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“So, what are you doing here?”
“I work here,” Vance said, one corner of his mouth lifting.
Brilliant, Charlie. Just brilliant. “Yes, but you usually don’t come to the auctions.”
He shrugged. “I wanted to see you.”
“You see me every day.” Nerves plucked at her insides and Charlie fought to keep from showing them.
“Yeah, but this way’s different,” he said. “We’re not in the office. We’re more like … friends.”
She laughed and took a sip of her water. “Friends?”
“Something wrong with that?”
Oh, if he only knew. They weren’t friends. Friends didn’t make friends feel all hot and flustered and nervous. Friends didn’t inspire dreams that had her waking up in the middle of the night reaching out for him. And friends most certainly didn’t spy on each other—or have the power to fire each other, for that matter.
“I guess not,” she said, because she could hardly repeat everything that had just raced through her mind.
“Good. Because I’d like to take my ‘friend’ out to dinner tonight.”
“What?”
About the Author
MAUREEN CHILD is a California native who loves to travel. Every chance they get, she and her husband take off on another research trip. An author of more than sixty books, Maureen loves a happy ending and still swears that she has the best job in the world. She lives in Southern California with her husband, two children and a Golden Retriever with delusions of grandeur. Visit Maureen’s website: www.maureenchild.com
To the five talented, amazing women I was lucky enough to work with on this continuity. Thanks to you all for making the work so much fun!
One
Vance Waverly stood outside the auction house that bore his name and stared up at the impressive facade. The old building had had a face-lift or two over the past 150 years, but the heart of it remained. A structure dedicated to showcasing the beautiful, the historical, the unique.
He smiled to himself, letting his gaze slide across the “lucky” seven stories. At street level, twin cypress trees, trained into spirals, stood silent sentinel at the doorway. Windowpanes glittered in the early-summer light. Black, wrought-iron railings framed a second-story balcony. Gray stone gave the building its aura of dignity and the wide, arched window above the double front doors was etched with a single word—Waverly.
A glimmer of pride rose up inside Vance as he stared at the world his great-great uncle, Windham Waverly, had created. The long-dead man had ensured his own version of immortality by leaving behind the auction house that carried an illustrious reputation around the world.
And Vance was one of the last remaining Waverlys. So he had a proprietary interest in seeing that the auction house remained at the top of its game. As a senior board member, he made certain that he was involved in everything from the layout of the catalog to hunting down pieces worthy of being auctioned at Waverly’s. This place was more his home than his luxury condo overlooking the Hudson River. The condo was where he slept.
Waverly’s was where he lived.
“Yo, buddy!” a voice shouted from behind him. “You gonna be there all day or what?”
Vance turned to see a FedEx driver, packages stacked on the dolly he was balancing, waiting impatiently behind him. Vance stepped out of the way and let the man pass.
Before slipping into Waverly’s, the driver muttered, “People think they own the damn sidewalks.”
“Gotta love New York,” Vance muttered.
“Morning.”
Vance glanced to his right and watched as his half brother walked up to meet him. Rarely in New York, Roark had flown in for a meeting with some of his contacts. He was as tall as Vance, over six feet, with brown hair and green eyes. Not much of a family resemblance, but then, the brothers only shared a father. And until five years ago, when their father, Edward Waverly, died, Vance hadn’t even known Roark existed.
In those five years, they had built up a solid friendship, and Vance was grateful—even though Roark insisted on keeping their family ties a secret. Roark still wasn’t convinced that Edward Waverly had actually been his father. But the connection was enough to keep him at Waverly’s. There was no proof beyond the letter Edward had left with his will. It was enough for Vance, but he could respect his brother’s wishes.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Vance said with a nod.
“Better be important,” Roark said, falling into step beside Vance as they walked past Waverly’s toward a small café on the corner. “Late night and I’m not officially awake yet.”
He was wearing dark glasses against the sunlight, a worn brown leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans and boots. For a second, Vance envied his brother. He’d rather be in jeans himself, but his suit and tie were what was expected at Waverly’s. And Vance always did the right thing.
“Yeah,” he said as they claimed an outside table beneath a cheerfully striped umbrella. “It’s important. Or it could be.”
“Intriguing.” Roark turned his coffee cup over at the same time Vance did and they both waited for the waitress to fill the cups and take their orders before speaking again. “So tell me.”
Vance cupped the heavy porcelain mug between his palms and studied the black surface of his coffee for a long minute while he gathered his thoughts. He wasn’t a man who usually paid attention to gossip or rumor. He had no patience for those who did, either. But when it concerned Waverly’s, he couldn’t take a chance.
“Have you heard any talk about Ann?”
“Ann Richardson?” Roark asked. “Our CEO?”
