. There was no sign of his three companions. The house appeared to be empty but for him and me.

  Sterling slipped off his shoes and carried them over to the fireplace. He set them down on the hearth while I loitered awkwardly in the foyer.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding at one of the overstuffed couches I had been eyeing earlier. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He disappeared upstairs while I sat down. When he returned, he carried a newspaper and a small box covered in scratches and paint splotches. He had removed his jacket, vest, and tie, and was decidedly more informal, with his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up to his elbows. Though it was practically identical to the outfits of just about every other man I’d seen that night, there was something about the way the tendons in his forearms tested the limits of his rolled-up sleeves that made my mouth water, as if his casual regalia were trying to tame an animalism that was literally splitting seams to escape. Padding silently across the thick carpet, he reminded me of a lion tracking its prey.

  “May I?” he asked, kneeling in front of me and taking the heel of my shoe in his hand.

  Wordlessly, I watched as he slid my pumps off each foot, then carefully set my stockinged feet back onto the sheepskin. When he looked up, our eyes caught as they had when I had first seen him. The moment quickly passed. He cleared his throat and stood up.

  “Manolos,” he said, holding up one of my prized pumps. “The lady has expensive taste.”

  “The lady has only one pair,” I responded sadly. “So I hope you’re not going to throw them in the fire.”

  “Hardly,” he said, the “r” of the word flattening with a surprisingly thick Boston accent. He set both pairs of our shoes down on the hearth and proceeded to stuff them with crumpled newspaper.

  “They’re not too wet,” he said. “I don’t think the fire will damage them at all, just help them dry. I’ll put some oil on them, though, if you’re all right with that.”

  He opened up the box, which contained a rudimentary shoe shining kit.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked. “It looks like an antique.”

  “It was my father’s,” Sterling replied absently as he rummaged around and finally located a container of clear balm. He proceeded to dip a stained brush into the jar and rub it onto his shoes, one at a time.

  “Oh, are you close?”

  The question came out before I could help it. Sterling glanced up sharply for a half second before returning to his work, now brushing the polish into my shoes with vigor.

  “He’s not around anymore,” he said quietly.

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I shouldn’t intrude. Again.”

  He looked up again, this time kindly.

  “Skylar,” he said, and it was then I realized how much more I liked hearing my given name roll off his tongue. Much like before, the ‘r’ at the end wasn’t fully pronounced, rolling open with a subtle New England cadence that betrayed a working-class background he hadn’t quite erased.

  “Yes?”

  “You apologize too much.”

  “I’m so—” I started before catching myself. Sterling gave me a cheeky half smile, and I couldn’t help but grin back. “Right,” I amended. “Okay.”

  “Exactly,” he said with a wink before turning back to our shoes.

  Ana entered the room with a tray bearing a teapot and a cup. When sh
e noticed my presence on the couch, her expression briefly morphed into surprise before sliding back into easy affability.

  “I believe you know Ms. Crosby, Ana,” Sterling said from his seat by the fire.

  “Ah, yes, sir, a bit. I, um…”

  “It’s all right, Ana,” Sterling said, echoing his words from before. I wondered if he tired of constantly having to reassure all the women he met. Clearly, he was disruptive to many of us. “You’re done for the night.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ana said before leaving. “Good night.” With a quick, unreadable glance at me, she was gone, no doubt to gossip with Eric, if he was even still here, about what I was doing upstairs.

  “Please,” Sterling said, indicating the tea. “You look frozen, so help yourself. I’ll call for a car and get another cup.”

  He lifted himself easily from the hearth, and I couldn’t help but watch his finely shaped form as he strode out of the room. No wonder he kept himself such a secret at the office. With an ass like that, he’d have associates camped outside his door.

  He returned shortly with his cell phone held to his ear and another teacup, which he set down on the tray. A woman’s voice said clearly that she would call him back shortly about the car.

  “Cab companies call you back now?” I asked after he hung up.

  “No, but personal assistants do,” he said with another impish half smile. My gut clenched. “How’s the tea?”

  I took a sip. It was delicious, a sweet jasmine that I’d never had before. “Wonderful.”

  He nodded. “It’s a blend I picked up the last time I was in Beijing. I’m no aficionado, thought it was pretty good.” His phone buzzed in his hand. “Sterling.”

  The woman’s voice was more muffled this time, so I couldn’t understand what she was saying. “Really?” Sterling asked at one point. “All right. No, no, that’s fine, Margie, I’ll take care of it. You have a good night.”

  He ended the call and slid back down to his seat on the hearth, elbows perched easily across his knees.

  “Well, here’s the deal, Ms. Crosby,” he said.

  “Skylar,” I corrected him. I didn’t want him to stop saying it now that he’d started.

  Sterling rewarded me with another slow, soft smile that made my stomach flip. “Skylar. Well. It’s past one. The subways and buses are most likely done. Margie tells me she called four different car companies, but it appears that everyone in Boston is trying to get someone to drive them home in this weather. I’d drive you myself, but my car is being detailed. So, you’ve got a choice. You can wait here until about four a.m. for the next available car, which will make me grumpy since I’ll have to stay up with you, and I’m dog-tired. You can take your chance with the T, in which case I’ll walk you to the station. Through a blizzard, by the way. But I doubt you’ll do anything but spend the night there. Or you can take advantage of my hospitality and stay the night in one of my guest rooms.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I started to say, but received the same brusque flick of the hand that Ana had gotten.

  “Stop,” Sterling ordered. “This place is practically a hotel anyway. It’s no trouble, I promise.”

  He lifted his eyebrow again in that way that dared me to argue otherwise, and I bit my lip as a snarky comment rose up my throat. His eyes zoomed straight to my mouth, and I quickly released my lip from my teeth.

