Beyond Daring
Kathleen O'Reilly
Let's see the Handler handle her!Up-and-coming publicist Jeff Brooks is assigned to hot Manhattan celebutante Sheldon Summerville, whose scandalous behavior threatens the marriage proposal brokered by her tycoon father. The heiress hates being a commodity, but daddy bankrolls her extravagant lifestyle, so she's dealing the only way she knows how: shoe-shopping and party-hopping.Jeff is supposed to retool sexy Sheldon's wild-child image (thereby earning his PR superstud merit badge). Only, he knows from media makeovers that he's a 'recovering player,' and should be cleaning up his own reputation.But all his extra-naughty urges come roaring back the second Sheldon sets a stilettoed foot outside her limo door. She's headstrong, hard-bodied and seems determined to show him who's on top!
Beyond Daring
Kathleen O’Reilly
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter 1 (#uf3aae5ea-97c4-57bf-8333-ac7b64d1608b)
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
Chapter 15
1
JEFF BROOKS STOOD in his kitchen, furiously chopping green peppers, trying to expend some of the sexual frustration that currently had his shorts tied up in knots. Making breakfast was infinitely preferable than fantasizing about the woman happily snoozing in his bed.
Sheldon Summerville. Party girl. Socialite. Professional shopper. She was off-limits, with a capital O, little f, little f. O-f-f. F-f-o. He recited the jingle in his head, while thinking about her father, who, three months ago, had hired Jeff’s firm to “redeem” her image. As if such a miracle could be performed by a mere mortal without the use of a padlocked chastity belt. Anything to shut down that perfect body, which she seemed determined to share with the world.
He selected an onion and began to hack, his eyes burning from the juices. Today he welcomed the discomfort. Sheldon Summerville left him frustrated professionally, sexually and mentally. He’d never met someone so determined to ignore what the world thought, especially her father, Wayne Summerville, the head of Summerville Consumer Products. They were the number two consumer product conglomerate in the world, proud maker of Toothbrite toothpaste, among other things.
Sheldon’s party-girl reputation didn’t sit well with Wayne’s stockholders. Apparently, people with whiter teeth and fresh breath could be real frumps. However, even Jeff thought she went to extremes, and he was no monk himself.
The bigger mystery was why? No matter how long Jeff racked his brain, he couldn’t figure Sheldon out, and she provided no hints. Always smiling in that vacant and clueless manner, which had ceased to fool him by Day Three. To make matters worse, she had no qualms about making lewd, yet majorly imaginative propositions—especially to him. He looked down at the mess he’d made of the onion and tossed the thing in the trash. Maybe shallots would be better.
Imaginative propositions he wanted to ignore. Propositions he should ignore. Okay, propositions that he didn’t want to ignore….
Last night had been a stupid idea, but every night with Sheldon was a stupid idea. She had conveniently left him a message that she was going to the notorious club, Crobar. Jeff, knowing her message was code for multiple doses of alcohol, had shown up at ten, hoping to play responsible chaperone. At ten-oh-nine, he’d pulled her off the bartender, at ten-thirteen, he’d pulled her off the New York Ranger’s goalie, and when he caught her kissing the bouncer, he knew it was past time for her to go home.
They’d argued until the cops came, threatening to arrest her, which would be exactly what she wanted. So Jeff had poured her into a taxi and taken her home. With him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It had still seemed like a good idea six hours later when he woke up on his couch. In fact, it had seemed like such a great denouement, that he had congratulated himself on finally lassoing her into some sort of obedient servitude.
Everything had been fine until he opened the door to his bedroom, and saw her curled up, one hand cupped under her cheek like a child, sheets tangled between bare legs that were anything but childlike. Instantly his body moved to code red.
Jeff wasn’t a self-disciplined man, had never worried about consequences, but this…The quiet little devil on his shoulder began whispering in his ear, telling him to go wake up her up in the best possible way. She wouldn’t mind. Ah, there’s the rub. She wouldn’t mind. She would welcome him with arms wide open, those sea-blue eyes promising so many things. Glorious, wondrous things…
Thump. Thump. Thump. He whacked the shallots with his cleaver. Hard. Right now he needed to destroy something, and vegetables would be the victim of choice.
SLOWLY SHELDON SUMMERVILLE ROUSED herself from the fog of sleep into the fog that most people called life. She could smell him on the pillow, and she smiled, clutching it tighter to her. A persistent thump-thump echoed in the apartment, possibly the beating of her heart. Sunshine poured in through the window, and she stretched beneath the warm rays, her body sated…
Sated?
No, her body wasn’t sated at all. There had been no touching, no kissing, nothing remotely sate-like last night. She merely slept in his bed. By herself.
So if he wasn’t in his bed, where was he?
Sheldon threw back the covers, looked around, and then rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The mysterious thump-thump was consistent, and now that she knew it wasn’t someone’s heart, the sound was annoying.
Silently, she padded into the kitchen and watched him as he chopped, chef’s knife in hand. Thump. Thump. Thump. First the green peppers, then back to the red ones. He didn’t notice that she was standing, staring, ogling.
It was criminal that Jeff Brooks could be so tasty, so buff, yet still work in the stab-you-in-the-back-world of PR.
What was criminal was how badly she wanted him.
She pulled at her tank top and leaned back against the wall, adopting her patented vacant, though sexy stare. As soon as he felt the weight of her stare, he looked up, took a long eye-drinking of her skin, cocked one brow, and then went back to chopping peppers.
“Can you put some clothes on?”
Even his voice was sexy. Deep and rough, with that scuffed up mark of New York City, which he couldn’t hide no matter how hard he tried. He was tall and lean, with strong legs emerging from the loose boxers that did more framing than concealing.
She soaked up the sight of him, her nipples hardening under the thin material, and without cold air, artificial device, and or a drenching of water.
Did he notice? No. He was happily making breakfast as if she didn’t affect him at all.
Her mouth opened, so tempted to lash out at him, but it would ruin her image. Lashing out implied, passion, emotion, feeling. Instead, she leaned one hip against the edge of the granite counter, and let the full cascade of her platinum-blond hair fall over one well-formed breast.
From the time she was a kid, everything had been done for her. All her whims had been granted, all her wants fulfilled. When you were the porcelain doll in the glass case, there was no reason for ambition or dreams.
You would think someone with her life would be happy and at peace, and if she were normal, that would probably have been the case. But there was something wrong with Sheldon, some piece of her wiring that never connected because she only felt empty. A tinman without a heart, a scarecrow without a brain and a lion without courage—all rolled into one.
The only tangible assets that belonged to Sheldon were a classically sculpted face and a body that made dead men moan. Hall of Famers is what the tabloids termed her cleavage and Sheldon had learned to use it whenever necessary.
Like now.
“You’re complaining?” she drawled.
His strong, capable hands never stopped their mechanical chopping motion. For weeks, she’d had dreams of those hands on her. Steamy, vivid dreams that didn’t disappear when she’d woken up.
“Not complaining, just trying to be helpful.” He smiled at her, a toothy, advertising-type smile, possibly attributed to Toothbrite toothpaste. She suspected that he knew she hated it—both the toothpaste and the smile—which was why he did it.
“Is there something I can do?” she purred, her eyes gleaming when his hand stopped for a second.
He waved her off and continued working. “Hungover this morning?”
She pulled her hair into a ponytail, her chest lifting with the movement.
His gaze drifted down.
Her lips curved upward.
“Are you ever closed for business?” he asked.
Her eyes, normally vacuous and sultry, looked down meekly so that he wouldn’t see the rage. Rage implied a depth that she didn’t want to possess.
She backed away from the kitchen, the knife, and the man with the strong, capable hands, and padded barefoot across the room.
“I think I’ll take a shower,” she stated, slipping the tank over her head. It was a picture designed to freeze a man’s brain, but he wasn’t even watching. She was furious at herself for such an obvious act of desperation, but not so furious that she didn’t slide the signature red panties down over her long, tanned legs as well.
“You don’t mind do you?” she asked louder than necessary, her heart rapping inside her. He did this to her, reduced all her self-confidence to shreds.
Finally, his dark gaze lit over her, and she felt each and every white-hot touch. This time he didn’t smile, only lowered his head and continued the whap-whap-whap against the cutting board.
Dismissed.
She left her clothes in a messy heap in the middle of the floor, and retreated to the loneliness of his shower. She turned on the warm spray and let it wash over her body, slipping between her breasts and thighs like a lover with knowing, capable hands. She shouldn’t have been alone. He should be there, too.
