Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (17 page)

Julia gives me a look as though I'm being ridiculous. "Of course, I want to hear about it!"

I laugh and give her a quick rundown on Owen. How we went to school together, how I never noticed him until he grew into a serious, panty-dropping stud. How I haven't been able to stop thinking about him or our night together. How the piece of paper with his number scribbled on it must've fallen out of my purse because I haven't been able to find it. And how none of it matters since we basically said our goodbyes that night, with no real promise of seeing each other again.

"But you're staying right?" Julia asks. "Weren't you talking with Giles about that job?"

"Yeah," I say, hesitant. "I need some time to process it all. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's really exciting to have a real job prospect. But it's also an adjustment. A few hours ago I was gearing to head back to San Francisco this weekend. A snap of a finger later, I have a real option to stay here for good. It's not even something I thought I wanted. And yet, now I do. It's strange. I can't wrap my head around it, tonight."

"Do you think this Owen guy has anything to do with you wanting to stay?"

"No. The thought of repeating the other night is exciting, but sex isn't something I'd build my future around. To be perfectly honest—and please don't say this to Giles—I don't have a lot of other options on the job front. Staying here makes sense. It's the responsible thing to do. Anyway, even if I do stay here it doesn't mean anything will come out of the whole Owen thing. We might end up being a one-night stand."

"Sure, just promise me you won't run away from the possibility of a relationship because stability scares the hell out of you."

"Oh, does it?" I give her an exaggerated, doe-eyed, attentive look, cupping my chin in my hand. "Please, go on. Tell me all about myself. Make sure to soak a rag with it first, though."

She glares at my teasing. "I think you know I'm right."

"I think
you
think you're right."

"Stubborn ass."

"Know-it-all."

Lex appears again and says, "Awesome, so we've progressed to name-calling?"

Julia shoots Lex a look as well. My sister brings her hands up in surrender as though realizing she walked into an armed stand off.

I tilt my head back to look at Lex. "Julia was enlightening me on the theory of the universe and everything in it."

"Again?" Lex asks.

Julia narrows her eyes at us, albeit playfully, then points from me to Lex. "Screw you guys. You two are a lost cause. I'm sending you both a bill for all of my therapy services."

"I'd be scared to see that bill," my sister jokes, sitting down beside me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Saturday after Christmas, I drive up to San Francisco to meet the movers I've paid to pack up my belongings and bring them to a storage unit in San Diego. I figure it's the best use of my time and money. The drive is too long and I don't want to inconvenience anyone I know with my last minute move.
 

Elle isn't home and by the air of neglect clinging to the bare walls of the apartment, I don't expect to see her. The living room looks strangely large with just the two-seater sofa and side table. The bigger couch is gone, as is the coffee table and television. She must have started moving out already and left behind only what I brought in. That makes things easier.

It only takes a few minutes to give the movers a walk through of the apartment and tell them what I need them to take. Afterward, I escape up to the roof to get some fresh air. There's a patio there, shared by the building's tenants, with a grill, some patio chairs, a bench, and string lights hanging from tall potted plants. No one is out here today, but it's early morning.
 

I press my phone to my ear and listen to the ringing. My eyes take in the view in front of me, tracing the rows of sloping rooftops that yield in the distance to a sliver of sparkle that is the waterfront.

"Emily?" Her voice is hesitancy, thinly veiled by surprise.

"Mona, hey. Do you have a minute?"

"Yes, of course. What's going on?"

"I have a huge favor to ask." Silence crackles over the phone as I take a breath and continue.

The sky overhead is a brilliant cobalt blue, without a single smudge of white to dilute it. Electrical purring noises swirl around me as I push the golf cart pedal to the furthest position. My hair whips in the brisk morning air and my heart pounds in my chest. There is something about anticipating trouble that I find exhilarating, fills me with energy. The kind of energy that makes me feel unstoppable.
 

Weaving along the dirt road path, I drive further into the course until the view of the Golden Gate Bridge, a glimmering mirage of rusty orange in the distance, is completely obscured by trees and shrubs. Lincoln Park seems to swallow up the city, dissolving it to sloping bright green fields and insulating itself from the noises of traffic and the bay until I'm sure that I'm in a different world, altogether.
 

It only takes me a few minutes to spot him, standing a few yards from hole four, kneeling by his ball in contemplation. Three other men, each dressed in wind jackets and khaki pants, all stand a few yards away conversing.
 

Bernstein's silvery white hair is as recognizable from behind as is the massive, pear-shaped bald spot on the back of his head.
 

The dirt road I'm on winds away from them, so I take a sharp turn and cut through the field instead. Neither Bernstein nor his companions notice the single golf cart headed straight for them. Not until I'm ten feet away and one of the men turns toward at me as he speaks. His perplexed expression melts to a look of concern when I whip closely past.
 

Bernstein is focused on his swing. The loud snap of the metal hitting plastic cuts through the air. And he peers up in time to see me steer the golf cart onto the putting green, taking a sharp turn to rest the cart directly in front of the hole. Bernstein's ball hits the front wheel of the golf cart and bounces back a few feet.

I give my ex-boss a small wave from where I sit and, recognizing me, his expression swings from bewildered confusion to livid fury.

Throwing his golf club aside, Bernstein charges toward me in such a frenzy, a spark of fear shoots through me that he might just kill me. Then I remember the old man can't even say the word
dick
out loud without blushing.