  “Ah,” he said, somewhat huskily this time. “So. Sleep on thousand-thread-count sheets in a warm bedroom? Or on a concrete bench with a bunch of homeless guys who probably haven’t showered since August? Tough decision, I know.”

  I looked at him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was really as altruistic as he seemed. Or as confident. He was nice, but how many men invited strange women to stay the night without having ulterior motives? In my (admittedly limited) experience, approximately none.

  “Do you, um, live here by yourself?” The place was silent other than the fire and our voices.

  Sterling smirked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

  “Well, you’re not going to try anything, are you?” The question flew out before I could stop it.

  “I’m pretty sure welcoming yourself into my house and wandering my halls removes any liability on my part of sexual harassment, Skylar,” he said with a grin. “But I applaud your contempt nonetheless. First I’ve seen that you could be as cutthroat as my associates tell me.”

  “They talk about me?”

  “They talk about everyone,” he said. “But yes, I’ve heard of you.” He looked up at the ceiling as though reciting the conversation from a file. “Quick with words, extremely competent, doesn’t take shit from the male interns. Smart. A lot of promise.” He raised an eyebrow. “Colletti said she wanted to recruit you for a junior associate position, but you weren’t interested. Is that true?”

  I felt another flush rising up my neck. “I suppose so. I mean, I’d be happy to make some coin, but that’s not why I’m in law school. I already went down that road once before, and it wasn’t really for me.”

  “What road was that?”

  “The ‘making money for money’s sake’ road. Before law school, I spent some time working for Goldman Sachs. It was just before they took the big bailout. Seeing all those executives take that money after stealing so much more from their investors and clients…it just made me sick. I’d rather be someone who could help people like that get some of it back. Or at least make sure they get what’s theirs in the end.”

  Sterling raised a dusky eyebrow. “Almost sounds like you’re interested in advocacy. But I’ve seen your transcripts; your grades are too good for that. You should be clerking for the Supreme Court, not mucking around at a litigation firm.”

  I sighed. “I’m...having a hard time choosing what I want to do.” It was hard to admit to someone who would be a potential reference, but it was the truth. “Family law is interesting, but I don’t want to do divorce work. I might also like to help some of the families who normally fall through the cracks get representation. Orphans, or kids whose parents are incarcerated, for instance.”

  He tensed visibly. “Foster kids?”

  I nodded. “Or abused women. People like that.”

  “And why is that?”

  I paused. I didn’t want to tell him that I came close to being one of those orphaned kids myself—he wouldn’t be interested in that sob story, not that I told it much anyway. “I’ve seen enough of those types who need help,” was all I said. “I’d like to be one of the people who can help them.”

  Sterling didn’t answer, just gazed thoughtfully and chewed for a moment on his lower lip. I dug my toes into the rug and took another long drink of tea. When he stood up, Sterling looked pointedly at my cup, now empty.

  “So?” he asked. “It’s late. What’s it going to be, Skylar? Have a nice long sleep in one of my guest rooms? Or do you need some more tea to help you decide?”

  His tone dared me to say no, but his eyes twinkled in a way that told me he was enjoying the give and take. I set my cup down on the tray.

  “All right,” I said. “You win.”

  “I always do,” he replied with a grin. “Up one flight, second door down the hall on your right.”

  “Aren’t you going to sleep too?” I asked, already standing up. I tried to stifle a yawn, but the thought of a warm bed was turning out to be more of a siren’s call than expected.

  “I’ve got some more work to do tonight,” he said as he walked to the tea tray to fix himself a cup. “You have a good night, Skylar. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, um, Mr. Sterling,” I said, already on my way up the stairs. It felt strange to address him by his last name after he had removed my shoes, but he hadn’t instructed me otherwise. “Good night.”

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  From Bad Idea

  An Excerpt

  Layla />
  I jog up the stairs of the subway stop on Park Avenue and Twenty-Third, following the herd of people exiting the 6. I move with the traffic funneling out of the subway station and step out to the side of the street to get my bearings. It’s my first day at a new job, which is about two blocks south of where I stand. I have plenty of time to take a moment to reset.

  Straight up Park is the elegant architecture of Grand Central Station; the other way, the looming buildings of the Flatiron District. It’s one-thirty on a Monday, and people scurry around me, coming on and off their lunch breaks. I hear Spanish, some kind of Creole, English speakers with myriad accents, all jumbled together with the horns and throttle of the cars making their way through the impermeable Manhattan traffic. A few of the nearby corners boast coffee carts and nut vendors, the smells from which waft through the frigid January air. This is New York, chaotic and colorful, a city I have come to adore since moving here a year and a half ago to start college.

  I glance around for a coffee shop. It’s the one thing I miss about Seattle: decent coffee on every corner. The cheap stuff from the carts makes my stomach hurt if I have too much. I already had two cups before my eight o’clock class this morning, so I’m at my limit for what Quinn, my roommate, dubs “Borough Battery Acid.”

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  A deep baritone voice behind me interrupts my thoughts, and I instinctively twist around, eager to get out of the owner’s way. The stereotype about people in New York is that they’re mean, but that’s wrong. It’s just that there are certain social codes everyone here knows—codes like “don’t stand like an idiot in the middle of a busy sidewalk,” “don’t stand in front of the subway car doors during rush hour if you’re not getting off at the next stop,” and “never, ever drive your car through a crosswalk when pedestrians are present.” “I’m walking here!” is a real saying; I’ve used it myself. In a city of almost eight million people stuffed into a few small boroughs, no one has the patience for those who don’t know the rules.