Silent Desires. Julie Kenner
And as he stepped out onto the landing and pulled the door tight, he remembered her name. Lydia. Nice, but easy enough to walk away from.
For that matter, they all were. And as he started down the six flights of stairs to the street, Bryce silently cursed Leo. Because for the first time since his parents’ divorce, Bryce was beginning to wonder if there really was a woman out there who could make him want to stay.
IT WAS THE HEAT that woke Joan up. That murky, almost liquid summer heat. The air conditioner must be on the fritz again. That sucked. Especially since the air conditioner wasn’t even hers.
Other than the AC problem, Ronnie’s place was nicer than anything Joan would ever be able to afford on her own. And it was only hers until Ronnie found a buyer for the fabulous flat—a one-bedroom apartment with a great kitchen and real hardwood floors.
Reluctant to leave—both the apartment and the bed—Joan moaned and stretched. Pleasures was still on the bed next to her, open to page one-twenty-three. She trailed her finger over the page, then closed her eyes, remembering the way the delicious, decadent words had played over her body, with a little help from her fingers, of course. She stretched like a cat, tempted to stay in bed and spend a few more wonderful hours with the book and her fantasies.
Naked, she twisted her body, trying to find a cool spot on the well-worn cotton percale. No luck. She sighed. Just as well. She’d already lazed away an entire Sunday, reading the book, watching television, sipping wine, and then reading some more. Now, it was the wee hours of Monday morning and time to get up.
With a little groan, she sat up, pushing damp curls out of her eyes before sliding off the bed and padding barefoot to the kitchen. She pulled the door open and stood there, letting the cool air dance over her skin. She shivered, a little chill racing up her spine as the thin film of sweat that covered her body started to disappear.
Her stomach rumbled, and she scoped out the inside of the refrigerator. Not much in there except Diet Coke and slightly limp carrots. She made a face, then grabbed a soda. At least it would fill her up and cool her off.
She closed the fridge and pressed the cool can to her forehead, closing her eyes and leaning against the stove. Who would have guessed she’d find heaven in an ice-cold aluminum can? Especially when she’d already found it in the hot, sultry prose of the nineteenth-century book.
Slowly, she trailed the can down over her nose, her chin, down her neck to her cleavage. It felt wonderful, and she was just so damn hot.
Not that one twelve-ounce Diet Coke can was going to make much of a difference. No, if she really wanted to cool off, she might as well go downstairs to the bookstore and try to do some work. At least the bookstore had air-conditioning. And there was even food in the break room and an honest-to-goodness coffeepot.
Besides, she had tons of work to do. Ronnie had already been gone for almost twenty-four hours, which meant Joan had only twenty-nine days left to put her plan into effect. And if she went down now, she’d have four hours of uninterrupted work before she had to open the store.
She’d worked it all out in her head. She might have blown off college after only two semesters, but she had street smarts. The store hadn’t been doing that great lately, so Joan’s plan of attack was two-tiered. First, put together an exceptional catalog that would blow Ronnie away when she returned. And, second, increase the patronage—and the receipts—at the store.
The catalog was the easy part. The store did two catalogs a year, usually putting out a catalog focusing on erotica in the summer. Last summer, though, had been unusual, and the catalog had come out a few months late. Surprisingly, the issue had the best response ever, so Ronnie had decided to permanently bump the mailing date from August to early October.
Although Joan and Ronnie had worked together on it some, Ronnie had left most of the responsibility to Joan. And she intended to ace the project. Considering her rather intimate familiarity with the store’s erotica inventory, she didn’t foresee any problems on that score.
The business end was more troublesome. She made a mental list of her strengths and weaknesses. As her strengths, Joan counted her enthusiasm and the knowledge she’d gained about the industry over the past few years. Plus, she was a natural people person. Once a customer came into the store, she could usually get him or her to buy. Especially the hims.
Her weaknesses were worrisome. She didn’t know much about running a business. Bookkeeping and strategizing and managing employees and all of that stuff, stuff that was so beyond her knowledge she didn’t even know what questions to ask. She could learn, sure, but she had to learn fast. And she had to fit all of that learning in between doing the catalog and running the store.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off the fear that she’d end up doing all this for nothing and Ronnie would either bring in another partner or knock the store’s hours to so few that Joan wouldn’t be able to afford to work there anymore. If that happened, Joan really didn’t know how she’d stand it. She loved her job. All of it. The work fascinated and inspired her, something no other job ever had. And she adored Ronnie, who’d taken a chance on Joan when she was a twenty-year-old college dropout.
Over the years, Ronnie had been a great employer. But now Joan wanted more. She wanted to be a partner. And to do that, Joan needed to prove to Ronnie that she had the right stuff, that she knew how to run a business.
Considering she didn’t know how to run a business, she wished she had a teacher, someone who could answer her basic questions and push her in the right direction. But she didn’t.
But Joan had managed a lot of things on her own. She could manage this, too. It was simply a matter of finding the way.
2
JOAN SAT at the table in the break room, trying desperately to focus on the erotic books and ephemera spread out in front of her. Not an easy task. She’d contemplated and analyzed the stuff for almost three hours, and she’d made some serious progress on the catalog. Now, though, her concentration was fading. Instead of feeling clever, she was turned on.
She sighed, her fingers stroking a decadent illustration showing a woman touching herself intimately. A man—hidden in the shadows—gazed at the woman with lust in his eyes. The artist, who’d used a mixture of blacks and grays to draw out the shadows, was unknown, and Joan couldn’t help but wonder if there really had been a model. Had she been spread out on the chaise, just so? Did she know the man was watching her? Did she fantasize that he would move slowly toward her and then press his hands on her breasts, her belly, trail fingertips down her until he cupped her sex, finding her wet and wanton, turned on by nothing more than the direction of her own thoughts?
Joan’s body quivered, as if she could make the fantasy her own. The truth was, as much as she loved working in the store, the nature of its product could be quite, um, distracting. Then again, it was those very distractions that she liked so much.
With a little smile, she set the print aside before moving on to the remaining images scattered across the tabletop.
That one was definitely going into the catalog.
THE NEW JERSEY DEAL wasn’t going to happen, not today anyway. Which meant that Bryce was stuck in Manhattan for at least another day, probably two. Maybe more.
He thought of his spacious house in Austin, built on five acres high in the hills overlooking Lake Travis. The manicured lawn, the swimming pool. And the trees. Lord, how he missed the breeze through the trees at night. He’d been in Manhattan now for a full week, and that was five days too long. He liked the city, loved its vibrant energy. But he loved his home more. And it irritated him that the delays keeping him in the Big Apple were all the result of sloppy work by his subordinates.
If this thing didn’t get wrapped up soon, heads were going to roll.
With a frown, Bryce glanced at his watch. Not even 9:00 a.m. They’d called off the meeting thirty minutes ago, which meant that his all-nighter had been for nothing. Except for his brief sojourn in Lydia’s apartment, he’d been up for thirty-six hours, doing