by Elise Faber
“Go! Get out of here,” he snapped.
“It’s probably just—” She took a step toward the door, but Clay gripped her wrist, tugging her back.
The dead bolt wavered and memories exploded in his brain. In a second, he was transported back to another time, another door. He hauled Heather behind him and squared off against the intruder.
He’d been too weak to save them before.
Too small. Too pathetic.
But he wasn’t weak now.
And he was going to tear them limb from limb.
Thirteen
Heather
* * *
Heather knew something was very, very wrong.
You don’t say, genius? her inner asshole sneered, but she didn’t have time to worry about her internal monologue, not when every muscle in Clay’s body was taut with tension, not when he’d thrust her behind him like the worst sort of threat was about to barrel down the hallway.
This wasn’t about her.
Not really.
This was something else entirely.
Clay took a step forward, jerking her thoughts to crystal clear focus. She grabbed his elbow, would have been shaken off if not for the fact that she’d shoved herself in front of him at the same moment.
The movement gave her a fraction of a second to confirm that, yes, the intruder was her assistant, Rachel, before she found herself shoved back behind Clay again.
Rachel froze in the now open doorway, a to-go cup of coffee in her hand.
“Uhh, Heather?” she asked.
Clay’s shoulders relaxed for a heartbeat before an entirely different kind of tension solidified his spine.
Embarrassment.
Fuck.
Heather cleared her throat. “Can you go down to the lobby and get another cup of coffee? We were just . . . discussing the Pierce deal and could use some caffeine.”
To her credit, Rachel didn’t smirk at the obvious lie.
Instead, she nodded and turned for the hall. “I’ll text you when it’s ready,” she said, closing the door behind her.
And cue silence.
Heather coughed. “My assistant.”
Clay kept his back to her, his words frosted over. “So I surmised.” A hesitation then, “How did she get in?”
Turning, Heather searched the room for her clothes. She bent and picked up her pants, stepping into them.
“Here.”
She froze then took the tank top he held out. “Rachel’s dad was a locksmith. The first thing she did when I hired her was to tell me how easy hotel locks were to bypass if someone knew what they were doing. See that?”—she pointed to a tiny wedge on the nightstand—“I’m supposed to use that, too.”
Clay found his pants, pulled them on. “I see.”
“It’s pretty cool,” Heather said, rambling on about the idiot gadget because it was obvious that something was very, very wrong with Clay. “It’s got an alarm you can set and if you put it in right, the door can’t open enough for anyone to get at the dead bolt. It’s great, especially with all of the traveling I do.”
His chin dropped to his chest. “You’re prepared.”
She nodded. “I am.”
“Good.”
More silence.
Then, “I’ve got to go.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, taking a hesitant step in his direction. He was wound almost frightfully tight, as if one wrong word would shatter the crumbling façade he was struggling to hold on to.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just lots to do today. Thanks . . . for the—”
“Let’s leave it at that,” she interjected before he said something that would bruise the tender feelings that were developing for this man, despite her best intentions in keeping him at arm’s length.
He nodded, grabbing his shirt from the floor and shrugging into it as he hightailed it down the hall and out the door.
She let him leave without an argument.
Because sometimes a person needed some time to figure out what the fuck was going on in their head without pressure and questions and inquisitions.
This was clearly one of those times for Clay.
Had he been assaulted in a hotel room?
She’d noticed he’d been extra careful with the locks earlier. Making sure she’d locked up when he’d left her the night before, flipping the bolt closed and double-checking it was secure when he’d come to show her the files.
Heather had assumed he was just aware and cautious. Neither of which was a bad thing, not when they were wealthy and important people—now don’t I sound fancy? she thought with an inner eye roll—but seriously, sometimes it paid to be a little suspicious.
Except Clay had been more than a little suspicious.
He’d been ready to kill whoever had come through that door. She had no doubt about that.
But why?
Sighing and knowing that the answers she wanted wouldn’t be forthcoming, she turned for the bathroom, wanting to shower and officially start her day.
Unfortunately, that start was going to be a lot different than she’d hoped.
Namely, with Clay inside her, using the moves she’d enjoyed from the hours before to give her multiple orgasms.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she took a step and nearly ended up on her ass as a file full of papers slid on the carpet, taking her for a ride . . . and not the one she wanted, dammit. She cursed, scrabbling at the wall as she tried to catch herself.
It worked. Sort of.
One nail broke, and she landed hard on both knees, but it was a slow sort of tumble rather than breaking her fall with her face.
She wrinkled her nose, staring down at her now ragged pointer fingernail. That color had been one of her favorites, and now she’d have to find a spare hour to have them redone.
Le sigh. Her life was so difficult. Multiple orgasms marred by broken nails.
Her phone buzzed, and Heather picked her way through the files to where it rested on the nightstand. Though she wasn’t sure why she bothered to avoid the mess of wrinkled papers. They were in absolute irreparable disarray. Hers, Clay’s, a mix of each. They’d never get them just right again.
