by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe
He shouldn’t have done it. At the park, when she’d told Roy and the others how she couldn’t attend Jane’s wedding, she’d tried to mask her disappointment. But he’d seen how much it hurt her not to be able to afford going. He’d wanted to make that hurt go away, to give her a real vacation. After all she did for others with little compensation, she deserved it.
That didn’t mean that the moment he’d left the park that morning, he should’ve called his secretary and told her what to purchase and exactly where to have it delivered. But he never ignored an inspired idea. He made it happen, and he never screwed up. His instinct had made his family’s company millions of dollars.
“Jane!” the wedding planner called from the hall.
“Looks like I’m needed.” Jane pecked Duke on the cheek and headed off.
Duke said, “Pool?”
“Sure.” During the two years they’d been roommates at Stanford, they’d spent as much time playing pool as studying. In those years, Piers had been rebelling against his grandfather’s iron code of discipline. The choice of Stanford instead of Yale or Harvard had in itself infuriated his grandfather.
It’d been his last hurrah. Until now.
“Duke, have you ever given money to a woman you don’t know?”
Duke slanted him a scowl as they entered the billiards room. “Haven’t ever needed to.”
“Not that kind of transaction. I donated the funds for a nonprofit project that Jane’s friend California is involved in.”
“She’s a librarian, right?” He racked the balls.
“Yeah.” Piers chose a cue stick. “It’s an urban outreach project.”
“Good for you, man.”
He leaned over the table to break. “It seemed like a good investment.” Right. Throwing money away on lazy good-for-nothings, his grandfather would say. Piers focused on the cue ball and imagined his grandfather’s face on it. He snapped his stick. Two stripes sank into corner holes.
He’d funded the bookmobile project solely for the satisfaction of doing something his grandfather would hate. That California was doing spectacularly with it, far beyond what the grant proposal promised, was just a bonus. Friends of his along the van’s routes told him the same thing he witnessed at Green Park: the bookmobile was hugely popular. But it wasn’t the books that kept people coming back. She did. Vibrant, sincere, smart, with a smile that lit up her face like a beauty queen’s, she drew people to her. They loved her.
Piers wanted a piece of that. He wanted a piece of her. The way his life had been going, he needed something genuinely good in it.
“She didn’t look like she knew you,” Duke said.
“She doesn’t know I donated the money. No one does. I had a provision written into the grant specifying that if anyone publicly connects my name to the project, the funding will be withdrawn.” He’d needed to rattle his shackles, but for himself only. He’d no intention of airing his family’s disagreements in public.
“So you can’t tell her?” Duke asked.
“It’s a legally binding provision.”
“Trapped yourself into secrecy. But I don’t suppose you ever thought you’d meet her.”
He hadn’t only thought it. He’d engineered it. “Right,” he mumbled. His sister Amy once had a stalker problem in college. That guy had bad intentions. Piers’s intentions were all good. But by making it possible for California to come to this wedding without telling her, he’d slipped into a dangerous gray area.
He clipped the cue ball. It glanced off the five and rolled to a stop.
He couldn’t tell her about paying for her trip without first telling her about the donation. If he told her either, there was every chance she’d think he was an asshole.
According to Caroline, of course, he was. She’d told him so every time she tried to get him to propose. Then she’d arranged an in-your-face hookup with an oil mogul who’d thought it would be fun to steal something from a Prescott. Caroline had hoped it would nudge him into jealously proposing. Instead, he told her it was over. The next day the oil guy gave her an enormous engagement ring that she splashed all over the Internet. Piers was fine with that. If the world thought she’d dumped him, the world was welcome to the misinformation.
Duke lined up his cue stick. “Don’t worry about it. She’ll probably be happy to find out it was you.”
Piers gripped his cue and tried not to think of the man who’d inspired his subterfuge. His grandfather’s secretary was already trying to find him. He’d never disappeared like this. It was like breaking out of prison.
