A Kiss in the Dark

LISA FOX

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HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Lisa Fox 2015

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Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover design by Becky Glibbery

Lisa Fox asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008115517

Version 2015-05-28

I am incredibly blessed to have so many supportive and wonderful people in my life.

Thank you Sara Brookes, Chris Cinelli, Jessie Cinelli, Allison Gibbons, Kacey Hammell, Dori Koch, Peggy Morgan, Jennifer Probst, Fred Urfer, Liia Ann White, Sabrina York

And my editor, Charlotte Ledger, who made this all possible.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Also by Lisa Fox …

Lisa Fox

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The alarm clock cut through Ryan’s blackout dreams, and he reached for it from under the covers, slapping it silent. He groaned, opened one eye, then quickly shut it. The morning light was way too bright, like needles in his eyeballs. His next breath awoke searing pain in his chest, which ignited a chain reaction of agony that shot through his shoulders, neck, and head.

“Too early,” a groggy female voice grumbled beside him.

Ryan’s eyes snapped back open. There was someone in bed with him. He lifted his face off the mattress and slowly turned toward the sound. Every inch of the journey was an exercise in misery. The room spun nauseatingly around, and it took a moment before his eyeballs finally settled in his head enough for him to see the pretty blonde woman beside him. Traces of last night’s makeup still rimmed her wide brown eyes and accentuated her high cheekbones. She had a salon tan and a gym body and he had no idea who she was.

She smiled and stroked his face, a gentle caress of her long, acrylic nails. “You were incredible last night.”

She grazed his eyebrow, and the flash of pain brought the memories back with razor-sharp clarity. The smell of the gym, sweat and aggression, bright lights on the ring, fists and blood. Three long rounds, a hard-won fight. His opponent was good, he’d made Ryan work for every point. Despite the regulation headgear, he was sure his face had paid some of the price. Then victory, his arms raised high into the air, and the announcement that he would advance to the finals. There was laughter and champagne—his gaze refocused on the woman in his bed—and the Ring Card Girl from the match.

She touched her fingertips to his lips, then rested her hand on his chest. “You’re going to be the champion for sure.”

Prickles of heat cascaded down his spine as her hand moved lower, tracing the path of dark hair over his pec to the center of his body. The scrape of her nails was intensely erotic, almost too much for his bruised body to handle, and every pleasurable shiver set off another wave of pain. She brushed his navel, but he caught her hand before she could do something he would not want to stop. This was nice and all, but the alarm clock had woken him up for a reason. He had to get to work.

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Next time—” His chest seized up. Oh God, what was her name? He didn’t know her name! He smiled, trying to cover up the unexpected pause. “—Darling.” He kissed her fingers again. “I’d love to stay in bed with you all day, but duty calls, and my landlord is not a forgiving or generous man.”

“Call in sick,” she said, sex in her eyes.

It was tempting, but Ryan had a firm no ditching responsibilities policy. Drink hard, play hard, work hard. The playing had been fun last night—really fun as he was beginning to recall—but today it was time for work. He threw back the covers and got out of bed to remove any further temptation. The hardwood floor was cool beneath his bare feet, the morning air chilly on his naked skin. He took a deep breath to quell some of the heat sizzling in his blood and bring his body temperature back down to normal.

His nameless lover sat up and the sheet pooled around her waist, offering him a view a man would rightly die for. She was rumpled and tousled and sexy, and the sight of her made him want to seriously reconsider his decision.

She rubbed her eyes with her fisted hands, a gesture both innocent and seductive. “When will I see you again?”

“Two weeks.” He needed to get her motivated. He grabbed her top off his dresser, her shorts off the floor, and her panties from the edge of the bed as he circled around toward her. He offered her his hand to help her to her feet. “We’ll see each other at the finals.” She climbed out of bed, and he handed her the clothing. “I’m going to win it all for you.”

She chuckled and Ryan smiled back. He’d had fun last night. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again. If there was a next time, he’d be sure to learn her name.

She got dressed and he grimaced. Even in the harsh light, she was hot as hell in that tiny string bikini top, little black short-shorts, and high heels, but there was no way he was going to let her walk to the subway in that outfit in the middle of the morning commute. “Here,” he said, reaching into his dresser. He pulled out a dark T-shirt. “Put this on.”

She pulled his shirt on over her head and it came down to around her knees. Good. She slipped her arm through his, and he escorted her to the front door. He had a lot of work waiting for him at the office. His first order of business was to finish the coding on The Candy Connoisseur’s website. Then he was sitting in on a meeting about a new client, a swanky new cosmetics company specializing in high-pigment eye shadows. He needed to get himself on that project. If he could sweet-talk the team leader—or even bribe, he wasn’t above bribery—maybe…

“Okay, see you then,” his companion said, pausing on the threshold. She looked up at him and giggled.

He nodded absently and held the door open for her. He also really needed to update that art gallery’s website for one of the other senior programmers like he promised. He couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten about that. Damn. It was going to be a long day.

The Card-Girl lingered in the doorway, and Ryan became slowly aware that she was not moving. He met her gaze and the look in her eye said all that needed saying. She wanted a kiss goodbye. He didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. He wasn’t a monster after all—just a man who had to get to work. He gave her a nice, long, slow one before sending her on her way.

