The Rival's Heir

But Jonathan, his business manager, had RSVP’d on Judah’s behalf, saying that he’d be glad to attend the foundation’s cocktail party. He’d also promised that if Huntley and Associates was commissioned to design the new art museum, Judah would hire a local architect to be the firm’s local liaison.

It made sense to hire someone local to do the grunt work of visiting the planning offices, research, smoothing the way. The Boston-based architect wouldn’t do any drafting or design work; Judah had an experienced team back in New York to implement his ideas. They were the best and brightest of the bunch and routinely met his high standards.

As a winner of two of the world’s most prestigious architecture awards, Judah knew his interest in designing the art museum was unexpected. It wasn’t a big project or even a lucrative one. Since the project was being funded by a nonprofit, his design fees would be laughable. But thanks to international businessmen with very deep pockets who wanted his name attached to their buildings, Judah had a fat bank account and could afford to take on a project at cost.

He had buildings all over the world but had yet to design one in Boston, his hometown. He wanted to create something that was beautiful and functional, something Bostonians would enjoy. He was renowned for his innovative corporate buildings and envelope-pushing mansions but there was something special, something intoxicating, about designing a building to hold art and treasures. The box had to be as exciting, as electrifying as the contents...

And that was why he was standing in a stuffy ballroom waiting for someone to announce what everyone already knew: Judah would be awarded the project.

Upsides to being in Boston were a gorgeous site and an interesting project. Downside? Being in Boston. The smells, the air, the buildings all made him remember how his life used to be. Stifling. Demanding. Claustrophobic. Long on responsibility and short on fun.

Judah was grateful for the feminine hand on his arm that jerked him back to the present. An attractive woman stood in front of him, blond hair, red lips, bold eyes. He chatted with her politely, but she wasn’t the woman who’d first come to mind.

The last time he’d stood in this room, he’d locked eyes with a younger, sexier blonde who’d made his stomach bungee jump. Initially, she’d reminded him of a storybook Cinderella, all flashing eyes and tiny frame, but then he’d caught the look in her eyes, on her face, and decided that she was more a duchess than a princess, more sophisticated than simple.

He wondered if she was here again tonight.

But, if she was, what did it matter? Though he’d been rocked by their instinctual attraction—when last had he felt such an instant physical reaction to anyone?—the thought of making small talk, doing the dating dance, felt like too much effort.

Chatting up a woman, taking her back to his hotel room and having sex was the mental equivalent of riding an immensely popular roller coaster. Patience was required to get on the ride, there was the brief sensation of pleasure, then the inevitable anticlimax when the cart rolled to a stop.

After Carla, he’d ridden as many roller coasters as he could. A year and too many women later, he’d realized that mindless sex with mindless women wasn’t working for him and he went cold turkey. In the past eighteen months, he’d gone from being monogamous to being a player to being a monk.

Judah sighed. While no guy rapidly approaching his forties preferred having solo sex, he did like having a life that was drama-free.

But that blonde he’d seen here before—tall, slim, stunningly sexy—was the first woman in six months who’d caught his interest. She’d made his core temperature rise. She had the face of a naughty pixie, the body of a lingerie model and the eyes of a water nymph. When he’d looked at her, reality faded. All he could see was her, stretched out on a rug in front of a roaring fire, naked on the white sands of Tahiti or on the cool marble of a designer kitchen. Hell, up against the fabric-covered wall of an intensely uninteresting hotel ballroom.

He’d wanted her.

And because he’d been so damned tempted to walk over, take her hand and find the closest private space where he could put his hands on that body, he’d acted like the adult he professed to be and left. He didn’t want mindless sex anymore, but the thought of anything more—becoming emotionally involved, making a connection—terrified him.

So he was in no-man’s-land, dating himself. And, man, was he so tired of that...

Half concentrating on the conversation with the woman in front of him, Judah looked up to see the director of the foundation heading to the podium. Standing at the back of the room, Judah’s height allowed him to see over the heads of most of the guests and he recognized some candidates from the meeting weeks ago.

He cursed himself when he realized he was looking for a bright blond head and exceptional legs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Grantham-Ford Foundation...”

Judah pushed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, tuned out the opening remarks of the chairman of the board and looked toward the door, his attention caught by an elder man in a suit, his tanned face scanning the crowd, obviously looking for someone. He looked vaguely familiar, like a worried version of someone from Judah’s past.

