“So how exactly do you plan to teach me about erotica?” Bryce asked

Joan squirmed nervously in her seat. “I was just pondering my lesson plan,” she murmured. “I think we’ll need to take a hands-on approach. Very hands-on.”

Her words washed over him like a caress. Bryce slid his hand over hers, twining their fingers. Then he lifted their joined hands and pressed a slow kiss to her fingers. It was time to get their school for scandal under way. “I’m ready for class to begin.”

She shivered, a slight tremor that brought him tremendous satisfaction. “Soon,” she said, closing her eyes. He brought the tip of one finger into his mouth, his tongue spiraling around her soft skin. Her breath hitched. “Very soon,” she whispered.

His teeth grazed lightly over her finger as he slipped the digit free, then pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Good,” he said. “Just so you know, I always ace my classes.”

Also available

THE PERFECT SCORE

STARSTRUCK

NOBODY DOES IT BETTER

MOONSTRUCK

NIGHT MOVES

MAKING WAVES

UNDERCOVER LOVERS

Silent Desires
J. Kenner

www.spice-books.co.uk

J. KENNER has always loved stories—reading them, watching them on television and on the silver screen, and making them up herself. She studied film before attending law school, but knew that her real vocation lay in writing the kind of books she loves to read. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters and several cats.

For Brenda.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

1

THE LITTLE BELL above the door of Archer’s Rare Books & Manuscripts jingled as Jack Parker slipped out the door and into the dark. Joan Benetti looked on, amused and, if truth be told, a little sad. After almost a year of marriage, Veronica Archer Parker, her boss and friend, was about to follow her husband out the door and head off on her belated honeymoon.

How cool was that?

Joan sighed. Pretty damn cool, actually. For years, Joan had done the New York singles thing, hopping from bar to bar and guy to guy. It had been a hoot and a half, no doubt about that, but now…well, maybe now it was time to get serious. And not just about a man. About a lot of things. Lately Joan had been using Veronica’s life as a mirror, and over and over Joan had found her own reflection wanting.

“Hey?” Veronica—Ronnie, as everyone called her—tapped a fingernail on the glass display counter, her voice pulling Joan from her reverie. “You in there?”

Joan looked up, manufacturing a grin. “Of course. I’m just tired. This four in the morning thing sucks.”

Ronnie laughed. “Can’t help it. The plane leaves at six and I needed to grab a few things from the office. But you didn’t have to get up.”

Joan yawned, the talk of sleep making her tired all over again. “I didn’t get up. I was already up.” She was temporarily living in Ronnie’s old apartment above the bookstore, so she’d thought she might as well come down when she heard Jack and Ronnie come in for the reference books and notes Ronnie was taking with her to Paris and London. The honeymoon was a working trip, but Jack didn’t seem to mind.

“Awake all night,” Ronnie said, her expression amused. “And what does this one do?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t with a guy.”

Ronnie’s brow furrowed. “But it’s Saturday night. Well, Sunday morning.”

“Yeah? So?” Joan knew she sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it. Instead of dating, she’d spent the weekend reading and thinking. Big, sweeping life thoughts. “Who-Am-I and What-Should-I-Do-With-My-Life” type questions. Ones best pondered in the dark with a Nina Simone CD and a bottle of merlot. Of course, while she was pondering in the dark, she’d missed flirting with Roy, the DJ at Xylo’s, and she’d really missed the bar’s famous chocolate martinis. But, for the most part, she’d enjoyed her weekend alone. Well, okay, so it was only one night alone, but still… She’d made some important decisions, and that was the key.

Ronnie shrugged. “It’s no big deal,” she said. “I just assumed you’d have a date.”

“Yeah, well, I’m on hiatus.” Joan grinned, then waved to Jack who’d stepped back inside. Ronnie moved easily into his arms, and Joan felt that little tug at her heart again.

The truth was, it was Ronnie’s impending honeymoon that had kick-started Joan’s meditative mood. Jack had rolled out the fairy-tale golden coach for Ronnie and he was whisking her off to the ball. And as far as Joan could tell, Ronnie’s coach showed no signs of turning back into a pumpkin.

That was the trouble with all of Joan’s dates. Trey, Andy, Martin, Jim—and all the rest of them. They were no princes, and no matter how much fun she might have had at the ball with them, the fantasy always came to an end. It sucked, and Joan was tired of it.

“I’m swearing off drive-by dating,” Joan blurted, trying her resolution on for size. Ronnie and Jack both looked up, their expressions curious but not too surprised. Okay, so maybe Joan did tend to make a lot of resolutions, but they usually involved diets or exercise. This one she intended to keep.

“Swearing off?” Ronnie repeated.

“Well, yeah,” Joan said. She lifted her chin, reminding herself why she was doing this. “If it looks like there might be something real there, then sure I’ll date. But no more of this random stuff.”

“A woman with a plan,” Jack said. “I almost feel like I should issue some sort of warning to my poor, unwed brothers in arms.”

At that, both Joan and Ronnie rolled their eyes. “We have a taxi waiting,” Ronnie said to Jack as she pointed toward the door. “Go make sure the driver doesn’t take off with our stuff.”

He kissed her. “I’ll meet you out there,” he said. He paused at the door. “I asked Donovan to drop by now and then. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”

Joan grinned. Jack was a homicide detective and his partner, Tyler Donovan, was a good guy who looked about ready to tie the knot himself with a nurse he’d been dating steadily for months. Both men tended to be overprotective. Joan pretended to be annoyed, but in truth, their concern made her feel special. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, then grinned when his expression of surprise revealed that he’d been expecting a protest.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and she wondered what argument for her safety and well-being he’d had to toss by the wayside.

Once he was outside again, Ronnie moved back toward the counter. “So you’re really giving up dating?”

“Sure. It’s no big deal,” Joan said.

“Uh-huh.” Ronnie didn’t look convinced. Which made sense. Joan wasn’t certain she was convinced, either. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

This time, Joan knew she wasn’t talking about her dating life, but about running the store. “Fine,” she said. “I’ve been working here four years now. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Ronnie had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “Still, it’s a big responsibility. You’ve never done the books or payroll before. And it’s not like there’s a lot of room in the budget.” She frowned. “You’ve got the number for our hotels in case there’s an emergency?”

“I’m fine. Everything’s under control.” She licked her lips, wondering if this was the best time to broach one aspect of her resolution to get serious about life. “Ronnie?” she started, jumping in. “Are you still planning on, you know, cutting back?”

Ronnie sighed, then ran her fingers through her hair. “Yeah, unless I can find someone to take on as a partner. The problem is that bookstores make lousy investments. So potential business partners aren’t exactly knocking down my door.”

“So, what then?” Joan asked. “Three days a week?” Ronnie was finishing up her Ph.D. and looking into teaching. Plus, she wanted to spend more time with Jack. That, coupled with the store’s lousy financial condition, had prompted her to consider cutting back the hours. A decision Joan didn’t like at all.

“Something like that,” Ronnie said. “I’ll think about it after we get back. Don’t worry, you know I won’t cut your hours until you’ve found a job to make up the difference.”

Joan opened her mouth to press the issue, to tell Ronnie that she didn’t want another job. That she wanted to be Ronnie’s partner. Wanted a permanent stake in the business, and was willing to work her tail off to get it. But before she could speak, two honks from the taxi echoed through the store.

“I’m going to make us late,” Ronnie said. “Can it wait?”

“Sure,” Joan said, trying for nonchalant. She’d just talk to Ronnie when she got back. And by then, Joan should be in a much better position to convince her boss that bringing Joan in as an owner made all the sense in the world.