He shut the door behind her, the memory of her fading right along with the scent of her perfume. A part of him wanted to spin out fantasies of seeing her again, of maybe spending some real time with her, talking and laughing, getting to know one another. Every once in a while, the simple desire to have someone constant in his life made him acutely aware of just how lonely he was. But those thoughts were easily pushed aside. He’d witnessed the reality behind that particular fantasy far too many times to want any part of it. The way he lived now was good. Easy. And that was exactly the way he wanted to keep it.

He turned from the door and headed for the bathroom with a smile on his face. Sure, he hurt everywhere, and the hangover was really beginning to settle in now, but life was good. Really, really good. He indulged in a scorching shower, the hot water loosening his sore muscles. The mirror over the bathroom sink reflected his massive black eye in vivid detail, and he gave himself a jaunty wink while he brushed his teeth. God, he looked terrible.

His face hurt way too much to shave, so he let it go without a second thought. He went back to his bedroom and peered into the closet. He wasn’t seeing clients yet, so it didn’t really matter what he wore. Today he chose old, comfortable clothes—faded jeans and a navy cotton T-shirt. Thankfully he didn’t work in a suit and tie kind of office—unless you wanted to wear a suit and tie of course. Some people did. Ryan was not one of them.

He dressed, reassessing his priories for the day. He couldn’t wait for his new-employee probation to be over so he could do some real work, actually build and maintain a website for one of the eclectic and often flamboyant clients Sharpe Designs seemed to attract. That was still a while away unfortunately. When he was hired, he’d been told it would take a minimum of eight months, but probably more, before he got his own solo accounts. As of three days ago, he’d only been there six.

Seagulls were screaming over the Coney Island boardwalk, fighting over the spoils from last night when he exited his building. He said a cheerful good morning to the line of elderly ladies sitting outside the senior center next door, all ready to take in some sun in their plastic lawn chairs with their umbrellas and fans and packs of long, thin cigarettes close at hand. They giggled and waved, just as they did every morning he walked by.

The breeze off the Atlantic Ocean was crisp and invigorating, and he breathed deeply as he headed up the avenue toward the subway. People were already dotting the beach, surfers on the low waves. He passed Nathan’s, closed at this early hour, but the scent of the hotdogs ever present in the air. Underneath the aches and pains, his body wanted to move, to stretch, his muscles longing for the daily run along the beach he usually treated himself to. He was a little too late for that today though. He’d run later, when he got home from work. It was just as well. It would be cooler in the evening, and it would give his hangover a chance to subside a bit.

He descended into the darkness of the station and when the subway arrived, he got onboard, squeezing his way into the car with the other commuters. He allowed himself a small grin as he caught another glimpse of his black eye in the reflection of the doors. He’d made it into the finals. He never thought he’d make it that far. He was good, but some of the people he’d gone up against had been on the circuit for years. He was relatively new to the sport and exceptionally new to New York. He didn’t know his opponents, had never sparred with any of them, had no concept of their strengths or weaknesses. When he’d signed up for the tournament, he figured he wouldn’t make it past the second round, but at least he’d gain a working knowledge to take it all next year. But here he was, getting ready for the finals. It was out of control. He was going to have to call his mom when he got back home. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

The train burst out of the tunnel into a blast of sunlight, rumbling over the Manhattan Bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge stood in the distance, lower Manhattan spread out before him. That view always got him revved him up, got his blood pumping. Philly was his home, where he was from, but New York was a pretty spectacular place.

His stop arrived, and he jumped off the train. He exited the station, turned off Broadway, and onto Spring Street. Commuters in suits and jeans, hipster gear and hippy skirts stood on lines for the corner coffee carts, fueling up for the day. He wasn’t all that late when he arrived at the converted brownstone that held the Sharpe Design offices, and he congratulated himself on a job well done.

He entered the daily bustle, waving to a few people as he made his way back toward his corner cubicle. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee hung in the air, and despite his queasy stomach, the lure was too powerful to resist. He needed to check his messages first, then he was going upstairs to the lounge and grab a cup. When he arrived at his desk, he frowned, plucking a Post-It note off the monitor. Please come see me when you arrive – Ron, it read, the request written in elegant, flowing script.

Butterflies invaded Ryan’s belly. He didn’t think he was in any trouble, but a note from the owner was not something anyone wanted to walk in to. He scanned his memory for what he had been working on lately, wondering what he might have screwed up. Nothing came to mind. He tossed the note into the plastic garbage can beside the cubicle and looked toward the polished staircase by the entrance. The only way to find out what was going on was to go up to the top floor and see what the man wanted. He grabbed a notebook off his desk and headed upstairs.

He jogged up, taking two steps at a time, and when he reached the top, he took a left. He passed by a small alcove and a line of executive offices. His sneakers were silent on the lush carpet. Ron’s assistant, Mary Ellen, was poised at her desk, lacquered nails tapping away on her keyboard. She was an elegant though hard woman, who took her job as sentry very seriously. If she did not want you to get to Ron, you didn’t get to Ron. Even Ron’s husband and partner, the CFO, Alan Altman, got turned away. She was not playing. No one was safe. Ryan held his breath while she called back, only exhaling when she waved him inside.

