The clock over the security desk showed seven thirty as he stepped into the lobby of the building. Just in time. Instead of taking the elevator to his office on the twentieth floor, he rode the elevator to the basement. The Green Café, tucked in a corner of the basement, served drinks, snacks, and light meals. The café bustled at noon, but in the evening, with most people dispersed home or to other entertainments, café traffic was minimal, which made it the perfect place to not be seen.
He had not been surprised when Maggie selected the café for their regular monthly meetings. She shunned the social spotlight when she was not working.
She was already waiting for him at a table for two outside the café. She did not wave, but a smile danced on her lips as he walked up to her. “Hello, Drew.” She looked delighted to see him.
Cynically, he reminded himself that her apparent pleasure had nothing to do with him. She was a model; it was her job to appear happy and social all the time. His gaze swept over her. Maggie looked beautiful—she always did—but she seemed especially fetching that day. The red silk dress draped over her slim, curvaceous body would have lured even an archangel into eternal damnation. For precisely that reason, he refused to acknowledge it.
“Maggie.” He sat across from her and shrugged his messenger bag off his shoulders before sliding the bag of roast pork buns across the table.
Her eyes, bluer than an ocean, lit. Her smile widened as she opened the bag. Eyes closed, she inhaled deeply. He tried not to stare at the curve of her breasts as they rose and fell with the motion. Instead, he focused on her face, on the smile that transformed from happy to dreamy, hovering on the edge of ecstasy.
How could anyone look that stunning drooling over a bag of roast pork buns?
Her eyes opened and focused on his face. She tilted the bag toward him and arched her eyebrows. Drew shook his head. The taste of roast pork heavily seasoned in oyster sauce and ketchup turned his stomach as much as the smell nauseated him.
She reached into the bag, broke off a small piece of the bun, and popped it into her mouth. “This tastes as good as the buns from Jade Palace.” Her eyes closed once more. A breathy moan issued from her parted crimson lips; the expression on her face was pure rapture.
His groin stirred, and he sucked in his breath. Maggie looked like a woman on the verge of an orgasm, but how the hell would he know?
He reached for the mug of coffee she had ordered for him. It would not have sugar or cream; she knew his preferences. Drew gritted his teeth. “Are you ready to talk about your finances?”
~*~
And just like that, his question punctuated her bliss. Didn’t he know she had eaten salads for two whole days in anticipation of the roast pork buns she knew he would bring to their monthly appointment?
Her eyes popped open, and she pouted at him. That particular pout had secured her most recent six-figure fragrance contract. Her agent swore it made every man weak in the knees.
Except Drew, of course. He did not move. His lips did not even twitch.
Damn, he was going to make her work for a smile today, wasn’t he?
She had known from the moment he emerged from the elevator and walked toward her. His knee, she knew, tended to act up when he was tired, and she had picked the café in the basement of his office building to minimize his physical effort in getting to their appointment. How hard could an elevator ride be? The limp was barely perceptible in his long-legged stride, but his face was tight—the only evidence of the pain he was obviously keeping under wraps. He wouldn’t talk about his injury, of course. He hadn’t spoken about it for ten years; why would he start now?
It galled her that he didn’t trust her with his greatest weakness.
She did what she always did; she used nonchalant humor to disguise her concern and worry for him. “Fine, you party pooper.” She plucked off another morsel of bread and waved it under her nose—ah, the fragrance was heavenly—before popping it into her mouth. “What about my finances?”
Drew pulled his computer notebook from his bag, flipped open the screen, and began speaking. As she listened to his smooth baritone—she had always thought that his voice could make a woman believe anything—she stared at his hands as they moved across the keyboard and gestured at the screen. She had always thought his fingers, long and graceful, like the hands of an artist, oddly incongruous with the star quarterback he had been. Nothing about him screamed former athlete anymore. He had lost the muscular bulk of a football player. Although, the way his business suit fitted his body suggested he had replaced it with lean muscle instead. His symmetrical features were pleasant, but unremarkable. His brown hair was cut short in the no-nonsense style he had worn since college, and his dark eyes looked tired behind the rimless glasses he wore.
Surrounded as she frequently was by extraordinary beauty, Drew was decidedly ordinary.
Until he smiled, but then, he rarely did.
She stared into his face. Her pulse fluttered, as it always did when she was around him.
“Are you listening?” he asked, his tone sharp.
“Of course,” Maggie said. She parroted what she had heard. “My four investment funds are up 22.5 percent since last year. The transition to high-yield international stocks paid off. I suppose that means you’re spending more time managing it too.”
He nodded, but did not elaborate.
How much more time, she wondered. He managed her accounts in his “off hours,” not officially taking her on as a client and therefore not reaping his usual financial advisor fees off her investment gains. She had asked him once why he did not roll her portfolio into his client accounts. He had shrugged, told her it wasn’t a problem, and then dropped the topic entirely. It was an annoying habit he had—not answering questions when he knew she wouldn’t like the answer.
“So everything’s fine?” she asked.
“Your investments are fine. Your budget, on the other hand—”
“What’s wrong with it?”