Men didn’t ignore her—ever. Especially men like Jeff. He was no extraordinary example of humanity. He was nice looking, with a hot body. But those dark, devilish eyes weren’t supposed to be steely strong.
He should be weak.
Like her.
Men in the media business never had scruples. She was sure of it.
Life truly wasn’t fair.
JEFF CONTINUED CHOPPING UNTIL all eleven green peppers had been diced into precise triangles. When there were no more peppers left to chop, he exhaled slowly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was a good thing she hadn’t touched him because he knew in his heart, he would’ve jumped all over that.
He clicked on the television, letting the perky morning news shows dull the throbbing ache of his erection. An erection that needed to be inserted into the golden, shimmering skin that nestled beneath her thighs.
Brazilian. Why Brazilian?
Jeff groaned, loud, ragged. A rutting stag deprived of dinner. Would she notice if he spent the next thirty minutes jerking off? Probably. She’d want to help. That was her way.
He threw the peppers into the sauté pan and cranked up the gas burner, watching the thick skins pulse as the heat licked them into submission. Next he poured on the shallots, hacking off a chunk of butter, the butter sizzling from the burn. He took eight eggs from the refrigerator and kicked the door shut with extra force. It didn’t help ease the pain, but these were desperate times that called for dramatic gestures, meaningless or not.
One by one he cracked the eggs, stirring them into a fine glop before pouring over the tenderized vegetables. The heat of the flame melted the two mixtures into a fiery joining of culinary souls tasting the full extent of their passion.
Life really wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to want Sheldon. But there were parts of him that weren’t cooperating. Parts of him that longed to be acquainted with parts of her.
Reacquainted. Because according to Little Miss “I Put My Body Where I Want To,” said cock had already met said bare, naked nethers in a fiery joining of their own. Six weeks ago she’d claimed they’d had wild, untamed sex. Four times. And all he could remember was Sheldon trying to drink him under the table at Club Red. The rest of the night was a gut-rotting blank.
Expertly he flipped the omelet, shredding some Gouda over the smooth, golden body of the eggs.
Eventually, the cheese melted, sliding into each and every crevice of the sensual delicacy. Jeff flipped it onto a plate, ruthlessly sliced it into two halves, and then laid the plates on the bar.
When exposed to the sunlight, it looked liked nothing more than breakfast. His mind latched onto the commonplace thought, pushing aside visions of naked thighs and full breasts being drenched by the water from his shower. Damn it. He thought he was safe. Thought she’d given him a reprieve.
He was wrong.
Sheldon came into the living room, using a towel to dry the long lengths of her white-blond hair. The rest of her was still dripping wet. Nude—and dripping wet. His eyes noticed, his hands began to shake, and his cock…well, at the moment he really didn’t want to think about the tortured appendage that used to be functional.
She walked—walked being a very inadequate word to describe the sensual movement of her body—over to the small pile of underwear, picking up her bra and panties.
“Can’t believe I was such a slob,” she said, her eyes catching at the waistband of his boxers. “My, my, my…” she said, clicking her tongue against her teeth. He hated the celebration in her eyes, but he was a weakened piece of flesh. It was self-preservation alone that kept him motionless.
Her hand reached toward him, and he closed his eyes, steeling himself for her touch. He was strong. He was invincible. And mostly, there were ten million reasons that he could not touch her. Again.
“An omelet? You are talented,” she whispered, her hand flirting near his waist. Yet, she didn’t touch him.
He swallowed.
She noticed.
Her hand fell away, and he told himself that he was relieved, lying bastard that he was. But then, the gates of hell opened before him. She leaned down, the sweet angel of temptation, and touched the tip of her tongue to the engorged, pained, tortured while panting-like-a-happy-puppy tip of his cock.
She popped back up, wearing a smile of victory and nothing else. Then she wiggled her brows at him and strolled into the bathroom. He couldn’t suppress his groan.
“I heard that,” she yelled.
At the moment he didn’t care.
SHELDON’S APARTMENT WAS ON THE Upper West Side. Counting on the crosstown traffic, the trip would add an extra forty-five minutes to his Monday morning commute, but Jeff had no choice. It was time for a meeting of the minds, simple as she pretended hers to be. He hailed a cab and set her inside.
Firm and in control. He could handle it.
“New rules. No more nudity,” he said, sliding in beside her, keeping his voice low in case the cabbie had big ears. Then he sliced his hand across his throat, just in case she wasn’t grasping the simplicity of his request.
Oh, she understood. She batted her eyelashes at him, a gesture designed to hide the Einsteinian workings of her brain. The simpleton act had never tricked Jeff, due to the fact that he’d used it once or twice himself.
“What’s wrong with the purity of the human body? We’re only animals at heart, Jeff.”
“Don’t get all Darwin on me, Sheldon. Keep the clothes on. Keep the box closed.”
Her mouth snapped together in a tight line. “You think I’m a slut, don’t you? You don’t approve. Are you a virgin, Jeff?”
He shot her a look. “You know I’m not. Don’t you?” he reminded her, because the absentee memory of the night had eaten at him over the last few weeks. He didn’t forget sex. Ever. Even in the deepest lapses of alcohol. Ever.
And with the one woman who had kept his cock throbbing in painful agony for what seemed like forever?
No way.
“Why does it matter if I have some fun?” she asked, which on the surface was a perfectly logical, rational question. However, Sheldon was neither logical, nor rational.
“I have a job to do, sweetheart. Your father is paying my firm large amounts of cash to keep you out of the papers. Nothing more. I’m going to do it, too.”
She crossed her arms around her chest, not that he looked, and slumped back in the seat. “It always comes down to money, doesn’t it?”
“Not always.”
“Ha.”
There was an edge in her voice, a pain that he’d never heard before. “What happened to you, Sheldon?”
“I use whatever I can to fight whoever I need to,” she said, studying her nails.
The car slid to a screeching halt, smack in front of her building. Jeff paid the cabbie and told him to wait, he wasn’t done with the lecture. He still had a good hour of diatribe left inside him.
They walked to the awning of her building, mere inches separating them, but the huge chasm loomed like an eroding fault line in the earth, just waiting to be split asunder.
“Why don’t you stop fighting?” he asked, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. Playing bad-cop chaperone was exhausting and completely unrewarding.
She waved to her doorman, but stopped far enough away from the public eye. An unexpected moment of discretion. He was surprised. And pleased. “You want me. Why don’t you stop fighting it?”
“I don’t want you.”
“Lying, much?”
“Keep the sex out of it.”
Her eyes warmed, and then heated. “Kiss me, then. Just kiss me. No tongues, no bodies. Just two mouths touching.”
He didn’t want to kiss her, but she had laid down the challenge, and he would look spineless if he didn’t comply.
So he kissed her. No tongues. No bodies. Just two mouths touching. Her lips were soft and pliable, and so was the look in her eyes. There wasn’t the usual vacancy in her gaze. Shockingly, there was innocence there. Vulnerability. Qualities he couldn’t pin on Sheldon if he tried. But there they were. Staring him in the face.
His first instinct was to run. He even turned to go.
“You shouldn’t fight it,” she whispered.
“Go inside.”
She started to argue, but maybe she saw the pleading in his eyes, maybe she saw the battered animal that lurked inside him, maybe she was just tired. It didn’t matter, she smiled at the doorman, and blithely went on her way.
And Jeff felt himself breathe again.
He returned to the curb, only to find his cabbie had disappeared, probably hoping to find an even bigger sucker than Jeff.
Even cabbies had their dreams.
COLUMBIA-STARR COMMUNICATIONS OCCUPIED a sophisticated floor of offices near Midtown. Lots of red and black and polka dots and flash. It was the hottest PR firm in New York—at least it was right now, and Jeff considered it quite the achievement that he’d landed the job all on his own.
He pulled open the glass doors and was immediately greeted by a strange man sitting behind what used to be his secretary’s desk.
“Mr. Summerville called. He’ll be here in ten.”
“Who are you?” asked Jeff.
“Phil Carter. Rent-a-temp. Nice tie, by the way,” he said, a glint in his eye.
Oh, joy. Jeff had a very modern attitude toward alternative lifestyles, but it was nine-thirty in the morning, and he didn’t like men who dressed better than he did. “Let me begin with, you’re fired.”
“Hello, Mr. Ego has arrived! They warned me about you.”
“Are you always like this?”