But he never would’ve come here if California hadn’t.
He set his cue stick on the edge of the table and angled it to hit lucky seven. He would spend some time with her this week. Then he’d risk it. Whatever the consequences, the idea of telling the whole truth for once felt too good.
Chapter Four
Brampton House
Cali slept straight through to Sunday morning. With a stomach rumbling for food, she cracked her eyes open to the daylight, looked out the window across rolling English fields dotted with sheep, and smiled so widely her face hurt.
The light on her room phone was blinking. “Order room service whenever you like,” Jane said on the message. “It’s supposed to thunderstorm later today, but until then we’ll be at the pool if you want to hang out. The info sheet on your desk will give you the schedule of the week. Mostly, just have fun!”
Cali perused the schedule while she waited for breakfast to arrive. The estate was vast, with pathways and little country roads all around it. If the storms held off, she’d put on her running shoes and go exploring later. But first she had to explore the house.
She took a quick shower while waiting for breakfast to arrive, and was finishing up a heavenly Belgian waffle when the hotel manager knocked.
“Good morning, Miss Blake. I hope your first night at Brampton was comfortable.”
“I slept wonderfully, thanks. But call me Cali, please.”
“Jane told me you are a sister bibliophile.” He extended a slim booklet to her. “Lord Melbury’s library is under renovation currently and it’s a tragic mess. But I thought you’d be interested in this.”
Cali flipped through the catalogue. “Wow. This is an amazing collection. Is it all accessible?”
“Only a fraction of the collection is available at this time. But feel free to borrow any book you see. If you decide to poke around, though, you’ll want to wear something that doesn’t mind dust.”
“Great.” Nothing she owned minded dust. Discount off-the-rack was like that. “Thanks a bunch.”
“Jane is at the pool now. Take the stairs at the rear of the house to the garden level and you’ll find the path easily.”
He left and she changed into her bathing suit. A little swim to clear her sleep-groggy head would do her good.
When she got to the pool, she wasn’t so sure any head-clearing would happen.
Piers Prescott wearing a swimsuit was not simply good-looking. He was a god. Tan. Cut. Muscular everywhere it counted and lean everywhere else. He stood at the other side of the pool talking to a couple of guys. He turned his head, looked straight at her, and smiled.
“Cali, you’re finally awake!” Jane called from a lounge chair. “Come meet Roxanna.”
She dragged her attention away from the god-man and went to the bride. Jane introduced her former roommate. Roxanna was a striking redhead with a sexy, über-hip aura and a sardonic grin.
“We’ve been ogling the pool boy,” she said. “Very hot.”
“Really?” She glanced around, but no one was as interesting as Hot Philadelphia Big Money. And he was staring at her. Again.
“Looks like you don’t need a pool boy, though,” Roxanna said slyly.
Cali snatched her gaze away. “What?”
“Piers Prescott is checking you out. No wonder. You look amazing in that suit, though you should wear a bikini. You’d kill in a bikini.”
“Th
anks… I think?”
Jane laughed. “That’s just Roxanna, Cali. Don’t mind her.”
“He’s definitely interested,” Roxanna said. “And he’s single now. He used to date Indie rockers. That’s how he got on the radar.”
“The radar?”
“Roxanna works for Jezebel.com,” Jane explained.
“He never dated anybody for long until he started seeing Caroline Colby,” Roxanna said. “Everybody was shocked when they broke up after four years.”
“Really?” She tried to sound casual. Cool. Unimpressed with gossip.
“Caroline Colby is as blue-blooded as they come. Perfect for a Prescott,” Roxanna said. “Everybody figured they’d get married, but she got engaged to someone else right away. So he’s available. And he’s still staring at you. You should get on that.”
Cali blinked. “Get on what?”
Roxanna grinned. “Jump him. You should jump him.”
“Roxanna, you’re making Cali blush.”
