Milo seemed to find the moniker hilarious. Calder found the entire situation sad. Sad that people she'd grown up with needed illegal substances to have fun. Even sadder, Bridge Manfred was like an unpopular little boy who could only get friends if he let them play with his bigger and better toys. Or drugs, as the case may be.
"Hey. Your mom's here. And looking hot."
The change of subject was abrupt. But Calder couldn't say Milo's declaration was unexpected.
"Mom is a social animal. If there are people, she will come."
"Hmm. Tight black leather skirt. Low-cut blouse. She knows how to get a man's attention."
Billie was a perpetual flirt. And she considered any male to be fair game. A fact Calder and her sisters learned at an early age. Their mother never willfully attempted to seduce her daughters' potential boyfriends. She simply couldn't help herself. Like breathing in and out.
"Wow. Billie hooked herself a big fish."
Without turning to look, Calder had to smile. A new man? What else was new?
"I've been angling to meet Ingo Hunter for over a year. Maybe your mom will introduce me."
Calder's mouth went dry.
"Did you say Ingo Hunter?" She prayed she'd heard wrong. She craned her neck around. Well, crap. No such luck.
"Why don't we invite them to our table for a drink?"
Not in this lifetime. Or any other. Ingo Hunter was a sleazy creep in a five-thousand-dollar suit. Money and a veneer of charm couldn't hide the slime. Of all the men in New York, why did Billie have to date him?
As soon as Calder asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Because after almost fifty years of man eating, wealthy, socially acceptable men were harder and harder to come by.
"Calder? Shall we invite them over?"
"No."
"Okay." For once, Milo was smart enough not to push. "What did you decide? A hotel room? My place? Bridge's?"
"None of the above. I'm done. Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever."
Calder left Milo on the dance floor, the song still playing. She weaved her way through the crowd toward the exit, stopping just long enough to grab her jacket. The trouble with hotspot nightclubs, she decided when she finally inhaled a breath of fresh air—or as fresh as the city provided—too many bodies. Not enough square footage.
"What are you talking about, Calder?" Milo grabbed her arm before she could hail a passing cab. "You're done? Done with what?"
Annoyed when someone else grabbed her ride, Calder tried to tug her arm free. Milo held firm, the grasp of his lily-white hand surprisingly strong.
"I left you alone on a dance floor. Left the building. How much clearer do I need to make myself? We don't suit, Milo. In any way."
"But—"
"I don't like you."
"What the hell does like have to do with anything?" Milo's smile became predatory. "I want to fuck you, not be your friend."
Milo had dropped all pretense of charm. Which was fine with Calder. The ugly truth was always better than prettied-up lies.
"I don't want your hands on me. Ever again. Let go." Calder glanced at her arm. And his white-knuckle grip. "Now."
"Why?"
Before Calder could respond with a swift kick to his nuts, his hand fell away. A bouncer from the club held Milo by the front of his tailored shirt. Tall, a black t-shirt hugging his well-muscled torso, and with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.
The man didn't raise his voice, but the tone—deep and commanding—sent a shiver down Calder's spine.
"When a lady tells you to let her go, you better do as she asks. Understood?"
"Do you know who I am, you Neanderthal?" Milo struggled to get free—to no avail. "I can have your job before you blink."
One side of the man's lips quirked upward.
"You want my job?" he chuckled without humor. "Be my guest. But I warn you, what I do is more often a headache than a pleasure."
"Listen, Jackass—"
The man tightened his hold, turning Milo's insult in to a high-pitched squeak.
"The name's Adam."
"Jesus Christ. Why the hell would I give a fuck what your name is." Despite his precarious situation, Milo's chest puffed out with self-importance. "I could buy and sell you in a heartbeat. Asshole."
"Last time I checked, slavery had been abolished. Though guys like you seem to think the rules don't apply if your bank accounts are fat enough. You think money makes you invincible. Above the law." An expression of disgust on his face, the man pushed Milo away. "Leave. Before I ram your peroxide-whitened teeth down your throat."
