She’s right. Ian Schultz looks up. “I have to be honest, Fleming,” he says bluntly. “This isn’t working.”
Translation: I didn’t bribe them. “You seemed perfectly happy with our design during the last meeting.”
Jack Price has the grace to flush. “Things change,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, Hudson. We’re going to have to let you go.”
The two of them watch me warily. If they’re waiting for me to react, I’m not going to give them the pleasure. “That’s your call to make, gentlemen.” My voice is pleasant, but underneath, I’m simmering with fury. “Have you decided on a replacement firm?”
They look away, unable to meet my gaze. “Kent and Associates come highly recommended,” Price says finally.
I doubt it. Kent and Associates doesn’t have much of a track record when it comes to delivering projects on time and on budget. In a few months, when Clark Towers starts to fail, Jack Price is going to regret his decision. “Give my regards to George. I assume you’ll see him at the Knicks game tonight?”
Price’s head snaps up in shock. I rise to my feet. “I’m not a fool, Jack,” I say evenly. “Don’t ever take me for one. You know the way out.”
Once they’ve left, Nadja sighs heavily. “What a day,” she says with a grimace. “I think I’m going to leave early, Hudson. This mess will be waiting for us tomorrow morning.”
She looks dispirited. We’ve both put in months of work into this project, and it sucks to see it go to waste. Still, there will be other clients. “The new 3D printer finally came in,” I tell her, in an attempt to cheer her up. “If you’re looking for a new toy to play with, it’s all yours.”
My attempt works. Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Oh good. I’ve been dying to load up our designs on it and test it out. Remember the all-nighters we used to pull in college when we had to assemble models?”
“Oh God. Don’t remind me. Glue, craft sticks and cold pizza. I’m glad those days are behind us.”
She chuckles. “Me too. See you in the morning, boss.”
I get back to work, losing myself in a preliminary sketch for a museum. I don’t notice the setting sun or the darkening sky. Nothing disturbs my concentration until a knock sounds at the door. “I was afraid I’d be interrupting you,” my friend Asher says, stepping into my office and giving the crumpled up sheets of paper on the floor a pointed look. “But you look ready for a break. Want to get a drink?”
“Sounds good.” I stand up and stretch, my muscles creaking with protest. “What’s the plan?”
“One of my clients just opened a new lounge.” He grimaces. “I’m duty-bound to make an appearance. It’ll be loud and pretentious.”
“You’re doing a great job selling this.” I stuff my laptop into its bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Fortunately for you, a beer sounds pretty good at the moment.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Asher advises. “Miguel told me he hired the best mixologist in the city. I doubt they serve anything as uncomplicated as a beer.”
“Damn it, Doyle,” I grumble. “You owe me for this. You’re buying tonight.”
Asher laughs in agreement. “It seems the least I can do.”
4
Wendy
We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.
Joseph Campbell
The door to Nerve is guarded by a burly bouncer in a black suit. He gives me the once-over, taking in my shimmery gray silk dress and my silver hoop earrings before he nods and allows me entry.
I make my way inside, trying to find Lara. The club is beautiful. I’d been expecting black and chrome, but instead, the walls are a soft burnished gold. Hundreds of glass globes hang from the ceiling, filling the space with a warm light. A jazz band plays on a corner stage, but the acoustics are perfect, and the music isn’t too loud. It’s half past nine, too early for the dance floor to be crowded, though the bar area is packed with people, all waiting for Dante the mixologist to make them some fancy concoction.
My bra digs into my sides, and my toes, squeezed into a pair of painful Louboutins, feel like they are on fire. I scan the crowds for my coworkers and don’t see them. I’m debating going home to Netflix and ice-cream when I hear Lara call out my name from a table at the far corner. “Wendy,” she greets me with a broad smile. “I’m so glad you changed your mind about coming.”
There’s one empty chair, and I sink into it with a sigh of relief. Damn shoes.