He stepped into the spacious office and smiled when he caught his boss’ eye. Ron had the same welcoming expression on his face that he’d had the first time Ryan met him. A little less than a year ago, Ryan had decided to attend a lecture on web design at a friend’s grad school in Philly. He’d been discontent with his job, feeling stagnate and bored, and he was hoping for some inspiration, maybe an idea or two on what he could do next. Ron’s presentation totally blew him away. The dapper businessman from New York encouraged the students to think about web design as a career choice, not because it was a growing industry or there was the opportunity to make lots of money, but rather because a web designer could actually make a difference in people’s perceptions. By designing a person or company’s website, your creative vision could and would dictate how people thought of that brand. It was an immense responsibility, but also deeply rewarding. Before Ron was even halfway done speaking, Ryan had already decided he was going to talk with the man that night. Six months later, he was the newest employee at Sharpe Designs and proud of it.

“Oh, good,” Ron said, standing up as Ryan entered. His coat was perfectly pressed even though he had been sitting, every hair in place. Ryan felt like a bit of a scrub with his faded jeans and black eye, but it was too late now. He had to just go with it. “I was hoping you’d be in around your usual time this morning.” He gestured to the guest chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said, taking a seat. He rubbed his palms together, trying to get rid of the slight clamminess. “What’s going on?”

Ron grinned as Ryan sat. “That is a lovely black eye you have there. I hope you won.”

“I did.” Pride filled his heart once again. “I’m in the finals in two weeks.”

“Wonderful! Give the date to my assistant. Alan and I want to come.”

“That would be excellent,” Ryan said, deeply flattered that they’d want to see him fight. His new coworkers were unlike any he had worked with before. They actually seemed to care about one another. It was nice. Refreshing. “I’d love that.”

“Fantastic. We’ve very excited for you.” Ron leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop. Ryan read the signs and sat up straighter. Small talk was over. It was business time. “I’ve been very impressed with the work you’ve done here, Ryan.”

Ryan blinked. This was not what he expected at all. “Thank you.”

Ron shuffled some papers on his desk, isolated a single sheet, and read it over before meeting Ryan’s gaze again. “I think it’s time for you to take on clients. I have the perfect one in mind. She’s coming in today. In a few minutes, in fact.”

Ryan’s mouth fell open. Today? No way. He was dressed like a bum, in pain, and worst of all, he was totally unprepared. “I don’t know anything about her.”

“It’s okay,” Ron said soothingly, obviously picking up on Ryan’s nerves. “It was a last-minute appointment. She was free, and I thought of you. I told her this would be just a consultation. You can go over with her all the things she would’ve normally filled out online. She’s not expecting any results yet.”

Ryan’s heart sped up in his chest. This was what he had been waiting for since the day he’d started with Sharpe. Finally, the chance to make something functional and beautiful and creative. He could not wait. “Who is she?”

“An author, named Grace Betancourt.” Ron flicked the mouse and called up something on his computer screen. “I’m giving you Kat Greer as the graphic artist on this one. Her role will be to set up the designs according to your and your client’s specifications, and advise you in any way she can about the general aesthetics.”

That was the best possible news. Kat Greer was the company’s top graphic artist. She’d won more awards than he could ever dream of even being nominated for. Ron was doing him a huge favor by letting him have her.

“Kat will meet with you and Ms. Betancourt today so she can get a sense of what the client is after and make you up some options to work with, but in the future, you will be meeting with her alone. You’ll still report to Dean, and he will advise you, but this is your project, Ryan. Total control.”

“This is amazing.” He was going to make something incredible for this woman. He couldn’t wait to meet her.

“I’m so glad. Kat is expecting you, and I’ve arranged for you to use The Conservatory for your interview. When Ms. Betancourt arrives, she’ll be shown in there.”

“Thanks.” Ryan always got a laugh out of the names of the meeting rooms here. The Conservatory, The Billiard Room, The Lounge. It may be an upscale firm, but it had a wonderfully geeky heart.

“I know it may seem that sending you out to meet a brand new client with a black eye probably isn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made, but as I’m sure your coworkers have told you, I have feelings about things. People.” He paused, held Ryan’s gaze. “And I have faith in you.”

Ryan was too blown away to respond. He knew Ron liked him, but this was crazy. He’d never been the kind of person to inspire faith in others. Yes, he was a hard worker, but he was a hard player as well—a fact that never escaped his former employers’ attention. He met Ron’s eyes once again and nodded to his boss, resolve thrumming in his heart. He was not going to squander this opportunity. When Ron rose to his feet, Ryan mirrored the action, shaking the other man’s hand hard.

Ryan left Ron’s office, his step light as he headed back down the hallway to the small alcove Kat Greer shared with his direct supervisor, Chief Programmer, Dean Kirkwell.

“Hey, Kat,” he called as he ducked into their inner sanctum. The seat beside her was empty. “Where’s Dean?”

Kat looked up at him from her desk, her cornflower-blue eyes expertly lined in black. She glanced over at the empty chair. “He’s meeting with your BFF in finance. Something about the Fisher account.”

