by BETH KERY
She laughed. No, he definitely wasn’t shy. “You were right the first time.” She stuck out her hand. “Harper McFadden. I started last week as the news editor at the Gazette.”
He stepped closer. His hand felt damp and warm. It enfolded hers completely. She tried to make out the color of his narrowed eyes and saw shards of green, brown, and amber. Her heart gave a little jump.
Agate eyes.
“You left your job at the San Francisco Chronicle as a reporter.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What?” she asked hollowly, almost certain she’d misheard him. Did his godlike attributes go beyond his phenomenal looks and aloofness? Was he omniscient as well?
She pulled on her hand, discombobulated, and he slowly released it from his grasp.
“I’ve read your articles in the Chronicle. I have offices in San Francisco. That piece you did on San Francisco’s homeless children was top notch.”
“Thank you,” she managed, still knocked a little off balance.
He nodded and took a step back, as if he’d realized his unsettling effect on her. He did unsteady her, just not in the way he probably thought.
“You don’t plan to write anymore?” Her spine stiffened a little. Force of habit. She’d been hearing that question a lot lately, usually accompanied by disappointment or bewilderment. Had she heard a hint of disapproval in this man’s tone, or was it her own lack of confidence in her recent career change tainting her interpretation? The latter, of course. Why would a stranger care enough to be condemning?
“I wouldn’t say that. I just wanted to experience a different side of the newspaper business,” she replied neutrally.
“I love Tahoe Shores as much as the next resident, but . . . aren’t we a far cry from San Francisco?” He reached down to distractedly scratch Charger, but his gaze on her remained sharp.
The easy richness of his voice beguiled her, but it was his calmness, his absolute, easy confidence that truly nudged her to let down her guard. There was a grace to him that one didn’t usually see in such a masculine, virile man. It was that intangible quality that had called a walking god to mind.
She kept her gaze on his face, but it was just as distracting. He wore a thin, well-trimmed goatee that highlighted a sensual mouth. The hair on his face, chest, and head was wet at the moment, but appeared to be brown. Harper couldn’t stop staring at his firm, well-shaped lips. She forced her gaze away and found herself watching his long fingers rubbing the dog’s neck instead. It didn’t help matters any.
“Sorry,” he said after a short pause. “That’s none of my business, is it?”
“No, it’s not that. I just needed to get away from the grind.” She tossed up her hands and glanced out at the aquamarine alpine lake, clear blue skies, and surrounding pine-covered mountains. “I wanted to try editing, and there was an opportunity here.”
“Might be a shortage of actual news for a news editor, though,” he said with a half smile. She saw the sharp gleam of curiosity in his hazel eyes.
“Maybe. But I could use the slow pace. The peace.” His eyebrows arched. “For a little while, anyway,” she added.
He nodded, and she had the fleeting, illogical thought that he understood. Maybe he really did. He had said he’d read her articles. Harper threw herself into her stories wholesale. Each one consumed her. Every one took a bit of her with it.
“Where are you staying?” he asked, looking down at Charger and gently squeezing a floppy ear. The dog quivered in pleasure. Harper shifted her feet restlessly as another frisson of sensual awareness passed through her.
She really needed to snap out of it.
“I just moved in last Monday. Back there. Sierra Shores.” She waved behind her to the beachside complex of townhomes. He nodded, his face striking her again as solemn and beautiful. His gaze flickered distractedly out toward the sparkling lake. He was losing interest in their conversation.
“You’re from the south,” she said impulsively.
His shadowed gaze zipped to her face. Why did he look so stiff? “Your accent,” she said by way of explanation. “I didn’t notice it at first, but it’s definitely there.” Like a hint of rich, smooth dark chocolate.
“Yeah. Most people don’t catch that. South Carolina, born and bred,” he said after a pause.
“I grew up in DC—Georgetown, actually. DC is a melting pot—so I have some experience with teasing out accents.”