“What happened with the Lippman case?” Matt Vella, who’s sitting next to Lara, asks me. He’s also a lawyer at our firm, though I don’t know him very well.
“We won,” I reply absently, trying to catch the eye of the bored looking waitress who’s taking drink orders a couple of tables away.
“Excellent.” Pam Prickett turns to Matt, holding out her hand. “Come on, Matt. Pay up.”
Matt grumbles as he takes a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and passes it to her. I give Pam an astonished look. “You bet on the case?”
She tucks the bill in her purse. “Of course I did,” she chuckles. “A fool and his money are easily parted. Matt, next time, don’t bet against the Barracuda.”
Matt grins lazily. “I should have known better,” he agrees. “Wendy, you want to dance?”
I shake my head. “Not in these shoes,” I say ruefully. “And not before I get a drink.”
Matt wanders off to try his luck on the dance floor. Pam, Lara, and I gossip rather aimlessly about work as we wait for the waitress to acknowledge our existence when Lara suddenly grabs my arm. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Look who just walked in. That’s Asher Doyle.”
I turn around. Asher Doyle is something of a legend in our profession. He started out his career as a district attorney, and then he changed direction and became a corporate lawyer. His hourly rate is two thousand dollars, and his firm supposedly has more work than they can handle.
“He’s wasting his time as a lawyer,” Pam mutters. “He should be a model.”
“An underwear model,” Lara adds. “Can you imagine?” The two of them dissolve into a flood of giggles.
I might not trust men, but I’m still human. I like eye candy as much as the next woman and damn. Asher Doyle doesn’t look like a lawyer. His shoulders are broad; his dark hair is tousled, and his cheeks are covered with stubble.
“Sex on a stick,” Pam says dreamily.
I’m staring at the man with my mouth open. I snap it shut hastily, lest I start drooling. “He’s probably very boring,” I say dismissively. “The hot ones usually are.”
Lara shakes her head. “Haven’t you heard the stories?” she asks me, lowering her voice. “He’s not boring at all. The word is that he likes to share women with his best friend, Hudson Fleming.”
“Who just walked in as well.” Pam looks like she’s about to faint. “Wendy, check him out.”
Damn again.
Asher Doyle looks like a bad boy. Hudson Fleming, on the other hand, is smooth and sophisticated. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My eyes fly immediately to his strong forearms. Yeah, forearms. I have a thing for rolled-up sleeves, okay? Sue me.
The two men go up to the bar, and space clears for them instantly. The bartender, a blonde wearing a very low cut blouse, smiles seductively as she pours them their drinks.
I can’t stop staring. I notice the way Hudson rolls his eyes at Dante’s contortions. I notice the way Asher Doyle’s strong fingers curl around the crystal base of the glass he’s holding, the way his thumb almost seems to caress the cool surface. When he laughs at something Hudson says, my stomach clenches with desire. It’s their body language. These men are confident and powerful, and unexpectedly, it’s turning me on.
Lara says something to Pam and me; I barely listen. The two of them join Matt on the dance floor. The waitress finally notices that I need a drink, and bustles up to take my order.
An
hour later, I’m ready to go home. I’ve lost sight of the eye-candy, and Lara, Pam, and Matt show no sign of slowing down. The glass in front of me is empty, and I’m fighting the urge to check my phone for further updates on Paul Hancock.
You can’t leave already, I scold myself. You came out to have fun, so have fun, damn it.
What I need is another drink.
I get up and make my way to the bar. Dante’s making blush-pink cocktails for a giggling group of women. I find an empty spot and wait for someone to notice me. Next to me, a woman in a red cocktail dress is thumbing through her phone. She catches sight of Dante and rolls her eyes. I bite back a grin at her reaction, so similar to my own.
“Hi there, honey.” A man with gel-slicked hair sidles next to her and gives her what he thinks is a winning smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No thank you,” she says politely, drawing away from him as he inches closer. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Hair-Gel Guy is oblivious to her body language. “No harm having a drink while you wait, is there?”
