by J. Kenner
A salty sea breeze gusted through the open front door. Opening my eyes, I noticed the library wall had once held two sconces, about two-and-a-half feet apart, while the opposing wall had only one. Stepping closer, I searched the wallpaper for a seam. Once I found it, I followed it to a discolored area the width of two fingers and pressed. The hidden door released with a satisfying click.
Nate beamed. "Good job."
"Thanks." I gripped the edge of the door with my fingertips and pulled it toward me. Mustiness assaulted my nose.
"Wait." Nate hunched so we were eye to eye. "I stole the photos. You walked into the library before I could shelve the magazines. I panicked and hid. I never meant for you to find them."
I stepped back. "Why steal my photos?"
"I did a computer search for Sailor Saint James. I was afraid you were in the Witness Protection Program or something. I found the magazine references."
"And you thought--"
"If I could find them, anyone could find them. You wanted to lie low. So I removed them."
I broke eye contact. "What else did your search reveal?"
Nate clasped my hand, sending tingles up my arm. "I'm so sorry about your father. I had no idea he'd ..."
"Thanks." I laced my fingers through his.
Nate squeezed my hand then angled his head toward the hidden room. "Ready?"
"Yes." I reached the bookcase first and pressed the side panel. It swung upon slowly, like a sail searching for the wind. Colored light dappled the beanbag chairs and faded floral rug. A thrill rushed my veins. "She's--"
"Still here." Nate pulled me into the secret chamber. I followed a shaft of light to the high circular window. A cobweb clung to the metal edge, and dust had collected on the bright glass, but the mermaid and dolphins had escaped the vandals.
"Amazing." My gaze dropped to the fine planes of Nate's face. His ears angled backward, reminding me somehow of an elf. "How did you find out about the First Saturday of the Month?"
His lips spread into a wicked grin. "Noblesse Oblige."
"The magazine article?"
"Yeah, well, that and I know the family who bought the house at auction."
"Seriously? It would kill me to ready our old house for someone else."
Nate leaned against the doorjamb, his head far above the line bearing my name. "That's the sweet part. We bought it back."
My heart flipped. "You did?"
"Yep. Four years of relentless work. It took every cent we had. The whole family pitched in. Midwestern winters were a great motivator."
"Oh my gosh."
Nate tucked a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. "The winters weren't my only motivator."
Seagulls took wing inside me. "They weren't?"
Mermaid light danced between our feet.
Nate's voice grew husky. "Mind if I move to the desk behind you in Spanish?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. It depends. Did you pack your plastic kelp?"
His dimples surfaced. "Sorry. Kelp didn't make the cut."
"Then I won't be able to say, 'I hate you, Nate.'"
Nate slid his arms around my waist and drew me close. I pressed my ear to his chest and relaxed against the quick beat of his heart.
I love you, Nate.
Ariella Moon draws upon her experiences as a shaman to create magical young adult fiction. Her novels include The Two Realms trilogy, a medieval fantasy adventure, and The Teen Wytche saga, a series of sweet contemporary paranormal romances. Ariella spent her childhood searching for a magical wardrobe that would transport her to Narnia. Extreme math anxiety and taller students who mistook her for a leaning post marred her youth. Despite these horrors, she graduated summa cum laude from the University of California at Davis. She lives a nearly normal life doting on her extraordinary daughter, two shamelessly spoiled dogs, and a media-shy dragon.
Blake Thorton is in the building!
I stare at the text message, my skin suddenly clammy. My pulse kicking up into the danger zone. In the building? What the devil does that mean? The lobby? The coffee shop?
Dear God, is he coming all the way up to thirty-five?
I scramble for the keyboard, then open up my boss's calendar--but there's no Blake Thorton anywhere. Not that I really had to check. That particular name would have jumped out at me immediately. After all, seventeen months and twenty-three days is hardly long enough to forget someone. Even someone you spent only one night with.
One amazing night.
One amazing, unforgettable, perfect night.
And then I'd walked away--pushed out the door by a combination of ambition, stubbornness, and fear.
