by Julia Harlow
Other Books by Julia Harlow
Closed Set
The Talented Mr. Maxwell
All Tyed Up
Julia Harlow
All Tyed Up
Julia Harlow
Copyright © 2016 Julia Harlow
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Edited by Theresa Wegand
Cover Design by Amanda Simpson of Pixel Mischief Design
To my husband
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Also by Julia Harlow
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Isabel Beachwood had on one coffee-colored Cole Hahn high heel and was trying to slip on the other when the old doorbell chimed. That would be the guy buying the table, the one she’d bought at Carmel by the Sea at that adorable little antique shop near the Pine Inn for more than she should have paid. But its lines were so simple, the wood so mellow, and it was the perfect size for her tiny dining room. She’d just had to have it.
She hopped toward the front door, shoe in hand, and reached for the knob just as she heard Pilot’s low growl. The growl that meant he would tear to shreds anyone who came through that door, unless she gave the command not to.
Tucking the shoe under her arm, she swung open the six-panel wood door at the same time as she motioned a hand signal to Pilot. The eighty-five-pound German Shepherd sank to the floor and lay as still as the Great Sphinx of Giza, except for an almost imperceptible quiver of readiness.
“Come in.” Isabel waved the hand once again clutching the shoe. The man stepped inside and abruptly froze as soon as he spotted the dog.
“It’s all right. He won’t hurt you, unless you attack me, and then all bets are off. You’re here for the table, right? It’s this way.” Shoe finally in place on her size-eight foot, she led him toward the tiny dining room.
“Well, this is it. If you’re still interested, the terms are cash and carry, as I told your sister on the phone.” She smoothed down the front of her tangerine and toffee sleeveless polka dot dress with the ruffled hem, trying to recall his name. Trent? Trey? It was hopeless. With all the major changes going on in her life of late, she’d forgotten his name almost as soon as she’d heard it three days ago.
The man’s deep voice penetrated her thoughts, but she missed what he’d said.
“Sorry. What was that?”
“May I?”
“May you what?”
“Pet your dog. Now that he’s not about to rip apart my jugular, I can see how magnificent he is.”
“Sure. Go ahead.” Isabel focused on the man for the first time since he’d come through the door, and blinked. Twice. Stunningly handsome with dark blond hair layered to perfection in an undoubtedly expensive salon cut, a straight, tapered nose, and strong jaw, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a pre-Thor Chris Hemsworth. Especially that wide, soft, sensual mouth. It was so unfair that a man should have such a pretty mouth.
In one elegant move, he knelt and offered his hand for a sniff. Then he began to pet her dog. Pilot’s tongue lolled out of his mouth while those long fingers stroked his silky fur. Isabel wondered if her tongue might loll out of her mouth if those fingers were stroking her. She caught the slight lemony scent of dog shampoo and was suddenly glad she’d given her dog a bath yesterday.
A loud crack of thunder rattled the brass chandelier and the bay windows. Good thing she’d squeezed in a forty-five-minute power walk with Pilot before she’d jumped in the shower. Pilot tucked his head under his paws.
“I’ll take the table. Four fifty and it’s out the door.” That voice, so low and with a gravelly edge, struck a chord in her as palpable as if he’d reached over and caressed her bare shoulder. She took in his bespoke three-piece suit and shirt so white and crisp it almost glowed. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d buy used furniture. And he certainly didn’t look like the kind who’d pick it up himself. Surely, he’d have a lackey or three for that sort of errand. She hadn’t dusted the table in a while, and he was sure to get his immaculate suit smudged.
“Pure bred, isn’t he? Where was he trained?” Those blue eyes studied her as his big hands continued to trail down Pilot’s back.
“I trained him. And, yes, he’s pure bred.” When the man stood up, a good eight inches over her five-foot-seven-inch height, he tilted his head to one side and gazed at her. Isabel jiggled her foot. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you don’t look like a dog trainer.”
“And what exactly does a dog trainer look like?” Her brows knitted together at the inference that a dog trainer had a certain appearance and she didn’t have it.
“Oh, a prison warden, I expect, not a lovely young woman such as yourself.” His grin, a little crooked and so charming she almost forgot to breathe, irritated her all the same. He’d no doubt honed that killer grin while disarming hundreds of the fairer sex.
“Looks can be deceiving, Mr. . . .? Sorry, I don’t recall your name.”
If he were insulted by the slight that she couldn’t remember his name, it didn’t show in his cool demeanor. Instead, he took two strides toward her and stretched out his big hand to shake, immediately halting at the sound of a menacing snarl.
Isabel signaled with a slight movement of her hand, and Pilot slunk down to the hardwood floor. She was sure she could detect disappointment in those deep brown eyes that he wasn’t going to get a chance to clasp his jaws around the big guy’s throat.
“Hand signals? Now I’m really impressed and intrigued.”