Their laptops were perched haphazardly on the chair, so she straightened them. When they were both safely stowed, she grabbed her cell.
A text from Rachel was waiting on the lock screen, just as she’d expected.
She opened it, hit the little circle at the top and called her assistant. As it rang, she began scooping up the papers and jamming them into a single, but wrinkly and generally untidy pile.
“Hey,” Rachel answered without preamble. “Is it safe to come up?”
“Yup,” Heather said and dropped the stack onto the bed. “He’s run as though the hounds of hell were after him.”
“I’d say you were being dramatic if not for the look in his eyes.” A pause. “So, sleeping with the mystery man next door? That’s a new one for you.”
Heather sighed and walked into the bathroom to turn on the shower. “More like sleeping with the enemy.”
“En—excuse me—enemy?” Rachel said, and Heather heard the din of street noise decrease. “Sorry, it’s nuts out there.”
“Big shopping days before Christmas,” Heather said, stripping off her pajamas. “Sorry to send you on a useless errand, but I’m going to pass on the coffee . . . and on the trip to Amsterdam.”
“What?”
Heather explained about the numbers not adding up and her—and Clay’s—suspicions.
“Holy shit, I can’t believe they tried that.”
A shrug, though Rachel couldn’t see it. “They’re desperate. But I’m not.”
“True.”
The conversation lulled for a moment before Rachel said, “Hey, so before I go change our travel plans . . . oh, never mind. It’s not my business.”
Heather picked up her toothbrush. “Nonsense, what is it?”
“I shouldn’t. You’re my boss.”
“Well, I
’d hoped that we were working our way toward friends.” Heather’s lips twitched. “And that means you can ask me questions that you wouldn’t normally ask your employer.”
“This feels like a trap.”
Heather huffed. “It isn’t.”
“Well, then, obviously you’re way too nice.”
“Don’t ruin my dragon lady image by uttering those words aloud. Now spill.”
Rachel laughed. “Okay, fine. You mentioned something earlier about sleeping with the enemy?”
“Well, yes, there is that,” she said, swiping a line of mint toothpaste onto her toothbrush. “The man who was all naked and yummy—”
“And built.”
Heather grinned. “And built. That man was no other than Clay Steele.”
“Holy fucking shit, that was Clay Steele?”
“In the flesh.”
Rachel cackled. “Literally.”
“Oh my God,” Heather said, unable to hold back her laughter. “Now I’m for sure keeping you around. You’ll be a perfect addition to our quintet of horny old ladies.”
“I resent the term old.” A pause. “But sign me up for the horny quintet, anyway. It sounds like fun.”
Heather grinned. “That’ll make us a group of six, so I guess we’ll be a . . . sextant?”
“Why do I think that’s perfect?” Rachel asked.
“Because it is.”
Heather hung up as they both erupted into laughter.
“Sextant,” she murmured and shook her head.
Yes, that was the perfect term for her and her friends.
Fourteen
Clay
* * *
Clay packed up his things and was on his plane on the tarmac of the Berlin-Tegel Airport within an hour.
He didn’t see Heather before he left, and that was a good thing because he had a snowball’s chance in hell of explaining the fucking catastrophe that had occurred in her hotel room.
I was responsible for my family’s death. Super smooth.
I’ve been obsessed with making sure doors are locked since I left ours open when I was eight. Ridiculous, actions, woe-is-me attitude.
My sister, my brother, my mother, my father died because of me.
The truth.
The horrible, gut-churning truth.
It had been his fault.
“We’re cleared for departure, Mr. Steele,” the flight attendant said. “Can I get you another drink before we strap in?”
“No. Thanks, Julian,” he said, despite the fact that his glass of whiskey was empty. He allowed himself one day a year to numb the memories. One day to pretend his life wasn’t—
This.
“Fuck,” he said between gritted teeth as he leaned back in his seat, ready to force himself to catch a few hours of sleep before he pulled out his laptop and got to work. Now that the Pierce deal was off the table, he needed to figure out his next step.
He could spend some time reconsidering the contract with the military, but he didn’t necessarily want to be tied up with NDAs and non-compete clauses.
Even if the money was good.
The plane began to move, speeding along the tarmac and lifting into the air.
Maybe he would take a second look at the start-up based out of Sacramento. It was close to his headquarters in San Francisco and had shown a lot of promise.
Clay let his eyes slide closed and kept running through his list of potential projects as the plane leveled out and his mind, now focused on reports and data and numbers, drifted off into peaceful blackness.
The peace didn’t last as long as he would have hoped.
Mainly because Clay’s laptop was back in Heather’s hotel room, so he couldn’t use work to distract himself once he’d woken.
He turned on his phone, wanting to text her.
Except, he didn’t have a clue what he should say. Hey, let’s just ignore my meltdown and oh, by the way, can you snag my laptop for me? Maybe overnight it? Or bring it back to the States for me?