“Great.” Ronnie leaned over the counter and gave Joan a quick hug. “I know you’ll take perfect care of the place,” she said.

Joan nodded, wished them a safe trip, and then found herself waving to an empty doorway.

They were gone. Now she was in charge.

It was a nice feeling, one she wanted to last beyond their four short weeks of vacation. She loved this store. Loved the musty smell of ancient books. Loved the customers who came inside, some with definite purpose, some who wandered aimlessly, drifting among the stacks until, as if by magic, they found a book that touched their soul. And she loved the variety of books that filled the shelves—literature, rare illustrated tomes, first editions of biographies and popular fiction, ancient travel guides and so much more.

And, of course, Joan loved the erotica. Ronnie’s specialty was Victorian-era erotica, and she’d made a point of keeping the store well stocked with rare works from that period and others. During downtimes at the store, Joan would peruse the collection, reading everything from Anïs Nin to D. H. Lawrence to The Pillow Book.

Joan had never considered herself uninformed where men were concerned, but this was new territory. The literature thrilled and inspired her, pushing her imagination to decadent limits. Unprofessional, maybe, but she couldn’t help but get turned on by the graphic prose and the raw, unrestricted emotion generated within the pages. Forbidden fruit, and she loved studying it, learning about it, and, yes, losing herself in it.

Now Joan wandered among the stacks, the dim light from the single lamp at the front of the store causing provocative shadows to slide across the shelves in front of her as she moved toward her favorite section of the store—and her favorite book.

When she’d come to work for Ronnie fresh out of college, Joan hadn’t been familiar with erotic literature. Oh, she knew it existed, sure. But she hadn’t known it intimately. Hadn’t known the value of a leather-bound edition, much less the depths of pleasure that the mere words on the page could impart. She shivered—a little tingle of anticipation—as her gaze scanned the shelves.

She found the volume she was looking for, a book from the late 1800s, bound in green boards and in pristine condition. Very fine, in bookstore terminology. The book’s author was anonymous, but Joan didn’t care. She was interested in the words, not who put them there.

And, oh, those words. Enticing and provocative, the stories could send her pulse racing as effectively as a lover’s touch.

Licking her lips, she trailed her fingertip down the spine, delighting in the rough texture of the cloth, the slightly different feel of the title stamped in gold on the spine: The Pleasures of a Young Woman.

It was the kind of book she wished she could afford for herself, and yet she knew that would never happen. Extremely rare, the book was believed by scholars to be a collection created by some contemporaries of Oscar Wilde. The collection supposedly chronicled the erotic adventures of Mademoiselle X as she traveled from Paris to London. The young miss must have had quite an adventure, because the book read like a personal—very personal—anthology, describing in both words and pictures her forays into every erotic situation imaginable.

Such pleasures…

For just a moment, Joan wondered if her resolution was foolish—if swearing off frivolous dating was simply a masochistic exercise that would do nothing more than keep her frustrated.

No.

With her eyes closed, she pressed the book to her chest. She wasn’t swearing off men, just foolish dating of the wrong sort of man. Her door was wide open to Mr. Right. Absolutely. And if she met a guy with Mr. Right potential, they’d just have to take it slow and steady. That might leave her frustrated, but that was a state of being Joan could take care of on her own. And with a book like this…

Her fingers caressed the book as her mind wandered. It would be so easy. To take the book upstairs. To curl up naked under the crisp, cool sheets. And then to slowly, so slowly, open the book and drink in the pages.

She sighed, her body heating with anticipation. She knew this book. Every word, every nuance. Knew which passages were written with a light, almost humorous, hand, and which passages spoke to her soul, enticing her to stroke her breasts, her belly, and then dip her fingers down, down, down.

She shivered, and then, pulling herself together, firmly returned the book to its place on the shelf. It was almost dawn. She needed her rest. She did not need to lose herself in the steamy heat of erotic prose.

Still…

She paused, her hand hovering near the book. The store was closed on Sunday, so she could rest all day if she wanted to. Besides, she wasn’t sleepy. Just the opposite. She was wired. And the delicious prose was a distraction. Practically a necessity. After all, she’d sworn off casual sex and random dating. No little touches on the dance floor, no tickling of toes under the back booth at Xylo’s. And absolutely no doing the wild thing. Definitely torture.

If she had the company of a warm book, though…well, a book and her imagination could make all the difference in the world.

Convinced, Joan slipped The Pleasures of a Young Woman back off the shelf. With a little sigh, she held it close, and then headed up the stairs to her apartment and to her bed.

A glass of wine, the faint strains of music and the pages of this book. Heaven. Or, at least, as close as she could get to heaven by herself.

“NOW THERE’S a looker,” Leo said, pointing across the smoke-filled SoHo bar at a sultry redhead in too-tight Lycra who looked like she’d paid mightily for hair, tits and ass. “Bet she’d be a tiger between the sheets.”

Bryce shot his attorney a frown, swirling the glass in his hand so that the ice rattled against the side. He took a sip, letting his gaze skim down the woman as the Scotch did a slow burn down his throat. “Not bad,” he said, but without much enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter?” Leo prompted. “Not your type?”

“I don’t have a type,” Bryce said. If a woman struck his fancy, he was more than willing to schedule time for her between the sheets. But a type? What was the point? Besides, he wasn’t on the lookout for a woman to take up permanent residence in his life. He didn’t have the time or the inclination, and he sure as hell didn’t need the distraction.

“You ought to consider settling down,” Leo said. “It would be good for your image.”

“And she’s the kind of woman I should install in a house in the suburbs?” Bryce asked, nodding toward the redhead.

Leo scowled. “No, she’s the kind of woman you screw.”

Bryce had to laugh. Leave it to Leo to get to the heart of the matter. Hell, that was what made him such a damn good attorney.

“Get it out of your system,” Leo said, “and then come talk to me. Marjorie knows a lot of nice women who’d love to land you as a husband.”

Bryce shook his head, interested in neither landing nor being landed. He didn’t have the time for the sort of real relationship that would provide a solid foundation for marriage. Of course, considering his own parents’ marriage, Bryce had wondered if that mythical solid foundation even existed. He’d thought they’d figured it out. And then ten years ago their idyllic life had crashed and burned. His mother had been having an affair. A long-standing one, apparently, and she’d run off with her lover. All along, she’d put up the perfect front, projected the perfect illusion. And Bryce had never even had a clue.

He didn’t intend to let history repeat itself.

“What do you say?” Leo prodded. “The media’s been all over this Carpenter Shipping deal. Three hundred jobs, Bryce. That’s a lot of folks out of work. They’re saying you don’t care about the little people.”

Bryce ran a hand through his hair. “I know what they say, Leo. I also know what they don’t say—that whenever I buy a company and trim the fat, the business increases its efficiency by over twenty percent. That’s a lot of extra cash in the investors’ pockets, you know.”

Leo raised a hand. “I know.”

But Bryce wasn’t to be placated. “And why doesn’t the press ever report how we try to help the folks who end up out of work? No one ever does a story on how much severance we pay or about the people we’ve helped find jobs.”

He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t help it. He’d worked his way up in the world, and no one had handed him any breaks. He’d bought his first building at nineteen, when he was just a kid earning a living doing construction. The ramshackle building in the warehouse district of Austin, Texas, had caught his eye—some hidden potential had been peeking out from under the grime and calling to him. He’d taken on extra jobs, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion just so he could scrape together the down payment.

Two years later, he’d fixed the place up, sold it, and turned a tidy profit. He’d liked the cash, but, even more, he’d liked the thrill of putting the deal together. He’d reinvested his profits, turned a few more land deals, expanded into Dallas and Houston, and made his first million nine days shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. A small-town boy done good. And he’d just kept moving up from there.

