by Julia Harlow
He leaned down to kiss her mouth for the first time. That struck her as a little odd. Most guys usually liked to start out with kissing.
“Bye, Dorrie.” His grin was wide, almost triumphant. If she hadn’t been about to pass out from exhaustion, she might have wondered about it.
Scrubbing every inch of herself in a hot shower wasn’t enough to purge the shame of what she’d done. When Dorrie finally crawled in between the sheets, as weary as she was, she couldn’t fall asleep for hours. The thought of Luke’s hands on her, using her like a whore, made her weep into the pillow. Well, wasn’t she a whore? She’d just used sex to pay for his silence.
~~~
Bright sun streaming in through the windows greeted Dorrie when she peeled her bloodshot eyes open. Leaning up on one elbow, she glanced at the hotel phone. The red light wasn’t blinking. Oh, well. Grant had gotten to bed late and was probably rushed to get to the photo shoot this morning. Before, just the thought of Grant made her beam. Not this morning.
There was no question in her mind. She had to tell Grant about what she’d done with Luke. The sooner the better. Otherwise the guilt and shame were going to rip her apart.
She hurried through her shower and dressed, on a mission to find Grant and spill the whole sordid story of what had happened after he’d left her room last night. She skipped calling room service for coffee. No way could she enjoy anything until she’d talked to Grant.
On her way out, she spied an envelope that had been slipped under the door. For a second, she thought about taking it with her to read because she was in such a rush to find Grant, but some weird sense told her to open it right away. Just then she recognized the handwriting on the outside of the envelope. It was Grant’s.
While she procrastinated about opening it, turning the envelope over in her fingers, her optimistic nature decided he must have written her a note about plans for the day instead of leaving a phone message. But that wasn’t like Grant. He always left a phone message. She edged her finger under the corner of the sealed flap and worked it until the envelope was open. Moist salty ocean air enveloped her when she stepped out on the balcony and lowered herself into a chair.
It was a good move on her part because what she read cleaved her heart in two:
Dorrie:
I understand you enjoyed your secret rendezvous with Luke Parker after I left you last night.
If I’d known that was the kind of person you were, I’d never have spent so much time building what I imagined was a meaningful and lasting relationship with you. As it is, in one act you’ve irreparably decimated everything we ever had.
Enclosed is an airline ticket for a flight to New York departing this afternoon. Be on it.
Any contact about the completion of the biography will be through my assistant at Entertainment Arts.
GM
The letter dropped from her fingers, fluttering in slow motion to the balcony floor. It was clear Grant had no intention of ever speaking to her again. A sharp twinge in the back of her mind, like a splinter just a bit too far underneath the skin to be seen, kept plaguing her. Luke Parker hadn’t wanted to sleep with her because he desired her. No, his scheme was far more calculating and devious.
But she had no time to think about that. She threw her personal items into her luggage and called the front desk for two things: to book a shuttle to the airport and to obtain a small suitcase to be brought to her room. When it arrived, she gathered together everything Grant had bought her and carefully packed it in the bag. She pulled a sheet of hotel stationary and jotted down two words: “Luke won.” She deposited it on top of the contents before zipping the bag shut.
Dorrie immediately left The Breakers with instructions for the bag to be delivered to Grant’s room.
~*~
Stefan had never seen Grant in such a foul mood. Throughout the morning, he’d argued with the photographer and the director and almost stormed off the shoot. His hairdresser wondered what could have happened. Ever since Grant had met Dorrie Applegate, he’d seemed as if he had a new lease on life. In fact, Stefan had never seen him so ebullient. Something had happened. Something bad. He resolved to call Dorrie after the shoot to see if she knew why his friend and employer was so distraught.
~*~
Grant stalked back to his suite after the agonizingly long shoot and showered. This evening’s black-tie Couture Week charity event being held at the Ritz Carlton started in an hour. If only the gut-wrenching pain would subside enough to get him through an hour or two, then he could be alone to lick his wounds and nurture his disdain for Dorrie.
