Mad About the Man (7 page)

“Marco drove a cab here in the city for eight years before I hired him. He got me to JFK in a snowstorm once in under forty-five minutes. I gave him a job on the spot.”

Wild honking erupted around them, the visibility practically nonexistent as Marco muscled his way through the last millisecond of yellow left on the light in the intersection ahead. They pushed through and continued on their way. Maybe he really could get them to the bridal salon in twenty minutes.

“You said you have a fitting.” Maddox raised an inquiring brow. “A fitting for what?”

“Bridesmaid's dress. My sister is getting married.”

“Your older sister? What was her name? Margaret? Maggie?”

“Madelyn. And no, she's already married and has three-year-old twin girls. This is my younger sister, Ivy.”

“The baby?” He smiled to himself as the years dropped away. “Your mom used to pick you up after school every once in a while with your little sister in a car seat in the back. She was just a tiny, squalling thing then, but cute.”

“You remember that?” She sounded surprised.

“I remember all sorts of things about you.”

And he did. Far, far too many, and in much too much detail, especially considering how long ago it had been.

Brie's mouth and jaw firmed with irritation.

“So how old is she now? Ivy?”

Brie tucked a stray piece of rain-damp blond hair behind her ear before answering. “Twenty-two.”

“Kind of young to be tying the knot and settling down, isn't she?”

“If she were any other twenty-two-year-old, I'd agree. But Ivy's different, mature for her years. She knows what she wants.”

“And she wants this guy she's marrying?”

“Oh, yes.” Brie smiled, myriad thoughts and emotions swimming behind her blue eyes. “She's loved him her whole life. We just didn't realize exactly how much until a year or so ago. Her groom didn't either.”

“So who's she marrying? Some other college kid?”

Her smile turned ironic. “No. His name is James Jordan. He's several years her senior.”

Maddox ran the name through his mental files. “Jordan? You mean the financier Jordan? The billionaire with so much available cash he could invest in diamond-studded pogo sticks if he wanted to?”

“That's him. But he's far too shrewd to bother with either diamonds or pogo sticks.”

Maddox frowned as a new thought popped into his head. “Tall, blond guy? He was on the court that day, wasn't he? When I was leaving after you'd KO'd me with that tennis ball.”

She stiffened. “I didn't KO you. You never passed out and were lucid the whole time. And it was an accident.”

A slow grin spread over his still-bruised face. “Keep telling yourself that, babe, and you just might believe it someday.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, unwittingly emphasizing her breasts and still-damp silk shirt.

He let himself enjoy the view for a few mouthwatering moments before forcing his eyes up to her face again. “So, where's the wedding?”

“What?” she said blankly.

“Your younger sister and the billionaire? Where are they getting married? I suppose it's one of those destination things and they're jetting off to some French château to do the deed?”

Her blond eyebrows lifted. “No. They're getting married at our parents' home.”

“In Connecticut?”

“That's right. They're still in the same house, the one I lived in when you were busy tormenting me in junior high.”

He grinned again. “How are your parents?”

He'd never actually met her mother and father, but he remembered seeing them every once in a while when he used to ride his bike past Brie's house.
Pitiful stuff really
, when he thought about it, biking block after block, more than a mile each way, in the faint hope that he'd catch a glimpse of her—not that he'd ever let her know what he was doing.

“They're good,” she said. “Dad's doing well with his building company despite the ups and downs in the real estate market. And my mother is a wedding planner extraordinaire. She's waiting for me at the salon right now.”

“Doing your sister's wedding, I take it?”

“Of course. Tears and blood would have been shed otherwise. But nobody does weddings better than Mom, so Ivy's happy to let her run the show—for the most part anyway. What about you? How are your folks?”

His expression turned sober. “So you don't know.”

“Know what?”

“I always wondered if you'd heard, but then you transferred schools that next year, didn't you?”

“I went to a private school starting in eighth grade, yes. But what do you mean, you always wondered if I'd heard?”

“Nothing. It's not important.”

“You brought it up, so it must be important. Tell me what you meant.”

One corner of his mouth edged up in a wry smile. “You sound like a lawyer.”

“That's good since I am a lawyer. Go on.”

“Very well, counselor, if you insist. That next October, after you went off to your new school, my father was arrested for embezzling nearly a quarter of a million dollars from his investment firm. The police found several thousand dollars in cash and half a kilo of high-grade cocaine in the trunk of his BMW. The rest of the money was gone, blown on gambling and drugs.

“Every time my mother and little sister and I thought he was away on a business trip, he was really at some casino, living it up on the money he'd stolen from his clients. He cried when they caught him, said the drugs weren't his and that he'd been trying to win the money back so he could return it without anyone realizing it was missing. Because of him, we lost pretty much everything—the house, our possessions, the savings, even what my mother had earned on her own and put aside. My father died in federal prison from a heart attack after serving twelve years of his twenty-five-year sentence.”

