Love Script (2 page)

“Here you go, sweetie.” Danny handed her a glass of red wine. “We deserve it!”

She smiled. “I couldn’t agree with you more.” She took a smal sip of her wine and returned her concentration to the clothes spread across her bed.

“How was work?”

“
Murder
. If I drop dead right now, blame it on Ivy Vanderbilt. Beautiful girl but I swear she’l be the death of me. Thank God she pays me wel . At least it wil be a nice funeral. Mother would be proud. Take the black dress, Laney. You should never travel without one.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t think it’s a little plain?”

“Simplicity is always in style,” he insisted.

“Besides, it has a low neckline. It’s sexy without being suggestive. Trust me.”

She nodded. “I think you’re right. I’l pack it.” She lifted the dress up and careful y slipped it into a garment bag.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Danny announced.

“This should be interesting,” she said teasingly.

“What did I do?”

“I read an article today on your boss, Nicolas Sinclair. They did this big editorial on him in
Traditional Living.
Wade Dobber redesigned his dining room. It looks amazing.”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t aware dining rooms were national news.”

“They’re not.” He grinned. “But I’m pissed you never told me how cute he is.”

She shot him an appal ed look.

“That Sinclair fel ow is hot, Laney!” She rol ed her eyes. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’ve never noticed, Danny. I’m usual y too busy working.”

He puckered his lips. “You mean you’ve never noticed because he’s white.”

“I mean I’ve never noticed because he’s not Rob. Can you hand me that satchel?”

He tossed her the item and made a loud snort.

“Oh, how could I forget tal , ebony Rob?”

“Don’t be rude,” she chided.

Danny turned up his nose. He’d never cared much for her boyfriend and had never pretended otherwise. Rob returned Danny's dislike with mutual gusto. To Laney’s knowledge, the two had never had any disagreement in the past. They’d always been perfectly cordial to each other during the few times they’d been forced to share company. Although she wouldn’t tel either of them, she suspected they were jealous of her time. They seemed to be engaged in some quiet war with each other to figure out who she liked best. It was sil y, but Laney couldn’t help but be amused by their efforts.

Danny had short, jet-black hair which he wore spiked up in the front. He was a good-looking guy, in a conservative uptown way. If Danny didn’t literal y tel you he was gay, you wouldn’t know it. He lacked any of the dramatic or feminine characteristics one might associate with homosexuals. She suspected this was the reason Rob didn’t like Danny.

According to Rob, Danny wasn’t ‘gay enough.’

Whatever that meant.

“
What do you want him to do?” she’d once
asked him. “Should he wear tiny shorts and tie his
shirt in a knot above his bellybutton? Would that
make you feel better?”

“
It would help,” he said with a smirk.

“Back to Sinclair,” Danny said, clapping his hands together to regain her attention. “You have to introduce me.”

“No, Danny.”

“Why not? You don’t even like him.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed.

“Because he’s white,” he accused.

“Danny, you’re white.”

“Oh, you have a point.” Danny’s gray eyes flitted to the side. “Wel , I’m your only white friend.”

“You’re my
only
friend,” she corrected. “I barely know anyone here. If it weren’t for our mailboxes being next to each other, I wouldn’t even know you.”

“I guess you have a point. You’re a hermit.” He stretched out across her bed. “So you’l think about introducing me?”

“Danny, sweetheart, I don’t even know the guy.

He’s a silver-spoon kid. He barely puts in a cameo at work. I’ve only seen the guy a handful of times.

Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s straight.” He mul ed over the information. “So you’l think about it?”

She tossed a pil ow at him.

“Okay, I was just joking.” He glanced at her selections. “Take the ice-blue and the peach dresses.”

“You think?” She looked uncertain. “I wasn’t so sure about the peach one.”

Danny snapped his fingers in her face. “Honey, if I weren’t gay, I would be al over you in that dress.”

She laughed. “You’re insane.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I know.”

❧ ❧ ❧

No one threw a party quite like Richie Benson.

His social gatherings were plentiful, seemingly hosted for little, or no, reason at al . They were so numerous, it was not uncommon for the host and his wife to be out of town during said events. Guests rarely took notice of their host’s whereabouts. The liquor was free, the parking valeted, and for many, Benson’s house served as a good place to escape family life for a few precious hours.

These gatherings played an important role within San Francisco’s advertising industry. It was widely said, more networking and negotiations happened on the grounds of the Benson estate than in any downtown conference room. Invites to the Benson home, for yet another one of their cocktail mixers, were hard to come by. Richie Benson only extended the honor to close personal friends and business associates. As a result, attendees to these parties were general y old rich men, who worked too much, drank too much, and were usual y on the brink of another divorce.

Nicolas Sinclair loathed these parties, and avoided going whenever possible. He took no pleasure in nursing a tumbler of brandy for two hours, pretending to look entertained, while everyone stood around trading one piece of gossip for another. For Nick, it was quite literal y hel on Earth. But tonight, he was wil ing to put up with this and a lot more.

Tonight, he had a plan, and he was determined to see it through.

Nick steered his car down the winding lane, pul ing

up

to

a

large

Mediterranean-styled

establishment. Every light in the home was lit. Set against a dark night sky, the house gave the appearance of a bright star, moments before imploding. Even from the street, Nick could hear the buzz of multiple conversations, broken only by sudden, loud, and very recognizable, bursts of drunken laughter.

