Silent Desires

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.”