Ryan laughed. Gwendolyn Pierce was murder to deal with. She had to be the most negative and cankerous person he had ever met. For no reason he could determine, she mildly tolerated him. She most certainly didn’t seem to like anyone else. “Wow, poor Dean.”

Kat nodded sadly, but there was a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “I just hope she returns him to me intact.” She sighed dramatically. “I do like him better that way.” She grabbed one of the legal pads on her desk. “Are you ready to go downstairs?”

“Yeah.” He was bouncing. His first project. He was going to make it great. “Any idea who this person is?”

“No,” she said. “A writer. Mysteries, I think. She’s got to be close with someone in the Family though. Ron asked me this morning if I could work on this. Appointments never happen that fast and anyone talking to Ron directly has got to be somebody.”

He stopped short. She had a point he hadn’t even considered. The Family, he’d come to learn, was what his coworkers called the mishmash of colleagues, friends, and lovers that comprised the Sharpe Designs world. If this woman was part of the Family in some way, then this was even bigger than he expected. He really had to make an impression. This was a huge chance. The best kind of nerves jangled his system, very much akin to the kind he felt whenever he stepped into the ring. He was ready to meet this challenge and win.

Kat stood up, taller than usual in super-high, razor-thin heels. He almost wanted to offer her his arm, afraid that she might topple over on the skinny stilettos. Those shoes didn’t look like they were meant to hold any weight, but she seemed to manage just fine, walking confidently past him toward the staircase.

Her hips swayed, and he had to work hard to keep his jaw off the floor. The way she moved in those heels and short skirt could do wicked things to weak men. She was everything he liked in a woman—small, blonde, hot, kinda dark and weird. But, alas, it was never meant to be. She was living happily ever after with his direct supervisor. And no matter how hot he thought she was, he could never give her anything like what she had with Dean. Their relationship was a constant source of awe, and if he wanted to be honest with himself, envy too. Sure, he’d show her a great night, but in the end, it would always be just one night. That was the simple reality of his life.

He dragged his gaze away and quickly joined her by her side. If she caught him gaping at her, she’d probably give him another black eye for his trouble. “I saw the latest edition of KLIVE,” he said as they descended the stairs. “It was awesome.” KLIVE was a gothic-styled web comic Kat wrote and illustrated about a chain-smoking, alcoholic, homicidal bunny working in customer service. He never missed an episode. She had a twisted sense of humor. “But did he really kill Drizz? I can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a good sidekick.”

Kat beamed at him. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

They arrived on the first floor and headed for the meeting rooms. The Conservatory was on the right side of the building, a pleasant, airy room done in shades of tan and ivory. A silver tray sat on the conference table with a full French press of quality coffee, cups, spoons, a bowl of sugar packets and artificial sweeteners, and a small decanter of cream. That kind of attention to detail was one of the many things he liked about working at Sharpe Designs, and one of the things that continually pleasantly surprised him.

Kat settled down next to him on the same side of the conference table, their backs to the bookshelves lining the west wall of the room. She pointed to his eye. “Did you win?”

“I did,” he said with a grin. He could tell people that all day and never get bored.

“Dean and I want to be at the finals. When is that happening?”

“Two weeks. At a gym downtown. I’ll email you the details when I get back to my desk.”

“We’ll be there.” She gave him a wide smile. “I can’t wait to see you fight.”

The door opened, and Ryan and Kat rose to their feet as the receptionist showed in a well-dressed woman. She was tall, probably around five-eight or five-nine, wearing a sleeveless black silk shirt with a scooped neckline. Her long, rich brown hair was pulled away from her heart-shaped face, the ends curling around the swell of her breasts. Her skirt was black and white, simple and elegant, her shoes designer flats.

“Hi,” the woman said, leaning over the table to shake their hands. “I’m Grace Betancourt.”

Ryan took her hand, instantly captivated by the spray of freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose, the small dimple in the corner of her cheek. Cute, definitely cute. “Ryan Granger.” He gestured toward Kat. “And this is Kat Greer.”

With the introductions out of the way, everyone sat at the conference table, ready to begin. Ryan caught Grace’s eye and a sharp, electric spark of attraction hit him square in the gut. It was a feeling he knew well. Chemistry. And all the right kinds.

“Coffee?” Kat asked, depressing the plunger on the French press.

Grace smiled, lighting up her aquamarine eyes. The color reminded him of the water in the Caribbean, a sight he’d seen on a Spring Break trip long ago. She was very attractive. And in a totally different league than the women he usually hit on.

“That’d be great,” she said to Kat and then glanced over at him again. Yes, there was something there between them for sure. He could all too easily imagine breathing in the scent of skin right at the hollow of her throat. She probably smelled of roses, maybe even lavender. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I had to be downtown to meet with my agent today, and I decided to see if you were free.” She grinned. “I never expected to actually get in.”

That smile just about killed him, and Ryan crossed his legs beneath the table. His priorities were fucked. He needed to refocus. This woman was his client. His first client. He needed to do this right. That wasn’t going happen if he spent all his time thinking of ways to sleep with her. He cleared his throat, opened a fresh page in his notebook. “It’s great to meet you, Grace. Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself and what you’re looking for.”