Phil balanced his face on his hands, smiling like an imp. A very gay imp, but an imp. Then he began to sing. “I gotta be me. I gotta be me.”
“Enough. You know the software we use?”
“You betcha.”
“Good speller, impeccable grammar?”
“Philistine. P-h-i-l-i-s-t-i-n-e. Participle phrases are used chiefly to modify nouns, but a dangling participle is confusing to the reader. For example, ‘Sitting on his ass, the bird flew by the window.’”
Just then the phone rang.
“Phone manners?” barked Jeff.
Phil pushed a button on the phone and started speaking into his headset. “Columbia-Starr Communications. Mr. Jeff Brooks’s office. How may I help you?” Phil frowned ominously. “Mr. Brooks did what? And then the cops told him what? And now the Smoking Gun wrote what? No comment. And that’s my final comment. Thank you for calling Columbia-Starr Communications. Shaping The World, A Million Minds At A Time. Have a nice day.”
Phil hung up and gave Jeff an expectant look.
Okay, the guy was good, better than the last four temps he’d had. Jeff looked down at the phone. “Who was that?”
“Your mother. Baked ziti at her apartment Wednesday at eight.”
It was too much to comprehend after four hours of restless sleep, and a hard-on that was now mummified permanently. “What about all the other stuff you were saying? With the cops?” The last thing he needed was more Sheldon-fodder for the rags.
Phil wiggled his index finger. “Fastest mute finger in the West.”
Jeff nodded. “Okay, you pass. I like my coffee black,” he ordered, taking off for the zen-like quiet of his office.
“No sugar?” yelled Phil.
Jeff slammed the door.
“Savage!”
JEFF’S HEADACHE WAS JUST beginning to recede when the intercom buzzed.
“A Mr. Summerville is waiting for you, Mr. Brooks. Should I show him in?”
Sheldon’s dad. Quickly, Jeff flipped through the morning trade rags to see what sort of lies, half truths and full truths were being written about her.
The Post mentioned her makeout session with the goalie. The Daily News listed a Sheldon-sighting at Crobar, but it wasn’t too bad. All in all, they’d written tons worse about Sheldon before.
Only two items today. Maybe her father would be happy.
Thirty seconds later, Wayne Summerville was in his office.
“What the hell am I paying you for, boy?”
Okay, not happy. Jeff forced a smile. “There’s the blind item on Page Six about the wayward socialite that’s been giving large amounts of cash to the homeless.”
“That’s not my daughter,” he said, leaning over Jeff’s desk, probably so Jeff could feel the full force of his anger.
Check. Anger felt.
“It might not be, Wayne, but people could assume it is. That’s the beauty of blind items. We can plant something with the Daily Dish tomorrow.”
“Jeff, now listen. I like you, boy. Really do. But your firm is charging me an obscene amount of money to transform my daughter’s image into something more palatable to our stockholders. And do you know what’s happened to my daughter’s image since I hired you?”
Jeff stared into the dark dredges of his Columbia-Starr Communications coffee cup. “What, sir?”
“I didn’t think it could happen. Truly didn’t believe it could happen, but her image has gotten worse. Gone right in the toilet.”
“Your daughter’s a rather headstrong young lady.” It was an understatement from a man well-versed in overstatements.
“Then get tough, Jeff. I want to announce her engagement in three months, and when she’s off swapping spit and who knows what other bodily fluids with a bartender at some newfangled club in the Meatpacking District, it’s not going to happen.”
Jeff lifted his head and backtracked for a moment. “What engagement? A marriage engagement?”
“Sure. Sheldon’s marrying the heir to Con-Mason U.S.A. We’re signing all the papers in a few weeks.” Wayne rubbed his hands together. “It’ll be the biggest merger this side of the Mississip since Exxon-Mobil. Course that’d be west of the Mississip. Damn, it’d be the biggest merger in this whole gosh-darned country.”
“She knows this?”
“The merger?”
“The marriage?” asked Jeff, frowning.
“Sure. Joshua’s a presentable boy, Harvard grad, one of the cities most eligible bachelors, and we’ve had a long talk. Right proud of my little girl.”
“An engagement,” muttered Jeff. This wasn’t the Dark Ages where women were forced to submit to the whims of men. At least, in most cases.
“It’s a win-win for everybody. Sheldon gets more money than God and the devil combined. Summerville CP gets expansion into the Chinese markets that Con-Mason’s already has such a lock on. And best of all, there’ll be no taxes to pay on the stock swap because of the laws of this fine country that protect the sacred union between a man and his wife. God bless the USA.”
Jeff felt the urge to cross himself but refrained because he didn’t think Wayne would see the humor.
“I’ll do better, sir. Now that I have a full understanding of the situation, I’m sure Sheldon and I can work something out,” he said earnestly, all while subversive ideas were buzzing around in his head.
Yeah, he’d talk to her. He could rescue her. Explain to her the options she had. Jeff choreographed the entire scene, heroic orchestration playing in the background. Close up to her sea-blue eyes as she stared at him worshipfully.
Jeff smiled to himself.
“And I’ve got an incentive for you, Jeff. Sort of my way of insuring that we all succeed. When the merger happens between Con-Mason U.S.A. and Summerville CP, we’re going to need a firm to do all our public relations work. Never believed in trying to do that sort of thing in-house, better to let the pros handle it. And I think Columbia-Starr Communications would be right perfect. Course, then they’d have to call it Columbia-Starr-Brooks Communications. Sounds nice, don’t you think? Just like heavenly bells to a man’s ear.”
Then Wayne grinned at Jeff, his sea-blue eyes long faded to dollar-sign green.
And thus, Jeff was slapped back into the coffee-cup dregs of his reality. The world of Sheldon Summerville was a gold-studded planet, a monied universe. Wayne Summerville bought companies over breakfast and Jeff Brooks saved up eight long years for a boat. Tomorrow’s disillusions were today’s grand illusions. In his business, Jeff had to be careful not to believe his own spin.
He examined the Columbia-Starr logo, thinking that maybe there was a place for Brooks on the coffee cup, too.
The heroic orchestrations playing in his head screeched to a full stop, and the picture of Sheldon’s sea-blue eyes, once lit with heroic worship, faded to black.
Like that would ever happen anyway.
2
THERE WAS ONLY ONE PERSON that Jeff depended on for advice. Himself. However, when gazillion-dollar financial matters were involved, he was out of his league, although he’d never admit it to anybody, especially his older brother, Andrew.
And it was for this reason that, when he called Andrew to meet him for happy hour, he told his brother that he needed to hit him up for money for a charitable donation.
Andrew was a successful hedge-fund manager—a hugely successful hedge-fund manager.
Jeff tried not to compare his successes to Andrew’s, because he’d always come up short—several billion short, in case anyone was counting. Of course even God couldn’t really compare to Andrew’s successes. But to be fair, God took a day off once a week, and Andrew never did. Jeff was a firm believer in a day off.
“So, what’s this cause of yours?” asked Andrew, sitting at the bar, sipping on his beer.
“Heart disease in kids. We’re doing a campaign to raise awareness. There’s some great breakthroughs in the medical community, new drugs that are entering trials and we’re putting together a complete media package, kicking off with this Their Hearts On The Line campaign. Great stuff. Really hits you right here,” said Jeff, laying a hand over his chest.
“How much do you need?”
“What’s the life of a child worth to you, Andrew? Then multiply that by fifty.”
“That’s serious cash.”
“Heart disease is serious business.”
“All right,” said Andrew, who then wrote one very large check.
Jeff tucked the paper in his pocket; he’d mail it to a charity tomorrow. He loved his brother unconditionally, owed him in ways that he could never pay back, but sometimes a man had to have a little fun. Separating Andrew from his vault full of money was Jeff’s favorite game. In the old days, those checks would be made out to Jeff, but eventually Jeff had managed on his own, so he had to think of new, better and more philanthropic causes for Andrew’s millions.
As the checks had gotten bigger, Andrew developed a reputation as a high roller within charity circles, and Jeff got to watch the pained expression on Andrew’s face as he signed his name at the bottom of each and every one.
Life didn’t get any better than this.
“So, how’re you doing?” asked Jeff. “How’s the new firm?”
“Lots of work,” said Andrew, blowing out a breath. “But worth it.”
“Saw where Jamie made the cover of Forbes.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew. At the mention of his girlfriend, Andrew’s face reflected something approaching humanity.
Whatever.
