by Kay Hooper
“I have dated,” Rachel objected.
Unmoved, Mercy said, “Then you haven’t gone out more than once or twice with the same guy. True?”
Instead of trying to deny that shrewd guess, Rachel said, “The fashion business is demanding and competitive, Mercy—I’ve been trying to build a career. That hasn’t left me much time for a personal life.”
“Which is just the way you wanted it.”
“And I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.” Mercy’s voice was patient. “The problem is that you never came to terms with what you left behind.”
Rachel wanted to dispute that but couldn’t. “So?”
“So maybe it’s time you did that. Maybe it’s past time. Rachel, Thomas wouldn’t have wanted you to bury your heart with him. And I think we both know you aren’t the kind of woman who’ll be happy to spend the rest of your life alone—in New York or here.” Mercy smiled slightly. “Maybe your doubts about selling out and moving away for good are trying to tell you something. Maybe you need to face the past before you can decide whether to abandon it.”
“Maybe.” Although, Rachel could have added, not feeling very much had its benefits.
Mercy hesitated, then said, “You changed so much after Thomas was killed. Part of you died—or else got buried so deeply under grief that you lost it. Your laughter and enthusiasm. Your spirit. What Thomas loved most in you.”
Shaken, Rachel murmured, “I just grew up, Mercy, that’s all. I stopped being a child.”
“You stopped being the Rachel we all knew and loved.”
Rachel was silent.
In a gentler tone, Mercy said, “It’s the first time you’ve been home long enough for us to really talk, so forgive me if I blurt out what I’ve been thinking all these years. But it’s true, Rache. When you smile, there’s just a shadow of what you used to be. Even your voice is quieter. And though you’ve always moved as if you had all the time in the world, there’s a stillness in you that wasn’t there ten years ago.”
“I can’t help how I’ve changed,” Rachel said, uncomfortable under this dissection of her character.
“You can start living again. Let yourself feel again.” “I feel.”
“Do you?” Mercy got to her feet, then added deliberately, “You haven’t let yourself grieve for your parents any more than you let yourself grieve for Thomas. But sooner or later you’ll have to. And if it all hits you at once … it’ll be like a mountain falling on you.”
It was an image that stayed in Rachel’s mind throughout the afternoon, while she went over furniture lists with Darby and found other chores to keep herself occupied. She knew that she had indeed run away ten years ago, run away from pain and loss, and she knew she had not allowed herself to grieve as she should have. And when her parents had been killed, the same urge to flee had sent her running back to New York immediately after the funeral, where work had beckoned and there was no time to think. Or feel.
But now she was home. Surrounded by memories, and by people who would not let her keep running away from them. Feelings she didn’t want were lurking too close now, just around the next corner, and it was a corner she knew she would have to turn. This time. That was probably why she felt so on edge, so restless.
And why she had twice seen the image of Thomas— nearby but out of reach.
The offices of Duncan and Ross Investments, Ltd., occupying a single building on a tree-lined side street near downtown Richmond, were elegant and rather formal, as financial institutions tended to be. Strictly speaking, this place was not a bank, or at least not the usual sort; clients of Duncan and Ross offered their deposits to be invested in whatever business ventures the firm saw fit to back. The rewards could be enormous.
So could the losses.
Duncan and Ross, however, had a solid reputation for backing winners, and their clients were, for the most part, happy. If they thought it odd that Duncan Grant had chosen to put his first name on the letterhead, and if they wondered why he had suddenly taken on a rather unusual and rather mysterious partner around five years before, both circumstances were, by now, accepted and hardly worth comment.
Mercy Sheridan strode briskly across the marble-floored lobby on this Wednesday afternoon, headed for her office. She wasn’t sure just how much longer it would be her office, but for now she still had work to do. The paperwork involved when a partner died suddenly was incredible, and between that and the work she had been doing for Nicholas as a favor—he had never used a personal assistant, but found the need for one now that Duncan was gone—she had managed to keep herself busy.
Once Duncan’s affairs were settled, however, she would have to start sending out her resume.
“Mercy?” Leigh Williams came suddenly out of her side office, frowning. “Now that you’re back, I need those balance sheets for the auditor. I hadn’t realized you’d be gone so long. You could give me the combination to Duncan’s safe, you know.” A tall and sophisticated blonde, the office manager always made Mercy feel both underdressed and overly cautious, to say nothing of tardy and inefficient.
“Not without Rachel’s permission,” she said lightly, resisting an impulse to remind Leigh that she knew this fact of Duncan’s will very well. “I’ll get the papers and bring them to your office, Leigh.”
“Thanks. Oh—and congratulations, by the way.”
Mercy frowned. “For what?”
“For trading up. Or, at least, not losing ground.”
“Leigh, what’re you talking about?”
“Why, I’m talking about you becoming Mr. Ross’s personal assistant.” Leigh’s pale blue eyes were coolly amused and not a little speculative. “That seems to be on the agenda.”
Mercy shook her head. “You’ve been misinformed.”
