B00Z637D2Y (R) (4 page)

Like saying no would stop him? “Sure.” She lifted her head and gritted her teeth. She’d heard this speech a hundred times before
. Focus. Pay attention. Straighten up. Get it together.
How many new ways could it be said by different people? Everyone, even strangers, felt compelled to chime in about her flakiness. She didn’t need to hear it again. She was a mess and she knew it. Pointing it out didn’t change things.

“Give Mr. Anderson a chance. He’s a lot like you.”

Well, that wasn’t what she’d expected. A choked laugh escaped. “Are you kidding? He’s like me? In what alternate dimension would that not be a joke?”

“I’m serious. I’ve been up here several times a week since you moved in, for one disaster after another, and I’ve known Mr. Anderson since he bought his place a couple of years ago. I stand by my statement. You two are very much alike. You’re both set in your ways. He wants order, and you want…” He gestured to the splattered canvas and general mess of the room. “He’s all about success and responsibility and you’re avoiding responsibility every chance you get.”

Ouch.
“That doesn’t sound like we’re alike at all.”

He grinned, white teeth peeking out from under his mustache. “Yeah, you are. You’re both unmovable and stuck in your ways.” He waved an arm in the air. “Just alike.”

What the hell?
“What, do you moonlight as a shrink, Mr. Grant? That was impressive psychobabble.”

“Call me Eddie.” He pointed at his head. “I’ve been around. I see things. I know stuff.” Before he could lumber out the door, he paused. “And Mr. Anderson didn’t call to report you. He asked me to come make any needed repairs and to not write it up or call Ms. Braxton. He said he’d pay to put things back right again.”

And she’d thought Michael’s leash remark had been the most painful thing so far that day. What a fiasco. She’d screamed and yelled at him—while flailing the Panty Pointer of course, and what had he done? Something nice.

Men sucked.

“I’ll bring the dehumidifier back up in a bit.” He paused at the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah, great.” She grabbed the stereo remote and hit play. “Just perfect.”

Chapter Three

Michael checked his watch again. His meeting with a potential new client from Japan was in less than thirty minutes and he needed to get back up to the office to review the file. He liked to know as much as possible about business contacts before meeting with them. At this rate, the client would beat him to the office.

“For God’s sake, dog. Just piss already.”

Instead, the creature stood next to the tree nearest the Anderson Building and ignored him completely. Michael wasn’t used to being ignored and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of this, and his mood wasn’t improved by the fact he hadn’t slept at all last night. Between his frustration over his encounter with his neighbor yesterday, and the dog tearing up two
Bloomsberg Businessweek
magazines, a
Wall Street Journal
, then somehow getting into the pantry and eating a full box of saltine crackers before shredding the box into confetti last night, he was exhausted.

The dog appeared no worse for wear, though, as it strained against the leash—the pale blue rhinestone-studded leash that made Michael cringe—and barked at another dog walked by a woman in a business suit half a block away.

This was ridiculous. The dog had cried to go outside, and now, nothing. Michael didn’t have time for this, but Dr. Whittelsey said he had to take care of the dog himself. The goal of this dog therapy bullshit was to loosen him up, not make him late for meetings. Enough was enough; he had to get back. As he neared the entrance to his building, the dog came to an abrupt halt and struck a serious take-care-of-business pose.

People passed on either side, and he pretended not to be bothered by the fact the beast with a pink bow that matched its pink nail polish on the end of a bejeweled leash was taking a dump on a public sidewalk right outside the Anderson Building.

But he
was
bothered. Mortified, in fact. And he had nothing in his possession to get rid of the unanticipated pile of poop. Gaze glued to the pavement, he turned to lead the dog into his building, but before he could take three steps, a woman’s voice stopped him. “You’re not going to just leave that, are you? Not only is there a huge fine, it’s rude and nasty.”

“Well, no, I—”

“I bet you don’t even have a bag for that, huh?” Her harpy tone made him want to run away and abandon the dog and its leavings right there. But instead, he turned to face her.

It was the woman with the dog he’d seen earlier. She was short and in her late fifties, wearing a business suit from dozens of seasons ago. She reminded him a little of his secretary, Mildred, only younger. His tension eased a bit until he noticed the angry glares of people detouring around the pile of dog poop.

The woman gasped. “Oh, my God. You’re that antiques guy from the papers. The one who made the top ten most eligible bachelors in New York City!” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of what was certainly an expression of horror. “Here,” she said, fiddling with a little cylinder on her dog’s leash handle. “Have one of my bags.” She held it out, grinning hugely, as the dogs checked each other out as dogs do.

Well, there was no escape from this. Resigned, he stuck his hand inside the little green bag like a glove, and prayed nobody was watching as he stooped to grab Shit Head’s… shit.

Click

It was an unmistakable sound and one he’d heard many times. Usually, he welcomed having his picture taken, always mindful to maintain his carefully crafted image.

Picking up dog shit was
not
part of that image.

Cringing, he straightened and shot a glance in both directions and then relaxed slightly as the woman with the dog shoved her smartphone into her pocket. At least the photo was in the possession of a businesswoman, and not the paparazzi. He rolled the bag inside out, and as he started to tie the top, the dogs made a playful circle around each other and the leash went taut, nearly causing him to drop the poop bag right along with his calm façade.

“Mr. Anderson!”

So much for the calm façade. This was the last thing he needed. Meeting a new client on the sidewalk outside his building while holding a dog leash in one hand and a bag of poop in the other was less than ideal.
Shit, shit, shit.

Yes, that was the problem: shit with no trash can in sight. The woman and her dog had vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk, and he knew when he turned, he’d be face to face with Mr. Kawashima, who owned a large collection of samurai and Ming Dynasty artifacts he was interested in having Anderson Auctions broker. Prescribed or not, he couldn’t let some hairy, destructive, inconvenient, disobedient dog get in the way.

