Midnight At Tiffany's (5 page)

C
HASE ORDERED FOOD
and they ate pizza from the box and watched the dawn break over Manhattan. The sun rose, sending a morning blush across the sky as if New York was mildly embarrassed about the wild indulgences of the night before.

Was there anything better? Watching dawn break over the city he loved with a woman he—

He stared across the buildings clustered round the park, framing it like a painting.

A woman he what?

A woman he’d met a few hours before?

He didn’t know her second name. He didn’t know what she did for a living.

But he knew she dreamed of being a writer, he knew she was self-conscious about her height, he knew she never wore white because she had a habit of dropping things down her front—personal, intimate details that were usually only revealed when trust had grown.

He frowned. Did Victoria have a dream? What were her insecurities?

He had no idea. They’d known each other for years and he didn’t know if she was afraid of heights, spiders or the bogeyman. Victoria would never make herself vulnerable by revealing what she regarded as weakness. As a result, his knowledge of her was superficial. Almost all his relationships
were superficial. And the one that might not have been—with his brother—had been broken long before.

He remembered rigging the boat with Brett, laughing as the waves capsized them, drinking beers on the sand as they watched the sun set over the water, and he felt a pang of loss, a sense of grief for something he’d once had and let go.

She snuggled closer. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“You were remembering something and it made you sad.”

He turned his head to look at her and saw gentle warmth in her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Because one moment you were smiling and the next you weren’t.”

The fact that she’d noticed, paid attention, removed his natural reticence. “I was thinking about my brother.”

She curved her hand over his chest and held him closer. “You should call him.”

He thought about the words that had been spoken and the time that had passed. “It’s too late.”

She shifted onto her elbow and looked at him. “It’s never too late, Alex. I lost my mom five years ago, and I’d give years of my life for a chance to tell her I love her one more time. Don’t let pride get in the way of doing what you want to do.”

Did he want to do it? Uncomfortable with the rush of unfamiliar emotion, he changed the subject. “Tell me about your mom.” It was such a personal question, he wouldn’t have blamed her for refusing, but she snuggled closer, her hair sliding in a silken tangle over his chest.

“She was incredible. Strong. Brave. The most fiercely determined person I ever met. She had me when she was eighteen and her parents—my grandparents—were horrified.
They told her that having me would ruin her life. She wanted to be a lawyer, and they’d wanted that for her. When she refused to give me up they cut her off. Mom told me once that they were embarrassed that she was a single mom.”

Superficial, Chase thought. Concerned with appearances and the opinion of others. It was a trait shared by many of the people he knew.

“So they cut her off instead of supporting her.”

“She hated the words
single mom.
People use that label, don’t they? As if it signifies something, as if it conveys relevant information about character and status. She hated that people made assumptions. She worked three jobs to support us and eventually put herself through college and became a lawyer. That was her dream. She used to say to me, ‘People can make it hard for you, they can discourage and take the heart out of you, but in the end the only person who can kill your dream is you. Don’t ever give up.’“ There was a pause. “I tried so hard to make her proud of me, to be braver and less shy, but I’m sure there were times when she wondered how she could have produced someone like me.” The honest admission tugged at him, and he pushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed her gently.

“She would have been proud of you, moving to New York City, renting an apartment, holding down a job, living your life.”

“It’s more of a room than an apartment and—”

“And?”

“Nothing.” She snuggled closer. “Tell me something else about you.”

“I’m addicted to your body.”

She gave a low laugh and pressed her lips to his chest. “I meant something personal.”

“This is personal.” Chase stroked his hand over her skin. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“I’m always working.” He spent his days in endless meetings and his evenings working his way through papers produced at those meetings. At some point his work had swallowed up his life.

“But you already told me you like sailing, so why don’t you sail? You love your work more?”

He didn’t love his work. He found it challenging and stimulating, but he didn’t love it. He’d gone into it through a sense of duty and stayed in it for the same reason. His father had needed someone to head up the company, and he’d stepped into that role when his brother wouldn’t. And he’d blamed his brother for his decision. Allowed his anger and disappointment to erode their relationship.

He tightened his hold on her. “When did you start writing?”