Fuck that. He’d just buy a new one. He was nearly a billionaire, could afford to burn through some of that capital.
Yup. That was his plan.
Plus, his work was constantly backed up onto a secure server, so that wouldn’t be an issue. He’d get back to San Francisco, have Sebastian pick him up a new computer, and he’d forget everything about Vegas and Berlin.
Done.
Even better, he’d have Sebastian buy him one now, so it was ready and waiting when he got home.
He opened his messages, began typing one out to his assistant.
Two words in, his phone buzzed. The little banner at the top showing the message was from Heather.
A photo.
Clay’s mood brightened a little, his imagination running wild with the potential picture she might have sent.
Of course, he realized he was an idiot three seconds later when he actually opened the message and saw the photograph.
Not naked. Not sexy.
A picture of their files—neatly stacked, though still very wrinkled—along with a promise to return his share to him when she finished her trip.
He should have known better, because putting herself at risk was definitely not Heather’s M.O. And parading that type of picture of herself across the beast that was the Internet and cell service was a risky thing to do.
Heather wasn’t a risk taker.
Except, his mind rebelled, she had married him at some point during a drunken one-night stand. But then again, he’d taken that same plunge, and he was pretty much the biggest stick-in-the-mud around.
His phone buzzed again, drawing his focus back to the important things at hand.
Literally. In his hand.
His mouth twitched, thinking Heather would have appreciated the pun.
It would have been accompanied by a roll of her eyes, of course, but the pale blue would have been laced with amusement, her lips would have quirked into a smile, lush and kissable.
He actually laughed out loud when he studied Heather’s next picture, drawing Julian’s focus.
Clay raised a hand, letting the attendant know he could keep reading his book then returned his gaze to the photo. His laptop was “restrained” with a pair of . . . panty hose? Eyes had been drawn on two Post-It notes that were now stuck to the cover and a curling iron was aimed threateningly at the charging port. A ransom note had been propped up in one corner of the frame, Return the license or else. MY LAWYER.
He snorted, couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried.
It was just so ridiculous.
It was just perfect.
He sent a gif, a child shaking his head firmly in the negative. Then added, No. MY lawyer.
Three dots appeared mere seconds after his text went through, and another picture popped up only moments after that.
More laughter bubbled up in his chest.
One manicured hand held his trussed laptop over a trashcan.
You drive a hard bargain, he wrote. But no.
A picture of a broken fingernail. Your files ruined my manicure. You owe me. MY LAWYER
I believe they were our files, he replied. And no, MY lawyer.
A buzz. You’re not funny.
But you are, he typed.
If you add ‘funny looking’ to that statement, I might just stab you.
He sent another gif, this time of a creepy-looking serial killer. Now, you’ve gone and tempted me.
She shot back a gif of a woman peering between two bushes. I’m watching you.
Clay chuckled as another text came through.
But seriously, I can ship your laptop home. Or I can just bring it when I return in two days.
Will you personally deliver it? he texted, adding a gif of waggling eyebrows.
A gif back, this time a comedian mouthing the word “Nope.”
He countered that with puppy dog eyes.
Doesn’t work on the woman with the heart of steel.
Heart of Steele, he th
ought before shaking his head at the romantic, idiotic pun. Then he typed, Your heart isn’t hard, Heather.
And . . . nothing. She didn’t reply. Not for a full two minutes. Two minutes that somehow became the longest two minutes of his life, but then he saw the dot-dot-dot flicker to life below his last text, settling the unease in his gut.
This thing between them wasn’t over.
Just so you know, I’m not going to ask any questions about this morning. Another pause, another buzz. Except—
His breath caught.
Except ask if are you’re okay.
He stared at those six words, and for the first time since his family had been taken from him, answered truthfully.
I’m working on it.
Her words appeared a heartbeat later and somehow, they managed to make things a little better, to ease the weight of the baggage he carried on his soul just slightly, just enough that he could breathe a bit easier.
Fair enough.
She’d made it easy, even without knowing the demons he was battling, giving him permission to grieve, telling him it was okay that he was flawed and imperfect.
Telling him that someday everything might just be perfectly fine.
Also, she wrote, I sent you something, so check your email. For now, I’m off to a meeting. See you in San Francisco.
That sounds like it should be a Sinatra song.
True. A beat. Bye, Clay.
Bye, sweetheart.
Not. Your. Sweetheart.
Clay drifted along at thirty thousand feet, wearing a smile he’d thought impossible just hours before, his heart lighter for the first time in ages.
He thought he just might keep Heather O’Keith.
Especially when he opened his email and saw what she’d sent him.
Fifteen
Heather
* * *
Heather grinned at the thought of Clay opening his email to find the steamy romance novel she’d gifted him.
The book was one of her favorites—both hysterical and hot as hell—and she hoped he’d actually read it. The man could use an excuse to laugh.