A silence descended, punctuated only by the hushed, rhythmic sound of the soft surf caressing the beach. He ran his hand distractedly across his damp, taut abdomen, the action scattering her thoughts. “Well . . .” he said after a pause, waving vaguely in the direction behind her. “We should let you get on with your jog. Sorry again for the interruption.”
“I’m sorry for trespassing. I did it unknowingly.”
“Like I said. You’re welcome here.”
She wondered what his friend thought of him handing out free passes to his property, but then dismissed the thought as quickly as she’d had it. He seemed the type of man to have friends who wouldn’t argue with his proclamations.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for here. The peace, I mean,” he said.
Her heart fluttered. There it was again: a glimpse of unexpected sweetness, something that tugged at her and was in direct opposition to his potent masculinity and epic, effortless confidence.
Her strange musings evaporated in almost an instant when without another word he sauntered away from her, calling to Charger with that deep, mellow voice. After a moment, he lifted his arms to a casual boxer stance and broke into an easy jog. Charger bound into a gallop to follow him, barking ebulliently up at his master. Harper blinked, realizing she was entranced watching the rippling muscles of his gleaming back, hard, rounded biceps . . . and an incredible ass.
It took her a dazed half minute of resuming her jog in the opposite direction to realize he’d never told her his name.
It was all for the best, anyway. Harper was a little wary of men as good-looking as he’d been. She was way too prone to getting herself mixed up with self-involved narcissists. At age thirty-two, she’d finally learned the difficult lesson that what she wanted sexually—a powerful, confident male—was highly at odds with what she wanted emotionally—a smart, stimulating companion whom she respected, someone who really cared, a guy who occasionally thought enough of her to sacrifice his own needs in order to fulfill hers. Not all the time, of course. She wasn’t needy and cherished her independence. But damn . . . once in a while? Was that really too much for a woman to ask?
Apparently so.
At any rate, she’d resolved to break her dysfunctional pattern. Each and every one of her past lovers had shone brilliantly in the beginning, and then proved himself to be gold-painted crap by the time she broke things off.
Don’t kid yourself. None of your old boyfriends shone like he had just now.
Dangerous, a voice in her head insisted.
That was another habit Harper was trying to break: the fact that when it came to her heart, she found potentially risky, powerful men fascinating, and yet . . . she feared them, as well. It seemed her head and her sexual appetites did constant battle.
Not that it mattered, she discounted, inhaling the pristine air to cleanse herself of thoughts of the man and the strangely charged moment. She settled into a comfortable jog. She had way more important things to consider than men and sex. Like her new life here, for instance. Her new job. A whole new future.
And it’s not like he’d seemed remotely interested, anyway.
It was time for her to face up to the fact that she was alone in the world. Maybe she should consider getting a dog . . .
She imagined her parents’ incredulous expressions if she ever told them she had a dog. She resisted an urge to laugh, but then almost immediately, that familiar hole opened up in her chest
.
It’d never happen again, that she’d tell them about some new, exciting addition to her life.
As a teenager, Harper had suffered from debilitating anxiety. Her father had been a psychiatrist. Philip McFadden had spent a great deal of time and effort years ago to cure his daughter of several phobias and associated panic attacks. One of her phobias had been for dogs. Her mom and dad might have been stunned if they’d known she was considering a dog as a pet, but they would have been proud, too.
She’d come a long way from being that anxious, sad little girl. She’d never really thanked her parents for that.
—
Sheldon Sangar, the Gazette’s editor in chief, waved Harper in from across the newsroom. Or at least he beckoned her as best he could while clutching several bottles of water and a carton holding what looked like two strawberry smoothies from Lettie’s Place, the local coffeehouse a couple of blocks away. In Harper’s previous jobs, the typical fuel of the newsroom was adrenaline, caffeine, and junk food. At the Sierra Tahoe Gazette, the employees preferred salads, bottled water, and jogs on their lunch hour. Sheldon Sangar was no exception to this easygoing, health-conscious company attitude. It was strange to have an editor in chief who could have passed as a hippie if it weren’t for his neat, short gray hair and newsroom badge.