He turned the computer screen to share the spreadsheet with her.
She looked at the numbers and giggled.
He gave her a dirty look. “Not the response I was hoping for.”
“So I missed it.”
“‘Missed it’ is a ridiculously mild term for how badly you overshot your budget. What are these things?”
Maggie shrugged. “One-offs.” She pointed a perfectly manicured fingernail at the screen. “That was a sapphire necklace. And this one was an Armani dress.” The same one she was wearing at that moment; the one she had purchased for the express purpose of pleasing him; the one he had completely failed to notice.
“Maggie, almost by definition, regular monthly one-offs are no longer one-offs.”
She laughed. How could she not? She loved the tone of mild exasperation in his patient voice. No one else in New York really called her Maggie either—just Rowan and Vera, and of course, Drew. “Emergency funds, then?”
“Emergency funds are what you use to fix the roof after a hurricane blows it off. A sapphire necklace and an Armani dress don’t constitute emergencies.”
“In my world, they do.”
“Do we need to adjust the budget?”
“I guess we should. I can afford it, right?”
“I’d rather you save and invest more, but it sounds like you need a hefty emergency fund on top of your regular clothing budget.”
For a moment, she felt like a gawky thirteen-year-old again, trying hard—and failing—to impress the twenty-year-old star quarterback of the Stanford Cardinal. She managed a shaky breath. “You’re disappointed with me, aren’t you?”
“I’m resigned. I’ve known you too long to be surprised or disappointed.”
Maggie peered at him through her long eyelashes. She wasn’t certain his statement was a compliment, but he did not sound upset or angry. “So my investments are fine and my budget’s fine—”
His eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
“—almost fine,” she
amended without missing a beat. “So, does that mean I can retire?”
“Isn’t twenty-three a little too young to retire?”
Her lips twisted into a faint frown. “Female models don’t have long careers. I’ve got two more years; five, if I’m lucky. I’ll need to marry before that.”
“Excuse me?” He sounded genuinely confused. “What’s the connection between your career and marriage?”
“I’ll need a plan for my future.”
“And that’s your plan?” His brown eyes flashed. “Your plan for a stable financial future is marriage? Do you have any idea how many marriages end in divorce?”
“Well…” She fought the compulsion to cringe. “But there’ll be alimony, right?”
“You’re kidding.” If gazes could burn, his would have scalded her. “That’s your retirement plan?” He slammed down the computer screen, apparently all the better to glare at her. “Why the hell do you think I’m doing this?”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. When was the last time she’d seen him angry? Never. Drew never lost his cool. “What do you mean?”
“I’m managing your money, growing your wealth, planning your retirement, so you don’t have to marry for money, so you don’t have to depend on anyone but yourself, ever. Do you understand?”
She nodded, dumbstruck.
“Damn it.” He raked his fingers through his hair. The spiky ends stood straight, giving him a boyish look. “What kind of eighteenth-century prehistoric bullshit were you buying into?”
“Excuse me, but the eighteenth century isn’t considered prehistoric. Technically.”
He glared at her.
She concealed a smile. How could she have known that the stern and humorless Drew Jackson would actually be sweetly protective on a rant?
“Is that why you’ve dated nine different men in two weeks?” he asked.
Nine? Maggie tried to count them off in her head. She likely double counted some of them and missed others, but Drew’s count of nine was awfully close to her own. Darn, she had not realized she had been that active. “They weren’t serious.”
“Really?”
Maggie winced. How could he make her feel so small, shallow, and cheap with a single word? “It’s just…what we do.”
“We? You mean celebrities?”
“No, I mean it’s just a social thing people do. They date others.” Damn it, he had forced her on the defensive. Her chin tilted up. “I don’t have to justify what I do, especially not to you.”
His eyes widened, as if she had struck him.
Maggie opened her mouth, an instinctive apology on her lips, but he looked away. A muscle twitched in his smooth cheek. “No, you’re right,” he conceded. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Sorry, I was out of line.”
“No. No, I—” She stared at him. His deliberately expressionless face made her chest ache. She knew him well; the blanker his expression, the more he was trying to conceal.
But what was he trying to hide? How much he despised her? Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it if he thought of her as a slut, or worse, a snobbish slut. “I…I don’t just date celebrities. I mean, I date normal people too.”
“When was the last time you did?”
“Uh…” She couldn’t pin down a name, let alone a time or a place, but surely she must have dated a normal person recently. However, the only person she could think of was Greg Jackson, Drew’s younger brother. Greg had been seventeen then, she thirteen. “I…”
Drew snorted under his breath. “Guess you haven’t.” He shoved his computer notebook into his bag. “I’ll rework your budgets and send you an updated spreadsheet. Stick to it this time, and I’ll see you next month. You take care, all right?” He pushed to his feet, his movements measured and careful, and then turned away.
“Wait!” She reached for his hand. She could not let him walk away, not when the glimmer of hurt in his eyes made her feel like she had crushed that fragile connection between them. “Can…can we have dinner?”
“What?” His brow furrowed. “Here? Tonight?”