“Right,” Grace said, hooking her hair back behind her ears. Ryan got a better glimpse of her rounded cleavage and had to quickly look away. “I just signed a new contract for a cozy mystery series—a four-book deal.” Her eyes glowed. “I just had a basic website before with my contact information and not much else. But now I need something that’s going to attract some serious traffic.” She sat up, and there was determination in her posture, a steel in her spine, which only made him want her that much more. “I need to sell some books.”

Kat propped her pad up against the rim of the table and picked up her pencil. “Tell me about your series.”

“It’s called The Georgica Pond Mysteries, and it’s about Mia Keller, a former investment banker who leaves Manhattan to open an inn out in the Hamptons.” She tilted her head from side to side, seeming to find the description amusing. A tinge of a blush shaded her cheeks. “On the side, she solves crimes.”

Kat looked up from her notes. “What kind of body count are we talking about here?”

Grace sipped her coffee, thought it over. “At least one dead per book, but usually it’s two. The most I’ve ever had was six.”

Ryan couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a lot of people dying in the Hamptons.”

Grace favored him with a smile that did terribly wonderful things to his libido. “It’s a dangerous place.”

Kat tapped her pencil against her lips, a faraway look in her eyes. “The creepiest thing happened to me last night. I don’t think I can use it, but you might be able to.”

Grace put her coffee aside, giving Kat her total attention. “I’m interested.”

Kat learned across the table toward Grace. “My boyfriend and I have this wireless printer in our bedroom, one we use mostly for non-work related stuff, so it doesn’t get turned on all that often. Last night, in the middle of the night, it came to life. It was probably just updating itself or something like that, but it woke me up. I laid in bed, in the dark, listening to the cartridges scrape and the wheels turn, just like they do right before they’re about to print something.” Kat gave an exaggerated shiver, but Ryan could see the delighted gleam in her eyes. “While it was doing its thing, I realized I had left my laptop in the living room. All I could think about was what if there was some stranger in the other room, using it to send me some kind of crazy message through the printer. I freaked out a little bit, thinking of the things it might say. Stuff like, ‘I see you’ or ‘You’re pretty when you sleep’. I think it would be a great riff on the whole, ‘the phone call is coming from inside the house thing’. ” She held Grace’s eyes. “You know what I mean?”

Grace grinned like a mad woman. “That’s a really good idea. Maybe not so much the horror story aspect, but maybe the killer could be sending notes, taunting her through the wireless printer. Or maybe he could even send her pictures.” She sat back in her seat and nodded. “I like it. Can I steal that?”

“Of course,” Kat said. “But you have to dedicate the book to me.”

“That’s a deal,” Grace replied, and the women laughed together. Ryan knew that he should not be fascinated by their conversation. It was morbid and kind of sick. But he liked it. A lot.

“So, the Hamptons,” Kat said, picking up her pad once again. “And murder. Is it glamor or is it rustic?”

“Definitely rustic,” Grace said.

Kat nodded. “Any themes you use over and over again? Any character traits? Gimmicks? Anything you’d like to see incorporated into the basic design?”

“Just the lake and the B&B. Those things are always in the stories.”

Kat made more notes. The room was quiet as her pencil scraped across the paper. “Okay,” she said, finally looking up from her work. “I have another appointment, but I’ll get Ryan some mock-ups in a few days for you to look over.” She stood up, gathered her things. “It was great meeting you.” She circled around the table to stand beside Grace. “I’m going to make you something spectacular.”

Grace smiled. “Thank you.”

Kat nodded, said goodbye to them both, then left the room.

Grace looked at Ryan and sipped her coffee. Suddenly the pressure was on. He had to make the right impression, but now that Kat was gone, the funky feeling in his gut was insanely distracting. He would be willing to wager a considerable amount of money that she was just as interested as he was. It was loud and clear in the tension in the air between them. But he couldn’t act on it. Couldn’t even consider it. She was his client.

“So, okay,” he said, fumbling a bit. What did he need to know? He looked her over again. Was she free tonight? How did she feel about shameless, hot, animal sex? He took a deep breath and bit down on the inside of his cheek as hard as he could. “Let’s start with the basics. What kind of pages would you like your website to have?”

“Hmm,” she said, thinking it over. “A page for my books for sure. A bio, a contact page, maybe news and appearances? That can be one page.” She tapped her index finger against her upper lip and his gaze fixed on her mouth. She was turning him inside out and she didn’t even know it. “I think that’s it.”

He struggled to keep his face professionally plain. “Do you have a fun kind of page? Or a blog? We’ve found that authors who give readers a little something extra get a lot more traffic and repeat hits.”

She curled her upper lip, obviously not liking the idea. “I don’t have time to constantly update things like that. I have a tight schedule.”

Ryan nodded. “I understand. I could do the updating for you, but the information would have to come from you. Quirky things that you’ve come across while researching, free reads, giveaways. These things really help traffic. It gives people something beyond the basic, ‘here’s my book, buy my book, please’ kind of thing.”

She blew air out of her nose. “That does make sense. I’ll have to think about it and get back to you.”

“Great,” Ryan said. “Make me a list and we’ll build something from there.”

“Have you done this before?” she asked. “You sound like you know what people want.”

