Bone Frog Bachelor (Bachelor Tower Series)

by Sharon Hamilton

  But the coast was clear. I was ready to launch.

  Permission to engage, you bastard. Make it so! I told myself.

  She was lovely to look at and I allowed my heart to melt just a little at the edges like a dark piece of chocolate on a warm plate.

  “I know the name of this building. I know the name of this drink. I don’t know your name,” I whispered, leaning into her.

  She didn’t answer right away but devoured the other cherry in front of me, tearing at it with her bright white teeth, daring me to grab her and kiss her sweet lips, which of course I wasn’t going to do in public.

  But I thought about it.

  In my fantasy, she was naked, displaying her perfect ass as she lay a path of rose petals in front of me while I walked barefoot, crunching them with each step.

  She gave the perfect answer. “You don’t need that, Marco. I know what you need.”

  Well, all right then.

  Chapter 2

  Marco

  Brent brought me my key card. “We will have your touchpad completed tomorrow, if that suits you, Mr. Gambini,” he said, handing the platinum key to me.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have a bit of orientation to give you, when you are ready, so just ring me up.” He handed me his card. “That’s my cell, and I answer it twenty-four hours a day. It’s a special line for our residents here.”

  “Thanks again,” I said as I slipped the card in my breast pocket. She was still rimming her drink with her forefinger. Ollie was waiting on a pair of young bucks halfway down the bar.

  “We’ve taken the liberty to stock your apartment with some staples. We understand you prefer Coppola, so we’ve had it flown in. You’ll find a case of it waiting for you. We have some cheeses and specialty fruits in season from our farmer’s market. Next to the basket is an order sheet for anything we left off. We know you like Black Rifle coffee and drink it with half and half, so that’s all provided for you, along with a grinder and French press.”

  I continued to be impressed, although it violated one of my cardinal rules.

  “I’m going to have some boxes delivered in the next day or two, mostly clothes, but a few other items I’ve purchased, including a big screen for office work. I don’t like anything delivered to my quarters without me being present.”

  “Of course, Sir, for security.”

  “So this will be the last time this occurs, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. We have storage upstairs outside your quarters. Would it be acceptable to leave things there, or would you like to approve them first?”

  “I’d like to see them before they’re placed anywhere near my front door.”

  “Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, I think you’ve done a fine job, Brent.” We shook hands. As he began to walk away, I called out, “What sort of problem was it that involved the rear entrance?”

  Brent blushed. “Of the female kind, sir. It happens.” He shrugged. “It was a request of the resident. Nothing we couldn’t handle, although we don’t make a habit of it.” He finished his sentence without looking at the blonde.

  Good on you.

  Oliver approached and asked if we wanted a second, just in case I’d changed my mind. “Not for me, although it was delicious,” she smiled, pushing her empty glass forward. Her red fingernails matched her lips perfectly.

  “I’m good. I’m going to be addicted to Midnight in Manhattans,” I said.

  “In the morning, we’ll make you my orange juice wake-up elixir best had with fresh biscuits and strong black coffee, Breakfast in Boston. You’ll like that one too, Mr. Gambini.”

  I took her arm without asking. As we crossed the marble foyer to the elevators, it occurred to me I hadn’t eaten in several hours. The drink had been strong and I liked how it kicked in. But my mind was far from food.

  She was easy on my arm, adjusting herself as we stood in the elevator just so her left thigh lightly pressed against mine and my forearm grazed her breast. It had been a long time since I’d dated, and even though my libido heightened, which I liked, I didn’t want her to see me nervous, which I didn’t like.

  On Floor Twelve, we exited, walking into a mini landing room that doubled as a small sitting area. Several locked doors were lined up around the room, probably my personal storage areas Brent had mentioned.

  I tapped the key card against the glass square on the door marked 1212, heard the click, and entered my new apartment.

  The drapes had been opened, and a stunning view of the Boston city lights displayed before me like a tray full of jewels. I’d seen pictures of the scenery in the daylight, panoramas of the harbor and surrounding area, but not at night. This was every bit as beautiful as the glistening columns in Manhattan I called home for fifteen years.

  A large bouquet of flowers was on the coffee table in the living room. Off to the side and open to the huge room, was a stunning kitchen with black granite countertops, appointed with black-tinted stainless steel appliances, just as I’d ordered. I had decided I’d learn to cook, and I supposed it wouldn’t be something most the men in this building did, which didn’t bother me one bit.

  She was behind me, telling me she was ready whenever I was. And I was.

  My arms encircled her waist as I pulled her into my body. I arched her backward, feeling the heat of her quivering mound. Her soft face looked up to me, her arms up over my shoulders, her lips slightly parted, ready.

  I dove in with a kiss I wanted to remember. The first of many. I knew by the way she sighed and moaned that she’d be good for me, to help me forget—just for the evening—that I was a mean motherfucker bent on revenge.

  I took her hard, but was careful not to hurt her. We went over the threshold together. The two of us. In a barrel. Over the Niagara Falls.

