Kitabı oku: «Silent Desires»
“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.”
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Silent Desires
J. Kenner
MILLS & BOON
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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.
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