“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