“No,” Ryan admitted. “You’ll be my first author.” He did not allow himself to fully contemplate the possibilities and implications of that statement. “But Sharpe Designs has a lot of authors for clients, in all different genres. We know what works.”

Her smile turned playful, flirtatious. “How’d you get that black eye? An unsatisfied client?”

He laughed. “No, I box.” He rubbed his stubbly cheek and the flare of pain was a welcome distraction. “I’m usually more put together than this. Sorry. I was in a tournament last night.”

She leaned across the table toward him, offering him an outstanding view of her plump cleavage. “Did you win?”

His mouth went bone dry, and he quickly lifted his gaze up to her face. “I did.”

“You must be pretty good.”

“I’m very good.”

“But not the best?”

He grinned. “I don’t like to brag.”

She responded with a slow curve of her lush lips. How was he going to get this woman into his bed? That had to happen. Because he wanted her a whole lot.

Her cell phone vibrated, and she jumped. The way she scrambled for it made him think she was expecting an important call. Or maybe dreading one. Her face was tight and tense as she looked at the screen, and then she visibly relaxed. Whatever it was, she decided not to answer it now and tucked the phone back in her purse.

“Sorry,” she said, looking back up at him. She took a deep breath, let it out. “I actually need to get going. Is there anything more I can tell you? I have to get my words in for the day.”

“I think we’re good for now.” He wanted to see her again. Needed to see her again. And it was perfectly reasonable. It was for the site. Today was Thursday. He thought about the earliest he could have something done. He didn’t want to stress Kat out with a tight deadline. She had at least three other projects going on. “Can we meet again on Wednesday? I’ll have a solid working outline for you by then.”

She bit her lower lip, looked away. “Do we have to meet? Can’t we just do it through email?”

Ryan tried not to take it as hard as he did, but his heart sank as the rejection set in. “Whatever you’d like, Grace. It’s your site. We can do it however you want.” But please say you’ll meet me, that I’ll get to see you again.

Grace grimaced. “No, never mind, it’s okay. I can come in.” She gave him a beseeching look. “I just… I have tight deadlines and daily word counts that I have to meet. This is just a bad time.” She let out a long breath. “But I guess there never is a good time, is there? And I do want this done. Wednesday is fine. Is the afternoon all right?”

“The afternoon is excellent.” Technically, he could do everything by email. But he was selfish and far too happy to let any guilt ruin his good fortune. “How about four?”

She nodded. “Sounds good.”

She rose out of the chair, and Ryan held the door open for her as she exited the meeting room. He wanted to offer her his arm, not for support like with Kat, but because he wanted to be close to her, touch her in some way. He couldn’t get quite close enough to get a whiff of her perfume and he was intensely disappointed. He really did want to know what she smelled like.

She left the building, and he smiled to himself as he watched her disappear into the crowd on Spring Street. He was a little pained to see her go, but he would be seeing her again. They had a date. Well, an appointment. Whatever. He was seeing her again and that’s all that mattered.

Back at his desk, he sat down and cracked his knuckles. Before he could even begin her project, he had to do a little research on the author. He needed to get a sense of her books, her style, before he could know what was right for her. He tried not to feel like a creeper as he typed her name into Google. It was for work. It was what he would have done with any client. His personal interest had no place in it. The fact that he was thrilled when he saw that she was single meant nothing. She was just another client. He scrolled through the returns, picking up little tidbits about her professional life. She’d won quite a few awards and was part of a reading series last month at The New School. He opened a new tab, went to Amazon, and downloaded her first book to his tablet. He’d read that over the weekend. He went back to his search list and clicked on her Wiki page. It was time to get to know Grace Betancourt.

Chapter Two

Grace flexed her fingers over her laptop keyboard. 4,742 words done. Not the best words, she was going to have to do some serious editing, but still, words on the page. Her gaze flicked to the lower left side of the screen. 31,284 words in total. Not enough. No break for her today. She was writing on a tighter deadline than she had ever worked with before, and she constantly felt like she could fall behind at any moment. She had to make this work, find a way to write more. Missing any one of her new set of deadlines was not an option.

She picked up her coffee mug and blew on the hot liquid, reading over what she’d written. She couldn’t go forward until she assessed what she had. There was a new man in town, Seth Winters, and he’d just arrived at the B&B to drop off brochures with deals for the tourists and guests at his new fitness club. He was younger than the heroine, Mia, with dark brown hair and dancing hazel eyes. Tall and fit, Seth was hot, and all the locals and celebrities were flocking to his place to get worked out, slimmed down, bulked up. He had a wide grin with one imperfection, the slightest overlapping of his two front teeth. That tiny flaw in his otherwise flawless face only made him more handsome, and caused the women, and a lot of the men, of the Hamptons to swoon. So far, she wasn’t sure if Seth was going to be a murderer or a just another victim.

Or maybe, he could be a love interest for Mia.

Grace rolled her eyes at herself. Could she be more desperate? It was bad enough she’d totally put her new web designer in her book, but to make him her heroine’s love interest was going a bit overboard. If she wanted to keep him in there at all, she was going to have to change some of the details. The smile was an especially huge giveaway. Still, Ryan made an excellent model, and Mia did deserve a man. This was going to be her third book and maybe it was time for Mia to meet someone. Readers seemed to like a bit of romance.