“Do you have something for me?” Harper asked Sangar eagerly as she approached.
“Do you want a smoothie? I got one for Denise, but she had to take off early to take her daughter to the doctor for an infected spider bite,” Sangar said, holding out the carton.
Harper briefly tried to picture her former bulldog-like editor-in-chief, Frazier Sorrenson, letting his assistant, Roberta, leave early because of a sick child. She failed in her imaginings. Roberta was lucky to get out of the newsroom every day by eight p.m. Harper doubted Frazier would let her go home early if her baby came down with typhoid.
“No, I mean . . . do you have a story for me? Things are pretty slow. I’ve already finished my edits and layouts.” By ten o’clock this morning.
Sangar gave her a knowing glance over the frame of his glasses. “Sorry, no page-burners at the moment. I told you things could be pretty slow at the end of August. A lot of vacationers have cleared out now that school is starting, crime is at a standstill, and we haven’t even got much to say about the Tahoe Shores football team yet. You did tell me you wanted an easy pace.”
“I know. I’m not complaining,” Harper assured.
And she wasn’t, really. It was just hard to adjust her brain and body to the snail-like pace of a small town. It’d take some practice.
Sangar blinked as if he’d just thought of something and glanced down at the bottles of waters he clutched. “I do have something for you. Almost forgot. Denise told me to give it to you when I walked in. Came special delivery.” He extended his thumb and forefinger, and Harper realized for the first time he held a white linen envelope. She took it, curious. Her name and the office address for the Gazette were written in elegant cursive on the front.
“Looks fancy. Like a wedding invitation or something,” Sangar said, readjusting the bottles of water against his body. He turned and loped in the direction of his office.
“Yeah, except I don’t know anybody around here who would ask me to . . .”
She trailed off when she realized Sangar was out of earshot. She started toward her office, tearing open the envelope. The stationery was a plain white linen card with the exception of some bold dark blue and gold lettering at the top: Jacob R. Latimer, 935-939 Lakeview Boulevard, Tahoe Shores, NV, 89717.
“Jacob Latimer?” she mumbled, her feet slowing. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t pin down why exactly.
“What about Latimer?” a woman asked sharply.
Harper glanced up and saw that Ruth Dannen, their features, society, and entertainment editor, had halted in front of her. She was in her midfifties and had been pleasant enough to Harper since starting her new job, if a little gruff. Ruth was a polished, thin woman who gave off an air of hard-nosed sophistication and always being in the know about Tahoe people and events.
“It’s an invitation,” Harper said, puzzled. She reread the handwritten message inside out loud. “‘Mr. Jacob Latimer requests the honor of your presence at a cocktail party tonight at his home. Please bring your invitation and present it to the security guard at the entry gate at 935 Lakeview Boulevard. Our apologies for the inconvenience in advance, but for security reasons, identification will be required and there will be a brief search of your car and person. No additional guests, please.’”
The note was signed by an Elizabeth Shields.
She glanced up when Ruth gave a low whistle.
“Well how do you rate?” Ruth wondered, giving Harper a sharp, incredulous once-over.
“What do you mean? Who’s Latimer?”