Shoulders back, Milo straightened his jacket as he gathered what pride he had left—which wasn't much in Calder's estimation. He raised his chin and held out his hand.
"Calder?"
Stunned by the man's gall, Calder's brain searched for a scathing put-down.
"I don't think so."
Hardly the burn she would have liked. She wished she had her sister's ability to turn a phrase. If Bryce was here, she'd have something pithy, to the point, and memorable to send Milo on his way.
Oh, well. Since Calder doubted anybody planned to record their exchange for posterity, I don't think so would have to do.
"You heard the lady. Evening's over. Be on your way."
"Calder." Milo took a step toward her only to find his way blocked by a much bigger, much fitter body. Frustrated, he ground out his words through clenched teeth. "If I leave without you, we're finished. Understand? When you come crawling back, I won't do anything but step over your pathetic body."
"For the love of…" Calder sighed. She had to start dating a better class of men. "I broke up with you, Milo. And for the record, I don't crawl. Ever."
"Bitch."
"Why you…"
Calder would have decked him. Honestly. With blood in her eyes, fist clenched, she would have slipped off her four-inch heels and run him down. Probably for the better, her rescuer grabbed her arm before she could take chase as Milo wisely skittered away like the cockroach he'd turned out to be.
"Not worth the effort." The man dropped her arm, apparently convinced Calder had figured out the same thing for herself.
Adam, Calder recalled. He said his name was Adam. Even in heels, Calder had to raise her gaze to look the man in the eyes. She swallowed. He was kind of pretty for a tough guy. His features fit together in a pattern designed to make a woman's pulse spike by a couple dozen beats.
Silly, since he was a stranger. Yet, Calder wondered if he felt the same attraction.
In her experience, men found her appealing to look at. Dark hair liberally laced with natural auburn highlights. Deep, chocolate-colored eyes. A tall, slim body that since she hit puberty never crossed over into skinny. Tonight, she wore a silky teal-blue dress designed to show off what she considered her best features. Long, toned legs.
Yes, men tended to give her a second glance. But the man in front of her didn't seem the least bit impressed.
"Do you want to call somebody to pick you up? Or should I hail you a cab?"
Mildly disappointed to discover her case of instant attraction didn't flow both ways, Calder slid her arm into the sleeve of her beaded evening jacket. To her surprise, Adam reached out to help.
"Thank you. For everything." Calder smiled. If she expected a response, she was sorely disappointed. His lids narrowed slightly over his intensely blue eyes, but his expression remained neutral. Not even a twitch of his lips.
"Phone call or cab?"
"Cab. But I'm perfectly capable of getting my own."
Without a word, Adam raised a hand. As if by magic, a cab stopped at the curb out of nowhere. Handy trick, Calder thought. And under the circumstances, slightly annoying. He opened the door and motioned for her to enter.
Calder was perplexed. The last thing she expected was for every man she met to drool over her. Heaven knew she'd experienced a case or two of unrequited attraction. Her ego had sur
vived quite nicely. So why did this man's lack of interest rankle when others were so easily forgotten?
Once in the cab, Calder turned, ready to thank Adam again.
"About Milo? I want to—"
"You should rethink your taste in men." Adam, one hand on the roof of the car, the other on the door, leaned in until their eyes were level.
Calder's back stiffened, more with surprise than anger.
"You don't know me well enough to judge my taste. Good or bad."
"Is Milo a typical sample size?"
"Well…" Unfortunately, Milo was all too typical of the men Calder dated.
"Case closed."
As her back went from stiff to rigid, surprise morphed into anger. Of all the nerve, Calder fumed. Giving her unsolicited advice. Self-important jerk. Though she had to admit—if only to herself—he was right. She needed to rethink her taste in men. Starting with him. Arms crossed, she swiveled her gaze to the back of the cabbie's head.
"Good night. Adam," she said in her best screw you tone.
"Good night. Calder."
He shut the door but not before the unmistakable sound of his deep chuckle filled the cab. Stone faced through most of their encounter, he chose to leave her with a mocking laugh? What the hell? Who did this man think he was?