Ever since the small manila envelope holding the flash drive had been delivered to his room and he’d viewed the contents, he’d tried to figure out how he could have been so wrong about her. Even though he’d flushed the flash drive down the toilet after viewing the images and listening to the audio, he knew those images were burned into his memory. While he attached a cummerbund around his waist, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to see the image of Dorrie’s body on the bed and Luke Parker fucking her from behind. He’d tried to rid his memory of the love words she’d uttered while Luke pounded into her. As he finished dressing, a thought flitted through his mind. Why had Luke Parker recorded their liaison? And why give it to him?
He strode down the hall and intended to pick up speed as he passed Dorrie’s room, but he slowed instead, remembering the last time he saw her, right here, when she’d kissed him last night. He sagged against the door and part of him desperately wished she weren’t gone. But the front desk had confirmed that she’d checked out when he’d inquired an hour ago.
He needn’t have worried about a distraction to get him through the evening. Carly Thomas and her silken spider web were waiting with breathless anticipation for his arrival at the Ritz Carlton.
Chapter 12
Carly took several deep breaths in an effort to soothe her jangled nerves as she put the finishing touches on her ensemble. The Carolina Herrera evening dress had cost her a small fortune, but as she smoothed her hands over her young-Ann-Margaret-like body, she decided it had been worth every penny. The peach and persimmon flame-stitch patterned silk hugged her trim figure and clashed with her soft strawberry-blond waves with an audacity she was certain Grant Maxwell would not only understand but also appreciate.
She’d done extensive research on this enigmatic man, studying in detail thousands of pictures of him on the Internet, and reading every interview and article she could ferret out dozens of times, until she felt she knew him, at least his tastes in fashion and women. Very little biographical information was available. She’d heard a biography was due to be published next spring, but she needed information now.
His net worth numbered in the multiple millions. She’d found that out before he’d arrived in Palm Beach for Couture Week. The fact that he’d been described as charming and witty didn’t surprise her, but learning that he was also modest and didn’t flirt or trade on his smoldering good looks did.
Yet, the kind of information she most needed continued to elude her. In a move that gave her a secret thrill, she’d called in a favor she had squirreled away like a plump nut and contacted Lindsay Smith-French, chairwoman of tonight’s gala benefitting the Autism Foundation of Palm Beach County. She and Lindsay went way back, and Carly had covered for her more times than she could remember. Lindsay liked her men young, really young, and loved sex. Carly suspected she might even have an addiction, something her ridiculously wealthy husband knew nothing about.
Lindsay had met Grant Maxwell several times through shared friends and acquaintances and could provide two things Carly desperately needed to obtain her goal: personal information about Grant and an introduction this evening.
As Carly turned back after taking a last glance over her shoulder in the mirror, she smiled at the outrageously high Bottega Veneta suede stilettos peeking out from the hem of her dress. But it was the color she was smiling about; a rich aubergine that was sure to catch the mo
st discerning eye. Of one man in particular.
~*~
The Ritz Carlton of Palm Beach didn’t take its five-star rating lightly. The understated elegance it was famous for rivaled the most prestigious European hotels. Grant had always admired that about the Ritz Carlton, but tonight it meant nothing to him. Everything had turned drab and gray—the way it had been before he’d met Dorrie on that plane and suddenly could see the world in brilliant jewel tones through her fresh eyes. But that had disappeared like a rainbow in a dull rain.
He heard his name announced and strode into the ballroom, wondering how long it would be before he could leave. Every head swiveled in his direction. He was resplendent in a Dolce and Gabbana black tuxedo. Clean-shaven, for once, taking a few years off his drop-dead gorgeous face, his skin appeared sun-bronzed and healthy. He hoped he hid the bleakness behind those piercing azure eyes.
An odd silence fell over the vast, crowded ballroom as one by one the guests jockeyed for position to take him in, this man who rivaled Michelangelo’s David.
