Love Me (23 page)

He had to crane his neck to peer up at her, so he was at a distinct disadvantage.  He was about to ease her away and stand, too, when she bent down and braced her hands on the arms of his chair, blocking him in.

Her face was just inches from his own, her eyes innocently wide, a pretty frown creasing her brow.  She studied him, as if searching for deceit or character flaws, and it was the damndest sensation, but the air was charged with anticipation, as if any fantastic thing might occur.

“Do you still plan,” she asked, “to hire a private detective to spy on her?”

“Yes.”

“That seems harsh.”

“Harsh!  She’s a thief!  I’m not concerned about my methods of proving that she is.  And if you wish to work for me, you shouldn’t be either.”

“What would you like to find out about her?”

“I’m sure we’ll uncover all sorts of detrimental information.”

“Perhaps she does…drugs.” 

Ms. Stone’s voice was low and seductive again, as if they were conversing in a bedroom instead of a lawyer’s office.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps she throws…wild parties.  Perhaps she has…lovers.”

She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, galvanizing his attention.  It was a calculated gesture, meant to stoke his male interest.  What was she doing?  An inch closer and he could kiss her.  Was that her ploy?

Was she hoping to ignite a personal relationship?  Was she hoping he’d agree to an affair?  He was rich and handsome and available, and he never turned down what was freely offered, but honestly.

Too weird, too weird, too weird…

Behind him, in the direction of the hall, a woman cleared her throat.

He scowled and glanced around to see an older female in the doorway.  She was attired in a pinstripe gray suit, her hair gray, her eyes gray, everything about her gray, gray, gray. 

“Mr. Merriweather?” she hesitantly said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Catherine Stone.”

“
You
are Catherine Stone?”

“Yes.”

He whipped his hot gaze to the vixen perched over him, the one whose breasts were nearly brushing his chest, whose pouty lips were begging to be kissed.

“Then who the hell are you?” he barked.

“I’m Faith Benjamin.”  She grinned as if it was all a big joke, as if she’d played a great trick on him.

Like Poseidon arching up out of the ocean, he rose to his feet.  He grabbed her and set her away, and he loomed over her, trying to intimidate, but she couldn’t be cowed.  She stuck out her hand, expecting him to shake it, but he glared as if it was a venomous snake. 

Undaunted, she laughed and waved it under his nose, making sure he knew she deemed him an ass.

“What’s going on?” the real Ms. Stone inquired.  “Miss Benjamin, what are you doing in here with Mr. Merriweather?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Ms. Benjamin said.  “We have an appointment.”

Ms. Stone blanched.  “Not today.  Tomorrow.  At three.” 

“Oh, I must have gotten the dates mixed up.  Silly me.”

Lucas demanded of Ms. Stone, “Why were you meeting with her?”

“I decided”—Stone gulped with dismay—“I should speak with her immediately to see if I could resolve things.”

“She imagined she could trap me into signing papers.”  Miss Benjamin batted her lashes—she actually
batted
her lashes!—and chortled with glee.  “Tiny, harmless me, without a lawyer or expert advice.  Ms. Stone assumed I would crumble and cede what’s mine without a fight.  Were you intending to have her bribe me, Mr. Merriweather?  Did you think you could scare me, then toss me a few dollars, and I’d go away?”

That was precisely what Lucas had thought.  He’d intended to threaten her with lawsuits and public shaming and jail time.  Then he’d pay her a pittance to shut up and slither into obscurity.

In his musings about Faith Benjamin, he’d pictured an avaricious criminal who’d stumbled on an opportunity for larceny and had seized it.  He’d wondered if she was a prostitute or meth addict.  Obviously, he’d miscalculated.

She was intelligent and clever and sexy.  She looked like someone’s virtuous daughter, but acted like a loose, lonely wife on the prowl.  How was he supposed to deal with such a person?

He took a step toward her, then another and another, until his body was touching hers all the way down.  His posture hinted at physical aggression, but the idiotic woman was brave to the point of recklessness.  She didn’t budge.

“You think this is funny?” he raged.

“No.  I think it’s very, very serious.”