“I was very young. It was my way of escaping the hell of the playground. I started inventing characters who were nothing like me. They were always brave and never tall. It grew from there.”

“What sort of stories do you write now?”

“Romance. With plenty of action.”

“Action in the bedroom?”

She laughed. “And in other places. My current heroine L—” she stumbled “—likes to be the one in charge. She’s very strong.”

“Have you sent your work anywhere before?”

“No.” She was sprawled across him. “That’s why I was hoping to meet Chase Adams, but that’s all blown now.”

Chase paused. “Where’s the book?”

“On my computer.”

“Send it to me.”

She turned to look at him. “No way! You’ll read it and hate it.”

“Send it to me. I’ll get it to Chase’s brother.”

“How? You know Chase well enough to ask?”

He hesitated, wondering how he’d reached this level of intimacy with someone who didn’t even know who he was.

“If you send it, I’ll make sure he sees it.” It would be an excuse to make contact with his brother. When had they last gone out for a drink? When had he made time for that?

Work had swallowed up his life, and that was going to change.

He was going to step over his pride and talk to his brother.

He was going to make time for the things he loved. The things he’d given up since his job had become a big hungry machine.

Sailing, cars, friends—

This woman—

“I want to see you again, Lara.” He hauled her close and lowered his mouth to hers. “This isn’t over.”

I
F SHE WERE
putting this scenario in a book, this would be a plot twist.

She was falling in love with a man who didn’t know who she was.

No, not love. She frowned at herself. Love only happened fast in stories where reality blurred with fantasy.

She watched as the rising sun sent fingers of light across the city and knew that this was one of those rare moments where real life came so close to a fantasy it was difficult to distinguish the two.

Talking to Alex, being with Alex, was the easiest, most natural thing she’d ever done. She never would have imagined it possible to share such easy intimacy with someone she’d met only the day before.

They’d talked and made love all night. They’d covered every subject. Never in her life had she felt so deeply connected to another human being.

This was intimacy.

Not sex, which could be shared by two people without the exchange of names or confidences, but this closeness. This level of trust.

At some point during the night she’d stopped being Lara and become Matilda in everything but name, but the closeness and trust had remained.

“I want to see you again.” His voice was deep and decisive and she felt a rush of excitement mingled with nerves.

She should tell him.

She should tell him her real name, explain. They’d laugh together. “I’d like that, too.”

She felt like dancing, but dancing invariably involved breakages, so she contented herself with a smile. “Back in a moment.”

She slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom. All she needed to do was work out the best way to tell him.

“Incredible legs,” he murmured, and she smiled and realized for the first time in her life she wasn’t trying to make herself seem smaller. Instead of making her feel like a freak, he made her feel fantastic.

She turned to tell him as much and saw that he’d fallen asleep, dark strands of hair flopping over his face. It made him seem younger and less severe.

Gazing at him, lost in her own dreamworld, she turned
back to the bathroom and her elbow knocked his wallet onto the floor. The contents scattered.

She rolled her eyes. Still, as accidents went it could have been worse. It could have been something glass and precious, or something liquid and red.

She stooped to clear up her latest mess, thinking that the one thing she knew she wasn’t going to find in his wallet were condoms, because they’d used them all, and then she froze.

Dazed, she reached for the credit card.
Chase Adams.

Chase Adams?

She checked the next card and the next. All had the same name.

Which meant only one thing.

He was a thief.

The man she’d spent the most amazing, unforgettable night of her life with was a thief.
He’d stolen Chase Adams’s wallet. Hands shaking, she tried to stuff the contents back inside and then saw the photo.

Her gaze lifted from the photo to the man on the bed. It was the same person.

He hadn’t stolen Chase Adams’s wallet; he
was
Chase Adams.

Crap, crap, crappity crap.
She’d had wild sex with Chase Adams. She’d spilled her hopes, her dreams and an entire bucket of ice on a man who was entirely out of her league.

A man who had lied about who he was.

Alarm and horror turned to anger.

Why hadn’t he told her the truth? Why had he lied about who he was?

Her mind tracked back over the night they’d shared. All
those things he’d said. All those things he’d told her about himself. All lies.

But she’d told lies, too, hadn’t she?

The knowledge that she was being hypocritical doused the flames of her anger. She was equally guilty.