  In her arms I found solace. Her legs spread wide and her sweet moist sex restored me to the man I’d always been. I was grateful for the anonymity, the lack of competition in the fucking I’d told myself I loved with Rebecca. She was no comparison to Rebecca. She matched me in every way, sometimes leading me gently into rooms I’d not been inside during my long monogamous marriage. I was thrilled to be bridled by her beauty, her strength. It was long and sweet and I was fully satisfied, but not totally sated.

  I think she was surprised how quickly I’d undressed her outer shell, peeled the layers of whatever had begun to build in her young life. She probably wasn’t prepared to have any feelings for me whatsoever. But I could tell she did. As I came inside her the first of several times, savoring her shattering body beneath me, she turned her head, and I, always the gentleman, pretended not to see her soft tears. It was a surprise to me, too, that I liked seeing those tears.

  My last memory of the night, before I dozed off to sleep, was the lovely lady tucking herself into my chest. My arms naturally cradled her body as if she needed protection. But she didn’t beg. She just accepted the strength of my arms and my chest, with her chin tucked down, her hands up to her lips in fetal position.

  She didn’t ask for more than I gave and I didn’t give more than she asked for.

  She was gone from my bed when morning sun shone through the sliding glass door in the master bedroom. I’d always thought it better to send a woman away with something more than she walked into my life with. I used to think that way before Rebecca. And she was the only exception to this rule.

  As I lay there, still smelling her sweet scent, I thought about what was fair. Rebecca had made the mistake of taking first advantage. I’d now start yanking it all back, and then some. I wanted her to rue the day she first met me.

  I rose, throwing on the new silk robe left for me draped over a burgundy leather occasional chair. Cinching the waist, I padded out to the living room and open kitchen, looking for her. Her perfume still lingered in the air.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  But there was no answer.

  “I would call your name if—” But I knew she’d gone.r />
  It was a first-class move and made her easy to be desired, a mystery to be pursued.

  Picking up the house phone, I ordered the biscuits Oliver had recommended, some fresh jam on the side, and a bowl of strawberries.

  “You want the Breakfast in Boston as well?” he asked me.

  “Well, of course.”

  “And how was your evening, sir?”

  “Spectacular. Do you know how to reach her?”

  “She left her phone number with me in case you asked.”

  Another nice touch.

  “Who is she?”

  “I do not know. Have not seen her before, Mr. Gambini. But she came looking for you, that I know for sure. Brently has her personal information. Her address and place of employment were verified. I’ll ask Mr. Morrison to send this up with your biscuits. Would that be acceptable?”

  “Of course, I’d like that. Any guesses?”

  “Well, your residency isn’t exactly a secret in Boston. Neither is your divorce.”

  “But, this isn’t Manhattan, so I thought—”

  “The old money lives here, Mr. Gambini. But I’m sure you’ve been told this before. We make it a habit of knowing everything about our residents and their guests. Guests, especially the ladies, have to be vetted first to hang out at the bar, unless accompanied by a gentleman of the house.”

  After grinding my fresh Blackbeard’s Delight coffee and pouring the boiling water into my new French Press, my doorbell rang. My order of fluffy biscuits—accompanied with three small bowls of apricot, blackberry, and strawberry jam, along with whipped butter and strawberries and cream arrived. A plain brown manilla envelope was sealed on the side, with my name on it.

  Her name was Shannon. And she lived in Florida, of all places. She was fifteen years younger than I was. She had pursued a modeling career but was working at a Tampa television station, TMBC, as a stringer and part-time weather person.

  I touched her picture, as if my forefinger could somehow pick up some of the missing pieces of her life. But the connection, if there had been any, was not there. I would have to find out because I certainly intended to call.

  Beneath the envelope was a folded Boston Herald newspaper. My picture was front and center.

  D.C. Power Boss Retreats to Boston. Tail between his Legs.

  It was the sort of headline Rebecca would have written. I picked up the silver tray and threw it against the wall. Biscuits, jam, and the lovingly prepared Breakfast In Boston drink flew in all directions.

  I ran in search of my Glock.

  This. Meant. War.

  Chapter 3

  Marco

  I was in the shower when the cleaning service let themselves in and began removing the mess my anger had created. I did give permission not to be the one to let them inside, as long as Brent did it. I felt a twinge of embarrassment, like a piece of my dirty laundry had been exposed, but I wasn’t going to ask for forgiveness. It was a lesson to myself. I had to make better choices, better decisions than the ones I made leading up to this fiasco. And life would change, eventually. I would have my day.

  Until then, I did have to control my anger. Note to self: Stay in control or something else will slip.

  The ladies worked quickly, apologizing for turning on the vacuum which I swished away with my hand.

  They had the newspaper, still folded, tucked into my wastebasket, along with the broken plate and glasses. They replaced it with an identical wastebasket, bowed and exited my apartment.

  I was famished but refreshed from the shower. It was time for action, but first, I needed to eat.

  My CFO for Bone Frog Security was meeting me in an hour, but he’d arrived last night and was staying downtown. I picked up my phone and dialed him.

