Mad About the Man (6 page)

In the background, on the other side of the line, she heard a low, muffled voice. Madelyn laughed. “Of course you're hotter, Zack. Why else do you think I married you?”

There was another muffled remark; then Madelyn giggled again.

Ignoring whatever audio PDA was unfolding between her sister and her brother-in-law, she scrolled down through the links, then clicked one open.

And there he was—Maddox Monroe in all his glory. Or rather all his
gory
, since the photo was a shot of him coming out of the hospital emergency room, his face swollen and discolored, with gauze taped over his left cheek and eye. Lila, the girlfriend, was hanging on to him, her face turned away from the camera. Maddox looked far from happy, but then, why would he be when he was having his privacy invaded at such a painful, unwanted moment?

Quickly, she scanned the article, sighing with quiet relief when she saw that her name wasn't mentioned. The story stated that he'd been injured playing tennis, then gone to the hospital, where he'd been treated and released. The article went on to state that Maddox was being monitored for a possible concussion; it finished with a warning about the dangers of sports-related brain injuries. Obviously that concern for Maddox must have come and gone, since he'd seemed as sharp as a sushi knife—both mind and tongue—when she'd met him for lunch.

“What's the deal, then?” Madelyn asked. “Everything okay on your end? This Monroe guy isn't threatening to sue or anything, is he?”

“No, he actually—” Brie hesitated, wondering how much to tell Madelyn.

“Yes? He what?”

“You remember the punk kid who gave me such a hard time in junior high? I know you never met him since you were a couple years ahead, but I remember telling you about some of the crap he pulled.”

Madelyn took a moment to recollect. “You mean the one who spent the year making cheese jokes about your name and got that Mickey thing started?”

“Yeah, that's the one,” she said grimly.

“I do, but what does that have to do with—” Madelyn broke off suddenly as the pieces clicked into place. “No! You don't mean—it can't possibly be him?”

“It is.”

“
Manhattan
magazine's ‘Mogul with the Mostest' and
GQ
's ‘Hunk with the Luxury Hotels' is that slimy worm from seventh grade?” A significant pause followed. “Well, no wonder you clocked him.”

“It was an accident.”

“Sure, one of those accidentally on-purpose kinds of accidents.”

That was the trouble with sisters—they always knew more than you wished they did.

“Look, he said something and I got mad and took aim, but I didn't mean to hit him in the face. Honestly. I was going for more of a close shave, but I guess my aim was off.”

“Or his head just happened to be in the way. So? Did you know you'd be playing tennis with him? And what did he say that set you off?”

Settling back in her chair again, Brie launched into the tale—or most of it anyway. For some reason she left out the part at his penthouse where he'd told her he meant to get her in bed—which was
never
going to happen, so there really hadn't been any point mentioning it.

Over lunch, he hadn't flirted with her at all. He hadn't used so much as a single innuendo—not even when the oyster shooters with mignonette sauce had been served. He'd been a complete gentleman, surprising her with his interesting, thoughtful conversation. She wondered now whether he'd just been playing with her to see how she'd react. Besides, he had a girlfriend and was the type of man who could get any woman he wanted.

Well, almost any.

“So, you've been made partner?” Madelyn said, her voice high with excitement. “Why didn't you tell me the second I called? For that matter, why didn't you call me this morning to share the good news?”

“I was working.”
And figured my head still had a good chance of being on the chopping block.

“So was I, but I'd have found a few minutes anyway. Well, now we really have a good reason to celebrate tomorrow. Have you told anyone else?”

“No, and I don't really want to play this up.”

In case the other partners come out of their Monroe-induced haze and demote me again.

“Why not? A partnership is a partnership.”

“The circumstances in this case are rather unusual.”

“Unexpected maybe, but not unusual, no more so than any other.”

“But Monroe—”

“Simply hurried the process along. You deserve this, Brie. You know you do. You've worked hard, you're a fantastic lawyer, and it was only a matter of time until you were offered partner.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. Monroe might have been a grade A-one asshat when he was a kid, but he's a shrewd businessman now. He wouldn't put you in charge of his legal dealings if you weren't up to the job.”

“That's what he said.”

“And he's right. So quit kvetching and be happy. Have they given you a new office yet?”

“No, this all just happened today.”