“Then so has Mr. Ross. He’s been telling everyone you’re going to stay on and work for him. I need those papers as soon as possible, Mercy.” Smiling, Leigh turned and went back into her office.
Mercy stood there for only an instant, gazing thoughtfully at nothing, then went on through the quiet lobby. But instead of going to her own office or the one that had belonged to Duncan Grant, she went directly to the big corner office occupied by Nicholas Ross.
His door was open, but he was on the phone. Mercy closed the door behind her, then sat on the arm of one of his visitor’s chairs. And while she waited, she studied him.
Even sitting as he was, and behind a huge mahogany desk, he was obviously an unusually large man, and unusually powerful. His dark suit was expensive and well made, his shoulders could fill doorways, and his presence was nothing less than massive and overpowering. One glance, and anyone would want Nicholas on his or her side no matter what the fight was about.
No one would ever call Mercy a small woman, yet Nicholas made her feel absurdly delicate. He also made her feel incredibly feminine, especially when her quiet voice was contrasted by his harsh growl.
She supposed some people would be afraid of him.
Maybe most people.
Because he was so big, because he sounded so rough and angry—even when he wasn’t. And because he was ugly.
With the best will in the world, she could describe him only as ugly.
He was barely forty, but looked older. He looked, as the saying went, like ten miles of bad road. Maybe twenty. His face, tanned years ago almost to the color and consistency of old leather, was marked by several small scars he had gotten God only knew where or how, making him look even more thuggish. His cheekbones were high but flat, his brow high and wide, and his nose had most certainly been broken at least twice. There was a ludicrous dimple in his strong chin, his mouth was a straight, thin slash without any particular shape and definitely without softness or charm, and his deep-set eyes were such a light shade of brown that they were almost eerily hypnotic.
Like the eyes of a cat. Or a snake.
Mercy knew almost nothing of his background, except t
hat it had been hard and that he had seen parts of the world tourists were warned away from. He didn’t talk about himself, so what little she knew or had guessed came from observation, and from the occasional snippets of information he let slip while talking of something else. Such as when he had once said absently that the summer heat of Richmond was worse than the Kalahari. And when he had recommended to a Europe-bound client all the best places to eat in Florence.
And when he had startled her on various occasions by being fluent in French, German, Italian, and Japanese.
Wherever he had been, and whatever he had done, Nicholas Ross had turned up in Richmond about five years previously, his ugly face already worn by time and experiences and his unsettling gaze cynical. He had been obviously wealthy, though the source of his wealth remained a mystery, and he had wanted to get into investment banking.
For reasons he had never explained to anyone, Duncan Grant—who had never needed and seemingly never wanted a partner—had invited him to join the firm.
Mercy had signed on as Duncan’s assistant not long after that, and even that early Nicholas was already becoming known for his uncanny instincts for seemingly risky business ventures that would prove to be wildly profitable.
He was smart and he was lucky. Or maybe he was smart enough to make his own luck. In any case, Nicholas Ross was a success.
“You’re looking very serious,” he said to her as he hung up the phone, his voice harsh and deep.
“I have a serious problem,” she told him. “Someone keeps telling people around here that I’m going to be your personal assistant.”
Heavy lids veiled his eyes as Nicholas glanced down at his immaculate blotter, and continued to half hide his gaze even after he looked at her once again. “That doesn’t have to be a problem.”
“Nick, we’ve had this discussion before.”
“I know.” He grimaced slightly, producing a face likely to frighten small children. “But I hate losing. You know I hate losing.”
Mercy sighed. “I’ll say it one more time. I will work for you, or I will sleep with you. But I will not do both. You choose.”
His eyelids lifted and those pale eyes flickered. “I want both.”
“No.” It was said very simply, very quietly.
It was his turn to sigh. “Have I ever told you what a stubborn woman you are? Dammit, Mercy, what would be the harm? I need an assistant and you’re the best I’ve ever seen at the job. So what if we’re sleeping together? We’ve managed to be discreet for nearly a year. The sky hasn’t fallen in, and our clients haven’t turned up at the door foaming at the mouth because you spend an occasional night at my place or I sleep over at yours. Nobody could even imagine you might be promoted or get a raise for any reason other than solid good work. So why the hell not?”
“I’m not going to sleep with my boss. Period. Full stop. End of statement. How much plainer do I have to be?”
“That’s plain enough,” he growled, clearly annoyed.
Mercy shrugged. She was actually getting quite good at pretending to be indifferent. “Hey, if a personal assistant is more vital to you, just say the word. I’ll pack up the stuff I’ve left at your place and tear up my resume.”
He grunted. “You would too.”
“Well, of course I would. Good lovers may be scarce, but good jobs are almost impossible to come by—and the latter pays the rent. Look, stop giving me a hard time about this, will you? You think I’m looking forward to being on the job market again?” Her family background held wealth, but Mercy always had and always would make her own way in the world.
Instead of replying to her hypothetical question, Nicholas rose from his chair and came around the desk to her.
“There’s no lock on that door,” she warned, but made no further protest when he pulled her to her feet and then into his arms.