In all that time, he'd gone to see his father only once, when he'd been eighteen. He'd wanted to tell him off, to find an outlet for all the bitterness and rage he'd been carrying around. Instead, when he'd sat down across from him, he'd seen a shell of the proud, energetic man he'd once known, worn down and old before his time. When Maddox had said his good-byes that day, he'd made his peace with his father. He'd left his hatred behind as well.

Brie's eyes were soft with compassion as she reached out and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Maddox, I'm sorry. I had no idea all that had happened to you. I knew your family had moved away but not the reason for it.”

He shrugged. “Why would you? You were just a kid, same as me. Plus, you'd never much liked me. That doesn't make for much interest in follow-up.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't. Is your mother—”

“She's fine. Remarried and living in northern California with her detective husband and my two half brothers. I see them every so often when I travel to the West Coast.”

“Your mom married a cop?”

“Yeah.” His grin returned. “Beats all, doesn't it?”

She smiled back. “Life's ironic sometimes. And your sister?”

“Daphne's doing well. She owns a bed-and-breakfast in South Carolina that she runs with a college friend of hers. It was touch and go for a while, but they seem to be making a comfortable profit now.”

“With some help from her big brother?”

He shrugged. “A start-up loan at the beginning that I was happy to give. But she's doing it all on her own these days.” He paused. “You know, I think this is the first time we've ever had an actual conversation.”

“Lunch the other day was an actual conversation.”

He shook his head. “No, that was business. This was the two of us, just talking.”

“I think we'd be better off sticking to business from here on out. I am your attorney, after all.”

“Hmm, so you keep reminding me. I suppose you'll be billing me, now that we've discussed business?”

“I'm off the clock right now. No billable hours.”

Maddox shot a quick glance out the window, seeing a street sign for East Sixty-third. Only a few blocks left to go. “Then since you're off the clock, I'm going to do something I've wanted to do for a very long time.”

For more than twenty years.

Without giving her a second to react, he took her face between his hands, leaned forward, and kissed her.

Brie gave a muffled protest and wrapped her fingers around his wrists to push him away. He deepened the kiss, pressing her lips insistently apart so he could slide his tongue inside. Pleasure shot through him, hot and intense, desire burning like a fire in his blood. He'd always wondered how she would taste and now he knew.

Better.

Better than his fantasies.

Better than his expectations.

She was silky and sweet with a dash of spice like some exotic elixir and he wanted more. He wanted to strip her naked and drink her down, leisurely and slow as if they were on their own private island where time had no meaning.

Her long fingers tightened around his wrists, so he kissed her harder, knowing she was about to end the embrace. But then she did the most remarkable thing—one that shocked them both—she kissed him back.

B
rie knew she'd gone crazy—stark raving cuckoo, put-her-in-a-padded-cell insane—but just when she'd been ready to push Maddox Monroe away and end the kiss that he'd had no right to take, she pulled him closer instead. Even while one part of her brain was jumping up and down screaming
Stop!
, the other part was purring like a happy kitten, knowing it felt just too good to stop.

Holy crap
, could the man ever kiss.

Even as successful as he was, his talents were being wasted in business, since he ought to have hired himself out as a gigolo instead. She couldn't remember the last time she'd locked lips with someone and been hit with such an instantaneous gut punch of lust. In fact, she wasn't sure she ever had, not even as a hormone-raging coed with a whole campus of randy guys from which to choose.

The worst thing was, she didn't even like Maddox Monroe. He was her enemy, the boy—now man—she'd sworn to hate to her dying day. Yet here she was, locking lips with him as if he were her last meal. And
sweet Jesus
, did he taste good—like seventy percent dark cacao, rich and sinful and far too delectable to resist.

Without even knowing she was doing it, she let go of his wrists and slid her fingers into his hair, tunneling them deep into the thick layers of silk. Eyes closed, she circled her tongue with his, roaming up and down and around in a warm, wet, intoxicating slide. He made a sound low in his throat and kissed her even harder.

Tingles raced over her skin, her legs shifting restlessly together beneath her skirt. She sank deeper into the passionate haze, losing herself completely in the moment.

But then, as abruptly as it had started, it was over. Maddox ended the kiss and lifted his big hands away from her overwarm cheeks.

She stared blankly, her thoughts flatlined.

“We're here,” he murmured. “I don't want you to be late for your appointment.”

His words took a moment to register as she looked through the car window to the street beyond. Only then did she realize that the sedan wasn't moving anymore but was parked not far from the entrance to the bridal salon, which stood only feet away.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, the fitting!
And her mother waiting just on the other side of the tasteful brownstone's front door.

At least the rear windows of Monroe's Mercedes were tinted; otherwise who knew who might have seen the two of them playing tonsil hockey like they were trying out for the major leagues?