Intrigued, Judah edged his way closer to the door. The man’s dark eyes caught his movement and Judah saw relief cross his face. The man was looking for him. But why here at this hotel, in the middle of a function? Judah had an office, an assistant who managed his schedule.

Odd.

“We were all blown away by the designs submitted and it was difficult to make a choice...”

Judah ignored the droning voice and frowned as the man eased away from the doorway, gesturing for Judah to join him in the hallway. Judah tossed a look over his shoulder, guessing the director would ramble on for a few more minutes—the man seemed to like the sound of his own voice. Judah pulled the door to the room partially closed behind him. If he was needed, he had no doubt someone would find him.

“Mr. Huntley! I am so glad I managed to track you down.”

Judah’s heart sank when he heard the masculine version of Carla’s heavy Italian accent. Judah scowled. His ex, the opera-singing heiress, had hit a new low if she was sending her minions to deliver her messages. Judah had nothing to say to her face or via her employees. She’d cheated on him—he was pretty sure it hadn’t been the first time—but he’d caught her. She and her lover had been in his bed, in his apartment. Naked on his sheets.

Judah didn’t share, ever. Infidelity was his hard limit. And he was still pissed that he’d felt compelled to buy a new bed and give those expensive sheets to a charity shop. He’d thought about selling his apartment, but that was going a step too far. Carla wasn’t worth the sacrifice of his stunning views of Central Park.

Judah held up his hand. “Not interested.”

“Wait, Mr. Huntley.”

Judah lifted an eyebrow dismissively. “You have thirty seconds and I’m only giving you that much because this evening is sadly lacking in entertainment.”

Thin shoulders pushed back and an elegant hand smoothed a lock of silver hair off the man’s forehead. “I am Maximo Rossi. I am Carla’s personal lawyer.”

Okay. And what did Carla’s personal lawyer want from Judah? Thanks to being the sole beneficiary of her father’s billions, Carla had more money than God, along with her luscious body and stunning face. She also had the voice of an angel. They hadn’t had any contact for months, so why now? Judah felt his stomach twist itself into a Gordian knot. This couldn’t be good.

He forced himself to remain calm. “Is Carla okay?”

“She’s fine...mostly.”

Oh, God. He recognized the weariness in the older man’s eyes, the frustration that dealing with Carla Barlos incurred. The man probably had a stomach ulcer and high blood pressure. Judah could sympathize. Carla was hard work.

“What does that mean?” Judah demanded, hearing the apprehension in Rossi’s voice.

“Bertolli has written a new opera, one just for her.”

Bertolli’s music sounded like screeching cats, but what did Judah know? But even he, philistine that he was, understood how a big a deal it was to have Bertolli, the most exciting composer in the world, build an opera around Carla.

“It’s a morality tale. Carla’s lead character is a crusader for moral reform.”

While Judah appreciated the irony, he didn’t understand why Rossi was here, telling him this. Why should Judah care what Carla was up to? He hadn’t seen her for more than eighteen months.

Deciding he was done here, Judah was about to excuse himself when he heard the arrival of the elevator. The doors opened and a long leg, ending in a blush-colored pump, emerged from the box. A frothy peppermint-colored dress danced around slim thighs.

She was here, she was back.

Rossi forgotten, Judah’s eyes wandered upward, taking in a thin belt around a tiny waist, skating up a narrow chest. Her breasts were fantastic, small but perky. Athletic but not overly so, fit but still oh-so feminine. And God, that face.

Judah felt his cold heart sputter as blood drained south. A wide mouth made for kissing, high cheekbones, eyes the color of zinc under arched brows. Blond hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

He’d last seen her across a crowded room weeks ago. He’d thought her sexy then. Now, he upgraded that assessment to heart-stoppingly hot.

He wanted her. Now, immediately, up against that wall, his hands on those tanned thighs, his tongue on her neck, her nipple, her naval. He could go back to being a monk tomorrow...

But she had yet to notice him. Her attention was taken by the other occupants of the elevator, a black-haired, dark-eyed baby held by a hard-faced, middle-aged woman. The woman held the kid like she would hold a test tube of poison, awkward and fearful. He didn’t blame her; he wasn’t a kid person either.

He used to be, but that was a long time ago. When he was young and stupid.

Rossi cleared his throat. “That is my assistant and the baby is Jacquetta Huntley. Carla needs you to take her for at least six months. She can’t be responsible for her and prepare for the biggest performance of her career.”