“Come,” Beth ordered inside his mind, and so he came, the heat splashing across his stomach instead of filling her up, but it still felt better than anything he’d done since that long-ago night in that anonymous hotel room.
Eric let his head fall back into the pillow and he finally felt tired. Thank God.
BETH HAD A CLASS TO TEACH on Monday, so she surveyed the store for research items when her shift was over. On Saturday night, the place was busy with couples looking for fun and groups of women who giggled over dildos before surreptitiously placing them in shopping bags. Beth had made the switch from baskets to bags to save people the self-consciousness of browsing while toting around a thirty-two-ounce bottle of lube. Some people got a little funny about that.
When she didn’t see anything particularly inspiring in the toy room, Beth went to her office to dig through the boxes there. They seemed to get a new set of factory samples every other day, and she could definitely find some inspiration in those innocuous-looking cardboard boxes.
Sure enough, she found a new model she’d never seen before and shoved the plastic box into her purse with a glance over her shoulder to see who was watching, just as if she was one of those shy customers. This self-consciousness was the bane of her existence. She could help an eighty-year-old couple pick out a set of his-and-her vibrators without blinking an eye, but she couldn’t discuss her own sex life without stammering and blushing. Luckily, Cairo wasn’t so reticent, and she was always happy to help with the classes.
Speaking of which. “Don’t forget Monday night,” she said as she waved goodbye to Cairo.
“G-spot!” Cairo called. “Got it!” Her gorgeous smile didn’t even twitch. Had she been born with that confidence? More importantly, was there a way Beth could steal it from her and make it her own?
It might be fun for a while. Beth couldn’t imagine having the sexual confidence to take on two men at a time. Hell, she was usually a disappointment one-on-one. Not that she was inadequate. It was only that men seemed to think of her as an exotic animal. The proprietress of a sex shop. The keeper of strange and shivery erotic secrets. The woman who would touch you in a place you didn’t even know you had and make your body weep liquid drops of joy.
Meanwhile, Beth was just hoping she could finally find her G-spot so she wouldn’t be a complete fraud on Monday night. But judging by the other classes she’d given, even a complete fraud could delight a store full of willing students. Beth didn’t exactly consider herself a master in the art of fellatio, either, but she’d received lots of happy emails after that little seminar.
Speaking of which…Beth ducked back into the store. “Cairo, are you doing the column for next Wednesday?”
“Yep. I’ll send it to you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
The columns. The classes. It was too much. Annabelle Sanchez, the owner of the store, was coming up with all sorts of new marketing ideas, which would’ve been fine if she weren’t on a worldwide tour to help her find her “inner goddess.”
Beth sighed as she drove her car toward home. Sometimes she wanted to kill Annabelle. She really did. Granted, Annabelle was her best friend and the owner of the White Orchid, and Beth loved her like a sister—a New Agey, slightly overbearing sister—but her world tour of self-exploration had gone on long enough. If she wanted classes given at the White Orchid, she should be the one giving them, not Beth. If Annabelle wanted a sex column written for the local alternative paper, she should write it. Because Beth certainly didn’t know enough to contribute a new topic every week.
Thank God the other girls in the shop had agreed to help. Now they split the column up amongst them, Beth edited it so that the style of each was consistent, and the column was posted under the name Ms. White.
Beth had hoped that slight remove would protect her, but her plan had backfired. Her employees had been so excited that they’d had the first column mounted and framed. And the second. And third. Now all four of the columns were hanging on the wall of the White Orchid, and Beth was widely believed to be the author of all. Her reputation for sexual knowledge was only growing, and none of it truly belonged to her.
Annabelle was supposed to have returned months ago, and if she would just come home, everything would be fine. She could lead the classes. She could write the columns. But Annabelle kept extending her trip. First by sixty days. Then ninety. Her latest stop was in Egypt, to study the sex beliefs of ancient Egyptians.