Now Worthington Industries bought and sold companies. He had offices in Dallas, Los Angeles, Atlanta and New York, and spent more time traveling than he did in his own house. As president and CEO, Bryce would find a company with a good product and a solid core of staff, but one that was weighted down with debt and excessive overhead. He’d buy it cheap, clean it up, and then sell it again, often to the employee-investors, who ended up buying a company that was more streamlined and profitable than the one they’d started with.

Yes, some people lost jobs, but that was the nature of the beast. And business wasn’t a charity. The point was to make as much money as possible for as many people as possible.

“I’m just saying that image is everything,” Leo said. “And your image would be a lot softer if you had a woman in the kitchen and a few kiddos playing in the backyard.”

“I’m paying you to be my attorney, Leo,” Bryce said, an edge to his voice, “not my public relations guru. And certainly not my social director.”

“Marj has been on my case for years about finding you a nice girl,” Leo said, ignoring Bryce’s gibes.

“Who says I’m interested in nice?” Bryce retorted, mostly to egg Leo on. “Besides, my image is fine.” At thirty-six, Bryce was one of the wealthiest and most eligible men in America. He had a love-hate relationship with the press, who—if they weren’t busy reporting that his latest deal was a threat to the civilized world—tended to fawn all over him because of his looks and his money. Considering how many magazine covers his face had graced, anyone not in the know would think he was a movie star. He wasn’t, although he’d dated a few on occasion.

“Investors like stability,” Leo said. “Home and hearth and all that shit. Especially in an economy like this.”

“Investors like profits,” Bryce said. “Especially in an economy like this. And I give them that.” He met Leo’s eyes. “I’m not about to get married just so you can haul out some dog and pony show.”

Leo held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, whatever. You’re a big boy.”

Bryce nodded and slammed back the last of his drink. That he was. He glanced at his watch. 9:00 p.m. “I want to go over the closing documents on the New Jersey property once more before tomorrow’s meeting. Can you have them ready by two?”

Leo glanced at his own watch, then scowled. For a second, Bryce thought he was going to complain about getting home to his own wife and family. But then the attorney nodded. “Not a problem. Hell, we can even work on the Carpenter deal. With the press breathing down our back and the employees threatening an injunction, I’m afraid it’s going to blow up in our faces.”

Bryce frowned. “It’s your job to see that it doesn’t.”

Leo just nodded. “Don’t I know it. Come on. Let’s head back to the office right now. Jenny should be finished with the changes,” Leo said, referring to his night secretary. “We can proof the pages over a pot of coffee.”

Bryce shook his head. “You proof them. That’s what I pay you for. I’ll be in at two to go over them with you.”

“What are you going to do between now and then?” Leo asked.

Bryce flashed him a grin, then glanced toward the redhead. “Work on my image, of course.”

THE ALARM ON Bryce’s watch started beeping at one-forty-five, and the redhead shifted against him and pulled the pillow over her head, her bare butt grazing his hip. He slid out from between the sheets, careful not to wake her. After all, the woman—he’d forgotten her name—probably was exhausted. As Leo had predicted, she’d been a wild thing. Exactly what Bryce had needed to get his blood pumping for another twelve hours of posturing and chest thumping in the deep, dark jungle of mergers and acquisitions.

He found his boxers in a pile on the floor, her bra and panties wadded up with them. His trousers were hanging neatly over the back of a chair where he’d left them, the crease still perfect. He buttoned up his shirt, not bothering to tuck in the tail, and hung his tie around his neck before slipping on his jacket. Her apartment was at Fifty-fourth and Broadway, twelve blocks up from Leo’s office. The September night was warm, and Bryce had energy to burn. He’d walk, then shower at Leo’s office. If the papers were in decent shape, he might even have time to get a run in on the treadmill before the gladiators entered the ring for the nine o’clock meeting.

A single red rose was in a bud vase at the side of her bed. He’d purchased the flower for her as they were leaving the bar, and now he plucked it from the vase and laid it on the pillow beside her. Then he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

She really was a sweet girl, and he’d been grateful for the diversion, the few hours away from all things corporate. Now, though, it was time to get back to it.

The apartment was a studio, so he didn’t have to go far to get to her front door. And as he stepped out onto the landing and pulled the door tight, he remembered her name. Lydia. Nice, but easy enough to walk away from.

For that matter, they all were. And as he started down the six flights of stairs to the street, Bryce silently cursed Leo. Because for the first time since his parents’ divorce, Bryce was beginning to wonder if there really was a woman out there who could make him want to stay.

IT WAS THE HEAT that woke Joan up. That murky, almost liquid summer heat. The air conditioner must be on the fritz again. That sucked. Especially since the air conditioner wasn’t even hers.

Other than the AC problem, Ronnie’s place was nicer than anything Joan would ever be able to afford on her own. And it was only hers until Ronnie found a buyer for the fabulous flat—a one-bedroom apartment with a great kitchen and real hardwood floors.

Reluctant to leave—both the apartment and the bed—Joan moaned and stretched. Pleasures was still on the bed next to her, open to page one-twenty-three. She trailed her finger over the page, then closed her eyes, remembering the way the delicious, decadent words had played over her body, with a little help from her fingers, of course. She stretched like a cat, tempted to stay in bed and spend a few more wonderful hours with the book and her fantasies.

Naked, she twisted her body, trying to find a cool spot on the well-worn cotton percale. No luck. She sighed. Just as well. She’d already lazed away an entire Sunday, reading the book, watching television, sipping wine, and then reading some more. Now, it was the wee hours of Monday morning and time to get up.

With a little groan, she sat up, pushing damp curls out of her eyes before sliding off the bed and padding barefoot to the kitchen. She pulled the door open and stood there, letting the cool air dance over her skin. She shivered, a little chill racing up her spine as the thin film of sweat that covered her body started to disappear.

Her stomach rumbled, and she scoped out the inside of the refrigerator. Not much in there except Diet Coke and slightly limp carrots. She made a face, then grabbed a soda. At least it would fill her up and cool her off.

She closed the fridge and pressed the cool can to her forehead, closing her eyes and leaning against the stove. Who would have guessed she’d find heaven in an ice-cold aluminum can? Especially when she’d already found it in the hot, sultry prose of the nineteenth-century book.

Slowly, she trailed the can down over her nose, her chin, down her neck to her cleavage. It felt wonderful, and she was just so damn hot.

Not that one twelve-ounce Diet Coke can was going to make much of a difference. No, if she really wanted to cool off, she might as well go downstairs to the bookstore and try to do some work. At least the bookstore had air-conditioning. And there was even food in the break room and an honest-to-goodness coffeepot.

Besides, she had tons of work to do. Ronnie had already been gone for almost twenty-four hours, which meant Joan had only twenty-nine days left to put her plan into effect. And if she went down now, she’d have four hours of uninterrupted work before she had to open the store.

She’d worked it all out in her head. She might have blown off college after only two semesters, but she had street smarts. The store hadn’t been doing that great lately, so Joan’s plan of attack was two-tiered. First, put together an exceptional catalog that would blow Ronnie away when she returned. And, second, increase the patronage—and the receipts—at the store.

The catalog was the easy part. The store did two catalogs a year, usually putting out a catalog focusing on erotica in the summer. Last summer, though, had been unusual, and the catalog had come out a few months late. Surprisingly, the issue had the best response ever, so Ronnie had decided to permanently bump the mailing date from August to early October.

Although Joan and Ronnie had worked together on it some, Ronnie had left most of the responsibility to Joan. And she intended to ace the project. Considering her rather intimate familiarity with the store’s erotica inventory, she didn’t foresee any problems on that score.