Jeff leaned against the bar and spotted a brunette watching him over the rim of her glass. Automatically he smiled at her, because deep in his genetic makeup, Jeff was wired for one thing: sex.
Andrew watched the interplay but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. Andrew disapproved of Jeff’s lifestyle. Big whoop.
“I got a call from Ed Weinberger at Stockard-Vine Public Relations. We played on a golf foursome a while back. Anyway, he had a question about some stock, and I mentioned you to him. Turns out they’re looking for a VP. You should think about it.”
Jeff frowned into his beer mug. That was the problem with being around Andrew. His brother reminded him of the other thing that existed beyond sex and Jeff’s boat fund: responsibilities, with a capital R. The brunette stopped her perusing, and Jeff took a long swallow of beer. Responsibilities were best taken on when drunk.
Eventually, the taste of the lager left his mouth, but the sour taste of life remained.
Jeff met his brother’s eyes squarely. “Andrew, I’m not eighteen anymore. I have a career and a job that I got all by myself. I don’t need your help.”
Someday, his brother might understand that Jeff wanted to make it solo. ’Course, Andrew would probably be dead before it all sunk it, but Jeff would keep reminding him.
They’d been raised without their father, and Andrew had taken care of the Brooks family for so long that sometimes he forgot that everyone could take care of themselves now.
“I know you don’t like my help. I’m just letting you know the possibilities are there. It’d get you one step closer to that boat you want.”
Now it was time to change the subject. “So, listen, I have a question for you,” started Jeff, picking up a handful of peanuts and lining them up on his napkin.
“Shoot.”
“When you need to get somebody in line with your way of thinking, what do you do?”
“You’re kidding me. I thought you were the PR whiz.”
Damn. Lack of sleep was causing Jeff to lose his touch. “This really isn’t a PR sort of question. It’s more a question of mankind,” said Jeff, popping a peanut in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
“Or womankind?”
“I don’t think we need to be gender-specific here. I’ve been thinking about this. I mean, PR is my business and all, but there are more important things going on in the world, and I need to pay attention to them.”
“What’s her name?”
“You know, it really ticks me off that you have such a low opinion of me that you think if I’m having issues, it has to be about women. I have thoughts. Deep thoughts.”
“Usually involving sex.”
“You don’t see my sex life thrown out onto the Internet like some cheap Playboy movie of the week,” Jeff reminded him.
Andrew’s face closed off. “That’s not fair.”
It probably wasn’t, but that never stopped Jeff. Last fall, Andrew and Jamie’s affair had been loosely fictionalized all over America in Andrew and Jeff’s younger sister’s sex blog. Gotta love technology.
“And it’s not fair that you don’t give me credit for deeper character virtues. You think all I have on the brain is women and sex.”
“What did you do last night?” asked Andrew.
“I was at a club.”
“By yourself?”
“There’s lots of people at clubs.”
“The night before?”
“I don’t think that matters.”
“Another club?”
“Maybe.”
“And did you get laid on either one of these two nights?”
Ah, moral dilemma. Jeff could admit the truth—tell his brother that he’d been celibate for the past three months, except for the one night of sex with Sheldon that he couldn’t remember. That’d be the answer from a man with deeper character virtues.
The alternative would be to lie about his current sexual endeavors, or lack thereof, because Andrew would never believe that Jeff wasn’t hitting the sheets with somebody—anybody, for that matter.
“Duh. ’Course I got laid,” said Jeff, rolling his eyes.
“I rest my case,” replied Andrew, raising his glass.
“You tricked me!” exclaimed Jeff, using his inherited acting skills to fake indignation.
Andrew gave him The Look.
Jeff blew out a breath.
Now that was out of the way, too.
On to the one question that had been burning in Jeff’s brain.
“Listen, I need to ask you a hypothetical question. What would happen if there was a merger between Con-Mason U.S.A. and Summerville Consumer Products?”
Andrew whistled. “No shit?”
“I said hypothetical.”
Andrew stared up at the ceiling, lips pursed. Andrew thought this was his thinking look.
Jeff called it the Stick-Up-My-Ass look.
“Okay, Con-Mason—Chinese. Summerville—rumors of new product development.” He looked back at his brother. “All in all, big. Very, very big. But what does Con-Mason get out of this?”
Sheldon. “My lips are sealed,” answered Jeff. “So this would be huge? Worth lots of money?”
“Many zeroes, Jeff. More than you can count.”
That’s what Jeff was afraid of. Time to cut off moronic heroic notions before said notions rose up to bite him in the butt.
“So, when are you going to propose to Jamie?” asked Jeff, expertly steering the conversation into friendlier waters.
Andrew’s face turned a whiter shade of pale. “That’s a big step.”
“Chicken?”
“No, it’s just that a man needs to think of his life strategically. One step at a time. You start with your business goals, get those in order and then move on to personal ones. Jamie and I will end up married, but I want to get the new firm right up there in the top two.”
“You mean the top ten?”
“Uh, no, the top two.”
“And then, after many years have passed, and you’re both old and gray? You try and get down on one knee to propose, but by this time you’re arthritic in not only one, but both knees, and she has to help you up. What if she’s not going to wait for you, Andrew? What if she’s not going to wait for you to achieve your goals?”
Jeff knew that Jamie would wait on Andrew forever if necessary, but Jeff thought it’d be more fun to put the fear of loneliness into his brother. Jamie would thank him for it later.
“Of course she’ll wait until the firm is ready. Jamie’s more ambitious than I am,” said Andrew, traces of doubt coloring his voice.
Jeff covered his smile with a hand to his face and then put on a serious look. “If you really want something, you have to put everything aside, don’t you?” Secretly, Jeff had always admired Andrew’s single-minded focus. Andrew never let the distractions of life get in his way. If Jeff had been that single-minded, it would be Columbia-Starr-Brooks Communication by now, and he’d be the proud owner of a sweet thirty-five-foot double-masted sailboat with polished decks. Pipedreams was what he used to call his goals. But now they seemed within reach. Maybe he could be more like Andrew…
Jeff looked at Andrew with new respect. Well, technically, he’d always respected his brother, but he usually hid it. This time he didn’t.
“You apply yourself, put in the hours, and it’ll pay off in the end. Life works out, Jeff. It always does.”
Yeah, life would work out for everyone but Sheldon. “No matter if you don’t exactly agree with what’s going on?”
Andrew nodded wisely, his brow furrowed. “Let me tell you a secret, Jeff. Corporate America is not for the faint of heart. It’s a tough, bullshit business, where money trumps all else. It’s not going to change. You’ll come across a lot of times where you don’t agree with what’s going on. But that’s the way business works. The people who own the company decide how they’re going to run it, and they don’t care about you. So if you want something, you get it. End of story. Haven’t you learned anything from me?”
“Sure” said Jeff, popping a peanut in his mouth. “Apply yourself, focus, ignore the crap. I can do that.”
Maybe.
WHEN JEFF HAD CALLED SHELDON to say he wanted to meet with her on Thursday, Sheldon knew the perfect place. Agent Provocateur was stylish but lurid, in a genitalia-engorging way. By the time Jeff made it through the door at the Soho shop, Sheldon was wielding eight transparent teddies, three sheer bras and one garter belt complete with little black bows. He stopped and stared. Suddenly, he was a man traveling in another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of sheer lace and peek-a-boo bras. Next stop, the Erection Zone.
Sheldon held up a bra with cut-out nipples and smiled. “What do you think?”
His Adams apple bobbed up and down. That firm yet classical mouth pulled into a frown. His sexy brown eyes were full of foreboding, yet flavored with the tastiest bit of lust. “I thought we had a new set of ground rules.”
“You said no nudity.” With garments in hand, she strolled to the dressing rooms. “This isn’t nudity. Coming?”
He followed her, but when it came to breaching the sanctity of the changing room, he stopped at the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait.”
She sighed. “Whatever.”
Inside, she stripped off her clothes and pulled on the white lace teddy. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I know why you’re doing this.”
Sheldon paused. “Doing what?”
“This whole vamp-the-world thing.”
She giggled. Vamp was such a cute, old-fashioned word, and Jeff was so—not. Unless she missed her guess, and she never did, that suit was Armani. No, the man didn’t have an old-fashioned bone in his body as hard, muscular and top-shelf as that body was. “Why am I vamping the world?”
“Your father told me about the engagement.”