Ignoring the erratic pounding in my chest and my slippery palms, I step off the golf cart and take a sharp breath, reminding myself I have nothing to be afraid of.
 

This man isn't a god. He just thinks he is.
 

When he reaches me, Bernstein seems unable to speak for a handful of seconds, breathing heavily like a worn, agitated old engine. His companions come forward also, but hang back slightly as though realizing it's a personal confrontation.

"What the hell is this?" Bernstein demands, temper boiling so tangibly I expect to see his hair quivering over his head, or steam to waft from his pores.
 

Fixing a pleasant smile on my face, I speak loudly enough for his companions to hear. "We need to have a little chat."

"No. You need to leave."

"What's the matter? Afraid your friends will hear about your illegal side activities?"

Bernstein stiffens, and I know it's not because he's ashamed of blacklisting me, but because of the more salacious implications of my words. The men behind Bernstein shift noticeably in their footing, exchanging meaningful sideways glances. I know exactly what they are thinking because it's exactly what I want them to think.

I'm wearing a low-cut, tight dress under my leather jacket. My hair is loose and wild and my eyeliner purposefully heavy handed.

My ex-boss's reaction gives me the confidence to go through with my plan, having confirmation of what I suspected. Bernstein, for as much of a hard-ass as he pretends to be, is extremely prudish. I can't imagine what must be going through his mind at the realization his companions must be confusing me with a call girl.

Bernstein walks off, closer to the other side of the golf cart with the silent connotation I'm meant to follow him. It's not really in my best interest to make our meeting more private, so I hang back far enough to keep us visible to the bystanders.

Seeming to realize my intention, Bernstein jabs a finger at the golf cart. "You need to get in that thing and get the hell off the field before—"

"No. First, you need to stop slandering my name to potential employers."

He straightens. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're referring to."

"Drop the act, Donald." I pause at the way he narrows his eyes at my use of his first name—something I'd never dare do before. "My contacts at Harper & Lyon provided me with direct quotes."

This isn't true, of course, but Bernstein hesitates and the smug look on his face seems to require effort. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, yet. I'm here to let you know that the next time my name comes through for an employment verification, you're going to instruct your assistant to follow your company policy and confirm only position and dates of employment."

He takes a step closer to me, seemingly so angered by my tone he forgets for a moment his friends are watching. "Or what?"

"Or nothing," I say, baring my teeth in a forced, mechanical smile. "This isn't a threat. It's a reminder. A reminder of what you're supposed to do. Of what's ethical. Of what's
legal
." I square my shoulders and his eyes dart inescapably to my cleavage. He catches himself and seems angered with me for his own tactlessness. I go on, smiling wider, "Just a reminder. Because I've got absolutely too much time on my hands right now. To mull over and consider my options. And I'd much rather get back to work. It's probably the best way to make sure you'll never hear from me again."

Bernstein stares me down and I stare right back, unblinking.

I learned a valuable lesson over Christmas. Sometimes it's not a fight that's needed to win. Sometimes just the threat of one is enough. The look of insanity in your opponent's eye that makes you wonder if they are willing to go further than you, harder than you, longer than you. The looming realization that the person you messed with has absolutely nothing to lose and might be crazy enough to mess right back.

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Now get the hell off my course."

I thrust a hand out for him to shake. "Glad we could come to a diplomatic understanding."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thoughts of a man have never been a priority in my life. Not, ironically enough, since High School when my lame priority was being on the arm of the hottest guy on the wrestling team.
 

I've peeled away that innocuous part of myself a long time ago. I've never wanted to be the type of woman that hinges her existence on a man, or shapes her life around him the way my mother so often does.

But I can't deny the way I've woken up on more than one occasion twisting around in my sheets, my hips angling for a man who isn't there. Even as the sensations die away and reality bears down on me, the memories of each stroke, each touch flood my body with warmth. It's been days since I last felt his hands on me. And even with everything I own crammed into a storage unit and my future promising a life in San Diego, I'm not sure I'm ready to see Owen. Not sure what I'd say.

Hi. This is a bit awkward. Remember that whole bittersweet goodbye moment with the kiss and the stomach flurries? Nevermind all of that. Turns out, I'm staying. And not because I want you—though, I do. But because of other reasons completely unrelated to your cock. I swear.

 
Sunday morning, when Lex goes out to the store, I take the opportunity to email Leo Conrad back to tell him I'll indulge his sob story. The guy responds fifteen minutes later, asking to meet at a coffee shop halfway between our turfs. Only then does it occur to me I have yet to eat breakfast.
 

I scarf down a blueberry scone the moment I get to the coffee shop and pretend not to notice him right away when he takes a seat in front of me.
 

Leo waits in silence until I wipe my face with a napkin and meet his blue eyes. The sight of him makes me want to strangle something. I'm not sure why. There isn't anything about his physical appearance that could be considered offensive, quite the opposite, actually. The man is pleasing to the eyes. Sharp looking in every sense of the word. Keen, calculating gaze, perfectly groomed hair, clothes that fit him as though they are tailored to his every curve.
 

He's a good looking man, without a doubt, but an almost tangible energy radiates from him, filling the room and making his presence imposing. It's a confidence that borders on entitlement. And it pisses me off.
 

"You have fifteen minutes," I tell him.

"I only need ten."

"Well—" I circle a finger in the air "—any time now would be great."