As for Marco, the driver, he was facing discreetly forward as if he hadn't noticed a thing. Then again, maybe he was used to Monroe kissing the brains out of women in the back of his car. For all she knew, it was a daily occurrence.

Whatever the case, she had to get away from him.

Now!

Hurriedly, she straightened her jacket and reached for the door handle. Monroe stopped her with a hand. “Wait for Marco. He'll bring an umbrella around.”

“The salon's not far. I'll make a dash for it.”

“It's still pouring buckets. Wait a minute more.” From the tone of his voice, Monroe was clearly used to giving commands and being obeyed.

But she'd never been the type to follow orders.

Ignoring him, she pushed the car door wide. Wind and rain gusted inside, sending a chill through her still flushed body.

But only seconds later, Marco arrived, a huge black golf umbrella spread wide to shield her from the storm.

“I'll call you later,” Monroe said.

“Don't. Not unless it's business.”

His brown eyes gleamed warmly. “Then I'll find some kind of business to discuss. Over dinner perhaps? I could wait for you until the fitting is finished.”

“No. I'm having dinner with my mother.”

“Another time, then.”

There isn't going to be another time,
she thought.
Ever!

She didn't say anything else—she didn't trust herself to.

Climbing out of the car, she moved under the shelter of the umbrella and hurried with Marco up to the salon, where he saw her safely inside.

Once he was gone, she forced herself not to look back through the shop window. She didn't want to know if Monroe was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

It was only then, as her mother and one of the salon assistants approached her, that she finally remembered to breathe.

*   *   *

To Brie's relief, Monroe didn't call the next day or the following Monday. In fact, her phone and e-mail remained a Monroe-free zone for several days more, much to her surprise. As for what had happened in the back of his sedan, otherwise known as her What-the-Hell-Was-That moment, she'd been too busy to think about it. Or at least she'd been too busy to dwell on it, shoving the memory aside each time it sprang to mind—which was only about two or three hundred times a day.

When she'd walked into the office that first morning after the kiss, she'd been prepared to hand off Monroe's account to one of the other partners no matter the fallout. But then one emergency after another had cropped up, including a hysterical visit from a client who'd just been served notice of a company-wide audit by the IRS. By the time she'd worked him down from DEFCON five and gotten the rest of the day's fires under control, it had been too late to bring up Monroe.

The following Monday hadn't been any better—hectic from the first morning cup of Starbucks that Trish had stuck in Brie's hand the moment she'd walked off the elevator to the last bite of take-out pappardelle with Bolognese sauce that she'd eaten at her desk while reading through a headache-inducing stack of discovery materials. When she'd arrived home that night, she'd taken a hot shower and gone straight to bed.

By Tuesday she'd decided it was pointless to try passing off Monroe's account. What reason was she going to give for jettisoning such a plum client from her roster? If she brought up the fact that he'd kissed her half-blind—not to mention her own enthusiastic response—she would just make trouble, for herself and the firm.

Better to stay quiet.

Nothing further was going to happen between her and Monroe anyway, so it was a moot point. It was in the past and best forgotten. Which was probably what Monroe had already done.

Forgotten.

Their torrid lip-lock just one of dozens of carnal encounters in which he likely indulged on a regular basis.

Finally another weekend arrived.

She slept until ten thirty on Saturday morning, got dressed, then made herself a cheese and mushroom omelet with toast and a cup of hot tea. After she ate and put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, she did two loads of laundry, then went out to the market for bread, milk, fresh fruit, and other essentials. Once that was all put away in her cupboards, it was time to get ready for her date.

To be honest, if the reminder hadn't been on her smartphone calendar, she would probably have forgotten all about having agreed to take in a Broadway play with a guy she'd met at a party last month. He'd been pestering her to go out ever since, and when he'd dangled tickets in front of her for one of the hottest shows in town, she'd finally said yes.

Stifling a yawn, she wished now that she hadn't. Streaming a movie or reading a book on her couch sounded a whole lot better. But maybe an evening out would be fun. That's what she'd tell herself anyway.

Three hours later she was dreaming again about that book and her couch. Jeff, the insurance actuary, was every bit as dull as his profession, though apparently he found it fascinating. In between mouthfuls of blood-rare New York strip and smashed potatoes at the Theater District steak house he'd chosen, he regaled her with story after story about the world of statistical analysis and insurance claim forecasting.

Long before they had to refuse dessert because there wasn't enough time to eat it and still make the curtain, she was deciding where the evening ranked on her list of dates from hell. Hopefully the play would help move it out of the top-ten-all-time worst.

The theater was one of the small, older ones with narrow, velvet-covered seats and a kind of nostalgic intimacy that harkened back to bygone days. She leafed through her
Playbill
and did her best to nod occasionally as if she were actually listening to Jeff's rambling monologue.