“Do you know what I could do to you?  Do you know what I could do to your family?  Are you positive you should cross me?”

She wrinkled her pert nose.  “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

“Your grandfather said you were a spoiled bully.  Now that I’ve met you, I see that his assessment was correct.”

Her mentioning Harold was shocking, as if she’d cursed or spat on the floor.

“Don’t you dare speak of him,” Lucas commanded. 

“What’s the matter, you pathetic baby?  Could it be that I have something you want and you can’t get it back?  Poor, poor Lucas Merriweather.  Beaten by a
girl
.”

He leaned in, wishing he was the sort of man who would commit violence against a female.  She deserved an old-fashioned thrashing. 

“Don’t be smart with me,” he seethed.

“Why shouldn’t I be?  I know all about you.”

“You couldn’t possibly.”

“You’d be surprised what Harold had to say.”  She whispered, “It was never anything good.”

He narrowed his gaze, studying her, curious as to what machinations were rumbling through her devious, convoluted mind.  Her words about his grandfather, her claim that Harold had made derogatory comments about Lucas, had Lucas rattled.

He had a small pile of memories of his grandfather—the man sitting in the bleachers at Lucas’s T-ball game, holding his hand as they walked in a park—but they’d been drowned out by the shouting and recriminations that had come later.

Lucas always kept a tight rein on his emotions.  He couldn’t have been raised by his stern, autocratic father or his cool, detached mother and turned out any differently.  But for some reason, the notion that his grandfather hadn’t liked him was particularly wounding.       

“Miss Benjamin”—Ms. Stone huffed over to where they were pressed together—“I have to ask you to leave.”

“Yes, I should be going,” Benjamin blithely agreed, and she had the gall to wink at Lucas.  “I need to get home and check all the curtains so those pesky private detectives can’t stick their cameras in my windows.”

She started out, but spun at the last second and said, “By the way, the money is mine.  Harold gave it to me, and you can’t have it.  Just thought you should know.”

She waltzed out, and Lucas and Ms. Stone waited in a dreadful silence until the front door closed with her exit.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Merriweather,” Ms. Stone began.  “I had no idea she’d—“

“That woman is a menace,” he interrupted, not in the mood for excuses.

“Yes, she certainly seems to be.”

“And it’s occurred to me that you have none of the skills necessary to negotiate with her.”

“I was simply late.  I didn’t mean to be.  I called your cell, but I—“

Lucas held up a hand, stopping her.  “You’re fired, Ms. Stone.”  He whipped away and stomped off.  “As to Faith Benjamin, I’ll deal with her myself.”  

KISS ME

by Cheryl Holt

Enjoy this sample chapter!

CHAPTER ONE

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

Dustin Merriweather stumbled to a halt as a short, voluptuous brunette threw herself into his arms. 

She was all lush curves and smooth, soft skin, her head a tangle of riotous curls that tickled his chin.  Her petite frame fit perfectly against his tall, lanky one, and wretch that he was, he was in no hurry to push her away.

When he bothered to date, he chose actresses and models.  He had the money and renown to surround himself with some of the world’s most beautiful women.  But they were the types who starved themselves to the point of emaciation, so her shapely body was a nice change. 

He could feel it through the puffy goose down of her unflattering parka.  It looked like a garment her younger brother probably wore in the sixth grade.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said.  “Kiss me or hug me or
something
.”

“I don’t think I know you well enough to kiss you.”

“Then be a brick wall and hide me.”

He chuckled at her vehemence, as she moved closer and burrowed inside his leather jacket.  Her cheek was pressed directly over his heart, her slender hands sliding around his waist to clasp the small of his back.  She angled them so that his shoulders faced the street, and she was cradled against the wall of the building next to them.

“What are we doing?” he asked. 

“Ssh,” she warned.  “Not so loud.”

“What are we doing?” he repeated, whispering. 

“There is a woman on the sidewalk behind you, and she’ll pass by in a minute.  You can’t let her see me.”

“All right.”