Sexy only masked so many sins. And in Calder's book, Adam's appeal had all but disappeared in a puff of arrogance.
"Where you headed, lady?"
Calder rattled off her address. And proceeded to fume from Tribeca all the way uptown.
CHAPTER TWO
~~~~
CALDER STUMBLED OUT of bed—hardly an unusual occurrence. She wasn't a morning person.
Once, in her younger days, she tried to change her sleep patterns. Early to bed, early to rise—and all that nonsense. Her good intentions lasted exactly two weeks. She could have stuck to the routine. And been miserable. Instead, she gave into her true, night owl nature, happy to stay up, rather than get up, to watch the sunrise.
After she brushed her teeth and washed her face—an absolute must before she could function—Calder slipped on her robe—a match to the blue silk nighty she'd donned before falling into bed. Without a glance in the mirror, she piled her hair into what barely passed for a topknot, and padded from the room.
Funny thing about living in a genuine, bona fide Manhattan mansion since birth. As much as Calder loved the building, cherished the memories, luxuriated in the comfort? Most days, she didn't notice the little details.
Purchased by Calder's great-grandfather, Orville Benedict, in the late nineteenth century, the building sported six floors. The elevator—added after World War II—serviced a library, several offices, eighteen bathrooms, and enough bedrooms for a small army—or at the very least a platoon.
Near the top of a long, winding staircase, Calder stopped as the light from a large stained-glass window bounced off her hand. When she was little, the different colors fascinated her. As an adult, they still did. However, always on the go, she rarely stopped long enough to admire the effect.
The polished Brazilian Cherry floors covered every inch of the mansion. Top to bottom. Except for the tiled bathroom. And stained cement basement where nobody but the maids and handymen spent much time.
At the bottom of the stairs, Calder's bare toes dug into the plush Persian rug. Woven over a century ago, the muted blues and greens fit the size of the foyer as if made specifically.
Mindbogglingly expensive pieces of art, painted by long-dead artists, hung on every tastefully painted wall. Sculptures. Prized pieces, small and large, decorated antique tabletops.
Immaculate and perfectly maintained, at a glance, a casual observer might think they'd entered a museum. However, to Calder and her sisters, the brick and mortar, marble and glass, and everything inside, was simply home.
Then, unbidden, she remembered the man from the night before and the words he spoke to Milo.
You think money makes you invincible. Above the law.
Said with such contempt, Calder wondered if Adam would spew the same words at her if he could see her now. Probably. But, damn it, he didn't know anything about her. How dare he judge? How dare he—?
Calder groaned. She'd convinced herself she'd put her encounter with Adam out of her head. Seemed he and his piercing blue eyes were harder to forget than she could have anticipated.
"Jerk," Calder muttered. Unfortunately, for a house with so many rooms, somebody—and their big ears—always seemed to lurk around the corner.
"If you mean Milo Prendergast, I concur. Wholeheartedly."
Andi, her burnished gold hair fashioned into a perfect French twist, entered the foyer from the direction of the downstairs office. Spiked heels clicked her arrival as her long legs quickly ate up the distance across the room.
From her fall fashion line, the outfit Andi wore was perfect for the working woman who insisted on the latest in haute couture. An immaculately tailored coral-colored pencil skirt, silk blouse, and jacket in a slightly darker contrasting shade showed off the best of her svelte figure.
She could have walked the runway if she had the desire. And wasn't so busy building her fashion empire.
Calder glanced at the grandfather clock which stood guard by the front door for as long as a Benedict had occupied the residence. Seven fifteen? She could never understand how her sister looked so put together at such an ungodly hour. Or why she wanted to.
"Milo is history."
"Good. I can't believe he lasted past the first date." Andi nodded decisively as she slid an arm around Calder's waist. "You can do better."
You should rethink your taste in men. Adam's voice piggybacked Andi's. Apparently, the harder she tried to get the man out of her head, the more his words clung on for dear life.
Normally, Calder would have agreed with Andi's assessment. However, thanks to judgmental Adam, her dating history had become a sensitive subject.
"Milo isn't the worst the New York singles scene has to offer."