Now that stopped her cold. For only a second. Then she pasted the smile back on her face and began to tie the little white straps that kept the top in place. Sheldon looked in the mirror, pleased with the way her breasts nearly spilled over the cups. The white was innocent and classy, but the whole ensemble screamed “Take me, I’m yours.”
“What about it?” she asked in a bored voice.
“You don’t want this to happen.”
Sheldon opened the door and watched his face turn a pleasant shade of bone-white that went well with his dark hair. “Grow up, Jeff,” she told him, then performed a sexy little turn. “What do you think?” she asked, cocking a hand on her hip, making sure he could appreciate the curve of her rear.
“It’s nice,” he said, swallowing. He dragged his gaze up and focused on the wall. “You’re okay with the marriage thing, then?”
She took a step closer, letting lace-covered nipples brush against his chest, as much for her as for him. “I live in a separate place from most of the rest of the world. I can’t marry just anybody. There’re family considerations, corporate considerations and genetic considerations.”
“You’re making that up,” he accused, his eyes straying to her cleavage.
Sheldon faced the mirror and pulled at one strap, letting it hang off her shoulder. “The genetic considerations aren’t true, but the rest is. It’s a trade-off, Jeff. I get what I want, and Daddy gets what he wants. What could be better?”
This time his gaze locked onto her face, trapping her there. “What do you want, Sheldon?”
She looked away, deciding she didn’t like the innocent white look on her. No, she needed something with spice. Black. Or her signature red. That would complement her blond hair, not wash it out. “That’s for me to know and you to speculate on for the rest of your days.”
“So you’re going to go through with this?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
“Well, you do seem to favor a lot of guys for a woman who’s about to get married.”
“It’s not like it’s going to happen next week.”
“And you’re sowing your wild oats?”
She tilted her head. “Absolutely.”
“And that’s your final answer?”
“Yeah, Reege.”
She thought he would argue more. Secretly, she wanted him to argue more, but instead he sighed, giving up on her. “Okay, then we’ve got lots of work to do, but if we focus, we’re cool. I’ve come up with a five-point plan strategically designed to fix your image.”
She slammed the door in his face and stripped off the teddy. “I don’t need to fix my image.”
“You do if you’re going to go through with this,” he answered matter-of-factly.
She flung open the door, because she hated the cool, matter-of-fact tone he used. This was her life he wanted to fix, as if she were some chipped statue, or a knockoff purse with a broken zipper.
“You said no nudity,” he reminded her.
She slammed the door shut. “No, you said that.”
“But you promised.”
“Fine,” she said, picking out the demi-bra and garter belt. “Tell me about this brilliant plan of yours,” she said, sliding on a pair of red panties, gritting her teeth the whole time.
“Okay. There’re five basic areas that we can target—personal life, artistic endeavors, sports, giving back to the community and what I call the “little man.”
Giving back to the community? The “little man”?
Sheldon pulled on the hose, nearly running them, and then snapped the demi-bra in place. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“It’s my job.”
“Of course,” she said, and examined herself in the mirror.
Artistic endeavors? What a crock. She’d show him artistic endeavors. She pulled the bra cup down half an inch, exposing one nicely artistic nipple. Then she opened the door. “Should I get this one?”
He didn’t move.
She waved a hand in front of his face. “Jeff?”
He gave his head one hard shake. “You are so paying for this, Sheldon.”
“For what?”
He pulled at the bra cup, covering her up, but she didn’t miss the way his thumb lingered.
“Nothing,” he answered. “All we need to do is focus.”
Focus. He thought they needed to focus. She knew they needed to have sex. Mad, passionate, glorious sex so that she could exorcise Jeff Brooks from her system before he “fixed” her.
Sheldon went back into the dressing room and pulled on her sundress and sandals, a pleased smile on her face as she remembered the feel of his hands on her. Outside the door, she could hear his pacing. All that restrained tension.
Someday. Someday soon, Jeff Brooks.
Yeah, Sheldon knew exactly what she wanted.
3
THE SUMMERVILLE ENCLAVE WAS situated overlooking the ocean in the Hamptons. Sheldon had spent every single weekend of her summers there, and the smell of the sea air never failed to stir her senses. The sun was setting over her shoulder, casting a glimmering reflection on the water.
There was something about the solitude of the water that called to her. It was a time when she could turn off all the extraneous aspects of the Summerville legacy—of which there were many—and simply be.
As she sat on the boat dock, watching the gray waters of the Atlantic, she took another deep breath. A seagull perched on a wooden post, waiting for bread crumbs. He’d be waiting for a long time because Sheldon wasn’t the bread crumb type.
Being a Summerville had its privileges, that was for sure. She could jet off to Aspen or the Alps, take off for the Caribbean whenever she got the urge and could spend three times the GNP of Cuba on clothes.
It’d be really, really petty to complain, so she didn’t. She rose and took a few steps closer to the water, the catamarans lazily riding the swells, the gentle lapping of the waves soothing her nerves, clearing her head of all negativity.
Sometimes she thought she should be doing something meaningful with her life. But then she’d go out and tie one on and would eventually come to the realization that there were people in the world destined for meaningful things.
Sheldon wasn’t one of them.
She spotted her sister, Cami, leaving the house, walking down the steps toward Sheldon. As if she needed a reminder of her place in the grand scheme of things.
Camille Summerville, at age twenty-four, was two years younger than Sheldon and a paler, more refined version of her sister. Sheldon still loved her in spite of it. Cami didn’t have the flash of Sheldon, she wore khakis and linen shirts and she gardened. As she walked out on the beach, her sneakers kicked in the sand. Another difference—Sheldon wouldn’t be caught dead in sneakers.
“I’m supposed to tell you that dinner will be served at seven,” said Cami.
“Yeah, sounds great.”
“Monique called an hour ago, and left a message. She wants you to go out with some of her friends.”
Monique was their mother’s tennis coach, Sheldon barely knew her. “What now?”
“I don’t know, but she kept talking about some tennis tournament.”
“I don’t play tennis.”
“I think she’s angling for someone to sponsor her,” admitted Cami.
“Why can’t people just come out and ask? Why pretend to be friends, or to be nice, or to be interested in anything about me? Why not just be honest?”
“Don’t shoot me, I’m just the service.”
Sheldon laughed. “I don’t believe that no one ever hits you up for stuff. Use your influence, Sheldon,” she said in a mocking voice.
“I solved that a long time ago.”
“How?”
“I told them that Dad gave it all to you. I’m the poor, struggling medical student.”
Sheldon swung a mock fist, and Cami dodged. Somehow Cami always managed to escape.
This time her sister gave her a sympathetic look. “The Conrads will be here, too. You should wear something nice. Dad would like that.”
“Yeah, I will. I thought you were in the city for the weekend.”
Cami was finishing up her second year of medical school at Columbia and never had time off, summers included. Cami was destined for meaningful things.
“I should be. Got the boards to study for, but I needed to talk to you.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets and bit her lip, looking majorly guilty.
“What about?” asked Sheldon, curious about what sort of thing would give Cami a guilt complex. A B- on a test? A parking ticket? Walking past a homeless guy on Tenth Avenue without throwing money in his direction?
“I want to go to the islands this weekend, and I need you to cover for me.”
And no, it wasn’t anything wicked at all. Cami just wanted a break. “Why can’t you tell Mom?”
“Two reasons. One, she’d give me serious grief for skipping out on my studies. And two, Lance. She thinks it’s a ‘rebellious phase’ I’m going through.”
“Lance?”
Cami’s faced turned all dreamy, and she let out one of those long, seventh-grade sighs. “Lance. He’s a drummer in this band.” Cami looked around to see if anyone else was listening. Satisfied that the bird wasn’t going to tell, she continued. “We’re gonna do it, Sheldon.”
“Have sex?”
“Heck, no, we’ve done that hundreds of times. We’re going to go away for a weekend. And I want to skinny dip in the ocean and have sex on the beach and do all those crazy tropical things that normal people are rumored to have done. Have you ever had sex on the beach?”
Actually, Sheldon hadn’t because the beach was her place and her place alone. But Cami looked all goo-goo about the prospect, so Sheldon put on her best “dreamy-flashback” smile. “It’s great. It’s really hot, and you get all sweaty and sticky, but then, just when you think it’s totally yuck, you can dive into the ocean and cool off, the warm waters wrapping around you. Five stars, Cami. Definitely.”
“Oh, I can’t wait. And I bought a new bikini. With strings.”
“You and Lance will have a great time.”