She gives him a tight smile. She obviously wants to be left alone, but the guy’s not picking up on her signal. “No thanks,” she says again.
“Are you waiting for a boyfriend?” He lays his hand on the woman’s ass, and she flinches. Her eyes dart around the room, looking for someone to help her out of this situation.
That’s my signal to intervene. There’s a special place in hell reserved for guys who refuse to take a hint. “She said no,” I tell him, not bothering to conceal the disgust in my voice. “Which part of that wasn’t clear?”
He turns red. He moves right next to me, hovering threateningly, inches from my face, and I can smell the booze on his breath. “No one was talking to you, bitch,” he snarls.
I position myself in front of the trembling woman. “Leave her alone.”
He grabs me by the wrist to yank me out of the way. When I first moved to New York, I’d taken self-defense classes. Our instructor had taught us how to handle this. As his fingers clench around my wrist, I twist my hand, hard. His shoulder wrenches, and he grunts and lets go, stumbling back a few paces, pain etched on his face. “That was a big mistake,” he says. “You’re going to pay for that.”
Shit. I’m in trouble now.
Suddenly, two men appear out of nowhere. Asher Doyle and Hudson Fleming fill the space between my assailant and me. Asher grabs the guy by the collar and pushes him back. “I believe the lady told you to leave her alone,” he says icily. He seems to make a gentle movement with his fists, and the man goes flying across the room, landing in a heap next to a black leather couch.
The band stops mid-note; a hush falls over the room. People scramble out of the way of the fight. A couple of people take out their phones to take photographs. Of course.
Hair-Gel Guy rises to his feet slowly, shaking his head. I’m hoping he’s had enough and is ready to walk away, but instead, he bellows with rage and charges for Asher. I inhale sharply, but my concern turns out to be entirely unnecessary; Asher repeats his movement and the man goes down again.
“Once more?” Asher’s eyes gleam with anticipation. He almost appears to be enjoying himself.
Before the man attacks for the second time, a bouncer appears and grabs him by the collar and drags him to the door.
Hudson Fleming, who’s been watching the fight intently, turns to me once the threat of danger has passed. “Do you want to press charges?” he asks. “We saw him grab your wrist. We’re happy to be witnesses.”
I shake my head. It seems more trouble than it’s worth.
The band starts playing again, and the dance floor fills with people. Asher approaches the two of us. “Thanks for the help,” he grumbles to Hudson.
Hudson laughs. “You seemed to have the situation under control,” he responds. “Besides, two on one doesn’t seem sporting.”
Asher flips him off with a grin. He signals to the bartender, then turns to me with a probing look. “Are you okay?”
My heartbeat, slowly returning to normal after the fight, speeds up again. I thought they were good looking. Up close, they are so much more. They’re gorgeous. “I’m fine,” I stammer.
Pull yourself together, Wendy. Tongue-tied is not a good look.
The bartender appears in front of Asher. “Mr. Doyle, what’s your pleasure?” she simpers, thrusting her boobs into his face. Subtle.
Asher doesn’t appear to notice. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks me.
“No,” I protest. “This round’s on me. Thank you for your help.”
Asher shakes his head. “It was nothing,” he replies. “Honestly.”
The bartender’s waiting for us to order, so I ask for a glass of their house red. Asher orders a beer, as does Hudson. Once she’s moved away to get our drinks, Hudson gives me an amused look. “If you’re going to pick a fight with a drunk guy,” he chides, “Pick one your own size. That guy weighed two hundred pounds.”
I’m grateful for their help. Really, I am. I’m not going to lie—it felt good having two guys charge to my rescue. But I can’t get used to it. Men cannot be trusted to stick around. Just ask my mom. “I could have handled the situation,” I insist.
“Is that so?” Hudson looks amused.