Rolling her eyes, Isabel took a step back from all that potent male presence and apparent air of self-importance. “I’m on a tight schedule, so if we could . . .”
“No problem.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “I only have hundreds at the moment.”
Like she’d have a spare fifty dollars? In what universe? She was selling her precious Carmel table as a “liquidation of assets” before she moved out of the most perfect place she’d ever lived: her own place, three rooms in a violet and buttercup painted Victorian. Nothing quite as satisfying as two steps forward and three steps back.
This week was her last at Baycrest Enterprises, her dream job. Those sleazy weasels at Grandin Financial Corporation had engineered a takeover. As one
of the newest hires, she’d been among the first to be let go. She had just gotten settled into her new position and to the city of San Francisco, when rumors of the takeover started to trickle down about six months ago.
No job, no home, and now no Carmel table, and she didn’t have fifty flipping dollars to give what’s-his-name, the guy crouching down again trying to get in good with her dog. She exhaled. “This is embarrassing. If I’m lucky, I’ve got five dollars in my wallet. You can either get smaller bills and come back tomorrow to pick up the table, or I’ll get change and send the fifty dollars to your address.”
He straightened and brushed the side of his jaw with his thumb. “You’re making this too complicated. Keep the five hundred. The table’s worth it.” He folded the freshly minted bills and held them out to her. When she made no move to take them, he turned and set the bills on the kitchen counter.
Isabel squared her shoulders and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Absolutely not, we agreed on four fifty. Just give me your address, and I’ll mail you the change.”
Mr. Movie Star leaned his tall frame against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement caused his dark blue jacket to bunch at his prominent biceps. Even though he was GQ model worthy in that exquisite suit, by the drape of the expensive fabric, she suspected the body of a warrior was concealed underneath it all.
Isabel tried not to notice his biceps, expansive chest, long muscular legs, thick hair, high cheekbones, or sculpted jawline. Or the way his too-blue-to-be-true eyes couldn’t seem to stop staring at her.
“Well, sending cash through the mail is a dicey proposition. It might never make it to my address.” He uncrossed his arms to reach inside his jacket. Sliding out a business card and a sleek graphite pen, he quickly scrawled something on the back.
In two strides, he was smack in front of her, too close for her comfort zone. “Since you insist, Miss Beachwood, drop the fifty bucks off at my office tomorrow. My assistant’s name and number are on the back. Be sure to call first and speak with him. I want to be there so the cash doesn’t go missing.” One corner of that insanely sensual mouth quirked up.
Was he making fun of her? The arrogant bastard. She felt like tearing up the business card and flinging the pieces into his coifed hair. That would wipe the smug grin off his face. Or maybe it wouldn’t. She couldn’t quite figure him out or why in the world she was having such a visceral response to him.
“Fine.” She snatched the card from his fingers and crossed her arms over her ample chest. The movement caused the tops of her breasts to spill over the scoop of her dress. She nodded at the table and tapped the toe of her shoe, waiting for him to pick it up and haul it out. Now she hoped he would get dust all over his pristine suit.
For a second too long, his eyes rested on the creamy rounds of her breasts pushing out over the neckline of her dress. If she hadn’t been staring at him, she probably wouldn’t have noticed. Look all you want, hot shot, ’cause that’s all you’ll ever do.
She imagined the women usually on his arm were classically beautiful, five-foot-ten-inch fashion models with sleek hair and polished make-up, who wore five-inch stilettos and size-zero designer labels. Well, they could have him.
He picked up her precious Carmel table as if he were picking up a small picture frame and headed toward the front door. She stood there, debating whether or not to let him struggle to open the door with his arms full. Good manners won out, and she darted around him to open the door, coffee heels clicking on the hardwood.
Most of the May morning fog had drifted out to the bay, and shafts of sunlight played with the colors in the man’s hair, turning it into a panoply of gold. A slight breeze flipped the ruffle of her skirt against his thigh.
Before he’d passed all the way through the door, he stopped, his blue eyes meeting hers. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss. Beachwood. Be sure to call my assistant before you come tomorrow.”
Who the heck did he think he was ordering her around? She gave him her frostiest smile and shut the door behind him, the weather stripping making a satisfying thunk of finality. She leaned against the door and swiped her fingers across her forehead as if to wipe away the uncomfortable, and yet somehow thrilling, feeling of being in his presence. A feeling of playing with fire.
Pilot sat up ramrod straight and watched every move she made with his big brown eyes.
“You’re a bit of a traitor, aren’t you? What was all that cozying up you were doing to that strange, bad man?” The big dog tilted his head to the side as he attempted to understand what she was saying. Isabel knew Pilot’s instincts were infallible. The guy probably wasn’t a bad man. And that bugged her even more.