“I’m not blushing.” Rather, burning up. But Roxanna had already turned away and didn’t hear her. “Hey, Jane, Mark told me about the library here.” Desperate attempt to change the subject. “Have you seen it?” It was one thing to joke with Zoe about having a wedding party hookup, another thing altogether to actually plan one. Especially with a Prescott.
“I haven’t had time yet.” Jane sipped her cocktail and peered at her as if she knew exactly what Cali was thinking. Back in the day, they’d constantly scoped out cute boys in the library. Boys. Not gorgeous multimillionaire men. Rather, gorgeous multimillionaire man who was walking toward her now.
Cali stood up abruptly. “I think I’ll take a look at it now.”
She fled. Wishing she had international phone coverage so she could text Zoe to say she absolutely, positively was not interested in hooking up with Piers Prescott, she changed into the oldest of the clothes she’d brought and went in search of the library.
It was amazing. A large room lined with wooden bookcases, it boasted a carved ladder stair on a rail, a white marble fireplace that picked up the fresh white paint of decorative plasterwork everywhere, and a collection of furniture under sheets. As Mark had warned, it definitely needed the renovations underway; the parquet floor was a mess of scratches and warped boards, and it smelled like mold and rot. Clear plastic sheets protected the shelves, but only a few contained books.
She moved toward them. The one book she really wanted to see wouldn’t be here now: an original 1813 three-volume edition of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It must be in safe storage somewhere. Still, she pressed her nose and palms to the sheer wall that separated her from the meager remnants of Lord Melbury’s collection.
A tearing sound.
A loud, cracking creak.
The plastic gave way under her hands.
Everything fell. Plastic. Volumes. Pouring down like rain. Cali jumped aside and slammed into the ladder. Something hit her shoulder. Books clattered on her head, knocking her over.
Hands clamped around her shoulders and dragged her from the deluge, slamming her face against a hard chest.
The bookcase thundered to the floor behind her.
Everything went silent. All she knew for an instant were her thudding heartbeats, the soft cotton of a T-shirt under her cheek, and the scent of delicious cologne.
The hands released her. She stepped back and looked into Piers Prescott’s handsome face.
His chest. His cologne.
Air compressed in her lungs. “Oh my God! The books!”
She twisted around.
Carnage.
Books everywhere. Smashed beneath the fallen bookcase. Spilling out to either side. Opened. Pages torn and folded. Bindings bent.
Her hands covered her mouth. “Oh.” No breaths. “Oh no. No no no.” Horror. All horror. All the time. Like one of those hole-in-the-wall theaters that only played The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Halloween I–V.
“Are you all right?” she heard behind her.
She swung around to the bearer of the cologne that was too perfect and dreamy for this horrible moment.
“How are you?” He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, then retracted his hand.
She rubbed her head where a big book had connected. “Fine. Mostly. Thank you for grabbing me.” She twisted back to the books. “But… Oh my God.”
“They said thunderstorms today, but it looks like it’s raining books inside.”
A little ripple of pleasure went right up her spine. He had the sexiest voice. Low and confident. And he’d read her mind.
She wrenched her attention away from the disaster to look over her shoulder. “I think I broke the bookcase.” Oh, God.
“You didn’t. Look. It wasn’t attached to the wall. A light breeze could have toppled it.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice sounded airy. His hand running along the edge of the wall was long-fingered, strong, just as handsome as the rest of him.
“Pretty sure.” He moved around the pile of books, plastic, shelves, and scattered plaster to the next case. He grasped the side and it wobbled. “This isn’t attached either.”
“Maybe they disconnected them for the renovation.”
“I suspect.” He returned to her and stood looking down at her. “Still fine?”
“Yes.” Except that she couldn’t really breathe. Now it was from both the disaster and him. She knew he was a corporate shark, that he ate struggling companies for breakfast, and that behind that carelessly tousled hair was a brain that had been summa cum laude at both Stanford and Wharton. But he was just so handsome. She’d never hung out with guys this handsome.
