“Thanks, Sherrie,” I say when her voice finally peters out. “I’ll get in touch with someone local to make the repairs right away.” Just as soon as I’ve survived this death trap of a cab ride.
The driver makes a sharp turn, cutting across another lane of traffic. I end the call.
“So,” he calls back over the music, licking his lips, “you need help with some plumbing? I’m available right now, hot stuff.” He winks. Winks. I shudder.
We’re careening over the Williamsburg Bridge and crossing into Manhattan, and as the words leave his mouth, something inside me snaps.
“Stop the cab,” I yell over the music, my voice cold and angry.
He bursts out laughing. “Sweetie, don’t take it so personally. We’re just kidding around. We’re having a good time.”
“Stop the cab!” I shout, louder this time. “Right now, or I’m calling 9-1-1.” I hold up my phone so he can see it in the rearview mirror, my finger poised on the button.
The leering smile leaves his face as his mouth twists into a scowl.
“Fine, bitch,” he spits, then jerks on the wheel, cutting across a lane of traffic to reach the curb.
I’m out the door even as he begins to scream at me, incoherently, and the damn suitcase fights me too, sticking inside the door.
“Hey! Hey!” I finally make out some of the words. “You owe me! You owe me!”
“No fucking way,” I shout back at him, putting all my weight into getting my suitcase out of the car. I just manage to wrench it free before the psycho pulls away, practically foaming at the mouth. Too late, I realize I never got his cab number or even looked at his information.
Now I’m standing in the rain, still several blocks away from my new apartment, and I have a massive suitcase to haul with me.
Taking in a deep breath of city air, I try to calm my racing heart.
I’m still alive.
Things could be worse.
A car zooms by too close to the curb, splashing me with another layer of dirty rainwater.
Could be worse.
Chapter Two
Christian
It’s Pierce Industries’ biggest event of the year, and I’ve got women on my mind.
Two, specifically. One, Angela, has been sending me text messages all evening. Photos with hot little captions. In each photo, she’s wearing one less piece of clothing, and it’s only 7:30. By the time I get out of here she should be wearing absolutely nothing. I sneak looks at my phone every few minutes as I continue pretending to appreciate the live jazz band playing tunes from a small raised stage at the far end of the ballroom.
Unfortunately for Angela—and despite how tempting the smooth curves of her body look in the photos—she’s no longer an option. We’ve been on three dates, the absolute maximum number of dates I ever go on with a woman.
I can’t let her get any closer.
The thought creeps into my mind like a foggy paranoia, and I brush it away. A tuxedoed waiter whisks past balancing a full tray of champagne flutes, the bubbly liquid glittering inside, and I grab one. It’s the next best thing to sneaking out the back entrance and heading straight to the Purple Swan or my penthouse.
I’m just lifting it to my lips when the second woman who has dibs on my attention slinks up next to me in a silky red dress that leaves little to the imagination. “Another drink?” she teases, her smile amped up with dark red lipstick. It’s a little too much for my taste, but Christian Pierce isn’t particular about shit like makeup.
I give her a sly half smile. “Melody. We just keep running into each other.”
“It’s a small ballroom.” She swipes a glass of champagne off another waiter’s tray for herself, giving him a saucy wink as he goes by. “You’re quite the attraction tonight, Mr. Pierce,” she says, glancing sideways at me. Her lips don’t leave a stain on the edge of the glass. How the hell do lipstick manufacturers pull that off?
As if to prove her point, three high-ranking partners, all about my father’s age, approach me right then, their voices loud and boisterous. They’ve clearly been taking a little heavier advantage of the open bar than I have.
One of them, Stuart, shakes my hand, then claps me on the back. “You’ve finally made it, son. Clawed your way right to the top.”
“Of course I did, Stuart,” I respond graciously. Never mind the fact that I save my wild side for the Swan and the other bars and clubs I frequent in the city, not the office. “You think a son of Harlan Pierce would leave an opportunity on the table?”
Stuart guffaws, his face pink from drinking, his tie already loosened. “Not for a goddamn instant.” His buddies take turns shaking my hand and murmuring their congrats. The official announcement hasn’t been made yet, but word is out.