It was the ultimate irony that she’d begun the evening pretending to be someone else, only to discover that he’d also been pretending to be someone else.

She put the wallet back carefully and picked up her clothes.

This wasn’t a plot twist, it was karma, and Lara would have said that karma was a total bitch, but she was done with being Lara. She was back to being herself. For a little while she’d loved being herself and the reason she’d loved it was because he’d liked her that way.

All she had to do was carry on doing that without him, and ignore the fact that her heart felt as if it had been wrenched from her body.

“S
O YOU’RE NOT
going to the Summer Gala this evening?”

“That’s right.” Chase didn’t look up from his computer. “I’m going to the beach house, where I’m going to swim, sail and generally do all the things I used to enjoy doing before I forgot I enjoyed them.”

Rick stared at him, as if Chase had just announced he intended to spend the weekend injecting drugs. “I’ve been your personal assistant for five years and I didn’t know you enjoyed sailing.”

“Well, now you do.”

Rick looked uncomfortable. “Your father expects you to be at the Gala. He wants to talk to you about the Turner-Hill deal. There are people he wants you to meet.”

Another evening of fake smiles and mindless schmoozing, as Lara would have called it.

Except that now he knew her name wasn’t Lara. It was Matilda. Her name had been written on the manuscript she’d left in his apartment. Her name, her email, but no address.

“Everyone will be there.”

Not everyone. Not the one person in the world he badly wanted to see again.

He’d emailed her three times and had no response. Clearly whatever she’d felt for Alex, she couldn’t feel for Chase Adams.

“I won’t be there. I’ll be in the Hamptons, breathing in
sea air. Enjoying life after putting in a long working week. I won’t be back until Tuesday. Long working week equals long weekend.”

“What’s happened to you?” Rick looked bemused. “You’ve changed over the past few weeks.”

“Maybe I have.” Or maybe he’d just rediscovered the man he really was.

Chase stood up and stared down over the crisscross streets far beneath him. She was down there somewhere, living her life.

Did she think about him? Did she think about that night?

Why hadn’t she answered his emails?

Rick was obviously struggling to understand the changes in his boss. “Tuesday? Will you be calling in on Monday?”

“No.” Chase turned. “Did my brother call about that package I sent him?”

“Not since the last time you asked me.”

“Right.” Realizing that Rick was still hovering, he looked at him expectantly. “Was there something else?”

“You asked me to check the guest list for the party a few weeks ago.”

Tension rippled across his shoulders. “And?”

“No one by the name of Lara was invited.”

“No.” Knowing what he knew now, that didn’t surprise him. “Did you check for Matilda?”

“Yes, boss. No Matilda, either.”

So what did that mean? Chase strolled the length of his office, his mind working. Had she crashed the party? Was that why she wasn’t answering the email? She was embarrassed because she wasn’t supposed to be there that night?

He ran through his options. He was living in a city of several million people, most of whom he’d be happy never
to see again. The one person he wanted to see, he couldn’t find. His desire to be anonymous had backfired in spectacular fashion.

What was he supposed to do? Hire a private investigator? Roam the streets of Manhattan like a crazed lunatic?

He kept telling himself that it was just one night and that he should let it go, but how could he? It was just one night, but he wanted something from her that he’d never wanted from a woman before.

M
ATILDA WALKED INTO
the foyer of the old brownstone that formed the headquarters of Phoenix Publishing. Her knees were shaking, and her palms were damp.

The email had landed in her inbox two days earlier, which meant only one thing. Chase must have passed the manuscript she’d left in his apartment to his brother.

She wondered if he’d done it personally. Had they actually had a conversation after all these years? She really hoped so. She couldn’t think of anything worse than losing touch with a family member, and she didn’t want to think of Chase lonely and missing his brother.

The short, polite email had come from an editorial assistant, with a request that she call to set up a meeting.

It was the last thing she’d expected. Why would they want to meet her?

Presumably it meant they liked the book, but why not just say so over the phone or by email?

“Miss Meadows? Mr. Adams will see you now.”

But not the right Mr. Adams, she thought sadly. Funny how a few weeks ago the only reason she’d wanted to meet Chase Adams was to try to get to his brother, and now she was about to meet his brother, all she wanted was Chase.