Her old leather office chair squeaked as she sat back in it, her feet up on the desk. A love interest would definitely open the series to more people, lend it some new marketability. That was the name of the game after all. She had a four-book deal with advances and publisher expectations. She had to make it good, make it readable and liked. She also really needed the money. She wasn’t going to try any gimmick just to sell books, but over the span of four novels, Mia couldn’t remain stagnant. That would be dreadfully boring. She needed to have a life in the town. Meeting someone was the next logical step in a normal life. Seth would enrich the story. He was going to have to stick around for a while.

Grace sighed. Not that she could write from experience or anything. Her own life was sorely lacking in the love interest department. Ryan Granger was an attractive man. And if she read the signs right, kind of interested. She couldn’t believe she’d flirted with him the way she had. But he’d flirted back. No woman could pass up that kind of encouragement. Her cheeks heated as she recalled his smile, the way his gaze fixed on her, the appreciative gleam in his eyes. It was unfortunate that they met now. She had no time for distractions.

Which reminded her—she had a meeting with him on Wednesday. She needed to make that list of “fun extras” for him. She sat up, opened her calendar, and made a note to do it tomorrow. She ran her fingers lightly over the keyboard, her thoughts drifting back to her web designer. She was really looking forward to seeing him again. More than she should be. He was a rough sort, the tight, faded jeans, the black eye, the rakish grin. He knew he was attractive too and had no problem flaunting it. His butt had been stupendous in those jeans. She’d bet he’d look good in leather.

Hmm, leather. Leather jacket, leather chaps…

Inspiration slapped her across the face. She sat up, her fingers flying over the keyboard, busting out sixty words a minute. She deleted Seth’s original introduction, rewrote his entire entrance. A motorcycle. Ryan—Seth—needed to have a motorcycle. What kind of motorcycle? She paused, her hands hovering over the keys. She didn’t know anything about motorcycles. It had to be sexy, all chrome and black. She was going to have to ask on Twitter for suggestions. Maybe she should run a contest. Give away a book and allow the winner to decide which bike Ryan—Seth—gets to ride. She scribbled a note in the notebook she kept beside the computer, envisioning how she would promote it, getting caught up in the details.

“Okay, stop,” she said out loud. Write now, worry about the promo later. She turned her attention back to her work.

Mia frowned at the unfamiliar noise outside the B&B. She peeked through the white lace curtains framing the inn’s bay window and watched a man in leather ride by on a (MOTORCYCLE). He parked the bike a few feet away from the entrance, and when he lifted off his helmet, Mia gasped. He was devastatingly handsome, with a thick stock of unruly dark hair, a bold nose, and the kind of lips that could make a woman think about wicked, wicked things. His muscular thighs flexed as he dismounted the bike, and her heartbeat galloped, the blood racing through her veins suddenly a whole lot warmer.

Grace cocked her head to the side, smiling as she read over what she’d written. It was amazing how easy the words came when she was writing about Seth. She was a slow writer by nature and often struggled over every word, but his appearance seemed to flow with a rhythm all on its own. And it was fun writing about him—fun like it had been in the beginning, before she was caught up in word counts and deadlines and marketing strategies. Writing about him brought back the pure joy of simply writing. It was a welcome change—one she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing.

She went back to work, the scene playing out in her head as she typed. Seth crossing the spacious front porch, the chime of the bell as he opened the door, the fluttering of Mia’s stomach when he approached the reception desk. She gave Mia the warmth she had felt in her own chest when Ryan first smiled at her, that first pulse of instant attraction. Their handshake went on a little longer than normal, and Mia’s breath caught as the heat of his palm warmed hers, a wild flush on her cheeks. It was all so clear in her mind, and the words flowed effortlessly, the tension between Mia and Seth building with every new paragraph.

Her phone buzzed, rudely breaking the spell, and Grace lunged for it, her heart thudding in her ears. There was time when she’d keep her phone off for days, lost in the worlds of her own creation, but now the phone was never far from her hand and every buzz made her cringe and jump. A knot formed in her stomach when she saw who was calling, the dread and fear and worry making her physically ill. She slid the bar across the screen and braced herself for whatever bad news the voice on the other end would deliver. “Hello?”

“Ms. Betancourt?” a coolly professional female voice asked.

Grace closed her eyes. Please don’t be bad. “Yes?”

“This is Andrea Wilcox from Westview Gardens. Your father has had a very minor accident.”

Her stomach lurched, and she clenched her teeth. This could be the nightmare she was always dreading. “Is he hurt?”

“No, not badly. He bumped his head on the way to the bathroom, and he is understandably upset. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” The woman paused. “Of course we were concerned by this incident and we ran some tests. Before you visit him, we’d like to speak with you about altering his level of care. Would you mind stopping by the administrative building when you arrive?”

Grace knew all too well that “altering his level of care” was fancy code for upping the bill. This was the second time since her father had been admitted to the long-term care facility that they’d needed to alter his level of care. Alzheimer's had taken his memory and now it seemed to be taking his basic motor skills as well. When she’d admitted him, she’d wanted to believe they would be able to perform some kind of miracle, maybe help slow down the progression of the disease. Westview Gardens was famous for their recuperative therapies, their brochures boasting they were voted the best residential care facility in the country for five years in a row. If there was any hope for him, it was to be found there. Of course, everything had a price, and in this case, a price no health insurance plan was ever going to pay.