But he wasn’t any guy, and it wasn’t just his features. It was the warmth in his very blue eyes and the set of his mouth, like he might be about to smile, but could get really serious really quickly too. It made his classical good looks vibrate with grab-him-and-kiss-him sex appeal.
She wanted to. Now.
Grab him.
And kiss him.
She was out of her mind.
“What were you doing in here?” he said, never taking his eyes off her.
“Looking.” Single words seemed to be all she could manage.
“Looking at?”
“Library. Um… Books?”
“Oh, books. Yeah, I’ve heard of those.” He smiled. Her insides did a sharp little clench of pleasure.
No.
Not this feeling. Not now, with a pile of destruction at her feet that she’d caused. Not this man.
“I’m guessing you’re not a big reader,” she said.
“I read the paper.”
“Online news.”
The corner of his very fine mouth crept up. “Pretty dismissive there, huh?”
She wouldn’t be so dismissive if she had a computer at home, and if she hadn’t spent every evening for a month on the library’s public computers helping the grant writer do research for the application that his family’s charitable foundation then viciously rejected.
“No. I just prefer books,” she said. “They’re…” Dust from the crash still floated in the air, in her nostrils, settling on her lips. “They’re tactile.”
“You like to touch what you see?” He seemed suddenly closer. Or maybe it was just because his voice had dropped a few notes. But he couldn’t be flirting. Guys like Piers Prescott didn’t flirt with her. Guys like Piers Prescott didn’t know she existed.
“I like to touch what I read, yes. And smell.” He smelled incredible, the way a woman dreamed a man would smell but never actually experienced. “It’s the reason I work in a library. Books have scent.”
“I’d forgotten that.”
“You forgot?”
He was still looking right into her eyes. “I don’t have time to read books.”
“I guess you wouldn’t.” He was too busy dismantling mom-and-pop companies and selling the parts to the highest bidder. “I’m sure you have other priorities,” she said with herculean restra
int.
“Other priorities. Right.” Finally he looked away, glancing at the pile of tumbled books. “Any recommendations?”
“In here? You just said you don’t have time to read books.”
He looked back down at her and this time only his eyes seemed to smile. It simply took her breath away. Breaths. Gone. Just like that.
“I’m on vacation this week,” he said.
“You’re not working at all?” This she found unbelievable. “For a whole week?”
“Yeah.” With a relaxed, sexy shrug, he leaned his hand against the wall, effectively trapping her between him and the mound of catastrophe. “This week I’m all about playing.” His gaze slowly slid down her body.
This was not happening. It couldn’t be.
“Jane Austen,” she blurted out.
His brow creased beneath the softest, silkiest lock of hair to ever dip toward a man’s eyes.
“Jane Austen?” he repeated.
“The book I’d most like to see from Lord Melbury’s collection. The reason I came in here and enacted this horrible scene.” Her voice wasn’t quite shaking, but nearly. Because of the books. But also because of him. Which was stupid. The ruined books were much more important. He was just a guy. Albeit, a Prescott: patron of all things Influential and Important.
The Prescott Foundation hadn’t funded the bookmobile, but it had given a huge sum to the library for a special exhibition on Great White Dead Men that was opening in a month. Actually titled America’s Heroes, the exhibition featured pieces related to a select group of historical figures, all men of power and wealth, like John Hancock’s personal diary and Henry Ford’s earliest designs. Several were loaned from the Prescott family’s private collection. Missing from the exhibition were other heroes who’d made huge marks on American history, like Rosa Parks or Dorothy Day or Martin Luther King Jr. Just men like Piers Prescott’s grandfather, head of Prescott Global, except the men in the exhibit were already dead.
But it didn’t seem to matter to her body that the man before her was the heir to Bad Guys Inc. Her pulse tripped along swiftly. And she found herself dying to respond to the grab-him-and-kiss-him urge. To forget about being careful, responsible, frugal, and uptight. For once she wanted to go a little bit wild.
