Grinning with anticipation, Ashe reached out, expecting to find Belle. Instead, he found cold sheets and a piece of paper. Well, shit. Neither discovery boded well for a pleasant start to his day. Pulling himself to a sitting position, Ashe rubbed the rest of the sleep from his eyes. With a resigned sigh, he picked up the note.
Ashe,
I know how this looks. Sneaking away in the middle of the night is rude and juvenile. One-night stands aren't my forte, and I didn't have time to look up the proper etiquette.
Thank you. It's all I have, but believe me, the words are sincere. We were never friends. Old acquaintances is pushing it. But I will never forget last night.
One more thing. I'm completely healthy. I should have mentioned that before you performed oral sex on me. I was a bit distracted.
Belle
Short, to the point, and so utterly ridiculous, Ashe almost expected Belle to pop out of the bathroom, calling out just kidding. Reading it again, he crumpled it into a ball, hurling it across the room. To be honest, Ashe didn't know what to think.
Belle was gone. On her way back to Boston, he supposed. Had he gotten around to asking if that was where she still lived? Ashe didn't think so. They hadn't gotten around to much. Except for one hotter than hell night of sex. With the lady long gone, that made it a one-night stand. His first in how long? He couldn't remember.
Ashe rolled from bed. You performed oral sex on me. No argument there. And he enjoyed every second. Licking his lips, he picked up the note, smoothing out the edges. He could still taste Belle's sweetness.
One night. Ashe had to admit it was disconcerting. He fell asleep thinking of more. Woke with sex on his mind. Sex with Belle. But she made it clear in a few succinct lines that she hadn't felt the same.
Thank you. Ashe chuckled. Polite to the end. Belle was… unique. Heading toward the bathroom, he laid the note on the dresser. This was one he would have to chalk up to experience. Move on. No mistake. No regrets. Well, maybe one. Ashe glanced at her words with a sigh. He would regret never again having Belle Richards in bed.
THE RECORDING STUDIO was silent. Normally when the band was gathered in the acoustically friendly area, there was music. Or singing. Or both. Either live or on playback. It was an expensive space. When The Ryder Hart Band stepped through its doors, they were there to work. Not goof off. Not socialize.
And definitely not argue. Yet here they were, doing exactly that. At least, Ryder and Zoe were arguing. Ashe and Dalton were checking their emails. Surfing the internet. Playing video games on their phones. In other words, waiting for the tempest to play to its conclusion.
"We don't need another headliner," Zoe insisted for the third, or maybe it was the fourth, time. The heated discussion had been raging for over half an hour. When the brother and sister started repeating themselves, Ashe tuned them out. "We sell out every venue we play. Taking on someone of equal stature—and I use the term loosely—would be nothing but an unnecessary headache."
"This isn't about filling seats, Zoe. It's about reaching a different audience. And," Ryder interjected before she could interrupt, "It wouldn't be a full tour. Just a few dates scattered throughout next summer. Half a dozen."
"I don't see the problem," Dalton threw in his two cents for the first time. "Smith Carson is a good dude."
"How do you know?" Zoe stopped pacing, crossing her arms over her chest, her voice cool.
Add an intimidating icy blue stare and most people backed down rather than take her on. Her bandmates weren't most people. They were her friends. Her family. And they knew her better than anybody. That stare only worked when she was in the right. Today, Dalton didn't think that was the case.
"I will admit, I don't know Smith well. But his reputation is solid. In this business, assholes are identified quickly. We would have heard if he was a prima donna."
"Dalton is right, Zoe." Ryder picked a few chords on his guitar. It was how he gathered his thoughts. "Smith Carson is known as a nose-to-the-grindstone artist. He works hard and expects the people around him to do the same."
"Fine." Zoe resumed pacing. "He's a stand-up guy. That doesn't mean we want to litter our shows with his—"
"Trash?" Ryder chuckled. "You couldn't say it, could you?"
Zoe's gaze emblazoned. Never a good sign. "I will admit he knows his craft."
"Smith has a different sound than ours, but it is still first rate. He will be a good complement to us. Dalton? Are you on board?"