Playfully, Sheldon kicked some sand in Cami’s direction. Sheldon didn’t have any of Cami’s important things to worry about. Yeah, no muss, no guilt. Until the day she was engaged, she was as free as the bird still perched nearby, waiting patiently for crumbs.
Sheldon fished in her pocket and tossed the bird an Altoid’s mint. Not a piece of bread, but he’d have great breath. He flew down and picked up the mint.
Cami shook her head.
“You know, you and Josh should get married in the Caribbean. Barefoot. Maybe some quiet guitar music in the background. What do you think?”
“Yeah, maybe,” answered Sheldon. “Let’s go inside. After all, don’t want to keep Josh waiting.”
THE FORMAL DINING ROOM SEATED forty when necessary. Tonight the table was set for eight, but Sheldon really wished they’d put in the extra leaves so that conversation would be kept to a minimum.
The four extra seats were occupied by the Conrad family: James Conrad, his wife, Marge; their daughter, Jennifer; and the favored son, Josh, Sheldon’s soon to be fiancé.
She picked at her peas and watched Josh from the corner of her eye. He was handsome, with sun-bleached California hair, earnest blue eyes, a dimple in his chin and a mouth that was a hair too wide, but it fit him. Josh was the eternal optimist. For some reason, every time Sheldon laid eyes on him, she wanted to kill him. Not the best start for a marriage.
“Sheldon, how’s your steak, honey?”
Sheldon smiled at her father. “I think I’m going to become a vegetarian. Do you know how they make steak? Cutting up the cows, all that blood—”
Sheldon’s mother held up a perfectly manicured hand. “Not at the dinner table, Sheldon.”
Sheldon blinked vacantly. “Sure, Mom.”
Her mother, ever the peacemaker, turned to Josh. “So, Josh, what’s new and exciting at Con-Mason?”
He speared a piece of meat with his fork, his mouth curved into an even bigger smile than usual. “Sales for the new line of bathroom cleaners are up seventeen percent, and we’ve put some incentives in place for the sales team. Very exciting stuff. I think third quarter growth will surprise everyone—especially the analysts.” Then he took a bite of his steak and chewed. Still smiling.
“Isn’t that nice?” Sheldon’s mother, Cynthia, looked every bit the Hamptons matron. Golden blonde, tanned and still gorgeous. That would be Sheldon in about twenty years, although Cynthia was missing Sheldon’s vacant expression. Her mother actually cared about things.
Then Cynthia turned to her oldest daughter. “Isn’t that nice, Sheldon?”
“Better than nice, Mom.” She looked in Josh’s direction. “Nuclear.”
He met her eyes, smiled, and then went back to his dinner. Oh, yes, theirs would be a match made in heaven.
The dinner conversation followed a well-established order. Gossip, excluding the Summerville and Conrad families, of course. Next up was the polo season. No one at the table played, including Josh, who was a golfer like Sheldon’s dad. However, lack of participation never stopped a heated discussion about how disappointing last season was.
Over dessert, Marge Conrad and Cynthia would launch into a full critique of the fall fashion season, each woman bemoaning her loss of figure. Both were size four.
Scintillating stuff, and after twenty-six years of it, Sheldon knew it all by heart.
After the last of the plates had been cleared away, her father opened a bottle of wine, pouring everyone a glass. Then he moved to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “I have an announcement to make. I think y’all are going to be seeing a new side of Sheldon. Gave me a big surprise when she came to me and talked about expanding her world. Giving back to the community, trying artistic endeavors, taking an interest in New York’s fine array of sports offerings, turning her personal life into something more meaningful. I was tickled pink. And then, she told me about her favorite idea, sticking up for the ‘little man.’” He raised a glass. “To Sheldon, apple of my eye and owner of my heart.”
Sheldon raised her glass, pasting a smile on her face. So Jeff was that confident of his five-point plan that he’d pitched it to her father like a new advertising slogan?
Rage burned inside her, an oddly unfamiliar emotion. She’d be damned if Jeff was going to treat her like dishwashing powder.
Maybe she had a meaningless existence, maybe she was a black hole of humanity, but this time he had pushed her too far. This was a new and improved Sheldon with extra strength for tackling stubborn PR flacks where they lived.
Little did he know it, but Jeff Brooks had just issued a declaration of war.
MERCEDES BROOKS WAS JEFF’S younger sister and partner in crime, usually against Andrew. Then, when they were done with that, they’d turn on each other in that genuine, loving yet exquisitely painful sibling way that had endured since the dawn of time.
If she’d been homely or fat, Jeff might have cut her some slack, but Mercedes had looks. Not model looks, like Sheldon, but she had a unique I-can-kick-your-ass glint in her eyes that seemed to drive guys wild.
Jeff, having been the recipient of said glint more than once, was immune.
Currently, his pain-in-the-butt sister was curled up in his office, hogging his favorite chair, reading the New York Times—not her usual reading material. She pushed her dark hair out of her eyes and continued to bitch. Another one of Mercedes’ finer qualities.
She pointed to the article she was reading and scowled. “I don’t think sex is cheapening America, do you?”
“What?” asked Jeff, the word sex capturing his interest.
“They’re talking about my blog.”
“Oh,” muttered Jeff, going over his notes. Mercedes had a sex blog that she wrote anonymously. The Red Choo Diaries. Most of his friends’ sisters wrote their secrets in their diaries. Not Mercedes. No, the whole freaking world had to know about her secrets.
“I don’t have time for this, Mercedes,” he said, sending off an e-mail to a reporter at the Daily News, his last reminder before today’s event.
“Why not? Don’t you care about the freedom of the press? You, of all people, who depend on the media in order to do your job? I think you’re a traitor in disguise, Jeff. I can’t believe you’re my brother.
“Oh, calm down, Mercedes. You write a sex blog, not Gone with the Wind.”
“And isn’t it a fact that you lie, cheat and brainwash people for a living?”
“On a good day, yes.”
She humphed and went back to the paper. “The least you could do is help me write an Op-Ed piece. You know, something with a great hook and pizzazz. I need to work on my platform.”
“What platform?” he asked.
“A marketing platform. My agent told me that.”
Jeff frowned. “What agent?”
“Do you pay attention to anything I tell you?”
“No.”
“At least Andrew listens to me.”
“I got him the other day.”
That brought the joy back into Mercedes’s eyes. “Really? How?”
“I told him that Jamie wouldn’t wait forever for him to propose.”
“Oh, what did he do? Pale, pasty complexion, the eye dodge, or the back-brace-posture-pose.”
“All of the above.”
“I bet he proposes next week.”
“Nah, three months. At his heart, Andrew’s too conservative.”
“With Jamie? Hello! They played hide the salami in a limo. On a workday. We have to bet. One thousand dollars says he proposes within the month.”
“You don’t have a thousand dollars to lose, Mercedes. You quit your job as a real journalist, who knows why.”
Mercedes gave a careless shrug. “It was too structured. I felt like the paper limited my creative endeavors. I’m an artist.”
“And as an unemployed artist, you don’t have one thousand dollars to lose.”
“Do too. Got my first advance check the other day.”
“Advance for what?”
“My book deal.”
“You sold a book?”
“I told you,” she started, then noticed the smile on his face. “You’re such a jerk.”
“A thousand dollars? You’re on.”
Mercedes laughed. “Putting your money where your mouth is, big boy?”
“’Course I’m in.”
“Now you have to help me write the essay.”
“Can’t right now. Have to meet Sheldon at the electricians’ strike.”
Her eyes skimmed over him, for the first time taking in the faded blue jeans, the Rolling Stones T-shirt. “A strike? What the heck are you doing on a picket line? They fired you at Columbia-Starr didn’t they, and you’ve got this new secret career and never told us. Andrew is going to love this mess, Jeff. I can hear the lectures already.”
“Nice try. It’s for the job.”
“Columbia-Starr is representing the union?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“It’s not that far-fetched, but no. I’m working on Sheldon Summerville’s image. She’s going to go out on the picket line and walk it for a bit.”
Mercedes began to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, it’s part of a new plan to redesign her image.”
“And she’s okay with this?”
“’Course,” he said, although he wasn’t exactly sure she was okay with it. In fact, he suspected that she was not okay with it, but she seemed to be going along with his ideas. So, uh, she must be okay with it.
Mercedes choked on a laugh. “I’ll go with you. Who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some fodder for the blog.” Then she got a faraway look in her eyes. “You know, I should really talk to her, I bet she can give me some great material.”