She walked into the room, saw a shimmer of dark hair, and for a moment her heart skipped a beat.

Then the man looked up.

Not Chase, but Brett Adams looked sufficiently like his brother to make her insides turn over.

She missed him so much.

How was it possible to miss someone you’d known for only a night?

There was a hollow ache in her chest and, whether she had her eyes open or closed, all she saw was his smile, the way he listened so attentively. The way his hands and mouth had touched her—

It was something she might have written in a book, but her books weren’t real life.

She hoped he was all right. She hoped he was happy and not working too hard.

She hoped some unscrupulous woman wasn’t sleeping with him for his money and influence.

“Miss Meadows? Have a seat.” Brett waved a hand, sending papers and files scattering. He made a grab for them and sent her a smile of boyish charm. “Sorry. Despite appearances, I know the identity and whereabouts of every piece of paper on this desk. I read your book.”

Trying not to think about Chase, Matilda sat on the edge of the chair. “I didn’t expect you to read it personally.”

“Normally I wouldn’t, but as it came direct from my brother I jumped straight on it. It had been sitting on my desk for a few days because I’ve been out of the office. London Book Fair.” He said it in a tone that suggested she probably knew all about it and Matilda tried to look sophisticated, as if the London Book Fair was somewhere she often frequented whenever she was in England.

Having never traveled farther than New Jersey, it sounded dizzyingly unreal to her.

He reached for a file on his desk. “I enjoyed it. Needs a few minor editorial changes, a little more emotional depth in a few places, but nothing structural. In a moment I’ll introduce you to Mandy, who will be your editor. Do you have an agent?”

“An—” Matilda stared at him.
Agent?
“Are you saying you’ll publish it?”

“Definitely. I didn’t mention that?” He looked vague and distracted. “As you correctly identified in your cover note, it’s perfect for our romance line, Bliss. I predict readers will fall in love with Lara. She’s an interesting, layered character. I loved the mix of strength and humor. Quite a woman.”

“Yes. She is.” Matilda sat there, reflecting on the irony of feeling jealous of a character you’d created yourself. Maybe if she were more like Lara she would have had the courage to answer Chase’s email asking her for her address. She would have pointed out that what they’d shared wasn’t real, and she’d rather keep it as an amazing memory than have it end badly when he realized the truth about her.

“We’ll sort out the details in due course, but in the meantime, congratulations. You’ll be an exciting addition to our list.” He hesitated. “How well do you know my brother?”

Matilda thought about the night they’d shared, about the confidences and the intimacy. “I know him quite well,” she said quietly. “Why?”

“Because he sent a note with the manuscript and asked me to hand it to you if I saw you. I thought that was a little strange. Have the two of you fallen out? Have you changed your address or something?”

“No. It’s … complicated. You said you have a note?” Her
heart thudded against her chest. There was no harm in reading a note, was there? “Do you have it?”

He handed it over, a curious smile on his face. “He addressed it to Lara, your heroine. I presume that is some sort of private joke.”

“Yes.” Her mouth dry, she scanned the bold handwriting on the envelope. “Private joke.”

“If you know him well, then you probably know that my brother and I lost touch a few years ago. Just one of those family things. Thanks to you and this manuscript, we’re back in touch.”

“I’m glad.” And she was. She really was. Chase needed people in his life he could trust. People who cared about him for who he was, not for what he was.

Clutching the note, she stood up and picked up her bag.

Brett Adams looked at her expectantly. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Later.” It was too precious to read in public. She needed to be somewhere private in case she made a fool of herself. She knew that even the envelope was something she was going to keep forever. A reminder. A memory of a single amazing night when reality and fantasy had merged.

The next hour passed in a whirl of excitement as she met her editor, discussed ideas for the next book and agreed to a deadline. By the time she finally stepped out of the door into the sunshine, her head was spinning.

She was going to be published.

She was a published author.

And it was all thanks to Chase.

It was a bittersweet moment to think that he was the one who had made her dream come true. He’d done that for her.

Finally, hands shaking, she opened the note.

There were just three words, written in the same bold, black scrawl as the envelope.

Midnight at Tiffany’s.