She took a deep breath and rubbed her hand over her forehead in an attempt to soothe away some of the tension. It didn’t work, but it was a nice try. Nowadays, she was made of tension. She glanced at the clock on her computer. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“That’s excellent,” Andrea Wilcox said. “We’ll look forward to your arrival.”

Grace ended the call and instantly went online to the largest car sharing site to see if they had a vehicle free. If not, she’d try somewhere else. She had memberships with all the services and rental agencies. This was not the first phone call she’d received, and she’d learned the hard way that relying on mass transit to get out to Long Island on a moment’s notice was not the way to go. With delays and transfers, it had taken her three hours one day to get to her father’s side. That was totally unacceptable.

She had luck on her first try and found there was a car available about two blocks away on Riverside Drive. Grace quickly reserved it, grabbed her house keys, and left her apartment. She didn’t have time to mess around with makeup or change into better clothing. Appearances did not matter.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon, bright sunny skies, a warm breeze, no clouds, low humidity. The scent of damp earth carried on the wind from Riverside Park, the trees verdant in her peripheral vision. She marched toward the garage, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. All around her, people were smiling and strolling, enjoying the day and one another. It was the perfect day for a walk, a picnic, a bottle of wine. Sadly, that was not her day.

She got the car—something small and foreign and blue that hadn’t been cleaned out by the previous renter. It even lacked a GPS unit, but that hardly mattered. She didn’t need one. She knew where she was going. All too well. She brushed ashes off the seat, climbed in, and put the car in drive.

The trip out of the city was uneventful, the traffic sparse. In under an hour, she was pulling into the tree-lined drive of the Westview Gardens Guest Homes and selecting a spot in the visitors’ area of the parking lot. A gentle breeze stirred the leafy trees on the campus, birds sang, and elderly people in hospital gowns and robes strolled the winding paths with partners and staff. It was a peaceful place, tranquil, and despite his difficulties, she still felt it was the right place for her father to be. Along with the beautiful setting, they had a nurse practitioner on premises twenty-four hours a day. The staff to patient ratio was outstanding. Everyone had private rooms. If there was a place where he could get better, it would have been here. But despite all the perks, he’d shown no signs of improvement. In fact, everything pointed the opposite way. A lump formed in her throat, and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth to get herself under control. She could not walk in there on the verge of tears. She had to get it together.

She took a deep breath, exited her car, and entered the administrative building. A puff of air conditioning chilled the sweat she didn’t realize she’d had on her brow. Her shoes squeaked on the waxed linoleum floor as she walked down the short, wood-paneled corridor. She told the young woman at the reception desk her name and then sat on one of the plush, floral-printed sofas to wait for Andrea Wilcox to retrieve her.

She picked up a random women’s magazine and had barely gotten through a thought-provoking article on the proper way to apply eye shadow when a familiar voice interrupted her reading.

“Hello, Ms. Betancourt,” Andrea Wilcox said, standing over her. She was an efficient woman in a sensible pants suit, her light-brown hair pulled back in a tight, non-nonsense bun. She looked exactly the same as she had the first time Grace met her, almost two years ago when she’d admitted her father.

Grace stood up and took her hand. “Hello, Ms. Wilcox. How is he doing?”

“He’s fine. Of course, we’re monitoring him closely, but there’s no need for concern. It was just a minor bump.” The woman smiled. “Let’s go to my office and we’ll discuss some of the changes we’d like to implement for your father in the future.”

Grace nodded, and Ms. Wilcox led the way past reception, into the right wing of the building. They entered an office at the end of the hallway, featuring a view of the grounds. Certificates and commendations lined one wall, family photos on the other. Grace did not look at any of them closely, her gaze was focused on the center of the large wooden desk, and her father’s chart sitting in the middle.

Ms. Wilcox sat in her executive leather chair, put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and opened the folder. She studied whatever was written in there for a few seconds and then looked up at Grace. “I’m afraid your father’s condition is deteriorating faster than we’d hoped. We are concerned, but optimistic. However, some aspects of his care will have to change.”

“How did he fall?” Condition. Deteriorating. She couldn’t process the words, didn’t want to. It was easier to focus on something small, something she could handle.

“Unfortunately, he is showing signs of apraxia. He was on his way to the bathroom, and it appears he momentarily forgot how to walk.” She glanced at the file again. “Your father is going to require additional assistance in his daily living. His bathing routine for instance must change drastically in order to fit his current needs.”

Grace’s heart hurt. This disease was the worst thing ever—far worse than even death. “What do you need me to do?”

Ms. Wilcox met Grace’s gaze, her expression sympathetic. “I know this is disheartening, but have hope. Your father is in the best care possible, Ms. Betancourt. We will do everything we can to keep him comfortable and safe.” She removed a stapled pile of papers from the file and placed them on the desk in front of Grace. “Here are our revised plans. Look them over. We just need your signature to begin implementation.” She stood up and walked to Grace’s side. “I’ll give you a few minutes to review them. Would you like coffee or anything?”

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