The Bet: A Manhattan Nights novel
Page 8
Without thinking, I place my pen on the conference table and walk out. I head for the elevators.
Chapter 12
HEATH
She follows me. Just as I knew she would.
I’m in the hallway before I hear her footsteps. Once I hit the isolated, stretch of carpet right before the elevators, she grabs my elbow just as I grabbed hers forty-eight hours ago.
But unlike me, she drops my arm just as quickly as she grabbed it, her movements quick, her fingertips releasing my skin just as soon as she feels it as I were a fire-stoked stove—hot to the touch.
I spin to face her. But when I do, I regret it. Her face is full of shock…and rage. Righteous indignations shines like a beacon from her azure irises and their ocean-colored depths are on fire, a blazing blue liquid that threatens to scorch my very skin.
I fucking love it. I almost hate that I fucking love it because I can’t stop the stupid smile from spreading on my face. She’s so angry at me. Nobody gets this angry with me.
They’re always afraid like the typical LA groupie or rude. But never quietly incensed. Never this poised and professional beneath what could only be a boiling surface.
I called her out in front of the acting senior-most partner, and I don’t even know why I did it. I couldn’t help myself.
The beautiful redhead hisses at me. “Just what do you think you are doing?”
“What I came to do. Setting my terms.”
“From what I understand, that’s not what we agreed upon.”
“That’s what I agreed on.” I turn to her. “I told you I was here for family business.”
“Yeah, I know.” She throws up her hands. “Family business. Not this business though. My business.”
“You’re a relatively new employee of the firm, Violet. At the time I set up this deal, it wasn’t your business. I’m a Sparrow, Keats. You’ve known my business for a long time.”
She exhales with a breathy laugh. “I know your business, Heath. You don’t have to explain.” Her eyes narrow. “Your business with me? Practically leaving while the bed was still warm. Your business with that underwear model, which was flashed on every gossip rag at the grocery store. Your business with every woman you seem to meet. All the same.” She grins grimly. “Congratulations.”
My voice lowers. “My business has always been my own before. As for you and me? That was no different. But you knew that about me, didn’t you?” I level a hard stare at Violet and she grows silent. “Besides, you act like I like the publicity.”
“You mean the man walking around Hollywood award shows with magazine cover models hates the attention?” Her voice is dripping with disdain, and for the first time I see how she sees me. How she must have always seen me.
As another handsome face, lapping up the spotlight.
The thought makes me angry. Irrationally so. And I take it out on Violet, pushing my presence onto hers, approaching within inches to squeeze her body near the double doors of the elevator lift. I breathe into her face.
“You know nothing about me, Keats.”
She fires back. “Everyone’s about to know everything about you—if they didn’t know it already. Because of your father’s accident. Because of this coverage of the Jackson case.”
We stare each other down, our eyes locked and unwavering. Wavy strands of gingery hair slip out of the slickened bun she’s used to subdue her silky locks, and I fight the urge to tame them with my fingers, my frustration with her slowly melting into a different kind of heat—one that’s thick and hot and slowly sinking its way below my belt.
My eyes drift to her pouty lips and I instantly regret the decision. Her pink pout starts to shake.
The elevators open. Violet jumps back.
“Whoops, sorry.” A cute brunette jumps out. “Vi.” She looks at the wide-eyed redhead and then me.
Violet’s reply is soft—surprised. “Em.” Her own eyes go wide and she blinks.
The perky brunette leans into Violet, her voice dipping low. “If you’re trying to have a private conversation, might I suggest you do it somewhere a little more…private?” She smiles up at me. “Carry on. Don’t mind me.”
She moves on, never glancing back and I sneak a peek over my shoulder, scanning the small hallway for anyone else. My gaze lands back on Violet.
“We need to talk. Privately.”
Violet glares back at me. “I’m at work.”
“And doesn’t work allow lunch?” I raise an eyebrow. “Trust me; this isn’t a trip to the Rainbow Room…though you had no trouble trying to defile my innocence.”
She puts her hands on her hips, and I fight the urge to grin. I glance towards the double doors again.
“Just…come with me,” I ask. No, I’m not even asking. I press the button. Several seconds later, the elevator opens up again, and I step inside, my stare daring Violet to say no. She looks at me, and for a moment, I think she might stand there and tell me to “Go to Hell.”
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she steps into the elevator and says it.
The air starts to thicken and I stand there with Violet, side-by-side, smelling her sultry perfume, clenching my fists as her sweetened scent wraps itself around me and magically makes its way to my cock, which stirs.
The elevator hits the bottom floor and the doors jolt apart. Violet exits first, and with my usual defenses up and head down, I try to lead her out of the lobby and towards my waiting car outside. But the plan is shot to hell, shattered as a woman in a navy suit passes me…and recognizes me instantly. She points towards my face.
“You…you’re that guy! The guy from the news report. That Chris Jackson case,” she exclaims. Shit! I try to think of something to say. You’d think I’d be used to this fuckery by now, but my mind goes blank. I instead attempt to keep walking, but the shocked lady in the lobby won’t let it go. She starts to follow me, her mouth forming new words as she moves in my direction.