The business end was more troublesome. She made a mental list of her strengths and weaknesses. As her strengths, Joan counted her enthusiasm and the knowledge she’d gained about the industry over the past few years. Plus, she was a natural people person. Once a customer came into the store, she could usually get him or her to buy. Especially the hims.

Her weaknesses were worrisome. She didn’t know much about running a business. Bookkeeping and strategizing and managing employees and all of that stuff, stuff that was so beyond her knowledge she didn’t even know what questions to ask. She could learn, sure, but she had to learn fast. And she had to fit all of that learning in between doing the catalog and running the store.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off the fear that she’d end up doing all this for nothing and Ronnie would either bring in another partner or knock the store’s hours to so few that Joan wouldn’t be able to afford to work there anymore. If that happened, Joan really didn’t know how she’d stand it. She loved her job. All of it. The work fascinated and inspired her, something no other job ever had. And she adored Ronnie, who’d taken a chance on Joan when she was a twenty-year-old college dropout.

Over the years, Ronnie had been a great employer. But now Joan wanted more. She wanted to be a partner. And to do that, Joan needed to prove to Ronnie that she had the right stuff, that she knew how to run a business.

Considering she didn’t know how to run a business, she wished she had a teacher, someone who could answer her basic questions and push her in the right direction. But she didn’t.

But Joan had managed a lot of things on her own. She could manage this, too. It was simply a matter of finding the way.

2

JOAN SAT at the table in the break room, trying desperately to focus on the erotic books and ephemera spread out in front of her. Not an easy task. She’d contemplated and analyzed the stuff for almost three hours, and she’d made some serious progress on the catalog. Now, though, her concentration was fading. Instead of feeling clever, she was turned on.

She sighed, her fingers stroking a decadent illustration showing a woman touching herself intimately. A man—hidden in the shadows—gazed at the woman with lust in his eyes. The artist, who’d used a mixture of blacks and grays to draw out the shadows, was unknown, and Joan couldn’t help but wonder if there really had been a model. Had she been spread out on the chaise, just so? Did she know the man was watching her? Did she fantasize that he would move slowly toward her and then press his hands on her breasts, her belly, trail fingertips down her until he cupped her sex, finding her wet and wanton, turned on by nothing more than the direction of her own thoughts?

Joan’s body quivered, as if she could make the fantasy her own. The truth was, as much as she loved working in the store, the nature of its product could be quite, um, distracting. Then again, it was those very distractions that she liked so much.

With a little smile, she set the print aside before moving on to the remaining images scattered across the tabletop.

That one was definitely going into the catalog.

THE NEW JERSEY DEAL wasn’t going to happen, not today anyway. Which meant that Bryce was stuck in Manhattan for at least another day, probably two. Maybe more.

He thought of his spacious house in Austin, built on five acres high in the hills overlooking Lake Travis. The manicured lawn, the swimming pool. And the trees. Lord, how he missed the breeze through the trees at night. He’d been in Manhattan now for a full week, and that was five days too long. He liked the city, loved its vibrant energy. But he loved his home more. And it irritated him that the delays keeping him in the Big Apple were all the result of sloppy work by his subordinates.

If this thing didn’t get wrapped up soon, heads were going to roll.

With a frown, Bryce glanced at his watch. Not even 9:00 a.m. They’d called off the meeting thirty minutes ago, which meant that his all-nighter had been for nothing. Except for his brief sojourn in Lydia’s apartment, he’d been up for thirty-six hours, doing little more than working on this deal, and now it was going to all fall apart because the company he wanted to buy was being fined by the EPA for dumping toxic waste. Not exactly the kind of acquisition the board of directors would approve of, and Bryce was livid that his people hadn’t discovered the agency action sooner.

That was, after all, the whole point of due diligence.

Damn it all to hell. He ran a finger through his hair, cursing incompetence generally and wishing for the good old days when no one reported to him but himself. Back then, he knew the job had been done right because he was the one who’d done it. And on the rare occasions when there was a screwup, he knew perfectly well where to lay the blame. Right at his own two feet.

Now he had to deal with committees and boards and shareholders. He had a hell of a lot more money than he used to, but on days like this one, he had to wonder if he was having as much fun.

On the street to his left, traffic moved by at a snail’s pace and horns blared, as taxis and commuters fought for space on the road. He’d been walking ever since seven, not watching where he was going. Just moving. The Big Apple wasn’t really that big; he certainly hadn’t feared he’d get lost.

And now here he was, somewhere far away from the familiar sights and sounds of Times Square or Wall Street, pounding the pavement, working off his frustration on the streets of Manhattan. His shirt clung to him, damp from the combination of his exertion and the dense humidity. He still wore his suit jacket, and now he took it off, hooking it on a finger and tossing it over his shoulder. And as he did, he took a look around, delighted by what he saw—rows and rows of brownstones, the type that used to cover the island before the big conglomerates moved in with their skyscrapers and changed the skyline.

Bryce had no problem with skyscrapers. Hell, he owned three. But it was the older buildings that still held his heart. The kind of structures that not only reflected history, but were history. Homes and businesses that had stories to tell. The kind of stories that fascinated Bryce.

He slowed his pace, taking time to absorb the scenery and scope out the neighborhood. The family-owned brownstones had mostly been converted to apartments above retail space long ago. Even so, the area was quaint, and he began running through the familiar calculations—purchase price, the cost of necessary improvements, potential profit once he turned the property.

Not that deals were easy to come by in Manhattan. Prices were on the rise once again, and Bryce knew the market well enough to realize that finding a steal was unlikely.

Which was why the Apartment for Sale sign in the bookstore’s window surprised him. He paused, taking a step back so his gaze could take in the whole building. It was five stories of utter charm, with flower boxes under the windows on the fourth and fifth floors, and a wrought-iron railing leading up to the main entrance. The door was glass, and through it he could see a cozy antiquarian bookshop. The store’s name, Archer’s Rare Books & Manuscripts, was etched on the glass, and was also painted on a hanging sign that faced oncoming pedestrians.

He slipped his jacket back on, then stepped to the door and turned the knob. He pushed the door open, smiling to himself as the little bells tinkled to announce his entrance. Charming. He stifled a grin, anticipating the imminent arrival of a short, balding man with half-glasses and a ruddy complexion. Instead, he saw a tousled blond sex kitten in a tight black skirt, lavender glasses, matching fingernails and triple-pierced ears.

She stepped in from a back room, her huge blue eyes wide with surprise. “Oh,” she said, a delightful blush blooming on her cheeks.

She drew in a breath and licked her bright red lips, and Bryce had the feeling he’d interrupted something, though he had no clue what. He half smiled. Maybe she kept a lover hidden in the back room. The thought amused him, and he couldn’t help but wonder how those well-defined thighs and that perfect rear would feel under his touch.

“I—” She stopped, turning to glance at the entrance, her brow knitted in confusion. “Did you come in through the front door?”

“That’s the traditional form of entrance, yes.”

The flush on her cheeks deepened, and she shook her head, as if annoyed with herself. Her blond curls bounced, and Bryce found himself smiling.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Stupid question. It’s just that the store doesn’t actually open until ten. I stepped out earlier for a bagel. I must not have latched it behind me.”

He turned and glanced again toward the door, for the first time noticing the Open/Closed sign that hung on a side window. Considering he could see Open, the sign facing the street must say Closed. “My mistake,” he said. “I just barged in. I didn’t even see your sign. You’re right. You’re not open yet.”

She laughed, the delightful sound chipping away at the last vestiges of his bad mood. He wondered if he could think of something else to say that would amuse her, and then immediately wondered what the hell had gotten into him. Lack of sleep, most likely.