After his initial greeting at her door, he'd barely let her get a word in edgewise. He had the most annoying habit of asking a question, then cutting her off midway through her answer. Half an hour into the date and she'd mostly gone silent, which he seem to find quite satisfactory.

Had he been this annoying when she'd met him at her friend's party? Must have been the wine she'd drunk that night that had caused a case of temporary deafness. If not for the play, she would already have found a way to ditch him. But she figured she was due some kind of compensation in light of all her obvious pain and suffering.

With an inner sigh, she waited for the play to begin. As she did, she took a few moments to look at the other people in the audience. And that's when she saw Maddox Monroe walk down the aisle and make his way to a seat two rows ahead and to the left. He was with a curvaceous redhead, whom he took solicitous care to show to her seat.

Obviously, Lila, from the tennis game, was yesterday's news.

Poor Lila.

Brie had suspected that Monroe was a player, but now she had the proof. Her jaw tightened as she remembered the mind-blowing kiss he'd stolen from her only a week or so ago. Her teeth ground together as she thought of the way she'd kissed him back. He was probably congratulating himself even now for his hat trick, bagging a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead, all within a few days of one another.

But he hadn't really “bagged” her, since all they'd done was kiss. As far as she was concerned, the fact that she'd temporarily lost her mind there in the back of his sedan didn't count. Neither did his having been the one with enough functioning brain cells to call a halt to their snog-in-progress. If he hadn't, who knows how many bases she might have let him run.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked away. He was welcome to enjoy his date. No doubt he and the redhead deserved each other.

She checked her wristwatch. Nearly time for the play to start. She picked a minuscule dot of lint off her skirt and nodded absently at Jeff's latest remark. Unable to resist the temptation, she snuck another look in Monroe's direction.

And looked straight into his coffee brown eyes.

A little jolt went through her as if she'd stuck her finger into an electrical socket.

The corners of his mouth turned up and he lifted a hand in greeting.

She thought of a curse not suitable for work—or a public theater—then gave a short wave back.

“Someone you know?”

It was Jeff, whom she'd forgotten all about. “Yes. He's a client.”

Luckily the houselights began to dim, the curtain going up. Without turning her head, she looked at Monroe again. But he was facing forward, his own head bent toward his date as they exchanged some bit of conversation.

One of the actors stepped onstage and said his first line and the play began.

But hard as Brie tried to focus, her attention was scattered, her awareness of Monroe as annoying as a scratchy clothing tag you couldn't reach to cut out. Still she managed not to look his way again. As for the play, she only heard about half of it. Count on Maddox Monroe to ruin the only good part of the evening.

Finally intermission arrived.

The houselights came up and people began shuffling out of their seats. Brie stood to let several individuals in her row squeeze past.

“Wanna drink?” Jeff asked.

“Sure. Why not?” She moved back to let him slip by her as well.

She was about to sit down again when she heard her name.

And there stood Monroe, tall and dynamic in a well-made dark gray suit but no tie. His collar was open, showing his strong, masculine throat. The bruises on his face looked better; only a slight tinge of yellow remained under one eye.

“Enjoying the play?” he asked.

“Yes. It's excellent.” What little of it she'd been able to concentrate on, that was. “You?”

“It's fine. Broadway's not usually my thing. Daphne wanted to come.”

Daphne. His date, she presumed, who wasn't with him at the moment.

“Ladies' room,” he volunteered, as if reading her mind. “And your . . . companion?”

“Getting drinks.”

He nodded and moved closer as a couple in the aisle tried to walk past. “So? How was the fitting?”

She stared for a few seconds before his question clicked. “Oh, the fitting. For the bridesmaid's dress. It went fine. Really well actually, especially since it got me off my mom's PITA list.”

He arched a brow. “PITA list?”

“Pain in the ass. Or PIHA, pain in her ass, depending on how you want to think about it.”

Monroe laughed. “And dinner out with your mother? How did that go?”

“Great. We tried a new Indian place that was really good.”

“You'll have to give me the name. I love anything spicy. The hotter, the better.”

She'd just bet he did.

He slid a hand into his pants pocket. “So? Have you thought about my invitation? When are you going to let me take you out to dinner?”

Ah, and the real Monroe returns.
Obviously it was “out of sight, out of mind” with his date. Her mouth tightened. “I'd have to say
never
given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances? Or are you still carrying a grudge from the old days?”

“I'm referring to your date,” she said tartly. “Or do you always hit on one woman while another is off reapplying her lipstick?”

“You mean Daphne? Actually, she's my—”

“Did I hear my name?” the redhead under discussion said as she trotted up to them on a pair of stiletto heels so high most women would have landed on their asses at anything faster than a careful walk. “What did I miss? Maddox isn't telling stories about me again, is he? By the way, I'm Daphne. And you are?”