“Well, my advice is to take the one with the most windows. I took bigger when I first got bumped to director, and, boy, was I sorry.”

“Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.”

She and Madelyn talked for another couple of minutes, then hung up with promises to see each other the next day. After tapping “end call,” Brie laid the phone down on her desk. She glanced around, thinking of Madelyn's comment about getting a new office. There would be all sorts of other new things to which she would suddenly be entitled. So why, after she'd already committed to this new course, was she still hedging and having second thoughts?

Because of the strings, she realized, the ones held by Maddox Monroe.

But as she'd known that morning when the partners made their offer, what were her options really? It was either out or up, and up was the only direction that made any sense for her to go.

So celebrate,
as Madelyn had suggested. And who knew? Maybe Monroe wouldn't turn out to be any more of a demanding prick than any other influential client.

Right, and monkeys would shortly be flying out of her butt.

Shaking her head, she reached over and switched off her computer. Dinner and a good night's sleep would help everything make sense tomorrow.

She hoped.

T
hree days later, Brie pushed back her new Aeron executive chair and reached into her desk drawer for her purse, unable to spare more than a few seconds to notice the view from her new office windows.

She'd hadn't been able to take Madelyn's advice about which office to select, since there'd been only one choice available. But though she didn't have the biggest or the brightest of the spaces set aside for partners, she had no complaints. She had lots of room, lots of natural light, and a stipend that would allow her to redecorate with whatever furniture, paintings, rugs, lamps, and other accessories she liked best.

She also had more responsibility, including the disposition and review of the ninety-odd boxes of documentation that had been sent over from Monroe's former law firm that morning. They'd forwarded a multitude of electronic files as well, together with a terse cover letter that might as well have been titled “We're pissed we got fired. Here's Monroe's legal work, ongoing and prior. You sort it out, bitches.”

She'd set up two first years in one of the conference rooms to summarize and catalog everything that had been received. She would do her own review once they were finished. She'd also tasked her paralegal with putting together an up-to-the-minute analysis and status of all of Monroe's open legal work, including contracts for land and real estate purchases, a labor review for his mid – and upper-level employees, and tax compliance issues with a group of his West Coast holdings. She would have to pull in associates from mergers and acquisitions and tax to assist and someone with SEC experience, as well, to help with a proposed takeover of a medium-sized hospitality group that was probably headed straight for liquidation should Monroe's bid be successful. There were also a handful of lawsuits that all appeared to be of the nuisance variety. Being sued was one of the costs of doing business, and no business, however prosperous, was without them.

How she was going to fit all of Monroe's work in with her other cases she wasn't sure, but somehow she'd find the time; she always did.

Right now, though, she had a far more pressing commitment—making it across town in time for the final fitting for her bridesmaid's dress for Ivy's wedding. She'd already missed the appointment twice—once when a deposition she'd been trying to conduct for more than a year ran overtime, and next when she got bumped off an overbooked connecting flight back from a law conference in Denver; she hadn't arrived at JFK until late the following morning. If she didn't make it to this third fitting, her mother would flay her alive—probably using one of the matching hand-sewn, crystal-encrusted sashes in bridal blush pink that all the bridesmaids would be wearing.

As a highly successful professional wedding planner, Laura Grayson ran her business with drill sergeant precision and she didn't appreciate it when “uncooperative” members of the bridal party messed up her schedule—not even when the culprit was her beloved middle daughter.

For her part, Ivy had handed over most of the details to her mother, since Laura was having so much fun arranging her youngest child's nuptials. Even so, Ivy had put her foot down when Laura suggested holding the ceremony in the heart of New York City at St. Patrick's Cathedral with the reception to follow at the Four Seasons. As grand as the venues would undoubtedly have been, Ivy wanted something more natural and relaxed with an intimate feeling, despite the nearly three hundred invited guests.

Ivy had secretly confided to Brie that although she wanted a traditional wedding, she didn't want anything that would remind James of his disastrous first attempt at getting married. Years earlier, he'd been engaged to their older sister, Madelyn, and she'd left him on their wedding day only minutes before the ceremony had been scheduled to begin. Knowing the pain and embarrassment he'd suffered at the time, Ivy wanted nothing to mar the day. Her and James's wedding day, she told Brie, was going to be the happiest, most beautiful day of their lives.