“I was beginning to think I’d lost track of time,” she said. “I was…well, I was working in the break room.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow. Already after nine o’clock. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“That’s early for most people.”

She shrugged. “I have a lot to get done,” she said, almost to herself.

Bryce could take a hint, though the thought of leaving didn’t sit well. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back when you’re open.”

“Oh, no,” she said, her voice breathy. “It’s okay.” She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. She didn’t touch him, but her proximity alone was enough to set the air between them humming. “You don’t have to go.” Her mouth drew into a frustrated line, and she pulled her hand back with a little shake of her head. “What I mean is, I’ve always got time for a customer.” She stood up straighter and smoothed her skirt. “How can I help you, Mr….?”

“Worthington,” he said. “Bryce Worthington.”

She didn’t react at all to his name, and Bryce said a silent thank-you. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Joan recognized either his face or his name. But she didn’t and Bryce was happy to remain quietly anonymous. “And you are?”

“Joan Benetti.”

“Benetti?”

She frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“I was just expecting you to say your name was Archer.” He nodded toward the sign. “This seems like a family-owned shop.”

“Oh! Right, yes. Actually, it is a family name. My, uh, partner’s father founded the store.” Her brow furrowed. “Did you just come in to browse?”

He cleared his throat, wishing he were a customer. He had a feeling customer service would interest Joan Benetti a hell of a lot more than real estate sales. “Actually,” he confessed, “I’m not here to buy a book.”

“Oh, really?” Her eyebrows lifted above the purple frames of her glasses, and a hint of a smile touched her lips. “Well, you don’t look like you’re selling anything…”

Bryce laughed. “No, I have a few questions about the building. Maybe I could ask them over breakfast?” He wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask. All he knew was that the idea of spending more time with this woman appealed. “The coffee shop at the corner’s open right now. And you have almost an hour before the store officially opens.”

Her eyes danced behind her glasses, and she dragged her teeth over her lower lip, clearly hesitating. He leaned against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Well?” he pressed, hoping she’d say yes. The woman intrigued him and amused him. “What do you say? A breakfast date? If you’re really in a crunch, you need to eat well. Vitamins, minerals.” He let his gaze roam over the view she offered, taking in the bright red pumps—designer knockoffs, he was sure—and the shapely, stocking-clad legs. And considering how short she wore her skirt, there wasn’t a lot left to the imagination. “Definitely a healthy breakfast,” he said, forcing his eyes away before his gaze climbed any higher. “You need to be good to your body.”

“Believe me,” she said with a sultry grin. “I only put the best in this body.”

“Exactly,” Bryce said. He met her eyes, felt the tug of attraction zing all the way down to his groin. “You should come with me.”

She glanced at his toes, then worked her gaze all the way up his body, her slow inspection almost as intimate as a caress. Clearly, she was sizing him up, and for the first time in years, Bryce actually wondered if he was up to her standards.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I mean…” Another shake. “I’m sorry.”

She might as well have kicked him in the gut. True, Bryce wasn’t used to being turned down by women, but the hole left by her rejection was more than just a bruise to his ego. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Just breakfast. Innocent.”

Once again, she tilted her head to the side. “No. I don’t think so,” she said, and Bryce wasn’t sure if she was declining the date, or commenting that breakfast with him would be anything but innocent.

If she meant the latter, he had to applaud the woman’s intuition. Because right then, Bryce’s thoughts were a long way from innocent.

A long, long way.

STUPID, STUPID, STUPID!

Joan couldn’t believe she’d almost blown her resolution so quickly and so thoroughly. She’d flirted with the gorgeous customer—sorry, noncustomer—as if there was no tomorrow. And she couldn’t even console herself by saying that he had Mr. Right potential because she didn’t know the first thing about him—other than that he made her palms damp and her stomach flutter more than any man she’d met before. But for all she knew, that reaction stemmed from the fact that, when he’d come in, she’d been up to her ears in erotic pictures and books.

Of course, even without that diversion, this was a man who made an impact. Bryce Worthington was positively yummy. Midnight-black hair and incredible violet eyes that seemed to see right through her. And he didn’t just wear that suit. Instead, he seemed to have been born to it, filling it out in a way that made her mouth water. She’d always been a sucker for a man with a nice ass, and Bryce’s rear end was pretty near perfect.

Joan’s only saving grace was that she’d caught herself and had shut down her potential flirting frenzy before she’d really gotten going. Now she was all business, utterly professional. Just the way she intended to stay from now into the foreseeable future. Dull, maybe. But infinitely more practical.

She wiped her damp palms on her skirt. “How can I help you, Mr. Worthington?”

“Well, if breakfast is out of the question, I suppose I’ll have to jump straight to the point. I came in because I saw the For Sale sign. Can you tell me about the apartment?”

“Not really, I’m afraid. The building belongs to my partner. She’s selling the two apartments and keeping the store.” Mentally, she rolled her eyes. Partner! She wished. But that was neither here nor there where Bryce was concerned. It hardly mattered to this man if she was a partner or a clerk. The job was mostly attitude, anyway. And Joan had the attitude of an owner—and had been working her tail off like an owner, too. Now if she could just focus on books like The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People instead of tomes like Casanova’s The History of My Life, maybe she’d actually manage to make the lie a reality.

Bryce’s gaze was examining the store’s interior, his inspection of the building as intense as his earlier visual caress of her body—a caress she still remembered with a little tingle.

“Do you think the owner would entertain an offer for the entire brownstone?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

He nodded, but she could tell he was disappointed. “I don’t suppose you’d mind showing me around the flats anyway?”

She licked her lips, the idea of being alone with him in the apartment a little more than she could bear. Still, he did seem genuinely interested, and Ronnie would never forgive her if Joan shunned a potential buyer. “I need to finish up a project before the store opens. But you’re welcome to go on up by yourself. The top apartment’s unlocked and empty. I’m living in the fourth-floor flat, but feel free to wander through it.” She handed him her key.

“You’re sure?”

She shrugged. “Absolutely. No problem.”

He caught her in that intense gaze once more, and she wondered if that was how deer felt, frozen in time but still caught up in something fast and furious. Because this was fast, and the beat of her heart was furious. She wanted him to go. To leave the room. He’d already almost made her break her resolution once. She didn’t intend to let him succeed the next time.

After a second, he nodded, and she pointed him toward the interior stairs that led up to the flats. As soon as he disappeared from sight, she exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. His departure seemed to lift a weight, but, at the same time, it left her feeling oddly hollow.

No flirting, she reminded herself as she headed back to the break room. Focus.

And she did. She focused on her work for at least five solid minutes. Productive minutes, too.

But then she noticed the print again. The man watching the woman. The woman, looking so very enraptured. The man, whose face resembled Bryce’s just a little.

Her body warmed, and Joan groaned, then shifted slightly on the chair to try to ease the pressure building between her thighs. She had one hell of a vivid imagination, but there were times when it seemed more like a curse, because right now she could imagine Bryce creeping down the stairs and moving quietly to the break room door.

He’d stand there, barely breathing, just watching. And as he watched, Joan would arch her back in her chair, her breasts thrusting forward as she grazed her fingertips lightly over her throat. The touch was a tease. Innocent, really, but promising so much more. Promising, that is, if he was good.

He was, of course. Very good. He watched. Just watched. And the watching turned her on. Made her wet. Made her sex throb in a way that demanded attention, demanded release.

Slowly, so slowly, she let her fingers wander down her body, caressing her breasts, following the smooth planes of her stomach down to her waist. The shirt was tucked in, and so she tugged it free, all the while wondering what he was thinking. Did he want to touch her? Or did he simply want the satisfaction of seeing her lose herself to pleasure?