Beth was pretty sure that half of her impatience with Annabelle was that Beth wanted to be the one traveling to other countries to study their cultures. After all, her major had been anthropology before she’d transferred to women’s studies. Then again, exotic countries weren’t really her cup of tea. No doubt Annabelle was striding around the teeming streets of Egypt with complete confidence. Beth would be constantly worried about being mugged or kidnapped or simply standing out too much.
She needed to grow a pair. “Of ovaries,” she told herself. But she was trying. She was. Unfortunately, her biggest risk-taking success had been Eric, and look how that had turned out. It had been a disaster. A lovely, bone-melting, burning hot disaster.
Beth groaned and set him from her mind. It was late, nearly ten o’clock, and dark as midnight by the time she pulled up to her apartment, and she still had work to do.
Thirty minutes later, Beth was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling in frustration, the specialized G-spot toy clutched in her hand like a broken tool. “There is no G-spot,” she told the ceiling, letting her feet slide down until her thighs touched the mattress. Guilt immediately washed over her. Whether she had a functioning G-spot or not, plenty of her friends talked about it. Could she discount the experiences of other women just because of her own experience? That was the worst kind of condescension.
Beth tossed the toy to the far side of the bed, shoved her book on female sexuality out of the way and reached for the drawer of her bedside table.
There were rows of toys inside. Models that retailed for two hundred dollars. Shapes that might make the layperson frown in confusion, but Beth ignored them all for her innocuous, unimpressive, tiny silver bullet massager. An embarrassment of riches, and all she wanted was this. Yet another boring secret.
Beth closed her eyes and touched herself, trying to relax enough to enjoy it. She needed to enjoy it. The last few days had been really crappy, thanks to Eric Donovan.
Why did he have to be the only man she’d responded to in so long? Why did he have to be the one whose touch had washed over her like electricity? His hand had slipped down her spine like a whisper when he’d unzipped her dress. He’d trailed heat everywhere he touched.
Beth arched her neck and curved her hand over her breast just the way he had, the thumb sliding over her nipple.
The electricity returned, swarming down her body to meet up with the buzz of the vibrator.
She didn’t want to think about him. She wouldn’t. She was so pissed at what he’d done. But somehow the anger just spiraled deep and made the pleasure burn brighter.
He’d been so serious. So intent. She’d worried that night, like she always did. Worried he wouldn’t be as good as she wanted him to be, needed him to be. But for once her brain hadn’t been able to keep up with her body. Because he had been good. He’d kissed her breasts, sucked at her until she’d cried out.
Beth squeezed her nipple hard and gasped at the pleasure.
He’d hardly had to touch her at all, and she’d been so close. She’d begged for it.
Best of all, she’d felt like a goddess as she’d taken him, as she’d arched her back and met his thrusts and gasped at the width of him as he filled her.
She slid her hand down her belly and over her hip, feeling the same skin that he’d felt, touching the same hip he’d gripped in his strong hand as he’d fucked her. And then her body tightened with sudden, surprising speed and she was crying out his name as she came.
Beth’s hands were still shaking
when her eyes popped open. “Shit,” she panted. Had she really just gotten off while thinking about that lying jackass? Had she just gotten off in record time while thinking about him?
She groaned in frustration, but her body was limp and heavy against her bed. It didn’t seem to give a damn what he’d done; it liked Eric Donovan just fine, no matter what his name was.
She’d tried not to use him as fantasy fodder too often, worried he would become even more powerful in her mind. Afraid that if she relived it too often, she’d never enjoy another man as much as she had Eric. Turned out she’d had good reason to be worried. Even when she hated him, she wanted his body.
“Not fair,” she whispered. Not fair at all. He wouldn’t leave her alone.
Five minutes later, she hadn’t fallen asleep. In fact, she was still lying there thinking about Eric Donovan. Who was he? Why had he lied? He certainly didn’t seem like a skeevy kind of guy. He seemed a hundred percent together. Confident, handsome, successful.