I feel someone else rush forward and my breath stops when I see that it’s Violet. She steps over, interrupting the wide-eyed woman.
“Guy?” She glances over her shoulder. “Guy? What guy? Oh you mean the pizza delivery guy.” She glances up at me. “Riiiiight.” She places a hand on the stranger’s arm, lowering her voice as she leans in. “Ma’am, your Sausage-Cheese-and-Please-Shut-Up pizza will be right on its way up. And you want it to be hot and ready?” She pats the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t you?”
We keep walking and the woman purses her lips. Other people in the lobby are starting to ogle, but before they can put too many of the pieces together or comment out loud, we’re practically rushing through the revolving front doors, hitting the sidewalk as a gust of winter wind comes blowing our way.
At eleven AM, the downtown streets are still relatively empty, but they won’t stay that way for long. I look for my town car and see that my car is nowhere to be found. Where the hell is good help when you need it?
I grapple for my cell.
“Is it me or is Manhattan colder than fucking ever?” Violet bunches against the cold. “Looks like we avoided a scene, after all.”
I listen to the driver’s phone ring on the other line. I come closer to her. “You have no idea. That woman in there probably just tweeted about us in the lobby. Fifty extra people will make their way over from wherever they were… Maybe even more. This is the life of a person in the limelight.” I hike up my shirtsleeves. “This is the life that you’re going to have to get used to from this moment on as the biggest criminal case since OJ hits TV screens.” I tilt her chin slightly with my finger. “Are you ready?”
“No.” Her response is quick-fire fast, and I smirk.
She looks as if she’s ready to say something when a thickening crowd starts to show up, filing directly our way. I grab her and walk, crunching her body into mine. I look at the sidewalk as if my life depends on it.
“Keep your head down and your eyes straight ahead.”
“What…”
The black town car honks twice and I part the talking ocean around me with Violet in my arms, my jaw pressed to her hair as I escort her towards the edge of the sidewalk, open the door and thrust her inside the backseat of the colossal car. I slam the door shut and run to the other side, hopping in just as the real photogs start to show on the scene.
The town car driver speeds off, leaving a trail of engine dust and disappointed gawkers behind us. I lean back in my seat, exhaling. I look over to find Violet’s eyes on me. She gapes.
“You set me up,” she sighs. “You knew this would happen.”
“Knew it? Yes. Planned it? No.” I sit up straight, glaring at her. “That’s just what happens in my world, and you’re asking to be a part of it.”
I watch her swallow, my eyes scanning her face. I study every tiny detail.
“You’re too good for this company, you know that, don’t you?” I inch closer. “Your reaction in that conference room said as much when I read it.”
I raise the partition between us and the driver, and I glare back at Violet. Squinting at the sultry redhead, my eyes skim the expanse of her body, starting at her heels and stopping at her baby-blue eyes. I want her to stay here and listen, but I also want to scare her.
I want her to know what she’s getting into with me, with this firm—this case. With a world that will stab at her road to success. I can tell by the twinge of her slight Chicago accent that she’s still a stranger to my city. I’m sure Violet came here as a naive girl in a city full of sharks…but she has no idea that she now works for some of the biggest ones.
Works for a man who would cut his own nose off just to come one step closer to success. A man…who is much like me.
I take a deep breath.
“We’ll eat lunch. We’ll talk. I promise you won’t die from either of those,” I tell her. “But first I want to prepare you. I want to prepare you for what you’re in for—my life. I want to prepare you for what David doesn’t seem to know—that we’re going to be implicated with this case…and what he will do once we fall out of line.”
“We?” She presses.
“Yes…” I scan her body once more. “We,” I emphasize. “Especially since he’s got his eye on you.”
Violet’s jaw drops. “David?” She shakes her head. “He doesn’t.”
I smile. “Yeah, you keep thinking that. And I’m going to give you the tools you need to get through this fucking circus.”
I look out the window, as Violet raises her eyebrows, giving me another glance. “And how do I know I can trust you to do that?”
“Because…” I stare out at the streets, not meeting her eye. “Sparrows? We were born in a fucking circus.” I shoot her a pointed look. “Or hadn’t you heard?”
Chapter 13
VIOLET
Day number six…and it belongs to asshole number one.
The cool New York air is wet with mist as the next few days warm up considerably in Manhattan. Heath’s arrival is official, his immaculate suits in tow. He walks amidst the firms lawyers as if he has always belonged, and by mid-day, a gentle breeze turns brisk, putting everybody in the office on edge.
Except for David. Me. And now, of course, him.
Our brand-new boss. More bastardly than ever.
His arms bulge against his expensive white button-down shirt, his biceps stretching at the fabric, showing off. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his forearms on full display despite the chill, he reveals a smattering of dark hair trails along his arms and jaw, and as he strolls past my office door in the afternoon, he raises a rough hand to rub it, his frustration evident as he swipes a palm across the cropped strands below his chin.
In preparation for a brand new corporate client, Heath arranges for sets of depositions, pulling participating lawyers in at his whim, and I swear the entire law firm sways with him, obeying his every instinct.