Line one rings, and I snatch it up, irritated that it's interrupted my memories. "Damien Stark's office."
"Did you get my text?" Sylvia's voice comes across the line with crisp efficiency. She's a project manager in the real estate division of Stark International, and I'm a floater who one day wants to do what she does. We became friends when I worked her desk for three months while her assistant was out on maternity leave.
"It can't be him," I blurt, then cringe at the note of hysteria coloring my voice. "I mean, he lives in New York. And there must be hundreds of Blake Thortons in the world. Maybe thousands."
"He looks just like you described him. Sandy gold hair. Deep green eyes. And that boy can definitely fill out a suit. Not as well as Jackson, though," she adds, referring to her husband.
"Out of all the Blake Thortons in the world, I bet a lot of them are gorgeous." I'm being rational. Pragmatic. Because he can't really be here. In Los Angeles. In Stark Tower.
I can practically hear Sylvia rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. "He has the tattoo you told me about," she says, effectively cutting off all my hollow denials. "Right there on his wrist. I noticed it first thing. Peeking out from under the cuff of a very finely tailored white shirt, I might add."
My fingers itch with the memory of a snow-bound Chicago night. My body curled up naked against him in a room at the Hilton at O'Hare, where our New York to LA direct flight had been forced to land due to the storm. Me, gently tracing the lines of that tattoo. A is A. Him, telling me that we were meant to be together. That when the plane hit that first air pocket and I'd grabbed his hand as we'd plunged downward, I'd been grabbing onto destiny. "You know it's true, Penny. You can't argue against reality. A is A, after all."
I'd walked away, because I couldn't believe that lightning could strike us both so precisely, and I was terrified of risking my heart.
But he was right. Oh, dear God, he was right.
I take a deep breath and gather myself. "Fine," I say. "It's him. Why's he here? Is he on twenty-seven?" Of course he is. That's the real estate division. And Blake is a real estate developer with projects all over the world.
Not that he told me his full resume in our one night together, but in the months after, I may have Googled the man. Once or twice, anyway. Possibly five or fifteen times.
Maybe more. But really, who keeps track of those things?
My intercom buzzes, and I jump. "Hang on," I say as I reach for the phone to answer my boss.
"I'm squeezing in a lunch appointment," Damien Stark says. "Reschedule my one o'clock for two."
"Of course." I'm a model of efficiency. Not at all distracted by the memory of the man who'd played my body with such intimate perfection, that at one point I'm certain I'd actually touched heaven.
When he ends the call, I return to Syl.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"Me? Of course. It's probably not even him. And it's not like I'll ever know for sure. I'm on thirty-five and he's on twenty-seven, and never the twain shall meet."
"I could suggest he go up there ..."
"Cute," I say. "But don't you--"
"Hang on." Her voice rises, confused. "He's gone."
"Gone?"
"He was talking to Jackson in the conference room across from my office, and now it's empty. Do you want me to find out where he w
ent?"
Yes. Yes, oh, please, yes.
"No. Seriously, Syl," I beg as the elevator dings, "don't say a word to him. Just walk away slowly. I don't--"
Across from my desk, the elevator doors open.
And standing right there--looking as delicious as I remember--is Blake Freaking Thorton.
Blake Thorton.
He's standing right there next to Jackson Steele, and though Jackson is one of the finest looking men I've ever seen, I barely even notice him. I'm drawn to Blake like a magnet, and I can't look away.
Had Sylvia really said he had sandy gold hair? That doesn't even come close. It's wild and indescribable. Infinite variations of gold mixed with hits of darkness, like light against a smattering of clouds. He wears it short, but long enough for a woman to run her fingers through it and feel the heat. And his eyes aren't merely green--they're as tumultuous as the sky after a violent storm.
Blake Thorton is a force of nature, and at that moment, I want nothing more than to be caught in the tempest.
I realize I'm staring and tell myself to smile. That's my job, after all. "Mr. Steele," I say. "A pleasure to see you."