“Only the richest of all the rich bastards who congregate around this lake. You’ve never heard of Latimer? The software mogul? Came out of nowhere when he was still practically a kid, making his first millions in the Clint Jefferies insider trading pharmaceutical scandal? No one could ever pin anything on him, of course. Jefferies was actually the focus of the Securities and Exchange Commission’s investigation, which was eventually dropped for lack of evidence. They always go after the one with the money, not the small potatoes, like Latimer was at the time. If there was insider trading going on, both Latimer and Jefferies got away with it. By the time the scandal faded, Latimer was serving in army intelligence. He’s a brilliant programmer. The military snapped him up in a New York minute from MIT to create anti-hacker software. I hear they gave him huge bonuses every time he managed to get into the government’s high-security files, and then gave him even more money to utilize the knowledge for creating programs that kept criminals from doing the exact same thing he’d just done. He parlayed all he learned from serving in army intelligence—and all the money he made in the Jefferies pharmaceutical windfall—into—”
“Lattice,” Harper finished, realization hitting her. Lattice was a well-known software giant. Of course. That’s why she’d heard the name Jacob Latimer. Harper didn’t know much about big business or technology movers and shakers, but she’d heard of Lattice. Even though Latimer’s company had begun based on an antivirus security program for the military, it’d quickly moved on to public sector applications for human resources, and most recently to antivirus software for personal computers and devices.
“What does the owner of Lattice want with me?” Harper wondered.
Ruth just arched her plucked, dark blond eyebrows and dropped her gaze over Harper speculatively. “Maybe hair the color of copper and a girlish figure has more mileage than I’d thought these days. Latimer loves women. Rumor is, he has some unusual tastes in that arena.”
Harper opened her mouth to tell the older woman that was ridiculous. And Harper’s looks weren’t unusual, thank you very much. She’d been referred to as the girl next door more than once in her life, much to her irritation.
“I don’t see how he’d know anything about my existence, let alone my hair color. Seriously, what do you think this is about?”
Ruth held out her hand. Harper gave her the invitation. Ruth examined the contents, frowning slightly.
“It’s genuine. I recognize Elizabeth’s handwriting. She’s his primary personal assistant. I think he has several, but she’s his main one for the Tahoe compound. You have no idea why you’re getting this? You don’t know Latimer or any of his staff? His acquaintances? Never met him while you were in San Francisco?”
“No. I didn’t even recognize his name at first.”
“Well,” Ruth said, giving the card back with a flick of her thin wrist, “that’s an invite that almost everyone in the country would kill for, including me. Latimer keeps to himself in that lakeside compound of his. He’s paranoid. Some people say it’s because he’
s got plenty to hide. Lots of rumors have flown around about him over the years. Is he still involved with the U.S. military? Does he pull strings to move players on the chessboard of international relations? Is he a spy? He’s definitely a big philanthropist—probably to gloss over the gaping holes in his respectability as far as his rise to power. Who knows, really? That’s the question when it comes to Latimer, and I suspect the answer is: only Latimer himself. And possibly Clint Jefferies.”
“Who’s Clint Jefferies?”
“The pharmaceutical and real estate tycoon? Owns Markham Pharmaceuticals? Worth billions. Nice looking, but a bit of a douche if you ask me,” Ruth replied with a sniff.
Harper definitely recognized the company name Markham. It was one of the top six pharmaceutical companies worldwide. “Right,” Harper mused. “So how are Jefferies and Latimer related again?”
“Nowadays, they aren’t, because that’s the way Latimer wants it. Jefferies was his mentor a long time ago. But Latimer has held him at arm’s length ever since the Markham insider trading scandal. That whole affair has been shrouded in mystery for years, just like Latimer himself. He’s a reporter’s dream and nightmare at once. Someone has done a good job of brushing the trail of his history clean,” Ruth said with a pointed glance. “My bet is that the main trail sweeper is Latimer himself, with a little help from his buddies in military intelligence. I’ve been invited to a few charity events Latimer has sponsored at a local hotel. He only attends once in a while, and when he does, he’s like a ghost. No one ever gets a good look at him, let alone talk to him. Rumor has it, he even has his women imported from other parts of the world. His deliberate avoidance of the women around here only adds to his mystique and allure. And to local females’ frustration. You have to tell me every detail about the cocktail party.”
“You mean you think I should go?”
Ruth looked scandalized. “Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? That’s a golden ticket you’re holding right there. His staff guards him like Fort Knox, both here and in San Francisco. Even if Latimer does his ghost act at this cocktail party, though, just getting behind those gates is a major coup. I’ve never been invited to the compound.”