“I’ve been taking boxing lessons,” I tell them solemnly.
Asher’s eyes twinkle. “Really?” he drawls. “And how many lessons have you attended so far?”
Busted. “None,” I admit sheepishly. “I signed up for the classes but I haven’t had time to buy a pair of gloves.”
Asher chuckles; Hudson laughs openly. “We haven’t introduced ourselves,” he says. “I’m Asher Doyle. And this is Hudson Fleming.”
I feel the urge to laugh hysterically. Everything about these two men is gossip-worthy. Where they went. Who they were seen with. Who they’re sleeping with at the moment, and oh, did I know they like to share women?
With heroic effort, I keep my tone neutral. “Wendy Williams,” I reply, shaking their hands, first Asher’s, then Hudson’s. A tingle runs through my body at their touch, and my insides do a little flip. Whoa there.
“Wendy,” Hudson says, not letting go of my hand. His thumb strokes my palm; his gaze remains on my face. “Do you come here often?”
Our drinks appear, and I take a big gulp of my wine to try and calm myself. “No, it’s my first time here,” I admit. “I only got in today because my colleague put me on the list.”
“Your colleague?” Asher asks. “What do you do?”
“I’m a divorce lawyer.”
“You are?” His eyebrow arches and he surveys me openly from head to toe. “You don’t look like one.”
He’s checking me out blatantly; they both are. I should be offended. I should walk away before I do anything I might regret. These men have a reputation that precedes them.
But the arousal that washes over me is so very unexpected. I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. Hudson’s touch on my skin sets my body throbbing. My cheeks are flushed, my nipples hard underneath my dress.
I shift my weight from one foot to another to keep my raging hormones at bay. Say something, Wendy. You’re just gaping at them. “What do divorce lawyers look like?”
Hudson coughs. “Asher, I beg you, don’t answer that question.” He grins at me. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He’s not the most tactful person in the world.”
My lips twitch. “He gets a pass,” I tell Hudson. “After all, you guys did save me. My heroes.”
The wine is going to my head. I’m flirting with them. If my anthropologist friend Bailey were here, she’d tell me that my body language is giving me away. I’m leaning toward them, smiling into their eyes. I haven’t pulled my hand free of Hudson’s grip.
I should go back to my table. I don’t.
Asher stares at me. “Have dinner with us.”
“What?”
“Dinner.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “You’ve heard of the co
ncept? There’s a meal involved, usually some wine, good conversation?”
“I know what dinner is,” I respond. An evening with Hudson and Asher. Is this what Cinderella felt like when the prince picked her to dance with at the ball? My heart is racing; my mouth is dry. “With both of you?”
“Ah.” Asher takes a half-step closer. “From the emphasis you placed on the word both, I take it you’ve heard stories.”
He’s direct; I’ll give him that. “You like sharing women.” It feels so naughty to say those words aloud.
They nod. “You’re not running away screaming,” Hudson notes. “Are you intrigued?” His finger traces soft circles on my skin.
I swallow. A devil-may-care urge grips me. My father died today. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but the news plays about at the edge of my consciousness, trying to sneak into my thoughts when I’m not paying attention.
I could use a distraction. Two distractions. “Dinner sounds lovely.”
“How about tomorrow night?” Asher pulls a business card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Call me, and we’ll work out the details.”
“Tomorrow?” My voice comes out in a squeak. “That soon?”
“Why wait?” Hudson asks.
I can barely breathe. I argue cases for a living, but words have deserted me. I’m afraid I’m staring at them with my mouth open, like a drooling idiot. Before I embarrass myself further, I nod hastily and make my escape.
In the cab home, I finger the crisp edges of the business card Asher gave me, and close my eyes. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to a dinner date with them. Is this what I want? Though Bailey, Piper, and Gabby are in ménage relationships, I’ve never seriously contemplated a threesome.
Until now.
5
Asher
You will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger.
Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection Page 67