Nick tossed his car keys to the valet attendant and entered the home with the ease of someone who’d passed through these doors hundreds of times before—which was, in fact, the truth. Nick had known the Bensons practical y al his life. Richie Benson was more like a neglectful uncle, someone who only remembered you existed when he happened to run into you. He’d visited the Sinclair home when it suited him but never stayed long enough for Nick to say he knew him wel Stepping into the foyer, Nick spotted their host almost immediately. Richie Benson was a tal , white-haired man with heavily creased laugh lines around his mouth. His watery eyes gave the briefest flash of recognition when he saw Nick. He moved forward, clapped Nick hard across the shoulder blades and said in a voice louder than necessary, “How are you, boy?”

“Fine, sir.” Nick said with a nod, trying not to cringe at the ‘boy’ remark. “Is he here?”

“Not yet,” Richie said, in his signature booming decibel. “But he wil be.” He nudged his head in the direction of the home’s crowded public areas.

“Excel ent turnout tonight, wouldn’t you say? No one can resist good gossip.” He squeezed Nick’s shoulder. “The vultures are circling. You’d best get in there before they start the attack without you.” Nick straightened his tie. “They won’t attack until the carcass arrives.”

Richie gave a loud bark of laughter, causing several nearby guests to jump and clumsily try to regain control of the drinks clutched in their hands.

Nick excused himself, preferring to scan the rooms alone, mental y making a list of al present.

Richie had been right; tonight’s attendance level was nearly double its normal size. The mood in the home was one of eager anticipation. The stage had been set, and they were now waiting for the star performer to arrive.

Nick weaved his way through the crowd, speaking briefly with business associates and several competitors. He’d been there for nearly an hour before he heard Richie’s thunderous voice welcome a newcomer. Nick looked up just in time to see their host walking beside the very man whose rumored appearance at tonight’s soirée was the reason for such an enthusiastic crowd.

The carcass had just entered the lions’ den.

Nick hung back for a while, observing the man at Richie’s side. His expression was guarded but certainly not intimidated. Nick watched as the man acknowledged

a

select

few

and

expertly

sidestepped others. He managed to free himself of Richie’s company and joined a smal group of men clustered near the back of the living area. When Nick was certain the man had committed himself to this spot, he decided now was the time to make his move.

He made a large loop along the perimeter of the room, not wanting to appear as if he were making a direct path toward the group. As it turned out, he had little fear of being observed. Everyone was too busy casting furtive looks at their special guest. The cluster of men were doing such an excel ent job of ignoring the room at large, neither of them noticed Nick until he was upon them.

“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding to each before turning to the man at his left. “Mr. Zelman, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Nick gave the elder man a firm handshake. “Nice of you to join us.” Nick had come to tonight’s gathering for the sole purpose of talking to the man. He was determined to make a positive impression.

Wil iam Zelman gave him a cool look. He was a power player and he knew it. He also knew every marketing firm on the West Coast would kil to take over his account, al owing him to be reserved in al dealings.

“Sinclair, isn’t it?” Zelman asked, clearly uninterested. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you would be here tonight.”

“This is a bit of a last-minute stop for me,” Nick said, working hard to hold on to his smile.

“Interesting,” Zelman said in a bored voice. “I wasn’t aware you were affiliated with Ritchie Benson.”

“We socialize from time to time,” Nick said.

“He’s good friends with my father.”

“Right, how is Sheldon?” Zelman looked down at his watch, not long enough to actual y check the time but just long enough to let Nick know his time was just about up.

“He’s wel , thank you.” Nick could feel himself losing steam. “I’l be sure to tel him you asked.” Zelman nodded. “Glad you could make it.” Properly dismissing Nick, Wil iam Zelman turned to the man at his right and began a conversation.

Despite his obvious indifference, Nick was surprised Zelman remembered his name. They had been to many of the same events, but Zelman never had much to say to him. There were times when he outright ignored him. Zelman was the type of man who rarely spoke, and when he did, it was with cautious forethought. Never one to give too much away, he was always watching his surroundings, careful to note even the smal est and most insignificant of actions. He’d created quite a reputation for walking away from business ventures for the oddest reasons. One rumor claimed Zelman backed out of a huge sale because the guy smacked his food during the celebratory dinner the night before signing.

Everyone was talking about the shakedown between Zelman and Proctor, Sinclair Corp’s competitor. The buzz was Zelman’s soup campaign had recently bombed due to an il -timed marketing strategy launched by Proctor, Inc. Zelman counted this as the final straw of failed marketing plans and was actively accepting bids for a new advertising firm. Nick knew Sinclair Corp could stand to gain mil ions from the acquisition of the Zelman account, but the trick was to persuade Zelman to see the light.

It was near to impossible.

As fate would have it, a col eague who happened to know Nick drew Zelman into conversation. The discussion ranged from sports to home life. Nick had little to say on the latter, as he was a confirmed bachelor. Instead, he stood by and listened intently, but he wasn’t alone. Cooper Wright, a competitor, had managed to dance his way into the group.

Cooper’s

arrival

only

intensified

Nick’s

determination. Sinclair Corp and The Wright Agency had been in heavy competition for years. They were skil ed at spying on each other and had no qualms about stealing clients. Their fathers had started the feud and now their sons were respectful y continuing the tradition. There was no love lost between the two families. For the moment, Nick and Cooper stood silently aside, letting the other men exchange light banter, al the while giving each other ‘go to hel ’

looks. Each was waiting for the perfect opportunity to lure Zelman into discussion, but that moment was long in coming. Half an hour had passed, and the group was stil focused on domestic issues. Nick was bored with it al . How much longer could this torture go on? Didn’t social protocol only al ow a maximum of two personal stories to be shared when in the presence of strangers? Who cared how smart someone’s grandson was? Or that little Suzie had just been accepted into some fancy prep school?