With a little moan of anticipation, she slipped her fingers under the waistband of her skirt, then found the thin elastic band of her panties. She raised her hips, her body craving the touch. And as she licked her lips, her fingers pressed onward, over the coarse curls, finally finding her hot, wet core and—

Enough already! Her eyes flew open. He was in the building. Right above her. He could come back at any time. So what the devil was she doing?

Losing it. That’s what she was doing. She was positively losing it.

Off to her left, she heard the scuffle of shoes, and then the distinct sound of a man clearing his throat.

Shit. In a microsecond, she was sitting upright, fear and embarrassment pounding in her chest. She turned to face the doorway. Sure enough, Bryce stood there, his eyes dark, an unreadable expression on his face.

Joan drew a shaky breath, wondering what she’d done. What he’d seen.

She glanced down, then exhaled in relief when she saw that her silk T was still tucked in. Thank goodness. It had all been in her head.

Please, oh please, let it have all been in her head!

“That was fast,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal. “What did you think?”

His mouth curled into an enigmatic smile. “It looked good.”

Joan felt her cheeks warm, but she couldn’t ask. Did he really mean the apartments? Or had he been watching her? The possibility was positively mortifying.

“This building’s got great potential,” he continued, and she relaxed a little. “I’m sorry the whole thing’s not on the market.”

“So you’re not interested in just the apartments?”

“Probably not,” Bryce admitted. “But I’ll keep them in mind. Like I said, I liked what I saw.”

He moved toward her then, and Joan swallowed, her entire body tightening as his proximity increased. After a second she saw his brow furrow and then his eyes widen with interest. He nodded toward the table. “Should I even ask?”

Joan glanced down. In her embarrassment, she’d forgotten about the erotica that littered the tabletop in addition to the one pen-and-ink print that she’d been holding. Now, she tried to imagine the scene through his eyes. The store had recently acquired a first edition of Casanova’s Memoirs, which was a magnificent feat in and of itself. But on top of that, Ronnie had managed to locate eight of the original charcoal drawings used to illustrate an early edition of the famous book. Provocative images of men and women in the throes of passion. Copies of the drawings were scattered over the tabletop, along with lighter fare—naughty French postcards and colorful turn-of-the-century engravings showing women reclining in their wide skirts, with just a hint of what was going on underneath.

“A catalog,” she said. “Our summer catalog always features erotica.”

“Really?”

He was intrigued. She could see it in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but shift into her sales mode. He was a customer now, some guy who’d come in to buy a first-edition Tony Hillerman and ended up buying Henry Miller and Fanny Hill, as well.

After a second, his gaze dipped to the table again, and he picked up one of the Casanova sketches, this one showing two women, both focusing every bit of their erotic attention on the man who lay between them on the bed.

“Interesting,” he said, a wry grin playing at his lips.

Joan rolled her eyes. “Men. Funny how that card always seems to draw a man’s attention.”

“I’m not looking for two women,” he said, meeting her eyes. “But I wouldn’t mind spending some time with one good one.”

It was a blatant come-on, and she pointedly ignored it, determined to stay all business. “Do you know much about erotica?” she asked.

“Well, I suppose that depends.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I have what I like to call hands-on knowledge of the subject. But formal book learning? Afraid not.” His eyes met hers. “Maybe I’m due for an education,” he said, his words flowing over her like warm honey.

She cleared her throat to keep the suggestive response that tripped to her tongue at bay. The plan, remember? No flirting. “I’m sorry the apartments aren’t what you’re looking for.”

Disappointment flashed across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Too bad.” After a moment, his expression shifted and he smiled, the simple gesture lighting his face. “Although I can’t say it matters much. I might have stepped in to ask about the property, but once I was inside I found something much more interesting.”

Joan’s gaze immediately dipped to the tabletop. “It is fascinating, isn’t it?”

He laughed, and she snapped her head back up, looking him in the eyes. “Not the drawings,” he said, waving the sketch he still held. “You. You’re my perk for the morning.”

Her cheeks warmed. “A perk? I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s perk before.”

“No? I’m surprised.” He laid the sketch back on the table, then tapped it in the center with his index finger. “I’m serious, though,” he said. “I bet there are a lot of things you could teach me.” A sexy grin crossed his face. “For that matter, there are probably a few things I could teach you.”

Joan didn’t doubt that for a minute. This man made her tingle, and only a few weeks before she would have been a very eager student. Now, though, that kind of education wasn’t on her agenda. Before she had the chance to tell him, though, the electronic tones of his cell phone trilled through the air. Bryce grimaced and pulled a tiny phone from his pocket. He checked the display, mouthed an apology, then answered the call. “Worthington.”

Joan watched with interest. The man she’d been flirting with was confident, friendly and charming. The man on the phone was all those things and more. He had a presence about him, as if some invisible aura of command had dropped from the sky and surrounded him as soon as he’d answered the phone. Joan had no idea what he did for a living, but it involved a lot of money. Of that, she was certain.

“Dammit, Leo, I thought you had things under control,” Bryce said. A pause, then, “No, I’m not thrilled. But if you really think this is the best route…” Another pause. “Well, I pay you to make these decisions, so just tell me what your recommendation is and stop beating around the bush…. Fine. I’m on my way.”

He flipped the phone shut, shaking his head.

“Bad news?”

“I think so,” Bryce said. “Because it means I have to go.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“Maybe I could buy you dinner?”

“Dinner?” she repeated stupidly.

He grinned. “You’ve heard of dinner, I assume? It’s a ritual whereby people eat for nourishment, often finding entertainment in the company of others.”

She made a face. “Yes, thank you. I’ve heard of dinner.”

“Tonight?”

Her resolution flashed neon orange inside her head. She should say no, she knew that. But there wasn’t anything resolution-breaking about dinner. Dinner could lead to Mr. Right.

Right?

Inwardly, she groaned. That was a justification if she’d ever heard one. And she fisted her hands against her own weakness, trying to bolster her resolve. This man was too sexy by half, and if she went with him to dinner, had a little wine, her resolutions would go up in a puff of white smoke. She’d be willing to bet on it.

“I’m sorry,” she began, “but I’ve—”

“It’s just that I find this so intriguing,” he continued, nodding at the table. “And I’m a collector.”

She frowned. “You are?” He hadn’t struck her as the type.

“Well, not of erotica, but of first editions. You’ve started me thinking about expanding into new territories.”

“Oh,” Joan said, and then, when she realized just what a coup this man could be for the store’s bankroll, “Oh!”

“Maybe you could pick out two or three of your best first editions. Something a serious collector needs. We could meet over dinner and talk about building my collection.”

“Oh, yes. Right.” Joan’s head was spinning. Her guy resolution might be flashing neon orange in her head, but her profit resolution was lit up like a Broadway billboard, complete with soundtrack. If he was really thinking about buying three first editions…

She licked her lips, doing some quick math in her head. “Sure,” she finally said. “Dinner sounds great. It’ll have to be late, though. The store doesn’t close until eight.”

“So we’ll eat at nine.” He smiled, and Joan realized he was willing to accommodate whatever inconveniences she might throw his way. “In fact, why don’t you bring three books and an invoice? I’m sure whatever you pick out will be perfect. I’ll write a check at dinner.”

“Oh.” Joan stared, mildly flabbergasted. “Well, sure. Okay. I mean, I like a man who takes charge.” It was a flirty comment, but she barely noticed. Right then, the possibility of an amazing sale overshadowed everything.

“Good. Then you should like me just fine.” He slipped a card out of his breast pocket, then scribbled something on it. “I’m staying at the Monteleone,” he said. “Do you know it?”