"I vote yes."
"Ashe?"
Ashe stared at his phone, unaware that he had become the center of attention. A text had just arrived. To call it unexpected was putting it mildly.
"Hey." Dalton knocked Ashe's leg with the tip of his custom-made boot. "Put down the phone for five seconds. We're taking a vote."
Frowning, Ashe raised his head. "I've been invited to my father's sixtieth birthday party."
That quieted the room. Fast. Ashe rarely spoke of his family because there was nothing to say. He and his oldest sister remained close, but only communicated by phone or email. She would update him on births or illnesses. It wasn't an ideal situation. He loved his sister. But their father's dictates ruled her world.
"Do you think your father is behind the invite?" Ryder asked, setting aside his guitar.
Family was a touchy subject for all of them. They knew each other's stories. If somebody needed to talk, there was always a sympathetic ear available. However, it didn't happen often. Ryder had come to grips with his childhood. As had Dalton. Zoe? Sometimes Ashe wondered if anybody—even Ryder—knew what went on behind her intense blue eyes.
As for him, Ashe thought he had made peace with what happened. His father had given him a choice. Stay with his family or leave and face almost total estrangement. At the time, it had been easy. Now, he wasn't as certain. Not that Ashe believed it had been a mistake. This was the life he was meant to live. But he would have handled it differently. He would have tried harder to make his father understand. Over the years, he would have kept trying.
Sometimes, it felt like it was too late. Years passed, making the divide seem wider. Impossible to bridge. This might be his last chance to try.
"I can't see my old man bending. But I would have said the same about myself."
"You want to go." Dalton nodded, understanding. "If nothing else, a trip back to Boston will give you some closure."
Dalton had gotten his own closure not long ago. It hadn't been easy. There had been people in his past who tried their best to trip him up. But he did it. In fact, things had worked out better than Dalton could have anticipated.
"Hell, it should be a piece of cake. Unlike you, I won't have half of a town against me," Ashe kidded.
Dalton chuckled. Not that long ago, he wouldn't have found any humor in such a joke. "They were the stupid half. You won't be that lucky."
It was true. Nobody would call his family stupid. Ashe came from a long line of successful entrepreneurs. The Mathisons didn't make their many, many millions by engaging in foolish behavior—in or out of the boardroom. They were bone-deep conservatives and proud of it.
"I need to go." There was no waver in Ashe's voice. He had made up his mind—as usual—with the support and input from his friends. Grinning, he added, "However, I won't mention that I vote Democrat."
"Great. Lovely. We are all on board politically. Call us if you need us."
Ashe turned to Ryder. "Why do I get the feeling Zoe wants to rush me out the door?"
"She'll miss you. We all will." Ryder's lips twitched when Zoe let out a frustrated growl. "How are you voting?"
Confused, Ashe looked around. "I told you how I'm voting. Liberal."
"Jeez." Zoe threw her hands up. "Not in November. Do we or do we not ax the idea of touring with Smith Carson?"
"Oh." Ashe had forgotten all about their potential touring partner. "Sorry, kid. I'm with Ryder and Dalton on this one."
"Fine." In a huff
, Zoe picked up her guitar case. "Mark my words, you'll regret this decision."
"She'll cool down," Ryder assured him as the echo of Zoe's exit rang in their ears. She might not yell, but she was a master door slammer. "About your trip. Do you want to take the plane?"
"Damn straight," Ashe declared. "If I'm going to see my father, I'm going in style."
DAY AFTER DAY, all over the world, before they leave the house, there were people who donned a uniform. Mail carriers. Fast food servers. Men and women who serve in the Armed Forces. It became so much a part of their routine, after a while, it was done without special thought. Nobody stopped to contemplate what they did. They simply did it.
Before her trip to Los Angeles, Belle had reached that point. It was true that she had more options than most. The color, cut, and style of her suits were up to her. That didn't make them any less a uniform. If she had shown up at the office in t-shirt and jeans or thigh-high leather boots. Or, on a swelteringly hot day like today, a flirty sundress in the color of bright yellow daisies, more than a few eyebrows would be raised. Within minutes of her arrival, the big boss would have called her into his office for a firm talking to. If she weren't the boss' daughter, it might result in her termination. That was how strict they were at Richards Inc.