Grant despised this. Relief from the uncomfortable scrutiny came when the designer-clad horde parted and his friend Lindsay Smith-French floated forward to greet him, decked out in a fuchsia Dior creation and trailing a fog of Chanel No 22. Despite the dress and cloying scent, a sigh of relief escaped him as she kissed his cheek. Lindsay had twisted his arm to attend, aware that crowds like this made him ill at ease, and promised to keep him from the fray as best she could.
That wasn’t the only reason for his relief at seeing her. He liked her. She was irreverent, bright, and witty, knew all about collectible rare cars—one of his passions—but best of all, she had no sexual interest in him. So he could relax and enjoy his time with her.
She took his arm and led him to the bar. “God, you’re a walking wet dream, Maxy. Several of the guests almost fainted when you walked in. I’m sure too many to count are fantasizing about what it would be like to have your big, perfectly proportioned muscular body stretched over them. And few of our most brazen beauties figure their chances of finding out later tonight are pretty damn good.
“Could you tone it down, darling? I’m afraid some of the guests might pass out from your potent pheromones before they have a chance to bid on the silent auction.” Grant laughed, revealing the charming creases around his mouth and causing countless onlookers to hyperventilate.
After introducing him to a dozen of the VIPs in attendance, Lindsay entertained him with her patter. The two strong old-fashioneds he’d downed helped Grant settle into the gala; he even tasted a couple of the lobster claw canapés. When Lindsay pulled him onto the dance floor, he let her. The music the orchestra was playing appealed to him, and he whirled her around commandingly.
“How many diamonds are you wearing tonight, Lindsay? Any more and I’m afraid you’ll drag us both down to the floor.” Her laughter bubbled as Grant’s eye caught a young woman gliding toward them. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar, but Grant dismissed it as he admired the simple line of her gown and the fascinating play of colors with her pale skin and hair. And those shoes! Clearly, she was the most intriguing woman here, and he found himself asking Lindsay for an introduction.
“Grant, this is my friend Carly Thomas. She’s the top yacht broker in Palm Beach. Carly, say hello to Grant Maxwell, male model extraordinaire.”
And it was done. Carly appeared to be a little stunned as he extended his big, tanned hand and asked her to dance.
When the orchestra began playing the first strains of “I Wanna Be Around,” made famous by Tony Bennett, Grant smiled down at Carly and held her tighter around the waist. “A good break-up song, don’t you think?”
He watched as Carly shook her head slightly, as though gathering her composure. “Yes, I’ve always thought it one of the best. A little retribution helps after a painful break-up, I always say.”
He leaned away slightly to study her face. “Really? I’d have thought you too young to be familiar with Tony Bennett’s lyrics or to have known anyone audacious enough to break up with you.”
“Ditto on you knowing anyone audacious enough to break up with you.”
His nose drifted down to her hair, breathing in her clean scent. No heavy perfumes needed here. Not when you smelled this fucking good. The orchestra must be playing a Tony Bennett medley. He felt a little thrill at the opening notes of “When Joanna Loved Me,” one of his absolute favorites. He wondered if Lindsay knew he was a Tony Bennett admirer as he twirled this intriguing young woman around the ballroom’s shiny parquet floor.
Without conscious intention, he began comparing the feel of her to Dorrie. Miss Thomas was smaller-boned and shorter by at least two inches. Her hips were slimmer, her backside smaller. Not the luscious rounds Dorrie was blessed with. He gazed down at her pert nose, full lower lip, and the upper one with that perfect bow. Now he realized what it was about her. Somehow she reminded him of Dorrie.
The thought was unsettling. His heart felt so raw. She gazed up at him with raised brows when he stopped dancing. “Let’s get a drink.” He hadn’t meant to sound curt, but he had. Gently taking her by the elbow, he led her to the bar.
“What’s your pleasure, Miss Thomas? It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”
She smiled sweetly up at him. “Yes. Definitely. What are you having?”