She nodded. Everyone in town knew the posh hotel on Fifth Avenue.

“There’s a restaurant just off the lobby. It’s fabulous. Talon. Does that sound good?”

“Um, sure.” Really, it would be uncouth to leap up and down for joy. Never in a million years would she be able to afford to eat there.

She took the card, the paper smooth between her fingers. On the back, he’d written dinner, 9:00 p.m., Talon. On the front, no job or company was listed. Simply a mobile phone number and Bryce Worthington as if that were all she needed to know. Hell, maybe it was.

“Then it’s settled,” he said. “A little wine, a little literature, a little erotica.” He met her eyes. “Does that sound good?”

Joan swallowed. This wasn’t a man people said no to. And, frankly, her entire body was screaming yes. Not that she intended to listen to her body. Bryce Worthington might be interested in a date—might be using the sale of erotica as a ploy to get her to dinner—but that didn’t matter. Joan intended to stick to her guns.

She licked her lips. Too bad for her.

“Joan?” he pressed. “Are we on?”

She nodded. A silent, professional gesture. As if she delivered erotica every day of her life to men who made her nipples ache and her panties damp.

But her panties didn’t matter. Because Joan was meeting this man only to sell him some erotica. And nothing else was going to happen.

Nothing at all.

A COLLECTOR? Bryce smiled, shaking his head as he slid into the taxi he’d hailed.

“Where to, buddy?”

He gave the driver the address for Leo’s office, then settled back in the worn vinyl seat, thinking about his lie. The truth was, he owned one collectible first edition—Tom Clancy’s The Hunt For Red October—that he’d inherited from his father, a submarine buff who’d bought one of the early copies before the book became a bestseller. Valuable, sure. But not exactly the sort of collection he’d suggested filled the nooks and crannies of his home.

Not that he felt any guilt about the fib. He’d seen the look on her face as she’d sat in the break room. A look of rapture, as if she was lost in thoughts just as erotic as the images scattered over the table. Her fingers hadn’t moved from the gentle curve of her collarbone, but somehow Bryce had just known that in her fantasies, she was stroking and caressing her own soft skin. Touching places his fingers ached to touch.

In that moment, he’d been certain. He wanted to see this woman again, and he was thrilled that his earlier plans for the evening had been cancelled. He’d been invited by one of his model friends to attend the opening of a gallery, a high-profile fund-raiser. He’d been happy to do it. Going out with Suki was always relaxing. They’d been friends for years, but weren’t the least bit attracted to each other despite the rampant rumors in the press.

Originally, he’d been disappointed when she’d called to tell him the benefit had been postponed. Now, though, he was glad for the cancellation. It meant that his calendar was open. A rare thing, and extremely fortuitous, especially considering how much he wanted to spend the evening with Joan Benetti.

Unfortunately, she seemed less than enthusiastic about a date. Too bad. He’d sensed a chemistry between them that he didn’t want to believe was one-sided. But she’d hesitated, and Bryce had turned to more creative methods to get her to go out with him. Well, what the hell? Best case, he’d have the woman in his arms. Worst case, he’d end up owning a few first editions. Either way, he certainly couldn’t complain.

After all, the erotica on the table had been intriguing, to say the least. His body tightened merely from the memory, and he shook his head with wonder. Potent stuff.

Erotica had never been in his field of interest, but Bryce hadn’t gotten where he was by turning away from new experiences. From what he could tell, Joan seemed to be an expert on the subject. And maybe, if fate was kind, Bryce could talk her into giving him a few lessons on the subject. He could hope, anyway.

And if the lessons were hands on, well, that would be all the better.

3

FIVE YEARS. He’d been without his beloved Emily for five long, lonely years.

A lump filled Clive’s throat, just like it always did when he thought of her. His sweet Emily. So precious, so innocent.

She hadn’t deserved to die.

Even now he could remember how she’d looked on their wedding day, her brown eyes so full of life, her near-black hair in stark contrast to the pure white of her dress.

His Emily. His love.

Slowly, Clive bent down and pulled the battered suitcase out from under the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the carpet, worn and stained with God-only-knows-what. This was what he’d been reduced to, living in pathetic fleabag motel rooms that could be rented by the hour and had probably never even seen disinfectant. But it was necessary. The motels he’d chosen for the long drive from California to Jersey were cheap. That meant the clerks didn’t even blink when you paid in cash, and they couldn’t care less who was renting the room. That’s what Clive wanted. To be invisible. He’d need to be invisible if he was going to make this work.

Slowly, almost reverentially, he snapped the latches on the case and lifted the lid. He pulled out the flannel pajamas he’d used as lining and there, under the dark green material, he saw them—the shotgun and handgun he’d purchased specifically for this project.

He drew in a breath, anticipation mixing with nerves as the time drew near.

Soon, very soon, that son-of-a-bitch Bryce Worthington was going to pay.

“BRYCE WORTHINGTON? You’re going out tonight with the Bryce Worthington?”

Joan squinted at Kathy as the younger girl brandished the pencil in her hand as if she was going to skewer Joan for not understanding the full impact of the date with Bryce. “Um, I guess so,” Joan said. “I’m going out with a Bryce Worthington. Who is he?”

“You don’t know?” Kathy shook her head in amazement. She was eighteen, a freshman majoring in English lit, and had recently been hired to work part-time in the store. Until today, she’d been in awe over the Dickens serials that Ronnie kept locked in the second-floor vault. Now, though, she’d transferred her enthusiasm to Joan’s date. “You really don’t know?”

Joan sighed. “I really don’t know.”

Kathy performed an exaggerated eye roll while exhaling, conveying the impression of being both disbelieving and put-upon. “He’s like a bazillionaire. This self-made Texas businessman. And he’s single. All those bachelor-type television shows have been trying to get him to go on, but he flat-out refused them.”

Good for Bryce, Joan thought, her estimation rising a notch. She’d liked Bryce instantly and had had an instinctual feeling that he was a man with whom she’d get along great. Even after all of Kathy’s oohing and aahing, she still wasn’t sure she could place Bryce in the social hierarchy. The way Kathy talked, he fit somewhere between God and Ben Affleck. Big news, indeed.

“You’ve really never heard of him?” Kathy repeated, apparently unable to believe that Joan lived under a rock.

“Really,” Joan said, more defiantly. She’d never paid a whole lot of attention to that rich celebrity stuff. She would happily follow the careers of musicians, actors and authors she liked. Even politicians, whether she liked them or not. But she did not follow the careers of big-shot businessmen.

Kathy just frowned, shaking her head a little.

“What?” Joan asked, sure the freshman was about to deliver a lecture about staying up on current events, though Joan was willing to debate whether Bryce’s eligibility really was newsworthy. Especially since, as much as Joan might fantasize about a fabulously wealthy knight taking her away from all this, her odds of winning the Powerball lottery were significantly better than winning the heart of Bryce Worthington or any other man with a well-stuffed bank account. That was just too much like some unrealistic fairy tale.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” Kathy said. She wore no makeup, her fuchsia hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and she wore tight blue jeans with an equally tight tank top under a loose pink blouse. Even so, the impression she conveyed right now was matronly.

Joan ran her fingers through her hair, as annoyed as she would be if it were her mother giving her the third degree about a date. “There’s no way I can get hurt, Kathy. It’s not a date. I’m just meeting him to deliver some first editions. Purely business.” That was her plan, and Joan didn’t intend to veer from it.

“Uh-huh,” Kathy said, clearly not convinced.

Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. We’re just having dinner. Grown-ups are allowed to have dinner without having sex and dating and all that attached to it.”

Kathy’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you having dinner?”

“Talon,” Joan announced, still reveling in what she considered a dining coup.