“Yes, that Ann,” Vance muttered. Seriously, how many Anns did they know?
Roark pulled his sunglasses off and set them onto the table. He took a quick look around, at the people passing on the tree-lined sidewalk, at the other customers sitting at tables. “What kind of talk?”
“Specifically? About her and Dalton Rothschild. You know, the head of Rothschild auction house? Our main competitor?”
Roark just stared at him for a beat or two, then shook his head. “No way.”
“I don’t want to believe it, either,” Vance admitted.
The CEO of Waverly’s, Ann Richardson was brilliant at her job. Smart, capable, she had worked her way up to the top position in the firm, becoming the youngest person ever—male or female—to head an auction house of its size and scope.
Roark sat back in his chair and shook his head firmly. “What have you heard?”
“Tracy called me last night to give me a heads-up about a column that’s appearing in today’s Post.”
“Tracy.” Roark frowned, then nodded. “Tracy Bennett. The reporter you dated last year.”
“Yeah. She says the ‘story’ breaks today.”
“What story?”
“That Ann had an affair with Dalton.”
“Ann’s too smart to fall for Dalton’s line of BS.” Roark dismissed the idea out of hand.
Vance would like to. But in his experience, people made stupid decisions all the time. They usually blamed “love” for those bad choices, but the truth was, love was just the excuse to do whatever the hell they wanted to do. Love was a fable sold by greeting card companies and bridal fairs.
“I agree,” he said. “But if there is something between them—”
Roark whistled. “What can we do about any of it?”
“Not much. I’ll talk to Ann to let her know about this article that’s coming out.”
“And?”
“And,” Vance said, gaze fixed on his brother, “I want you to keep your eyes and ears open. I trust Ann, but I damn sure don’t trust Dalton. Dalton’s always wanted Waverly’s out of the way. If he can’t buy us out, he’ll try a takeover—or try to bury us.” Vance took a sip of his coffee and narrowed his gaze on Roark. “We’re not going to let that happen.”
“Good morning, Mr. Waverly. I’ve got your coffee and the week’s agenda ready for you. Oh! And the invitation to Senator Crane’s garden party arrived by messenger late yesterday after you’d left.”
Vance stopped in the doorway to his office and stared at his new assistant. Charlotte Potter was petite and curvy, with long, wavy blond hair restrained by a ponytail at the base of her neck. She had vivid blue eyes, full lips on a mouth that was rarely quiet and she seemed to be in constant motion.
He’d hired her as a favor to a retiring board member who had developed a fondness for her when she’d been his assistant. But Charlotte had only been with Vance a week now and he knew it wasn’t going to work out.
She was too young, too pretty and too … She turned away to bend down and open the bottom drawer of the wood-grain file cabinet and he shook his head. Vance’s gaze locked on the curve of her behind in the sleek black slacks she wore. Charlotte was too everything.
When she stood up, producing a thick, linen envelope for him, he told himself that he should simply pawn her services off on someone else in the company. He couldn’t exactly fire her for being a distraction, but he sure as hell resented it.
Politically incorrect or not, Vance preferred his assistants to be either matronly or male.
His former assistant, Claire, had retired at sixty-five. She was cool, unflappable and notoriously anal about her workspace. There had never been so much as a pen out of place on her desk. Vance had felt confident that Claire was on top of everything.
Charlotte, on the other hand … He scowled at the ficus tree in the corner, the ferns on the shelf closest to the window and the deep-purple African violets on the corner of her desk. There were framed photos taking up space on her desk as well, though he hadn’t looked at them too closely; he hadn’t taken the time to do much more than notice the clutter.
Her pens were kept in a mug shaped like a New York Jets football helmet and there was a dish of M&M’s beside her phone. Clearly, he never should have done that favor. No good deed goes unpunished, his father had often said. Turned out, the old man was right.
Vance didn’t want distractions in the office under the best of circumstances. And now, with possible trouble looming with Rothschild, he wanted it even less—and if that made him a damn chauvinist, so be it.
As one of the last Waverlys associated with the auction house, Vance liked keeping his business hours devoted to business. And a pretty woman was not conducive to concentration.
“Thanks, Charlotte,” he said, heading for his office. “Hold my calls until after the board meeting.”
“I will. Oh, and call me Charlie,” she said brightly.
Vance stopped, looked back over his shoulder at her and was nearly blinded by her brilliant smile. She went back to her desk and began flipping through the stack of mail. The long sweep of her hair fell over one shoulder and lay across her breast. Something inside him fisted uncomfortably. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but the woman was impossible to ignore.
Scowling to himself, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and sipped at the coffee she’d given him. Watching her, he realized she was humming again as she had all last week. Off-key humming. Tone-deaf off-key.