A month ago, Belle would have taken her shower. Dried her hair. Applied the usual light coat of makeup—another thing the company had strict ideas about—and pulled Thursday's outfit from her rigidly organized closet. Medium-heeled pumps in a complementary neutral shade. Stockings weren't mandatory, though a woman just starting with Richards was smart to wear them. Archaic and arbitrary it might be; these things were noticed.
Belle felt the flush of indecision. Blue? Beige? Summer green? Why couldn't she grab and go the way she always had? As long as the jacket was tailored and the skirt pressed, nobody cared. She hadn't. And that was the problem. Long before California or a certain rock star, Belle had stopped caring. No. That wasn't fair. She cared about doing her job to the best of her ability. She cared about the people she worked with. Most of all, she cared about her family—as frustrating as they could be.
To rephrase, Belle cared. Too much sometimes. Right now, she cared that she was an automaton when it came to her clothing. Be bold, a little voice urged. Forget the conservative suit—just for one day. The company balked at the idea of casual Friday. Be a trendsetter. Call it Breakout Thursday.
Who was she kidding? Certainly not herself. With a sigh, Belle blindly grabbed a seasonally appropriate uniform, a plain, no-nonsense blouse, and boring shoes. At least they didn't pinch her feet.
Setting the ensemble on her bed, Belle padded to the kitchen for a quick breakfast. On the weekends she liked to splurge with an omelet or blueberry pancakes. In Belle's book, living alone was no excuse for not getting creative with her meals. However, during the week, she seldom had time for more than a bowl of cold cereal.
Grabbing a spoon, Belle settled at her sweet antique table with the wonderfully mismatched chairs. Her place. Her taste. It was such a joy to pick and choose as she liked. Two years ago when her mother remodeled, Penelope Richards hired the most exclusive decorator in New England. Out with the old, in with the overpriced and pretentious. Belle shuddered when she thought about the paisley and dark chocolate color scheme. It wasn't her mother's taste. As far as she knew, it wasn't anybody's taste. However, it gave her mother bragging rights—and a photo shoot in some magazine Belle had never heard of. It was read by the right women who lived in the right neighborhoods who frequented the right parties. The gossip at these parties could be brutal. The preferred sport was ass kissing one second, backstabbing the next. Penelope—and her décor—received plenty of both.
For her last birthday, Belle was offered the services of that same exclusive designer. Not for Belle's apartment. According to her mother, what would be the point? This gift was for the future. For Belle's home after the wedding. The wedding to the perfect man. The wedding that had been postponed. Twice. Each time, Theo had an excuse. Business. The flu on top of more business. Not terribly viable excuses in the scheme of things. Since their families wanted this match, they were giving him a lot of leeway. Since Belle would have been happy to delay until the next millennium, she didn't push. She had her suspicions as to why Theo's feet were turning from cold to blocks of ice. If he didn't fess up, she would have to call him on it.
When it happened, the fallout was going to be huge—mostly on Theo's side of the family fence. Though Belle imagined more than one finger would get pointed her way. It was inevitable. But it wasn't going to happen today. She had too much on her plate. Belle had plans to shake things up—just a little to start—at Richards Inc. To do that, she had to keep on her father's good side.
As Belle raised and lowered her spoon, not really tasting what she was putting in her mouth, she tapped the screen on her iPad, scrolling through her personal email. It was the usual. A sale at Williams-Sonoma caught her eye. Saving it as a treat for later, she moved on. Nothing caught her eye until she came across her mother's usual subject line. I need to see you A.S.A.P.
And good morning to you too, Mom. Smiling, Belle put the tablet aside. She rinsed out her bowl, put it in the dishwasher, and headed toward the bathroom to brush her teeth. The email would only be the beginning. Before lunch, her mother would add a text—sent by her personal assistant. That afternoon would see another email and finally a phone call. It didn't matter that Belle shot back a response to the original message promising to stop by after work. This was her mother's method. Always had been, always would be.