“No, no.” She had finally struck up the nerve to ask him out; she would be damned if they had stale sandwiches for dinner. She needed time to plan. More importantly, she needed to find a way to avoid the spotlight. Her friendship with Drew was too precious to expose to the fickle cruelty of public scrutiny. “My place, next week. How about Saturday?”
He stared at her as if trying to ferret out her reasons for the spontaneous invitation. “You don’t have to date me to prove a point. You know I’m seeing someone.”
“I know,” Maggie said, and tried not to hate the pretty and excessively talented Felicity Rivers. “It’s just dinner. Old friends. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t think—”
“No, don’t think about it at all. You’ll insult me if you say no. Dinner between friends shouldn’t have to be complicated.”
“It shouldn’t, but it is.” Drew released his breath in a silent sigh. “Fine, dinner next Saturday.”
“Wonderful!” Maggie grinned. “You won’t regret it.”
The look on his face, however, said he already did.
He walked away, and Maggie realized he had not even smiled at her. Not once in the entire hour. She stared down at her $4,000 Armani dress. Worthless one-off. Damn it.
On the other hand, a warm thrill of delight surged through her. She finally had a date with Drew Jackson, and it had only been ten years in the making.
Chapter 3
Maggie stood in the foyer and tried to survey her three-bedroom condominium through fresh eyes. It had to be perfect, absolutely perfect, for Drew.
The cleaning crew had come through earlier that day. Maggie had not managed the timing quite right. The chef she hired had not appreciated sharing the kitchen with the vacuum cleaner, but Maggie hastily negotiated a fragile peace, and all was well.
The chef had departed ten minutes earlier, leaving behind an exquisitely prepared dinner on the granite countertop of the kitchen island. No pork, she had told the chef—Drew hated the smell and taste of pork—but otherwise, the chef was to spare no expense, and he hadn’t. The arugula salad, topped with beef carpaccio, shaved reggiano parmesan, truffled oil, and spicy aioli, would launch the meal on an elegant note, followed by a delicately flavored rack of lamb, garnished with fresh mint and thyme leaves and cherry tomatoes. The chef swore by the Cru Classé Bordeaux, which she had poured into a decanter. The dessert, milk chocolate crémeux with sesame crème anglaise, chilled in the refrigerator.
The scent of fall spices—pumpkin and cinnamon—wafted through her condominium, subtle enough to not interfere with the fragrance of the meal, but enough to set the mood. Lyrical piano music set against the soothing sounds of a waterfall flowed from hidden Bose speakers.
Maggie had never taken such care with a date before, and it had included another one-off expense—a flowing turquoise dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, the overall effect sensual rather than sexual. Her pale lipstick conceded attention to her smoky eyes, exactly as she knew Drew preferred. Her fragrance was a classic—Beautiful by Estee Lauder. Drew had reacted to it once, inhaling deeply when she’d worn it around him. If she were any less attuned to him, she would have missed his subtle reaction; a faint smile had flickered over his lips.
Maggie pressed a hand to her chest; she could feel her heart racing like a Ferrari on a Formula One track. She huffed out a breath and tried not to hyperventilate. It simply would not work with the sophisticated image she wanted to project. She wanted, needed in fact, Drew to see her as more than a thirteen-year-old nuisance, one that he had apparently been relieved to put on a one-way plane trip to Milan.
She had not seen Drew for four years after that; her modeling career kept her in Milan from the age of fourteen through eighteen. She had then returned to the United States to attend Parsons The New School for Design in New York City. Drew had relocated from California to New York City shortly thereafter, an
d their friendship had picked up where it had left off—as if she were still only thirteen. He played the frequently indifferent, occasionally protective big brother role well enough, but she was tired of him acting as if they were blood-related when they were not.
She had not had any luck convincing him otherwise even though five years had passed since they had both moved to New York City, the passing of time marked by their monthly financial meetings. Tonight, however, was the first hint that he might be willing to step beyond the roles they had defined for themselves ten years earlier.
Right on time, the doorbell rang. Maggie’s chin tilted up. Mature. Elegant. Sophisticated. She swung the lock back and opened the door. “Hello, Drew.”
His lips curved into the faint smile that always made her heart race. “Maggie.” He held out a brown paper bag.
The scent was unmistakable and irresistible. “Pork buns!” She snatched the bag from his hand. “Thank you! Are these from Jade Palace, or the other place you usually get them?”
“Jade Palace.”
Her perfectly tweezed eyebrows drew together. “Chinatown is way out of your way.”
“Thought you might like them.”
“I do. Thank you.” She brushed a kiss against his cheek and felt him inhale. Did he recognize the scent of her perfume?
He must have; his smile deepened in response. He looked both casual and at ease in a white shirt and dark gray pants. The navy blue blazer was a nice touch; he had obviously taken extra care in dressing for the evening, which helped Maggie feel better about the $4,499—and it was on sale—she had spent on her dress.
She stepped aside. “Come on in.” Maggie led the way into the kitchen and tucked her pork buns into the microwave for safekeeping. “Can I offer you a glass of wine now, or would you rather have it with your meal?”
Drew stared at the elaborate display of food on the island. “Quite a spread. Who cooked it?”
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