“Uh-huh,” Kathy said, a mysterious edge to her voice.

Joan frowned. “What?”

“He’s staying in the penthouse. He probably plans to ply you with wine and then take you up his private elevator for a quick tumble.”

Joan certainly hoped not, because if that was his plan, she could already feel her resolve slipping away. “How do you know where he’s staying?”

“Angela,” she said, referring to her sister. For a second, Joan was confused. Then she remembered that Angela worked at the hotel. “He orders from the restaurant, and they send Angie up to deliver.” She shook her head. “The penthouse is so huge she’s never even seen him. She just leaves the tray in the living room. But she says it’s worth it because he tips like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Well, then. See? He’s nice.”

Kathy snorted.

“Oh, come on, Kathy. What’s the big deal? He wants to buy some books and learn more about the field.”

“Oh, Joan-ie…” Kathy shook her head a little, then picked up a pile of books that had recently been entered into the inventory system. She headed for the stacks, but not before shooting Joan a look that practically screamed you poor naive creature.

Joan exhaled in frustration. At twenty-four, she always felt young in comparison to Ronnie, who’d already celebrated her thirtieth birthday. Around Kathy, though, Joan felt positively ancient. So she found Kathy’s maternal tone a bit grating. “What?” Joan said, unable to prevent the note of exasperation lacing her voice.

“He’s a total womanizer,” Kathy said. “Last week he went out with some supermodel, and then the week before that it was some trust-fund type with all the right clothes and the right haircut.”

“Oh.” Joan ran her hand through her hair. “So what? The point of dinner is to talk about the books.” All true. And yet she was having to convince herself even as she spoke. She didn’t know the first thing about Bryce Worthington’s background or habits, but she did know that something about the man blew her away. And the possibility that she was simply one in a long line of conquests rankled.

“Joan?”

She shoved the thought away, realizing she was being ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. It was a business dinner. Business dinner, business dinner, business dinner. She said it over and over in her head, trying to make sure it stuck.

And that was when she realized…this dinner with Bryce Worthington wasn’t just an opportunity to bring a little cash into the store, it was a boon to her overall business resolution. Not even twenty-four hours ago she’d been bemoaning her lack of business skills. If what Kathy said was true, this guy was even more on top of the business world than Joan had suspected.

And if Joan played her cards right, maybe she could get Bryce to give her a business lesson. She only hoped the price wasn’t too high. Because as much as her libido might want to, she didn’t intend to break one resolution in order to satisfy the other.

TONIGHT.

Clive held his hands out in front of him, the muscles in his chest and arms tight as he lowered himself slowly in a deep knee bend. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm. The trick was to stay calm.

He completed five sets of ten each, his balance never wavering. He was ready. He was calm. He was in control.

Slowly, he stood up straight, feeling remarkably light. “Tonight’s the night, Em. Tonight, that bastard dies.”

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. A prayer for success on his mission as he fought the evil that was Worthington. The man was vile. A pathetic, money-grubbing snake who didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than himself and his projects.

He was the reason Clive got laid off. And he was the reason his beautiful Emily had died. Oh, Worthington hadn’t given her the cancer. But he’d killed her just the same. He took away her health insurance. Took away their income. And in the end, his fragile, beautiful Em just hadn’t had the stamina.

She’d left him. Left Clive all alone.

The papers had said that Worthington had made a fortune on that deal, and now there was talk of another takeover. Some shipping company. And Worthington was so smug. Business, he called it. Just business.

Bastard.

So he’d made a fortune, had he? Well, now it was time for Worthington to pay the price. And he was going to pay it to Clive. With his life.

Just like Em had paid.

BRYCE GLANCED at his watch, frowned, and lost his train of thought. Not hard considering the ridiculous array of questions the attorney had been throwing at him throughout this absurd, interminable deposition. He forced a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Certainly.” The attorney on the other side of the table, a freckle-faced kid who reminded Bryce of Opie and couldn’t be more than five minutes out of law school, turned to the court reporter. “Could you read back the question, please?”

As the reporter started to comply, Bryce held up his hand. “Wait.” He turned to Leo. “Can we take a quick break?”

“Off the record?” Leo said to Opie, the words purportedly a question, but his tone allowing no room for dispute.

The young attorney nodded, waving his hand as if he was the king granting a pardon. Bryce pushed his chair back from the conference table, then headed out of the conference room, Leo at his heels.

“I need to go,” Bryce said, cutting to the chase as soon as the door clicked shut behind them. “This has been dragging on for hours now. It’s a bunch of BS, and I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Leo ran a hand through his hair, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Bryce knew the reason, of course. The shareholders in Carpenter Shipping had hired themselves a big-shot attorney and had gotten a temporary restraining order that morning. In an effort to resolve the dispute and keep the deal moving, Leo had offered to present Bryce for a deposition.

Bryce had agreed. But his patience had worn thin. “He’s not even focusing on the sale,” Bryce said. “The kid’s fishing, and he’s wasting time doing it.”

Leo nodded. “I know. The kid’s green. But so far he hasn’t established one element of his claim. There’s nothing to support converting the restraining order into a permanent injunction, but if you walk out now, he’ll just tell the judge he wasn’t able to finish.” Leo shrugged. “I’m betting another hour. At most.”

Bryce frowned. As much as it rankled, he knew Leo was right. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m supposed to be on a date. Give me a few minutes to make a call.” As soon as Leo headed back into the deposition, Bryce turned on his cell phone and dialed the restaurant. The maître d’ promised to relay the message to Joan—he’d been detained and would call her in the morning.

He hated doing it, but he didn’t want her sitting there waiting. Opie might have only an hour’s worth of questions, but he might have three. And although it was late, Leo wanted to keep going rather than spend the day tomorrow in depositions—time that should be spent on the New Jersey project.

He switched off his phone and headed back into the abyss. He hoped Joan was available tomorrow. Because if Opie was making Bryce miss out on dinner with the woman altogether, then the young attorney was really going to see the full force of Bryce’s wrath.

THE HOSTESS HAD SEATED HER even though Bryce wasn’t there yet, but now Joan was wishing she’d waited in the bar. She felt horribly conspicuous sitting all alone at the small, intimate table. Just feeling that way bothered her. She’d been everywhere—from truck stops to black-tie affairs—and this was the first time she’d felt truly out of place.

Hoping to ignore the feeling, she glanced into her tote at the books she’d chosen. She’d brought several so that he’d have a choice. Most were standard fare—early editions of works by Lawrence and Miller and others. The basic building blocks of a serious erotica collection. The third, though…well, the third was Pleasures. Her favorite book.

If she’d been feeling contemplative, she would have wondered about her motivations in bringing a book that both fascinated and turned her on. Fortunately, she wasn’t feeling contemplative.

She took another sip of her wine, then nibbled on a bread stick to counteract the alcohol that was fast going to her head. She was on her second glass. A mistake, probably, but she hated just to sit there. And so when the waiter had offered the wine, she’d simply accepted.

For the umpteenth time, she glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty. Damn.

She pulled out her cell phone and checked the display screen, wondering if perhaps she’d missed a call. She hadn’t, of course, and then she remembered that she hadn’t given him her number. She had his, though. She hesitated to use it, the act of actually calling to ask where he was too wounding to her pride.

But she supposed she’d rather suffer a slight bruising to her ego than sit there all night sipping wine and getting wasted. She punched in the number, and the phone rang and rang, finally switching to voice mail.

She clicked off, not bothering to leave a message. What would she say? Where are you? That was too pathetic. Have you stood me up? That was too angry. Nothing quite fit, and so she said nothing, intending to wait five minutes and simply try again.

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