So rather than in a church, Ivy had decided to be married at home in Connecticut, outdoors in the big, flower-filled garden that ranged between her parents' house and the neighboring house that just happened to belong to James's parents. He truly was the boy next door, and not only had he spent his youth running in and out of the Grayson house, but he'd known Ivy since she was an infant. It was, they had decided, the perfect place to seal their vows.

Despite the fact that the wedding was being held literally in her own backyard, Laura had a million and one things to do before the big day arrived. With fewer than three weeks to go, they were already pushing things when it came to the fitting, as her mother lost no opportunity to remind Brie.

She glanced at the time. A quarter to six. If she left now, she should just be able to make it to the couture bridal salon for her six-thirty appointment—the last of the day. She hated the thought of being packed into the crowded subway, but finding a cab at this hour would be next to impossible. If only she could take the company Escalade like she had for her lunch with Monroe. But that had been business; she was on her own time now.

She wondered if Monroe's eye was still black. Over the last three days, the only communication she'd gotten from him had been a single impersonal business e-mail. But what did she care how Maddox Monroe was feeling or what he might be doing? As she kept reminding herself, she had more important things to worry about than a former junior high school bully who through some strange twist of fate had become her client.

After powering off her computer, she grabbed her purse and cell phone and headed for the door. She made it halfway to the elevator before her paralegal, Trish, waylaid her and began asking questions. Rather than stop, she kept walking, giving rapid-fire responses, while the other woman trotted next to her, jotting frenzied notes on a long yellow pad.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Brie stepped inside. “E-mail me anything else that can't wait. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing. Have fun playing dress-up,” Trish said brightly.

“Hey, if you don't watch that mouth, I'll have to get out my Purell.”

Trish laughed and was still laughing as the elevator doors slid shut.

The outside air was bathtub-water warm and just as humid, thick clouds lumbering high above the skyscrapers in patches of dull gray and muddy white. Crap, was it going to rain? This morning's weather forecast had given it only a twenty percent chance. Fingers crossed that it would hold off until she got to the bridal salon.

She hurried into the rushing just-want-to-get-the-hell-home crowd, keeping pace with a quick, confident stride. The subway station was four blocks down, an easy walk, especially on sensible yet attractive two-inch brown leather pumps. Everything was going according to schedule.

Then she got to the station entrance. A Closed sign blocked the stairwell.

“What the hell?” she said aloud to no one in particular.

Other disgruntled people came to a stop behind her, reading the same sign. “Water main break,” a man said. “Happened around two, I heard. Station's gonna be closed for who knows how long.”

Collective groans rose into the air.

With the resigned resilience of New Yorkers, they turned and started walking again, presumably headed toward the nearest open station listed on a sign set up next to the one that read
CLOSED
.

It was eight blocks away.

With sick frustration, Brie knew she was going to be late.

Again.

She supposed she should call her mother to let her know, but even as she started to reach for her cell phone, she hesitated. She just didn't want to hear the lecture—or the disappointment. Maybe if she could find a cab, she'd still make it in time. Chances weren't good, but it was worth a try. She would head for the subway station and, when the traffic lights were against her, try flagging down a ride.

She started walking, pausing to stick out her arm every so often and wave. But the cabs all whizzed by, already occupied or off duty. She went two blocks, then three, with no luck whatsoever. She was most of the way along the fourth when a few fat raindrops splattered around her like gunshots, dampening her charcoal skirted suit and the bodice of her cream silk blouse. A cold breeze gusted along after it, sending shivers over her skin.

Well, if this isn't the straw and the f-ing camel's back, I don't know what is.
Not only would she never get a cab now, since finding one in the rain was harder than winning the Powerball jackpot, but if the black clouds roiling overhead really opened up, she was going to be wetter than a drowned rat.

But worst, worst, worst of all, she was going to miss the fitting appointment
for the third time
.

She was walking at her briskest pace when a black Mercedes S-class sedan pulled over to the curb just ahead of her. It stopped and the rear door opened, but no one got out. Instead, as she drew even with the car, she saw Maddox Monroe leaning forward from the sleek, richly appointed leather backseat. “Hey, Grayson, need a lift?”