Everyone—every employee, right down to the paralegals—seem to be looking exclusively to him for direction. Even David.
The asshole was smarter than I’d expected, and, hell, I’d always known he was smart. His Harvard education has obviously served him well, and as he sets up meetings, arranges court appearances and sets up a few judicial sessions, I watch him, unable to do anything else.
I’d heard Heath Sparrow was a boy prodigy, but now I’m seeing him in action. Listening to him speak, full of passion and fervor and finesse, is almost more than my holiday-drained head can handle, and I take to ignoring him completely. Crossing a hallway just to avoid him. Turning a corner just so I won’t see his annoyingly handsome face.
Despite the fact that the brain cells of everyone involved in Chris Jackson—including my favorite secretary—seems to be located in their Calvin Kleins, mine are abso-fucking-lutely not, and I decide somewhere deep in my Victoria’s Secret not to let a pretty face—no matter how fucking gorgeous—distract me from my job.
A job that Heath seems so intent on interfering with at every turn.
“Package delivery!” I hear from somewhere in my muddled subconscious. The sound makes me jump.
The nasally sound of new delivery guy Steve’s annoying voice rolls on the edge of rumbling thunder from outside, and the sky opens up, dumping frozen rain down on Manhattan, washing our floor-to-ceiling windows in a sea of dark grey.
Just outside my office door, I notice lawyers, secretaries and assistants scramble, ready to wrap the day, eagerly scurrying past my glass wall to escape back to the safety of home.
But me?
I don’t budge an inch as Heath stalks our wood-grained halls, my attention still on him as he glides past the wall of pristine glass that separates me from the crowded corridor. The wall that separates me from Steven Randall.
He knocks again.
“Ms. Keats?”
It’s a name I’m only now getting used to after two years of having changed it back. Steve’s announcement for my package is still ringing in my ears, when I begrudgingly invite him in, his blue eyes shifty as he pushes into my small, square office.
His voice is shrill as he steps towards me, completely unaware of my unease. Or uncaring. He smiles widely, creating a creeping sensation across my skin.
“A delivery for you.”
I stand, retrieving the box from his sweaty hands, careful not to touch the over-imposing man. My stare shifts to Heath standing outside my office, lounging in the hallway.
He pushes away from where he perched against the receptionist’s desk, speaking low to an assistant. The icy rain outside our firm’s transparent walls begins to quicken, and when he looks up from his conversation with another one of our enamored law clerks, we lock eyes, our gazes stuck in place.
His brown hair looks nearly black against his newly-LA tanned skin. His mocha eyes never leave my face. And now we are caught in a staring contest—neither one of us daring to look away.
The splatters of the quickening thundershower match the beat of my suddenly pounding heart, and I find myself unable to turn, my ego freezing my feet, but something else—something hidden, darker…warmer driving a rhythm beneath my breast that is relentless.
Heath blinks—just once, taking a step towards me. I hold my breath…waiting, when, abruptly, tiny fingers tap my upper arm, pulling my scrutiny in a separate direction. I glance up, finding Steve’s curious eyes still staring back at me. He winks.
“I just need you to sign right here.” He holds out a clipboard and a pen, brushing my hand with the tips of his squirmy fingers. Holding my breath, I slip the utensil from his grasp, placing my impression on the paper.
I release the rest to Steven. But when I gaze back up to relocate Heath, the sophisticated asshole is gone, and in his place is the sinking knowledge that I can’t avoid him, can’t stay away from Heath Sparrow i
f I wanted to…
HEATH
I thought I loved LA. A part of me still does.
It’s only been eleven months since I’ve moved to the sunny West Coast and in the span of nearly a year, my best friend and my brain-child of a reality TV show has taken off, garnered enough accolades and awards to drown in, plunging me into a celebrity cesspool of parties, pussy and pills and powder.
I’ve passed on the pills, played in the deep end of the pussy and plundered into the after-parties as if my life depended on it.
I left behind the steel of my New York City home and scoured the palm trees and Cali breeze. On a road to success that I’ve paved myself, I should feel on top of the world.
But Mr. Jim Beam in my glass tells another story.
It’s a crime that I’ve even come out tonight, considering the fact that I’ve been fighting to get my father’s firm’s affairs squared away all day and my balls are ready to freeze.
That is, until I see Violet Keats in the office. All warm hues and red hair.
I’ve tried to get her out of my mind. And I was almost successful. Until the delivery guy was directing a hard-on through his eyes at her curvy body, and I’d almost lost it, finally storming out of the office just to avoid turning the entire entity upside down.
I’d never been known for a tame temper.
That damned vice of mine flares up as I take a seat, joining my overly-excited sister who swings in my direction on her barstool as I sit, her breathy voice just a tad too high.
She smiles. Like the cat who ate the canary.
I know that goddamned smile. I groan.
“What, Mare?”
“I heard a rumor. The would-be bride won’t stop talking about it. Elsie apparently loves your cooking.” And I notice my sister squeak. Actually fucking squeak. “She would want you to cater her and Brett’s joint Bachelor-Bachelorette party,” Marilyn starts to plea. “I just know it.”