I glance toward Blake, but his expression is veiled, and I can't tell if he's indifferent or purposefully shutting me out.
I have absolutely no idea how to handle this situation. Should I greet him, too? Should I pretend I've never met him before? What is the etiquette for unexpectedly and out of context greeting the man with whom you shared the most passionate night of your life, then walked away, rejecting his offer to join him for a hedonistic week in a Hawaiian paradise?
I'm pondering that basic, philosophical question when Jackson takes the responsibility from me. "Good to see you, too, Penny. This is Blake Thorton. We're heading to lunch with Damien."
"Of course." I smile at Blake, but he only inclines his head.
I clear my throat. "Right. Just a moment." I pick up the phone, announce them, then push the button to open Mr. Stark's door.
They enter--and without a second look or word from Blake, the door swings shut behind them.
For a moment, I sit there, not sure if I'm relieved, disappointed, or simply stunned.
But honestly, if Blake isn't going to acknowledge me, then I'm not going to worry about him either. It's not as if I don't have better things to do. Correspondence to review, calls to make, calendars to update.
To prove my point, I turn my attention to my desk. But work doesn't come easy, and when Mr. Stark's door opens ten minutes later and the men file out, I'm still staring blindly at my desk calendar, wondering how to interpret the unfamiliar hieroglyphics that represent people and places and dates.
"Text me if anything urgent comes up," Mr. Stark says.
"Of course, sir." I glance at Jackson, who smiles at me, and then at Blake. He meets my eyes this time, but doesn't react at all. A slow burn of anger starts to grow in my belly. Maybe earlier I'd chalked up his silence to indifference or stoicism. But now I'm thinking he doesn't recognize me.
But how the hell is that possible after the night we shared?
I'd been on my way to Los Angeles when he and I were seated next to each other on that plane. I had a callback for a television pilot in Los Angeles, and I was moving across the country with the hope of getting that job and maybe, finally, establishing myself as an actress.
When I'd moved to New York after graduating at twenty-one, I'd given myself five years to pursue my passion of acting. Because even though I love being on the stage, I love eating more. I'd grown up with a single mom who spent her entire life in debt, worked a series of dead-end jobs she hated, and slept with a stream of men, each and every one the love of her life. At least until he left or she kicked him out.
I truly adore my mom, but the possibility of that kind of life terrified me. I wanted a job I loved. I wanted a bank account with money in it. And I wanted to be damn sure about a man before I unlocked my heart.
Since I love to act--and since I'm not only good at it, but pretty enough to get roles--I jumped in with both feet. Succeed on stage or in Hollywood and I could have passion and security in my work. But I'm realistic, too, and I wasn't going to spend twenty years chasing a dream that wasn't happening only to then realize that after so much time, I wasn't qualified for any other decent job.
Thus my five-year plan. Pursue acting with all my heart and soul. And if I hadn't nailed it by the time I was twenty-six, I'd quit and figure out exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I'd been on a grand adventure that night, and the fact that Blake was my seatmate had seemed fated. We'd talked throughout the flight, but we hadn't touched until I'd grabbed his hand when the plane had hit that air pocket and seemed to fall from the sky.
That moment changed everything, and the awareness that had been bubbling under the surface of our casual conversation suddenly boiled over, turning into a hot, steamy, demanding need.
When the plane had been grounded, there'd been no question. No discussion. We'd gone to the airport hotel together, and I'd given myself to him, body and soul. I'd surrendered to his every whim, and I'd lost myself in the process.
And in the losing, I'd found part of myself, too.
That was a night I've remembered--and a morning after that I've regretted--for almost two years.
And now here he is again, standing right in front of my desk. And the son of a bitch doesn't even remember me?
I'm sorry, but that is seriously screwed up, and I'm tempted to say so, just so that I can get a rise out of him.
But that might piss off Mr. Stark, and I don't want to lose this job that not only pays well enough for me to afford a cute--albeit tiny--apartment in Venice Beach, but is also putting me through business school with an employee tuition program. I'm on the post-five-year part of my plan now, and I'm happy. I love working here, and I'm learning so much. And I'm excited about diving fully into the business world once I graduate. Plus, this life has the added perk of not requiring new headshots every few months.