  “Marco,” he said. “I hope we’re still on for—”

  “Change of plans. This will be a breakfast meeting. Downstairs, in the dining room here at the Towers. I’m headed there now, so anytime you want to show up works for me.”

  “I was just about to step into the shower, so I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  The dull pause and heavy breathing on the other end of the line told me Frank Goodman felt apprehensive about the meeting. I knew he’d been sending his resume out, thinking that my change in financial fortune might cause me to cut back on non-essential personnel. It always amazed me how people could self-sort for a downsize. It hadn’t been what I had planned to discuss today. But his behavior got my attention.

  “Did you bring the reports I asked for?”

  “Of course, Marco. It’s quite a lot to digest.”

  “I’ll bet.” Fuckin Rebecca was good at looting. She was good at everything, including fucking me senseless. I hoped she would be a very sore loser, because it would be so much more pleasurable for me to watch her total meltdown. I wanted her destruction to be a public, ruthless event so that no one ever considered doing such a thing to me again. Yes, I knew that made me a hard man. But it also would make me bullet-proof.

  “Well, Marco, see you in a few.” His voice wavered with nervousness.

  “Yes. You. Will. And by the way, will you join me for a Breakfast in Boston? It’s some specialty drink the bartender makes here. I’m going to try one and want you to join me.”

  “Whatever you like, Marco.”

  “And I understand the bacon is specially cured, comes direct from a hog farm in Nebraska, too.”

  “Marco—I don’t—”

  “Oh, that’s right. You eat Kosher.”

  “I try. If there is a reason I am to eat bacon, like are you considering purchasing a meat packing plant, I can justify some things, but…”

  “No. Bacon for the greasy goodness of the fat sizzling in the pan. That kind of hickory-smoked bacon. I’ll enjoy it alone, then. But you can drink.”

  “Yes, I can. But I usually—”

  “Today is a new day, Frank. We’re going to do a lot of things differently from now on. We have a lot of territory to cover, and the enemy has had a head start on us.”

  “Exactly. That’s the Marco I knew would show up. And I’m greatly relieved to see it too, sir. We’re taking no prisoners, is that right?” The timbre of his voice didn’t match his words, but they were good words, nonetheless. It meant he was trying to keep up.

  “You’ve got it. I hope you have the taste for war.”

  Frank didn’t answer that one, which bothered me a little. I knew he wasn’t a wartime CFO, but he was an excellent forensic accountant, which had been his job as a department head at the IRS for nearly twenty years before he joined my firm.

  “See you shortly, Marco.”

  I scanned the cityscape, following cars traveling along the seaboard. This wasn’t the commercial or shipping district more for tourists. A few regular sport fishing outfits and even a pirate ship for roaring drunken parties were docked and sparsely attended. Tugboats and tour ferries crammed into the harbor too. A steady stream of delivery trucks and caterers worked along the docks. A couple stainless steel breakfast burrito trucks honked and attracted workers from the nearby warehouses.

  After one last check in the mirror, I headed downstairs, ready to do battle. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I could smell faint traces of her scent lingering still in the elevator. I guessed I was only the second or third person to use it after her early morning departure. It was nice lace on an otherwise steel-cut day.

  I nodded to the bartender. He motioned me over.

  “Everything okay? Was something not to your liking, Mr. Gambini?”

  “No. It was the headline that bothered me some. Nothing to do with you.”

  “I want you to know I will re-create that breakfast for you if you’ll take a seat.”

  “I’m meeting a colleague in the dining room. Make it two, but hold the bacon on his. And two Breakfast in Bostons please.”

  “You got it. Just have them seat you and I’ll be right over with the drinks. And the
envelope—do you need duplicate information? I can get another copy for you, if you need it.”

  “Yes, that will be good. Sealed again, like the first time.”

  “Yessir. Coming right up.”

  He spread his hand, palm up, out over the bar and Marco followed his direction to the small dining room. Even at nine in the morning, the lighting was dimmed and intimate.

  Within minutes my refreshed Breakfast in Boston drink was sitting in front of me. Just as my biscuits and jam arrived, Frank Goodman walked into the dining room with his black briefcase in tow. I’d always thought he was a good-looking guy hiding behind those big glasses. He dressed so conservatively, nobody ever remembered him. I wondered what would make a man do that to himself.

  He sat across the table from me, set his case on his knees and flipped open the brass locking devices with two loud clicks, releasing the top.

  “Frank, Frank. Let’s eat first. I’m sure we can delve into all the financials after we get something in our bellies,” I said, stopping him.

  He was flummoxed for just a second.

  “It’s going to be bad news, anyway. Have some biscuits, coffee, and this drink is to die for. A little orange juice and alcohol is needed to digest this stuff, right?”

  He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses back on his nose, closed the case and tucked it beside his ankles under the table.

  “Very well.” He took his lay of the table, draped his lap with a linen napkin, chose a fluffy biscuit, and covered it with soft whipped cream cheese. Then he added blackberry jam.

  “Really? Cream cheese and jam?” I asked him.