He was always careful with her, always consciously gentle—or so it seemed to Mercy. It was the trait of a physically powerful man who knew only too well his strength could hurt and damage, and it never failed to move her in some way she couldn’t explain even to herself.
He kissed her with astonishing skill, his hard mouth so sensual that her knees instantly went weak. Her arms slid up around his neck and held on. Even after a year and countless hours spent mindless in his bed, the hunger he roused in her was sharp-edged and intense, demanding satisfaction. It was not something she could fight, not even something she could manage, but, rather, an elemental force that overwhelmed her.
And it irritated Mercy no end that she was never the one to pull back, never the one to regain control easily and swiftly.
He was always able to.
Always—damn him.
Raising his head and smiling very faintly as he looked down at her, Nicholas unlocked her arms from around his neck and eased her down on the arm of the chair behind her. “So sure you could turn your back on my bed, love?”
He had always called her that when they were alone like this, ever since the stormy spring evening nearly a year before when he had offered her a ride home, and they had somehow—to this day, Mercy wasn’t sure just how it had happened—wound up naked on the rug in front of her fireplace.
He called her love, but she didn’t deceive herself into thinking it meant anything. Nicholas Ross was a hard, abrupt, and rather secretive man with very strong physical appetites, and a “relationship” was clearly not something he wanted in his life. Just a woman in his bed three or four nights a week, with no ties or promises.
Mercy had learned to play the game just the way he liked.
So, when she caught her breath, she made herself say dryly, “It would naturally be a severe blow, but I think I could manage.”
He let out a bark of a laugh and stepped back to half sit on the edge of his desk. Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he stared at her. “You’re not going to back down on this, are you?”
“Afraid not.”
“So once Duncan’s estate is settled and the bank back to normal, you’ll resign?”
“That is the plan.” She shrugged. “Look, you know I’m not doing this just to make things harder for you or the bank. There are some lines I won’t cross, and sleeping with my boss is one of them.”
“I’m your boss now,” he reminded her.
“No, you’re my boss’s partner. Until Duncan’s estate is settled and the future of the bank decided, I still work for him. It may be splitting hairs, but that’s the way I see it.”
Nicholas frowned. “Suppose Rachel decides to keep her interest. You could stay on here as her representative. Then she’d be your boss, not me.”
Mercy was a little surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that. But, anyway, it isn’t likely, is it? You’ve always seemed so determined to buy her out. Aren’t you?”
His frown deepened. “Yes, I’m still determined. But if she’s anything like Duncan, she has a mind of her own. Is she like him? I haven’t spent enough time with her to know.”
“She’s like him in some ways.” Mercy considered the matter. “Smart, intuitive, creative. Like Duncan, she’s capable of flashes of inspiration. Problem is, Rachel’s carting around a lot of baggage right now, most of it painful. Until she sorts through that, there’s really no telling what her decision about the bank will be.”
“Your brother’s death?”
Mercy nodded. “She’s coping with that as well as the loss of her parents—or will be whenever that frozen shell of hers shatters. She needs time, Nick.”
“I don’t know how much time I can give her.” He spoke absently, his gaze abstracted and his face curiously immobile.
Mercy felt a tingle of uneasiness, but said lightly, “I wasn’t aware you had some kind of deadline in mind.”
Those hypnotic eyes focused on her, unreadable, and after an instant he smiled slightly. “I don’t. I’m just naturally impatient. You should know that by now.”
What Mercy knew was just the opposite, that he had the patience of a hunting cougar,
perfectly capable of hunkering down in utter stillness and waiting as long as it took to get what he wanted.
He always got what he wanted.
What she didn’t know was if he had deliberately lied just now or if he honestly had no idea that he had given away that character trait of patience. Either way, it made her uneasiness increase.
Reluctant to question him, she got to her feet and changed the subject. “I have to get some papers out of Duncan’s safe before Leigh has a fit, so I’d better go. Anything you need me to do?”
Before Nicholas could answer, there was a soft knock followed instantly by Leigh peering around the door. She had been so quick that if they had been doing anything indiscreet, they would have been caught. But if she had hoped for that, the office manager hid her disappointment well.
She smiled brightly. “Sorry to interrupt—but, Mercy, I really need those papers.”
“I’ll get them now, Leigh.”
“Good. Thanks. Sorry again.” She retreated, closing the door quietly.
“Yes, there is something I need you to do,” Nicholas said. “I need you to have a lock put on that door.”
“Oh, no!” Mercy turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Then she’d know she was right to suspect sinful things going on in here. See you later.” She heard Nicholas laugh as she left his office, but thought the sound didn’t hold much amusement.
And that bothered her more than anything.
It was Friday afternoon when Rachel decided to go into Richmond. She was planning to do a bit of shopping, more to get out of the house than because there was anything she wanted or needed. Her restlessness had not abated; if anything, it had only gotten stronger. And her vacillation between selling out and returning to New York or staying here was really beginning to bother her.
She got into her mother’s Mercedes sedan and drove down to the front gate, which was standing open because Darby’s workmen had been hauling attic furniture from the house since early morning.