“Don’t even think about it, Mercy.”
“Alright,” she agreed, but the faraway look never left her eyes.
THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT Times Square that appealed to Jeff. The lights, the gaudiness—it was commercialization gone wild. When he was a kid, Times Square had been a different sort of place, a little seedy, a little trashy, but he’d watched the transformation take place. A butterfly coming out of its cocoon. Some days he’d take the subway to Times Square just to be in the presence of all that energy.
Today, people were wall-to-wall, a combination of the Wednesday business lunch crowd and the summer tourists, along with some street preachers and the Naked Cowboy, and he thought he spotted a guy walking a llama.
Just another day in the city. And on any given day, a union strike was happening. Doormen, sanitation workers, electricians, babysitters, bartenders and Broadway musicians. Today, in the heart of Times Square, the electricians were up at bat.
The picket signs were out, men in blue-collar clothes fighting for fair wages, and naturally, the giant blow-up rat that looked as if it came out of a Tim Burton movie. No strike was complete without the rat.
He and Mercedes stood outside the ESPN Sports-Zone restaurant, waiting for Sheldon.
And waiting.
And waiting.
She was late.
Jeff checked his watch and was considering calling her on his cell when he spied the blond hair blowing in the summer wind. Heads turned as she walked by, they always did, wondering who she was. Some people knew and whispered. Those were the ones who followed the tabloids.
Yeah, Sheldon drew eyes. She always drew Jeff’s eyes. He didn’t understand her, but he liked to look at her, that was for sure.
There was an energy about Sheldon, an electricity, and no matter how empty and unthinking she appeared, she couldn’t hide the energy. Sometimes, like now, she let it shine, and when she did, even Times Square looked dim.
She saw him and waved, and half of the picket line waved back.
“That’s her, right?” asked Mercedes, poking him in the ribs.
“Yeah.”
“Why’s she wearing a suit?”
Hallelujah, Sheldon was wearing a demure blue blazer and matching skirt. Yeah, the skirt was kinda short, but he’d take his victories where he could.
“Because she’s finally starting to listen to me,” answered Jeff.
“Sorry I’m late,” Sheldon said, coming up through the crowd, flushed and out of breath. She looked at Mercedes. “I know you, don’t I? I really suck at names. I’m Sheldon.”
“Mercedes Brooks.”
“Ahh…” she said, and she looked at Jeff, wheels spinning behind expressionless blue eyes. “This is your sister? The Red Choo Diaries?”
“You know?” said Mercedes.
“Hell, yes. I never miss it.”
And that was a disaster waiting to strike. Jeff took Sheldon by the arm, away from Mercedes’s sly maneuverings before his sister could damage Sheldon’s reputation even more. “Right. Sheldon, let’s go over to the picket line. I’ve talked to the union boss, and there’s some press lined up, too. I wrote a few lines for you. You don’t have to say much. Pick up the picket sign, walk with the workers, maybe do some chanting. Smile and wave. Look pretty. That’s pretty much it. Can you handle this?” Jeff handed her the piece of paper with his notes.
She looked over the paper, looked back up at him, blinking fair, soft-looking lashes. “Smile, wave, look pretty? Sure. Not a problem.”
There was something different about her today. Too eager, too cooperative, too peppy. Sheldon was never peppy. Jeff tried to ignore the pit in his stomach that said something was wrong with this picture. He watched her walk toward the line, brisk, businesslike and completely confident.
Yeah, something was definitely wrong.
Cameras started to flash, and she raised a hand and waved to everyone. Tourists stopped in the middle of Times Square, trying to figure out which movie star she was.
Mercedes walked over to where Jeff was standing. “You know, I didn’t give her enough credit. She’s definitely working this, isn’t she?”
Sure enough, Sheldon was shaking hands with the workers, talking to one reporter, and in general, dazzling them all.
The pit in his stomach grew two sizes, and Jeff made his way through the strikers. Just as he arrived at the front lines, Sheldon held up a hand and the buzz of the crowd quieted.
“When I read about the electricians’ union going on strike, I got mad. This city depends on the electricians to keep Times Square lit up, to keep businesses and hospitals going, in fact, electricians keep people alive. The city depends on electricians to handle the millions of dollars that flow in and out of Wall Street every day.”
That was all good, that was all scripted. Jeff began to relax. Then Sheldon turned to the union chief, a grizzled fifty-something with tattooed arms and a blue union cap on his head. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Al.” he answered, blushing.
She put an arm around the man, drawing him into her world. “We’re behind you, Al. The city won’t forget about you.” She pulled a man who was dressed in a suit from the crowd.
“And what’s your name, sir?”
The guy shut off his cell and smiled for the photographers. “Tom.”
“Tom, do you support Al here?”
Tom blinked. “Uh, sure.”
Sheldon smiled. “So do I. In fact…”
She tugged off her jacket, revealing a lacy black bra beneath. Instantly, the men went wild and a million cameras flashed.
“Oh, this is great stuff for the blog!” Mercedes dove into her purse and produced a digital camera.
Sheldon reached around her back and Jeff closed his eyes.
He knew. He just knew.
A huge cheer went up and Jeff opened his eyes.
There was Sheldon, surrounded by two thousand members of New York City’s electricians union, holding the bra triumphantly above her head. Jeff knew their thoughts exactly as they goggled at the golden skin that would never need airbrushing, and the two perfect breasts. Breasts that made his mouth water.
And because of the press he had supplied, invited actually, it was a picture that most of the world would see in tomorrow’s papers.
Sheldon grinned, threw her bra in the direction of the photographers and posed. Then, with a satisfied smile, she put back on the demure blue jacket and walked over to Jeff, confident, brisk. Once again, all business.
She grinned at him. “You know, I gotta say, this was a super-great idea. Score one for the ‘little man,’ right?”
4
SHELDON WALKED TWO BLOCKS before Jeff spoke to her. Even then he didn’t say anything to her, just pointed toward a coffee shop, like an owner disciplining a pet.
Oh, he was furious. Steaming. She could see the heat rolling off him. She should laugh, but that would be petty, so she stayed with the ever-popular vacant and guileless expressions.
Once they were inside the café, he sat her down abruptly. “Don’t move,” he ordered.
Obediently, she sat, her face resting on one hand, watching as he went to the counter. The T-shirt was wonderfully fitted. Knowing Jeff, he had planned it that way, and the jeans—oh, mama. Sheldon didn’t usually find herself leering at a man’s body, she’d always considered herself a face girl, but Jeff’s body was so pleasing to the eye, she could study him for days—and nights. She wasn’t nearly done ogling him when he returned with two lattes.
“That was dirty, underhanded and completely over the top,” he started out.
“You didn’t like it?” she asked, blinking twice.
“Don’t play that game with me, Sheldon. I know you.”
She gave him a slow smile. “Yes, yes, you do. I think the mayor was there. Did you see him in the back?”
“The mayor?” Jeff buried his face in his hands. “My career is shot to hell. Your father is going to fire me.”
She slapped him on the arm. “No, he won’t. The company’s stock has already shot up two points, and I think I saw a CNN crew in the crowd.”
He raised his head, and there was something new in his eyes that made her tingle all over. Respect. Sheldon saw it so rarely, she almost didn’t recognize it. His mouth pulled into a rueful smile, and she got more tingles. This time, the carnal kind.
“You know, when you’re upset, why don’t you say something?”
“I don’t get upset, Jeff. I get even.”
He shook his head and began to laugh.
“So you were surprised?” she asked.
“Not really.”
She put a hand on his bare arm, not necessarily to stroke his forearm, but, well, accidents happen. “Come on, admit it. You were surprised.”
“I was not.”
“Not even a little?” she asked, leaning forward, letting her jacket gape open. His eyes drifted down. Sheldon felt a flush that had nothing to do with the summer heat.
Under her fingers, she felt the tension in him, and she wished he would let go. “Put it away, Sheldon.”
She removed her arm, closed her jacket and crossed her arms across her chest. “Fine. What happened to your sister?”
“She went off to write. Inspiration like you doesn’t happen to her very often.”
Sheldon couldn’t keep her lips from curving up. “What can I say?”
He glared so quickly she changed the subject. “So, what’s next on the five-point plan?”
The glare in his eyes softened, and for a minute she felt that tug inside her. “You really hate that, don’t you, Sheldon?” he asked, his voice lingering on her name.
“No, what made you think that?”
