Silent Desires

Clive held his hands out in front of him, the muscles in his chest and arms tight as he lowered himself slowly in a deep knee bend. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm. The trick was to stay calm.

He completed five sets of ten each, his balance never wavering. He was ready. He was calm. He was in control.

Slowly, he stood up straight, feeling remarkably light. “Tonight’s the night, Em. Tonight, that bastard dies.”

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. A prayer for success on his mission as he fought the evil that was Worthington. The man was vile. A pathetic, money-grubbing snake who didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than himself and his projects.

He was the reason Clive got laid off. And he was the reason his beautiful Emily had died. Oh, Worthington hadn’t given her the cancer. But he’d killed her just the same. He took away her health insurance. Took away their income. And in the end, his fragile, beautiful Em just hadn’t had the stamina.

She’d left him. Left Clive all alone.

The papers had said that Worthington had made a fortune on that deal, and now there was talk of another takeover. Some shipping company. And Worthington was so smug. Business, he called it. Just business.

Bastard.

So he’d made a fortune, had he? Well, now it was time for Worthington to pay the price. And he was going to pay it to Clive. With his life.

Just like Em had paid.

BRYCE GLANCED at his watch, frowned, and lost his train of thought. Not hard considering the ridiculous array of questions the attorney had been throwing at him throughout this absurd, interminable deposition. He forced a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Certainly.” The attorney on the other side of the table, a freckle-faced kid who reminded Bryce of Opie and couldn’t be more than five minutes out of law school, turned to the court reporter. “Could you read back the question, please?”

As the reporter started to comply, Bryce held up his hand. “Wait.” He turned to Leo. “Can we take a quick break?”

“Off the record?” Leo said to Opie, the words purportedly a question, but his tone allowing no room for dispute.

The young attorney nodded, waving his hand as if he was the king granting a pardon. Bryce pushed his chair back from the conference table, then headed out of the conference room, Leo at his heels.

“I need to go,” Bryce said, cutting to the chase as soon as the door clicked shut behind them. “This has been dragging on for hours now. It’s a bunch of BS, and I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Leo ran a hand through his hair, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Bryce knew the reason, of course. The shareholders in Carpenter Shipping had hired themselves a big-shot attorney and had gotten a temporary restraining order that morning. In an effort to resolve the dispute and keep the deal moving, Leo had offered to present Bryce for a deposition.

Bryce had agreed. But his patience had worn thin. “He’s not even focusing on the sale,” Bryce said. “The kid’s fishing, and he’s wasting time doing it.”

Leo nodded. “I know. The kid’s green. But so far he hasn’t established one element of his claim. There’s nothing to support converting the restraining order into a permanent injunction, but if you walk out now, he’ll just tell the judge he wasn’t able to finish.” Leo shrugged. “I’m betting another hour. At most.”

Bryce frowned. As much as it rankled, he knew Leo was right. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m supposed to be on a date. Give me a few minutes to make a call.” As soon as Leo headed back into the deposition, Bryce turned on his cell phone and dialed the restaurant. The maître d’ promised to relay the message to Joan—he’d been detained and would call her in the morning.

He hated doing it, but he didn’t want her sitting there waiting. Opie might have only an hour’s worth of questions, but he might have three. And although it was late, Leo wanted to keep going rather than spend the day tomorrow in depositions—time that should be spent on the New Jersey project.

He switched off his phone and headed back into the abyss. He hoped Joan was available tomorrow. Because if Opie was making Bryce miss out on dinner with the woman altogether, then the young attorney was really going to see the full force of Bryce’s wrath.

THE HOSTESS HAD SEATED HER even though Bryce wasn’t there yet, but now Joan was wishing she’d waited in the bar. She felt horribly conspicuous sitting all alone at the small, intimate table. Just feeling that way bothered her. She’d been everywhere—from truck stops to black-tie affairs—and this was the first time she’d felt truly out of place.

Hoping to ignore the feeling, she glanced into her tote at the books she’d chosen. She’d brought several so that he’d have a choice. Most were standard fare—early editions of works by Lawrence and Miller and others. The basic building blocks of a serious erotica collection. The third, though…well, the third was Pleasures. Her favorite book.

If she’d been feeling contemplative, she would have wondered about her motivations in bringing a book that both fascinated and turned her on. Fortunately, she wasn’t feeling contemplative.

She took another sip of her wine, then nibbled on a bread stick to counteract the alcohol that was fast going to her head. She was on her second glass. A mistake, probably, but she hated just to sit there. And so when the waiter had offered the wine, she’d simply accepted.

For the umpteenth time, she glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty. Damn.

She pulled out her cell phone and checked the display screen, wondering if perhaps she’d missed a call. She hadn’t, of course, and then she remembered that she hadn’t given him her number. She had his, though. She hesitated to use it, the act of actually calling to ask where he was too wounding to her pride.

But she supposed she’d rather suffer a slight bruising to her ego than sit there all night sipping wine and getting wasted. She punched in the number, and the phone rang and rang, finally switching to voice mail.

She clicked off, not bothering to leave a message. What would she say? Where are you? That was too pathetic. Have you stood me up? That was too angry. Nothing quite fit, and so she said nothing, intending to wait five minutes and simply try again.