He shook his head wearily. He had calls to make to Waverly’s London office, to check on upcoming auctions there. A corner of his mind was still working over the rumors about Ann and what that could mean to the auction house. And he was in no mood for the board meeting scheduled for that afternoon.
Charlotte straightened up, turned around and gasped, slapping one hand to her chest as if to hold her heart in place. Then she laughed shortly and shook her head. “You scared me for a second. I thought you had gone to your office.”
He should have. Instead, he’d been “distracted.” Not good. Frowning at his own wayward thoughts, he asked, “Did you have a chance to type up the agenda for today’s meeting? I want to make some new notes before I meet with the board.”
“Of course.” She walked to her desk and plucked a file folder from a stack of similar ones. She handed it to him. “Along with the meeting agenda, I printed out the list you made of the private collections coming up for bid in the next few weeks.”
He opened the folder, noting the neatly presented agenda with his handwritten notes now added in bold typeface. There were a few pages behind the first and he idly flipped through them, stopping at the last one. “What’s this?”
“Oh.” She smiled. “The next catalog layout looked a little crowded, so I adjusted a couple of the pictures and …”
He glanced at the work she’d done and had to admit it looked much better than it had before. The Ming Dynasty vases were each spotlighted now against a softly lit background, rather than lumped into a section that buried their distinctive beauty.
“I know I shouldn’t have, but—”
“You did a good job,” he said, closing the folder and looking up into her soft blue eyes.
“Really?” She gave him a bright smile. “Thank you. That’s great. I was a little nervous about taking that on myself, I can tell you. It’s just that this job is very important to me and I want to do it well.”
An unfamiliar twinge of guilt poked at Vance as he read the eagerness in her gaze. She fairly vibrated with the thrill of her new job. Which only made him feel worse for regretting taking her on in the first place.
So maybe he’d give this a shot. All he had to do was stop noticing Charlotte as a woman.
But one quick look up and down her petite, curvy figure shut down that idea.
The phone rang and she reached for it. “Vance Waverly’s office.”
Her voice was low, seductive. Or maybe that was just his impression, he chided himself.
“Please hold,” she said and hit the button on her phone. When she turned to him, Charlotte said, “It’s Derek Stone, calling from the London office.”
“Oh, good.” Grateful for the excuse to leave Charlotte and get back to work, Vance took the folder and stepped into his office. “Put him through, please, Charlotte. And after this call, hold all the others.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Waverly,” she said.
Vance closed the door then strode across the room to his desk, barely noticing the thud of his footsteps against the gleaming wooden floor. Paintings by undiscovered artists hung alongside a couple of old masters on the ivory walls. A long couch hugged one wall, with a low-slung table and two chairs opposite it. A wall of windows stood behind his desk, offering a view of Madison Avenue and the always-busy city of Manhattan.
Reaching for his phone, he turned his back on the view, dropped into his chair and said, “Derek. Good to talk to you.”
Completely drained, Charlie blew out a relieved breath and practically crawled back to her desk. The bright, cheerful smile on her face felt brittle enough to crack and she hoped to heaven that Vance Waverly hadn’t sensed just how nervous she was around him.
“Does he really have to smell so good?” she muttered as she fell into her chair and propped her elbows on the desk. Cupping her face in her palms, she told herself to get a grip.
Her hormones didn’t listen, sadly, and continued their happy little dance of excitement. This happened every time she got close to Vance Waverly and it was damn humiliating. How could she be so attracted to a boss who terrified half the people in this building?
But there it was. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark brown hair that always looked a little tousled. His brown eyes had flecks of gold in them and his mouth almost never curved in a smile. He was all business and she had the distinct feeling that he was watching her closely, looking for any excuse he could find to fire her.
Which she was not going to allow to happen.
This job was the most important thing she had going for her. Well, she thought, sliding a glance at the photo of the smiling toddler on her desk, the second most important thing. But professionally, it was no contest. Working for Vance Waverly, a senior board member, was the chance of a lifetime and she wasn’t going to lose it.
Taking a breath, Charlie nodded and sat up straight. She glanced at the photo of her son, Jake, again, and reminded herself that she might have been hired as a favor to an old friend, but she had the qualifications to do this job brilliantly. She was going to stay positive and upbeat and cheerful if it killed her.
When her phone rang, she grabbed it quickly. “Vance Waverly’s office.”
“How’s it going?” a familiar, feminine voice asked in a rush.
Charlie shot a quick look at the closed door to her boss’s office as if to make sure he was locked away and oblivious to this phone call. “So far so good,” she said.
“What did he think of your ideas for the catalog layout?”