So I stay quiet, my efficient smile plastered across my face as the men step onto the elevator. But I watch Blake, and the last thing I see as the doors shut, is the smallest hint of a smile on his face.
Unless, of course, I'm only seeing a shadow.
MY PULSE POUNDS IN my ears, my heart beating so hard it feels like I've run a marathon.
I want to race after him and shake him. Why did he smile? Did he smile?
Does he remember me?
How can he not remember me?
Shit.
Obviously, I need to chill, and I grab my phone and my purse and log off the computer. I'm about to transfer his calls to the reception desk one floor down when the phone rings. "Mr. Stark's office."
"Mr. Thorton is on his way up," Mr. Stark says. "He's misplaced his phone, most likely in my office. Please help him find it."
"Of course," I say, understanding that "please help him find it" is code for "don't let this man I don't know poke around in my office alone."
I wait, numb, for the elevator to ding again, and even though I'm expecting it, the moment it does, I jump. I suck in air, mentally kick my own ass and stand behind my desk as he steps off, my hands flat against my sides so that he won't notice the way they're shaking.
"Mr. Stark called. I'm happy to help you look."
"I appreciate you taking the time." His bland tone pisses me off. He's playing with me--he has to be playing with me. Because if he's not, that means he really doesn't remember me.
I know it shouldn't matter. Blake Thorton is no longer in my life.
But it does. It really does.
Once we're inside the office, he goes to the seating area where Mr. Stark has a couple of leather chairs and a sofa separated by a coffee table. I lean against the wall near the door as he slips his hand between the couch cushions. I know I should be looking too, but I'm in a pissy mood.
"Did you find it?" I snap when I realize he's no longer fishing in the cushions. Instead, he's standi
ng with his hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes on me. Now, his expression is no longer bland.
Now, it seems dangerous.
"I did." He pulls his hand from his pocket, revealing his phone, and for a moment I wonder if it's been there all along. "Sometimes you have the chance to get back the things you lost." There's a low, sensual quality to his voice that I recognize, that seems to vibrate through me like a low roll of thunder. He takes a step toward me. "I guess this time I got lucky."
He's mere inches from me, all his attention focused on my face. My cheeks flush, and I start to push away from the wall, but he moves in, caging me in his arms. I only have time to gasp before his mouth closes over mine.
I clench my hands into fists at my sides, fighting the urge to touch him. I don't know where this is leading, what game he is playing. But his hands are on the wall, not me, and I'm certainly not going to be the first to touch.
But even without soft caresses or frantic groping, this kiss is wild and hot and meltingly perfect. I imagine his palms stroking my skin, teasing my nipples, sliding between my legs. I want that.
So help me, I want all of that and more.
I'm on fire, on edge, my body hot with need and trembling with passion. I'm craving his touch, desperate for him to take this further, and so I cry out with disappointment when he denies me, instead gently breaking the kiss and pulling away to look at me with those storm-filled eyes.
"I didn't think you recognized me." My voice is raspy. "I thought you'd forgotten me."
"Forgotten you?" He moves in again, and the air between us crackles from the electricity we're generating. He strokes my cheek, and that erotic sensation steals my breath. "Baby, I remember everything. The way you clung to my hand so tightly, as if I had the power to take away all your hurt and fears. The way your mouth tasted of gin when I kissed you in the hotel bar. The way your lips parted when I traced a fingertip along the curve of your shoulder. The softness of your skin. The sweetness of your pussy."
I tremble as he eases closer, his breath tickling my ear as he continues. "I remember exactly how it felt to be inside you. To feel the rhythm of your heart and the heat of your skin. Most of all, I remember the way you cried my name when you came, and the way your body fit with mine when you curled up trembling and limp in my arms.
"Forgotten you?" he repeats, leaning back to once again meet my eyes. "No, Penny," he says as he traces his fingertip over my lips. "I haven't forgotten a thing."