Belle took one last look at herself before leaving her bedroom. It was a nice suit. And it flattered her figure as much as it could. The color complemented her skin tone. Though Belle longed for sexy, leg-enhancing spiked heels, the shoes were practical. Over the course of a day, she did a lot of walking. Neat, professional, attractive. It was hard to argue with the uniform she donned every day.
However, as Belle slid behind the wheel of her dark blue sedan, she couldn't help but think about the dress that hung in the far corner of her closet. The one she had purchased on a whim last week. Wouldn't it be nice if she were wearing it right now? It was just before eight o'clock and already the temperature was well past seventy.
First thing, Belle promised herself. Before she went to see her mother, she would come home and change. Wearing her uniform during business hours was one thing. Once she clocked out, her wardrobe choices were blissfully her own. Let her mother's eyeball rolling begin.
SITTING IN HER father's office, Belle made a conscious effort not to wipe her palms on her skirt. They were damp, but not excessively so. The last thing she needed was for her father to see how nervous she was. Nerves equaled weakness. If she believed in herself and what she was selling, he expected to see supreme confidence. Otherwise, don't bother.
Elias Richards was a handsome man who carried his years well. At sixty-two, he had been genetically blessed with a full head of hair shot judiciously with silver. Tall, with a fit, slender frame, he believed in a healthy lifestyle. Regular exercise. A balanced diet. He never overindulged his enjoyment of tobacco or alcohol. One whiskey before dinner. A brandy and cigar after. As far as Belle knew, he had followed the same routine his entire adult life. He was a good father. Not demonstrative with his affections, but there was no doubt that he loved his children.
However, in the office, Belle was not his daughter. She was an employee. She had never been given special consideration. The Vice President plaque on her door was there because she worked her ass off to get it. There was no guarantee Elias would agree to her pet project. He would have to be sold on the idea first.
"It makes sense, Dad. Short and long term."
"Are these figures up to date?"
"As of this morning."
"Hmm."
Belle waited. She had worked for her father long enough to understand how he did things. She handed him a proposal. He gave it a quick once over
. Asked a few questions before sending her away so he could read it thoroughly. Elias Richards believed in God, family, and the almighty dollar. The order changed depending on the situation.
"Strive is a simple concept," Belle said, the name—the entire project—filling her with excitement and pride. "We provide these women with the materials. They provide the skill and labor. The crafts are sold online only. The overhead is almost nothing."
"So is the profit." Elias Richards set Belle's proposal aside. "According to your projections, we won't see a substantial payback for years. If ever."
"The profit margin grows on a yearly basis. It will never rival our other interests regarding dollars in the bank. What we get is the knowledge that we've helped low-income single mothers get on their feet. Provide for their families. That can't be measured in graphs or charts."
Belle had practiced this speech over and over for weeks. In the shower. On her way to work. Before she drifted off to sleep. She knew it backward and forward. What she hadn't been able to rehearse was the passion that came through in her voice. Her body language. It surprised her. And her father, if the look on his face was any indication.
Surprised or not, sentiment was never enough to sway Elias Richards. Charity began at home. It wasn't an original motto, but for generations, her family had been a firm believer in the concept. Knowing this, Belle had anticipated her father's reaction.
"The bottom line is this. Our company could use some good will, Dad. The strike you busted last fall. The recall of our not-so-organic bath products. Not to mention the—"
"I get the point, Belle."
"With this project, you will show that Richards has a heart." Her father snorted derisively. "Don't discount what some good PR will do. Free PR. Which equals free publicity. We couldn't buy the buzz this will create. And as the program becomes more and more successful, the buzz will grow. Year after year."
That got her father's attention just as Belle knew it would. Free was good. A whole heaping pile of perpetually generated free was even better. She knew from the beginning her idea had no chance unless she could sell this final pitch. Elias wasn't interested in helping single mothers. But he was interested in making his company as high profile as possible. He was too good a businessman to dismiss her idea without a lot of thought.
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