Beth got up, pulled on some sweats and went to her computer. She’d been looking for information on the wrong man last time, so she typed in Eric Donovan’s name and waited.
There were still only a few image files. That group shot she’d seen before, and another she hadn’t noticed that included him sitting at a judges’ table at some beer competition.
Beth looked at the group shot again. Eric and Jamie didn’t look like brothers. Not at all. They didn’t even look like cousins. Their body language and expressions were totally different.
She clicked around a little while, but there were so many hits about the brewery that Beth couldn’t filter out any information about the man. There was plenty about his brother, but nothing out there about Eric. Maybe that was the information she was looking for. He flew under the radar. He didn’t rock the boat. He put his head down and did his job and that was it. Maybe he was a little like Beth.
She tried to imagine herself lying to someone about who she was. And she sadly realized right then that she could do it. That it would be a relief.
She sighed and clicked on another tab. News stories about the brewery popped up, and she was already starting to navigate away when a name caught her eye. Graham Kendall. Glancing at the heading again, she saw that it still read Eric Donovan.
“What the heck?” Beth clicked on the story and waited while the newspaper website loaded. When it finally did, Beth pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“Felony charges have been filed against a prominent member of the Kendall Group. Graham Kendall, son of Kendall Group president Roland Kendall, has been charged with theft and fraud related to break-ins at several local businesses.”
Graham Kendall? Local businesses? Beth’s jaw dropped.
“Though there’s been no comment from any member of the Kendall Group, court records show that Graham Kendall has failed to make several court appearances. Police suspect he fled the country weeks ago. Victims of the alleged crimes include iconic local Front Range businesses, such as Creek Construction and Boulder’s Donovan Brothers Brewery.”
Beth scanned the rest of the article so quickly that she felt dizzy.
Good God, what had happened? She pressed a hand over her thundering heart.
She knew the Kendalls. She’d gone to school with Graham’s sister and she’d been a guest of the family many times. But it wasn’t just that. Yes, she’d known the Kendalls for years, and yes, she knew Eric Donovan. But the horror pumping adrenaline into Beth’s veins was that she was the one who’d pushed the Kendalls and the Donovans into business together.
She hit Google again, but the results were overwhelming. Both Donovan Brothers and the Kendall family had thousands of hits, and a lot of the sites just kept leading her to lists of Colorado businesses. She found one other news story, but it offered the same information as the first one. What was wrong with modern news media? Didn’t they ever do follow-ups?
She tried over and over again, using different search terms and combinations, but she could find nothing.
What the hell had Graham Kendall done?
Beth didn’t know him well. She’d met him only a few times, because even though she’d been Monica Kendall’s freshman roommate, they hadn’t been close friends. Monica was a spoiled rich girl and in college she’d hung out with other rich kids. Then she’d pledged her sorority and moved on from dormitory living. But her father, Roland Kendall, had taken a liking to Beth, hoping she’d be a good influence on his daughter. He’d invited Beth over for family dinners several times.
When Graham had been at dinner, Beth had thought he was a typical overprivileged kid, as well. He’d even made a sloppy pass at her one night, but she’d stopped him before it had gone too far. It had never occurred to her that he might be a criminal.
Beth closed the Google window and opened her email. Surely she’d exchanged emails with Monica at some point. She paged through and sorted for long minutes, desperate to find a contact. Her heart beat hard. Beth was the one who’d asked Roland Kendall to consider a partnership with the Donovans. It had seemed like a good deed at the time, though she’d thought she was extolling the virtues of Jamie Donovan, when it had really been Eric.
“Thank God,” she muttered as she finally found Monica’s email address. She typed out a simple message, asking what had happened between her family and the brewery.
Now she just had to wait. But her mind wouldn’t stop turning even long after she hit Send.