He stood in the quiet, enjoying the feminine feel of her as he breathed deep of the cold autumn air.  The stark scenery washed over him.  It was a crisp October afternoon, the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains towering to the sky.  Up on the steep slopes, a few patches of color were still visible as the last leaves on the aspen trees clung tenaciously to the branches. 

Soon they’d all be gone, and the frigid gray of winter would set in.

Earlier in the morning, he’d driven up from Denver.  Business had dragged him to the isolated town of Gold Creek.  Though his family had made the bulk of their fortune in the prior century, emptying the abandoned mines that dotted the narrow canyon, he’d never previously visited. 

With the elevation above eight-thousand feet, it wasn’t the most hospitable place.  Only the hardiest souls could manage to thrive in such an unwelcoming environment.  His shrewd, industrious great, great grandfather—a pioneer and prospector—had been one of them, but Dustin had no interest in following in the man’s footsteps.

He preferred the warmth of Los Angeles and the sandy beaches of the Caribbean, and at age twenty-eight, his constant goal was to work as little as possible and play as much as he was able.

The town’s main street, with its old shops and dilapidated houses, looked as if everybody was barely holding on.  The area hadn’t generated any of the modern economic prosperity achieved by other mountain communities. 

It was too far out of the way to attract tourists, and there were no gentle slopes that might have allowed for a ski resort or summer hiking.  The mines had been boarded for decades so employment was sporadic and intermittent. 

Who would live in such a godforsaken spot?  Who could bear it?

He tamped down a shudder, imagining a windy, January day.  It wasn’t unusual to have four-hundred inches of snow in the winter, and his contemplation of that pile of white stuff ignited a wave of claustrophobia.

On the trip up from Denver, he’d considered staying over, maybe checking out grainy photos at the historical society’s museum, but he wouldn’t. 

He had no abiding loyalty to his name or reputation, felt no connection to his ancestors and couldn’t stand to reminisce.  Their past actions and acclaim were dubious to say the least.  Who could be proud of a legacy of gold mines and the poisonous devastation they left in their wake?

No.  He’d finish with his meetings, then hit the road and be in Denver by supper.  He’d brought Chantal with him.  She was the latest New York model to catch his fancy.  He’d told her to pack for a week, that they’d stop to dine and loaf in Aspen, so she’d be irritated at his change of plans.  But her wishes were irrelevant.

Behind him, footsteps approached.  The nymph in his arms stiffened and snuggled herself even closer.  He pulled the lapels of his jacket around her torso, trying his best to keep her concealed.

A woman marched by.  From the back, she appeared to be wealthy, and he suspected she was beautiful.  She had long, blond hair that was professionally streaked with the appropriate highlights, and she was wrapped in an expensive wool coat that hung to her knees.  Her boots were shiny leather, the spiky heels clicking on the pavement.

“Don’t move yet,” his sprite murmured.

“I won’t.”

“I don’t want her to glance over her shoulder.”

“She didn’t even notice we were here.”

“Of course, she didn’t.”

The woman continued down the block, then turned the corner and vanished from view.  Silence fell as her strides faded.

“Is she gone?” his elf asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?  You can’t see her?”

“Nope.”

She drew away, and as she grinned up at him, he was temporarily spellbound.  His heart actually did a little flip-flop.

She was just so pretty.  Plump, rosy cheeks.  Pouty lips.  A pert nose red from the cold.  A mass of dark curls that framed a perfect face.  And her eyes!  They were big and green and full of mischief, and he was certain she’d caused no end of trouble to the people in her life.  

“You were a great wall,” she said.

“Glad I could help.”

“Thank you.  You were terrific.”

She patted her palm on the center of his chest, then strolled off.

He stood for a moment, shaking his head at her quirky personality, at their odd encounter, when it dawned on him that she was leaving and he didn’t want her to go.  The dreary, decrepit town had him that morose and unsettled.   

“Hey,” he called after her.

She spun around.  “What?”

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really.  Who was she?”

“I don’t have any idea.”

She was the worst liar.  It would be easy to date or gamble with her.  You’d never have to wonder what she was thinking or feeling.  Her entire emotional condition was written on her face.

“You can tell me,” he urged.  “It’s not like I’ll run out and alert the media.”