"Hardly a ringing endorsement." Andi chuckled.
"Mmm." Calder wished she had a solid argument. But anything she could add would be so full of holes, the result would resemble a piece of Swiss cheese.
"Billie's up bright and early. Humming. Loudly. The last time she crawled out of bed before noon…" Andi let out a sigh when she realized the implications. "Oh, crap. Mom has a new man in her life."
"And I know who he is." Some people relished the role as bearer of bad news. Calder wasn't one of them. "We need to talk. All of us."
Andi glanced at the clock.
"I don't know if I have time for a full-fledged, private room meeting."
These days, their sixth floor, sisters-only room was empty more often than not. The daily afternoon get-togethers ended as their lives morphed from childhood fancies to adult responsibilities. However, when the situation was serious, they found their way back. A place of comfort and safety. Like a warm, well-used security blanket they could wrap themselves in, if only for an hour or two.
"The kitchen will do. I can have a cup of strong Earl Grey, and you can watch."
Arm still around Calder, Andi laughed as they made their way toward the back of the house.
"Breakfast never tastes good until at least twelve o'clock."
"You mean lunch," Calder teased. She'd lost count of how many times they'd had the same conversation.
"I'll be twenty-nine in June. I've earned the right to eat my strawberry waffles any time I choose. And call the meal anything I like."
"Whatever you say, Grandma. Just don't let Billie hear you talk about your age. She'll go apoplectic."
Andi rolled her eyes. Their mother was forever thirty-five. A lie she told anybody who showed the least bit of interest. And those who couldn't have cared less. If Billie had seriously considered the ramifications when she gave birth to four daughters—all of whom would inevitably grow older—she most likely never would have procrea
ted.
"Lucky for us, Billie never thinks beyond today."
As Andi pushed open the kitchen door, raised voices greeted their entrance.
Bryce stood with hands on hips, an annoyed expression on her face. Instead of her usual casual jeans and t-shirt, she was dressed in a chic pair of crushed black-velvet leggings, knee-high burgundy leather boots, and a tunic top which brushed past mid-thigh. She'd sleeked her naturally wavy red hair back into a braid.
"All I wanted to do was fix myself a bowl of oatmeal. What's the problem?"
Her stance equally combative, Ellen Finch, long-time Benedict head housekeeper and cook, stood between Bryce and her prized possession. A six-burner gas stove with more bells and whistles than anybody in the house could comprehend—besides Mrs. Finch.
"When was the last time you cooked?"
"Well—"
"Not just oatmeal." Mrs. Finch crossed her arms over the apron which read Quiche Me, You Fool. "When have you prepared anything that required heat? Even a piece of toast."
Bryce knew when she was backed into a corner with no room for escape. But Calder had never seen her twin back down from an argument without at least a token fight.
"If I don't start now, when will I?"
Eyes crinkled at the edges, a look of indulgence in her pale-blue eyes, Mrs. Finch patted Bryce's shoulder.
"Oh, Bryce. Honey." The woman's ample bosom shook with laughter. "You don't want to learn how to cook."
"I might," Bryce declared. Though the stubborn gleam in her gray eyes had dimmed to resignation.
"Relax. I didn't mean to single you out. Andi and Calder are the same. And don't get me started on Destry. That girl doesn't stay in one place long enough to catch her breath, let alone heat up a frying pan." Her expression indulgent and filled with affection, Mrs. Finch shooed Bryce away.
"The fault lies firmly on your shoulders." Calder brushed a kiss over Mrs. Finch's cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of lemon and cinnamon. "If your cooking wasn't so scrumptious, one or more of us might have turned toward the culinary arts."
Mrs. Finch looked pleased. For most of her adult life, she'd taken care of the Benedicts. She'd been there when each sister entered the world. Watched as they took their first steps. Nurtured. Scolded. Comforted. Disciplined. As well as anyone, she knew how the sisters had often been left to navigate the twists and turns of childhood and adolescence without the guiding hand of a loving parent.
One Way or Another_A Friends to Lovers Contemporary Romance Page 2