CHAPTER SIX
A RAINY EVENING WAS BAD news for the Donovan Sunday dinner. Even though Tessa’s house—the house they’d all grown up in—was plenty big, it never seemed big enough on a Sunday. The backyard served as a nice outlet. A place to escape when he and Jamie started arguing. Or when Jamie got too much of watching Tessa and her boyfriend, Luke, make eyes at each other. Or sometimes Tessa sent all the men outside so she and Olivia could talk about them.
But today, they were all stuck inside together, and tensions were running high. “You said you’d bring dessert,” Jamie insisted, his tone implying that Eric’s word couldn’t be trusted.
“That was last week, Jamie. You were supposed to bring something.”
“No way.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tessa interrupted. “I think we’ll survive without cake for one night.”
“Screw it,” Jamie said, tugging his phone from his pocket with a scornful look for Eric. “Olivia’s still on her way. I’ll have her stop and get something.”
“Wow, you’re really saving the day,” Eric snapped. “Congratulations.”
“Guys,” Tessa groaned. “Seriously.”
Eric paced over to the counter and stole a few grapes from a bowl. “Where’s Luke?”
“He’ll be here soon. He’s been at the station since nine, unfortunately.”
“Big murder case?” Eric asked.
Tessa laughed and slapped his arm. “Stop. That’s my joke. Anyway, he did get a big murder case this summer, so I had to stop using it. If I can’t use it, no one can.”
“Simone’s back, right?” Luke’s partner had been on maternity leave, and he’d refused to have another detective take her place, even temporarily.
“Yes, thank God. She’s been back for over a month, which has eased his schedule a little. But he keeps trying to force her to leave work early every night, and I’m afraid she’s going to punch him in the face.”
Jamie snorted. “Tell her to go for it.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Despite the words, Tessa’s smile was wide. Jamie might’ve had a few problems with Luke early on, but they seemed to be building a cautious friendship now. The main problem was that they were too much alike, and Jamie didn’t think a guy like Luke was good enough for Tessa. Actually, neither Eric nor Jamie believed any man was good enough for their little sister, but they were getting used to it. Slowly.
Tessa put Eric to work making the salad, and he was happy for the excuse to turn his back on his siblings and slice tomatoe
s in the corner of the kitchen. It was painfully uncomfortable to have his family know about Beth. And they hardly knew anything at all. He didn’t know how Jamie had lived with being irresponsible for so long. It was a fucking burden, and if Eric hadn’t been so stubborn, he would’ve avoided Sunday dinner like the plague.
Eric felt a flash of sympathy for his little brother. He stole a glance at Jamie before grabbing the lettuce to wash it.
Jamie’s plans for adding a menu to the bar had caused a blowup this summer. Okay, a series of blowups. Eric was still sorting through all the things Jamie had said to him. That Eric had made him feel like a second-class owner for years. That Jamie wasn’t going to put up with being treated like a little brother anymore.
But if Eric wasn’t the big brother, if he wasn’t in charge, who the hell was he? He wasn’t even a real Donovan, for God’s sake. A fact so embarrassing that no one ever brought it up, not even in the heat of the worst argument. But it was there, sitting between them. The reason he didn’t look like any of the pictures on the wall. The reason he had an Irish last name and Eastern European features. It was the reason Eric worked twice as hard as everyone else in the family. Because he’d inherited a third of the brewery when he shouldn’t have, and it weighed on his shoulders every damn day.
Eric rolled those tight shoulders and grabbed the salad dressing from the fridge.
Olivia finally arrived, a bakery box in her hands, and dessert was taken care of, but Eric and Jamie still weren’t talking.
Eric shredded some carrots into the salad and watched as Jamie pulled Olivia into his arms and kissed her until she giggled and melted into him.
Jamie was happy, and Eric was happy for him, but he couldn’t shrug off his angry guilt. Maybe he’d screwed up when he was trying to raise two teenagers, but he’d done his best. He’d been trying to motivate Jamie, not make him feel like dirt. But Jamie had cast Eric as the bad guy. And Eric’s lie to Beth had made things worse than they’d ever been.
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