She stared, surprised to find him of all people riding—or should she say driving—to her rescue. But as she knew all too well, he was no white knight. His heart was black—moonless-night, stygian-mine-shaft, deep-space-where-no-one-can-hear-you-scream black.

Her brows furrowed and she shook her head. “Thanks, but I'm fine.”

Fine?
Who was she kidding? But she was off the clock now, so accepting favors from him came under the same heading as taking candy from strangers. The wind blew again and she shivered.

“This rain isn't going to hold off much longer,” he told her. “Come on, get in.”

As if the weather were in on their conversation, a few more doughnut-hole-sized raindrops splashed against the pavement, a low rumble of thunder reverberating afterward. The clouds were black now rather than gray, signaling that all hell was about to break loose.

As much as she wanted to refuse Monroe's offer, she knew when to put aside the pride and not be stupid. Lightning splintered the sky, making her jump.

And the sluice gates opened wide.

Sprinting forward, she ran for the car. She climbed in, then sighed with relief as she settled against the plush, heated leather seats. Monroe reached across and quickly shut the door, enclosing them inside a cocoon of comfort and warmth. Outside, the rain drummed angrily against the car's metallic shell, the world obscured by the Noah-worthy deluge.

The interior smelled of wealth and sophistication and clean, healthy male. She breathed it in, catching hints of unfragranced, fine-milled soap, high-quality wool that she guessed might be Scottish in origin, and some elusive something that could only be Monroe himself. His scent wasn't strong, but it teased her senses like a forbidden drug. She recognized it from having been with him the other day at lunch. She found his smell even more intoxicating now, enhanced as it was by the confined space of the car.

She was annoyed with herself for noticing.

Monroe regarded her out of eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate. She'd wondered about his wound and could see that he was healing, though the bruises were at the heinous yellowish green stage now. Somehow though they did not lessen his attractiveness, blending in with his dark Irish complexion.

Without a word, he reached over and brushed a few strands of wet hair off her cheek. His fingertips lingered and for a few seconds, she forgot how to breathe.

Hastily, she pulled away and settled deeper into the corner. The storm continued to pummel the car, the reason for her rapid pulse, which had absolutely nothing to do with Monroe.

He smiled, showing his teeth in a way that reminded her of a wolf—one that had just seen a nice, juicy rabbit.

“So? Where to, Ms. Grayson?”

*   *   *

Maddox did his best to keep his eyes off her breasts. He tried even harder to ignore the wet patches of rainwater-dampened silk that had turned her blouse into a high-class version of a wet T-shirt contest. He didn't think she realized and he certainly wasn't going to tell her and spoil the view.

His hands itched to touch, but he kept them to himself. That brief brush against her cheek had already crossed the line, the one she kept in place like police tape at a crime scene. Strictly Do Not Touch.

He knew she didn't like him—or trust him—but he sensed her personal barriers went a whole lot deeper than their old school rivalry. Someone had hurt her, someone other than him. Whoever he was, the guy was an asshole.

In that moment, Maddox decided he was going to make her forget her former lover, or any other man for that matter—anyone for whom she'd ever had feelings. Once she came to his bed, the only lover she would ever think about again would be him.

He leaned back in his seat, one hand curled on his black-suit-clad thigh. “Where are you headed? You looked like you were in a bigger hurry than usual when I had Marco pull over.”

Actually he would have stopped even if it hadn't been threatening rain. Finding ways to spend time with her was quickly becoming an obsession. Luck had definitely been on his side when he'd glanced out the window and just happened to see her walking briskly along the street.

“I have to be at a fitting in exactly”—she paused to glance at her watch—“oh crap, twenty minutes. With this rain, there's no way I'll make it in time.”

“Don't underestimate my driver. Marco's the best in New York. Isn't that right, Marco?”

“It certainly is, sir,” said the driver with a grin from where he sat up front behind a half-open glass partition. He had black hair and eyes, with Italian features, and didn't look much older than Monroe himself. “Where are you going, miss?”

She rattled off the address of the bridal boutique on the Upper East Side.

“I'll get you there,” Marco promised. He closed the partition with a soundless automatic slide of the glass and pressed his foot to the accelerator. With seamless precision, he merged the car into the dense, nose-to-tail traffic with an ease only a native New Yorker could manage.