She grabbed her lunch bag from the refrigerator, filled Pilot’s water bowl at the sink, and started for her bedroom to collect her laptop and purse. On the way, she spied the five hundred dollars and the business card. Picking up the bills and holding out the card in front of her, she read the print:
Tyberius Griffin
CEO Grandin Financial Corporation
555 California Street, 50th Floor
San Francisco, CA 94104
Chapter 2
All the way to work Isabel gritted her teeth and fumed. Tyberius Griffin—what kind of a name was that, anyway? —not only had her adorable Carmel table, but he was part of the group responsible for her losing her dream job.
She stowed her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk as soon as she arrived at Baycrest Enterprises and switched on her desk lamp. Logan Chou, one of their team in charge of quality assurance that tested the apps Baycrest designed for bugs, sidled up to her desk. Of medium height with collar-length shiny black hair, he had engaging dark brown eyes that twinkled every so often and a lean, muscular build. The polo shirts he wore clung to his shoulders and biceps. He was attractive, for sure, but something about him put Isabel off. She hadn’t figured out just what bothered her about him, but they could only ever be friends as far as she was concerned.
“Sorry about this shitty situation, Isabel. You shouldn’t have been axed. It should have been . . .” He nodded to Zack, a twenty-year-old know-it-all who was the least popular of their co-workers.
“It’s okay, Logan. Just let it go.”
He snagged a pen from her desk and began threading it through his fingers. “What are you going to do?”
Isabel tore open a packet of wipes and cleared the microscopic film of dust from her laptop screen. “Not sure. I haven’t had time to think about that yet.”
“If you need a place to stay, my roommate’s leaving for New York at the end of the month. The rent’s totally reasonable, and I love dogs.”
“Thanks, but I already have a place lined up.” She practically choked on the words at the thought of moving in with her stepsister, Ellen Daniels. All those reminders of an ugly time she’d rather forget. But she wasn’t an insecure ten-year-old anymore, so how bad could it be?
Those years of living in what seemed like a padded cell whose four walls were cynicism, denigration, criticism, and negativity had been the worst of her life, but they were over now. She’d struggled ever since then to recover from the damage those years had wrought. She thought she’d turned the corner for good.
~~~
During her lunch hour the next day, Isabel hotfooted it to Bank of America. She couldn’t wait to drop the money off to his assistant and be done with Mr. Tyberius Griffin.
After she’d traded a one-hundred-dollar bill for two fifties, she dialed the number on the back of the card. Kevin Ward had an efficient but friendly voice as he answered, “Mr. Griffin’s office.”
“Is he in?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Isabel Beachwood.” She rounded the corner on to California Avenue and had the Triple Five building in her sights.
“Oh, Miss Beachwood, I’ve been expecting your call. Mr. Griffin should be back at one o’clock, if you could stop by then.”
“Actually, I’m coming up t
o see you now. The rest of my day is packed.”
“Um, Mr. Griffin specifically wanted to be here when you came by.”
“Don’t worry about it, Kevin. I’m just dropping off an envelope for him. I don’t even know him. Really, it’s no big deal.”
She ended the call before Kevin could say anything else and hurried into the swanky building. She stepped into an elevator packed with men and women clad in light wool and cashmere, no doubt on the way to lunches where billion-dollar, earth-shattering deals would be negotiated. She was the only one in the elevator not wearing gray or black. The sharp brew of their pricey perfumes and colognes in the small, enclosed space made her nauseated.
~*~
At age thirty-three, Ty Griffin was beginning to find that cobbling together billion-dollar financial deals was not as satisfying as it once had been. Recently, he’d started to wonder if this was all there was to life. From his early twenties starting out on Wall Street, to reaching the pinnacle of an already illustrious career as the CEO of Grandin Financial Corporation, this had been his sole obsession. Now, the art of the deal seemed to be losing its luster. Some days, when he woke at five in the morning, the unrelenting drive he’d always experienced when the alarm buzzed had dissolved into a feeling of listlessness, like an Alka-Seltzer that had lost its fizz.
“Hey, Griff.” Ty gave a chin nod to one of his weekend basketball buddies as he passed him on the way back to the office. He unconsciously rubbed his aching shoulder where he’d landed last Saturday after a particularly dirty play. Those venture capitalist mavens were some of the most cutthroat guys he’d ever played with. He needed to add an extra day a week to his workouts if he had any hope of keeping up with them.
His mind drifted back to Isabel Beachwood, someone who’d occupied his thoughts ever since he’d first seen her yesterday. God, she was lovely—not classically beautiful, but beautiful in a unique, slightly off-kilter way that drew him to her even more, like a powerful magnetic force.
He imagined touching that whipped cream skin of hers with his fingertips, with his mouth, with his whole body. Her dark hair was so shiny he wondered what kind of shampoo she used. She should do a commercial for it, whatever it was. It was the kind of hair made for him to plow his fingers through while he tilted her head back to nibble on that gorgeous neck.