His look said he knew the answer, but he didn’t call her on it. “Fine, let’s move on. The next one is easy. We go to a Mets game on Saturday afternoon.”
“You’ll come with me, then?” she asked, mulling the possibilities.
“You think I’d let you go by yourself?”
“Well, no, but I would like having you there.” It was the truth. Jeff was the first man to see through her. Most men couldn’t get past her veneer, but Jeff had veneers of his own.
“You’ll behave?”
She blinked. “Certainly. I’m a team player.”
THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN JEFF arrived at work, he knew there’d be hell to pay. Although he wasn’t prepared for it that early.
Phil greeted him with a jaunty wave. “Wayne Summerville will be here in ten minutes. I took the liberty of assembling the press clippings from your daytime excursion yesterday. USA Today. New York Times—I like what they did with the pixilation, very natural looking—and here’s a press release from the AFL-CIO. They were very happy with the publicity.” He took out another sheet of paper. “And the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, Local 47, wants to give Ms. Summerville a plaque for her efforts to advance their cause.”
Jeff glanced at the clippings and noticed one piece absent. “Was there anything in The Red Choo Diaries?”
“I didn’t see that in Google,” answered Phil, as he typed in some keys, and then brought up Mercedes’ Web site on his computer. “It’s a story on…oh, my,” he said, leaning into the screen. Finally, he looked up. “It’s not Miss Summerville unless she suddenly took a job as an intern at a brokerage house.”
“I can’t believe she didn’t print the pictures,” muttered Jeff. Mercedes? His sister? Actually practicing restraint? He’d have to thank her for that.
“Do you want me to print this story about the intern, sir? I should tell you that corporate policy forbids the use of the company computers for nefarious means. Page forty-three in the manual. Would you like to read it?”
Mercedes’ good deed notwithstanding, the articles about Sheldon were enough to cause a man serious pain. Jeff took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Phil. I’m going into my office now. Can you bring me some aspirin?”
In less than two minutes, Phil was in Jeff’s office, plopping two pills on the desk, along with a glass of water. “Extra-strength.” Then he propped himself on the corner of Jeff’s desk. “I really like that shirt. Where’d you get it?”
Jeff took the pills and downed them with water. “So you can go out and buy one just like it?”
“I was merely asking. Don’t get snippy.”
“I’m not snippy,” snapped Jeff.
Phil got up in a huff.
“Snippy,” he said, and then shut Jeff’s door behind him.
EIGHT MINUTES LATER—Jeff was counting—Wayne Summerville arrived, his beefy face flushed from the heat. “Morning, boy,” he said, settling himself in the chair opposite Jeff. “I suppose you’ve seen the papers.”
Jeff swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then I suppose you know why I’m here.”
“I can guess. However, I saw where Summerville Consumer Products stock rose two percent yesterday.”
Wayne didn’t look happy. “So, what are we going to do about this problem, Jeff?”
“We’re moving on to step two now. I’ve got tickets to the Mets game on Saturday afternoon. It’ll be good.”
Wayne steepled his fingers. “And do you think my daughter will be able to keep her clothes on for baseball?”
Jeff met Wayne’s gaze evenly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, sir. Are you sure that Sheldon’s all right with this marriage? Have you thought that this might not be what she wants?”
“Sure, this is what she wants. There’s only one thing that drives Sheldon, and that’s Sheldon.”
“Well, yes, that’s probably true, but have you asked her?”
Wayne leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Brooks. I may be from the country, but I know people. I’ve asked Sheldon lots of times if she’s okay with this. I explained to her the advantages, the disadvantages and the realities of the situation. And time and time again, do you know what she’s told me?”
“What?”
Wayne drilled his finger on the desk. “That this is what she wants. I love my daughter, Mr. Brooks, and if I thought she wasn’t one hundred percent on board, I wouldn’t go through with it.”
“And she’s one hundred percent on board with it?”
“Has she told you otherwise?”
“No.” Jeff paused, then tried again. “Have you talked to Sheldon about her behavior yourself, sir? She might listen to her father.”
Wayne’s face twisted into a pained grimace best suited for an antacid commercial. “We don’t communicate much. I love my daughter, truly, but sometimes I think she’s off on another planet.”
“I’m not sure I can get through to her either.”
Wayne leaned forward. “But you gotta try, boy. I know you media types. Y’all can sell air conditioners to Eskimos, so I figure you can sell Sheldon on your ideas, too. I think she listens to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A man’s got to believe in something.”
“Oh,” sighed Jeff, wishing that there was some tangible evidence that Sheldon was coming around.
“Well, good, then we’re all in agreement. Now, let’s talk about this plan of yours. Since we can safely say that step one was shot to hell in a great big ball of smoke, let’s up the ante a bit.” Wayne pulled out his checkbook and began to write. “See here, this is a check made out to Jeff Brooks. Check out all those zeros, Jeff.” He waved the check under Jeff’s nose. “In my world, money talks. And this money is saying, ‘boy, you should hope that Sheldon behaves, the Mets win and that my wife stays happy.’” Then he took the check and put it back in his shirt pocket. “I give you my word, that check is yours if Saturday goes through like a greased cat in the dairy.”
Jeff nodded in an appropriately deferring manner. “Of course, sir. That’s a nice offer, but you don’t have to do it.”
Wayne got up and slapped Jeff on the arm. “I do, too, boy. This is New York, ain’t it? If I can’t buy off people here, gosh darn, my money ain’t worth a plug nickel.”
He went to the door and pointed in Jeff’s direction. “Saturday. I’m betting on you, Jeff.”
WHILE THE SUMMERVILLE FAMILY headed to Southampton, Sheldon elected to leave later, telling everyone she was shopping. Instead of hitting the LIE with her driver, she did what she did every Friday, and popped in at an apartment building on Central Park West. She didn’t like to be recognized, so she wore a short black wig for her visits.
Central Park West was a discreet building where people lived when they didn’t want to be noticed. It catered to the likes of movie stars, singers, old New York money and world-famous musicians.
When she knocked on the door at 23C, the others were already assembled in the tastefully decorated room. There was Ling, who was fourteen, Emily who was in her junior year at NYU, Caroline, who was a housewife from the suburbs, and then there was Sheldon, who used the alias Sarah.
They were all there for one purpose: to practice chamber music with the great instructor Stefan Senarsky. For six years Sheldon had been taking private violin lessons from Stefan, but playing solo limited her music choices, so last year she had switched to the chamber class. Now, she wouldn’t trade her group for the world.
Music suited her, it soothed her. She loved the solitude and the tranquility that came from the melody, notes that echoed inside her when she played. Some people believed in yoga, Sheldon believed in music. It didn’t care if you were rich, it wouldn’t hit up for a loan for another “worthwhile cause,” it didn’t care who you friends were or weren’t. Music simply was.
Stefan, was a conductor in the old-world tradition. He ruled with an iron fist and demanded the best of his students. Actually, Sheldon suspected he was a cupcake inside, but she never told him that. He was going on seventy now, with a long gray beard and silver glasses that couldn’t hide the passion in his eyes as he listened to the music.
“Sarah, you’re late,” barked Stefan.
“Sorry, sir,” Sheldon said, and pulled her violin case from the Saks shopping bag, where she kept it hidden. Next, she removed her violin and hurried over to sit in her chair next to Emily. Then Sheldon raised the bow, and joined in a rousing rendition of Schubert’s String Quartet in D Minor.
For a few minutes she was lost in the sound, lost in the back and forth of the melody. Schubert wasn’t her favorite, but it really didn’t matter. Sheldon simply loved to play.
At the end of the piece, Stefan tapped his conductor’s baton on the music stand. “Sarah, you were flat on the second stanza. You haven’t been practicing. We will begin again.”
Truthfully, she had practiced a few hours, but restyling one’s image took time out from a busy socialite’s day, so Sheldon had had to cut back some. In fact, she had even delayed seeing Jeff, telling him she would meet him at Central Park after she finished her “shopping.”
No one knew about her music, not even Cami. It was the only thing that kept her going. She would never be a professional violinist, never be more than moderately good, but it didn’t matter. This was when she was happiest.
Sheldon smiled to herself, pulled her bow back, and began to play.
JEFF LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. Sheldon was late. Again. She’d wanted him to meet her at Chanel. Ha. He’d learned his lesson once, he’d never go shopping with Sheldon again. A man could only suffer so many sleepless nights from watching that much soft, golden, kissable skin.
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