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