“You were right, Katie,” she said, imagining her friend down in Accounting grinning in response. Charlie had worked on the new layout for the catalog in secret, indulging herself with how she would have done things. Katie was the one who suggested she actually show her ideas to Vance. “He said I did a good job.”
“See? Told you.” Katie was typing as she talked; Charlie heard her fingers tapping wildly against the keys. “I knew he’d like what you did. He’s a smart guy. He’s bound to notice that you’re doing a terrific job.”
“In the last week, mostly he’s just been watching me, as if he’s waiting for me to screw up,” Charlie told her, with another glance at her baby son’s smiling face.
“Maybe he’s just watching you because you’re gorgeous.”
“I don’t think so.” Though that thought sent a skittering of something delicious whipping through her. Instantly, though, she poured metaphorical ice water on those feelings. She wasn’t here for a date. She was here to build a better life for her and her son. And this new job with the lovely raise was a big part of her grand plan. All she had to do was convince her new boss that she was indispensable.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Katie countered. “Trust me, if I was playing for the other team, even I would hit on you.”
Charlie laughed at the very idea. Katie was juggling so many men she hardly had a moment to herself. But the truth was, Katie had a point. Most people looked at Charlie—blond hair, big blue eyes and boobs any Barbie doll would be proud of, and immediately came to the conclusion that she didn’t have a brain in her head. She’d spent most of her life proving people wrong.
The one time she had gone with her heart instead of her head …
“He’s not like that,” Charlie said with another look at his closed door.
“Honey, all men are ‘like that.’”
Charlie ignored that and lowered her voice. “I know he only hired me as a favor to Quentin.”
“So what? Who cares why he hired you, Charlie?” The sounds of typing stopped abruptly and Katie’s voice came across the phone loud and clear. “It doesn’t matter how you got there. The point is, the job is yours now. And you’re already proving that you’re perfect for it.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said. “Now, I’m going to do some perfect filing. Talk to you later.”
When she hung up, Charlie was still smiling.
Two
Two hours later, Vance crumpled the newspaper and tossed it aside. Fury rose up inside him but he quickly reined it in. Just as Tracy had promised, the story about a possible affair between Ann Richardson and Dalton Rothschild was on page twenty-six. For a second, Vance told himself that since the so-called story was buried in a small column on a page filled with ads, it might get ignored.
But the chances of that were actually slim to none. There was nothing people liked better than the makings of a good scandal and this one would be talked about for weeks. It wasn’t just the rumors of an affair, but the possibility of collusion that had him worried. He hoped to hell there was nothing to it, because if there was, they were looking at official investigations, charges—possibly even the destruction of Waverly’s.
He snatched up his phone, punched in a number and waited for it to be answered. When it was, he snapped, “Dammit, Tracy.”
“Vance, not my fault,” the woman on the other end said matter-of-factly. “My editor got a tip and we acted on it. At least I gave you a heads-up.”
“Yeah, for all the good that does me.” Tracy had called him late last night. Not much of a warning system, and he had a feeling she had only done it because she wanted to give him a little extra time to stew over it.
He stood up and turned to stare out at the city streets. Manhattan was sweltering under a vicious summer sun. Tourists strolled along Madison Avenue, getting buffeted by the quicker-moving locals who had places to go and didn’t want to linger in the heat.
“Is there any proof of this story?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“Fine. But if you have any other ‘tips’ let me know before you go to print, will you?”
“No promises,” she snapped. Then she asked, “Sound familiar?” just before she hung up.
Vance winced, knowing full well she shouldn’t be telling him a damn thing. A year ago, Tracy had been in his bed for a couple of months and when he’d told her it was over, he had reminded her that he’d gone into the affair warning her of “no promises.”
It was the same warning he gave every woman who entered his life. He wasn’t looking for long-term. He’d seen what his mother’s and older sister’s deaths had done to his father. Hell, it had crippled the man, leaving him a broken, empty shell. If love was that powerful, then Vance wanted nothing to do with it. As for having a family of his own? He’d never even been tempted. So, since he had zero interest in finding a wife, for God’s sake, why bother pretending anything different? Wasn’t it better to be honest with a woman up front?
He shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts, since they really had nothing to do with the current situation anyway.
Setting the phone back in its cradle, Vance stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. Waverly’s was all he had and damn if he’d lose it. His family had built this place and, as one of the last Waverlys still standing, he would do whatever was necessary to save it.
Turning, he buzzed the intercom. “Charlie, would you come in here, please?”
A second or two later, his door opened and she was standing in the doorway. Her long blond hair hung over one shoulder and her wide blue eyes were fixed on him. Once again, Vance felt that punch of something hot hit his system and he was forced to deliberately quash it.
“Is there a problem?”