He spied a bottle of Glenlivit 25 on a high shelf behind the bar and couldn’t resist. After all, it wasn’t an open bar, so he didn’t have to feel guilty about splurging. And as shitty as he felt, he deserved it.
“Glenlivit.”
“Oh, I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, so that’s way out of my league. Champagne is more my speed.”
He ordered for them and, after paying, suggested they take their drinks and stroll outside.
The night air was mild with just a hint of salty ocean breeze. He led her to the wall overlooking the Atlantic. It was too dark to see anything, but he heard the rhythmic surging of the waves. The last person he wanted to think about was Dorrie, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. What if she were beside him now and last night with that bloody cocksucker Parker had never happened? He imagined the curvy body that set him on fire and her genuine smile. This was fucking insane! He had to forget her.
The quiet woman at his side gazed out toward the sound of the waves, and he realized he’d been ignoring her.
“C’mon. Those shoes must be killing you after standing all night. Let’s sit at that table over there.” He gestured to a nearby table with his free hand and pulled out a chair for her. After they sat down, she giggled. Oh, shit, she sounded just like Dorrie.
He had to get a fucking grip. The woman was gone. Out of his life. And good fucking riddance. He swallowed the rest of his delectable scotch in one large gulp and set his tumbler on the table with a decisive clunk.
“So, Miss Thomas, you don’t look anything like a yacht broker. No offense.”
She swallowed a sip of champagne and laughed. “I know. I get that a lot.”
“Well, how did you come to be one? A yacht broker, I mean.”
“It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t interested.” Even with all the pictures she’d memorized, Carly found Grant’s frown darned intimidating in person, especially those three little frown lines in between those impressive dark brows.
“Until I was fifteen, I lived in Kentucky.” Grant’s eyelids slowly closed. Kentucky? Where Dorrie was from. Could it just be coincidence? But Carly was still talking. “My dad died in a race-car accident when I was seven, and I didn’t get along with my mom, so I toughed it out with her until I was fifteen. I started waitressing, working my way south until I reached Florida. It took me awhile. Anyway, I’ve been here for almost nine years, and love boats and being on the water. Yachts seemed like the perfect niche for me.”
Something about the description of the travails of her youth made Grant wonder what she’d left out. It had to have
been hard, a slip of a young girl on her own. He figured there must be significant details she’d glossed over.
“Your dad was a race-car driver? Do you mind talking about him?”
“Not so much after all these years. He raced on the minor circuit. I worshipped him. We were really close. He was tall and handsome and called me his little munchkin.” Her voice broke. Grant wondered if she’d ever told anyone her dad’s pet name for her.
He reached out and caressed her shoulder. He couldn’t help but notice her skin felt as silky as the fabric of her dress. “I’m sorry. You must miss him.”
A waiter carrying a silver tray appeared out of nowhere. “May I bring you another beverage?”
The Glenlivit was doing a fine job to relieve Grant’s black mood and wrenching heartache. He turned to Miss Thomas before ordering. “Another glass of champagne?”
“Yes, please.” She quickly added, “But only if you’re having another drink.”
Grant ordered another round for them.
Cocooned in the dark of the night with the soft rhythm of the waves, Grant crossed his legs and settled back in the chair, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. He realized he’d stayed far longer than he’d ever planned to. Was it because of the fetching Miss Thomas with her keen and trendy sense of fashion? Not unlike his own? Or the fact that she was a good listener and wasn’t drooling all over him?
He also was attracted by way she could be quiet with him, not needing to fill every silence with mindless chatter. He couldn’t have tolerated that tonight, not with the way his heart ached with every breath he took.
The waiter silently appeared and set their drinks on the table. After Grant settled the tab, the waiter leaned in and whispered, “Your car is here to take you back to The Breakers, Mr. Maxwell, sir.”
Shit! It had slipped his mind that he’d ordered a car to pick him up ninety minutes after he’d arrived. That Glenlivit 25 certainly was magic.