Subtly—yes, Michael Anderson was the king of subtlety—he tied the top of the bag of poop and slipped it into his front jacket pocket before he turned to face what he hoped to be the biggest client of his career.

The handshakes and introductions between Michael, Mr. Kawashima, and his interpreter on the street were awkward enough, but when the dog refused to get on the elevator, Michael almost lost his cool.

“Sorry,” he muttered, tugging hard on the leash while holding the elevator open with his shoulder. “Dog, come.” But the beast dug in to the carpet just outside the elevator entrance.

Mr. Kawashima whispered something in Japanese to the dog, and as if magically transformed by a spell, it relaxed and hopped onto the elevator.

What the hell?
Michael moved and the door slid shut as the men spoke to each other in Japanese.

“Mr. Kawashima says that dogs feel emotions. The dog feels your fear.”

Fear?
Michael Anderson didn’t fear anything. He looked at his tight expression reflected in the polished brass doors of the elevator. Well, maybe. He
did
fear losing this deal. But right that moment, anger was his predominant emotion. He was royally pissed at the dog and his shrink.
Feel
that
, dog.

“Fear may not be the right word,” the interpreter continued. “Anxiety.”

The door slid open and Michael gestured for his guests to exit first. “Yes. That is correct. I’m anxious to learn about Mr. Kawashima’s collection.”

…

Michael stared at the unsigned contract on his desk. This had never happened to him before. Mr. Kawashima hadn’t said no to a business deal, but he hadn’t said yes, either.

“You okay?” his little brother asked. Chance was the company lawyer and sat in on all major contract negotiations—major like this one should have been.

“No.”

What the fuck was wrong with him? It was like he couldn’t find solid ground for purchase and he was sinking in sludge the entire meeting. He wasn’t just losing his drive, he was losing his touch.

“You seemed distracted. That’s not like you.”

It sure as hell wasn’t. He rose from behind his desk once he was sure Mr. Kawashima had made it out of the building.

Chance leaned further back in the wing chair across from him. “What exactly were you thinking about during the meeting?”

“Shit.” He walked to his private office bathroom and deposited the bag from the street in the trashcan, letting the lid slam with a clang. “Shit,
literally
.” He avoided looking at his reflection as he washed his hands. “Specifically, the bag of shit residing in my suit pocket the entire meeting.” His brother hadn’t moved when he reentered the office. Chance was the most patient person he had ever known. He had a gift for remaining still and at ease even in the worst situations, possibly the result of all of his martial arts training. “I was so focused on keeping the damned dog under control on the way up here, I forgot about it being in my pocket until we started the meeting, then the timing was never right to interrupt.” He paced the wall of windows, too agitated to sit down. “Once I remembered, all I could think about was the bag in my pocket. Could they smell it? Was it going to break and ruin my suit? How could I get rid of it without stopping the meeting and offending Mr. Kawashima?”

The edges of Chance’s mouth curled, threatening to break into a smile.

“If you laugh, I’m going to kick your ass.”

This time, Chance did smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

“So would I.” Will, Michael’s middle brother, who ran security for Anderson Enterprises, entered the office wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. He shook Chance’s hand and dropped into the chair next to him. “What’s up?”

“Big brother blew an interview,” Chance supplied.

His back still to his brothers, Michael balled and unballed his fists. “It wasn’t an interview, and I didn’t blow it.”

Will grinned. “Whoa. Mighty Mikey fucked something up?”

“I did
not
fuck it up.”

“It’s about time!” Will high-fived Chance.

Stay calm. Keep control.
Michael turned to face his laughing brothers. “The dog fucked it up.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up. “What dog?”

“The one whose turds he’s been carrying around in his pocket as a souvenir all morning.” Chance snickered and Michael fought the urge to charge him.

God, what was wrong with him? He never lost his cool like this. It had to be because he’d just potentially blown a deal. He took a deep breath. This could be fixed. He just needed to do his research and be prepared before his next meeting with Mr. Kawashima. Shaking up his routine was one thing, but being unprepared was another.

“Where’s the dog now?” Will asked. “Man, I love dogs.”

“I don’t,” Michael grumbled.

Will’s demeanor changed entirely. “What
do
you love?” When he didn’t answer, his brother pushed harder. “I mean, really. What makes you happy, outside these walls? You never seem happy. In all the time I’ve known you growing up, and now, you seem satisfied and driven, but never really happy.”

Which was why he’d agreed to Dr. Whittelsey’s absurd dog therapy, but he had no desire to discuss that with his brothers.
Deflect it with a question.
“What makes
you
happy, Will?”

There wasn’t even a slight hesitation. “Claire.”

Will had fallen head over heels for a temp employee, and though Michael was happy for his brother, he knew good and well that a woman wasn’t the answer to his own joy. Deals like the one with Mr. Kawashima and the success of his businesses, especially Anderson Auctions, had been his source of happiness. He had no room in his life for anything other than work. No pets and certainly no long-term relationship with a woman—he knew from watching his dad that running this business and successfully maintaining a monogamous relationship was impossible. Regular one or two time dates had always worked just fine…well, until recently. The last few weeks, the house sitter from hell had driven off his company.

“I just need some sleep,” he said, straightening a pen on his desk so that it sat parallel to the blotter. “My new neighbor is a nightmare and blasts music at night.” Usually when he had a date over. In fact,
always
when he had a date over. His mind ran though his encounter with Mia and he hardened at the thought of her sliding down his body when he rescued her from the hostile desk chair.

“Maybe you need a woman,” Will suggested.

“He has plenty of women,” Chance said. “Don’t you read the papers? He’s a regular revolving door.”

“Fuck you,” Michael grumbled.

“Me, too?” Chance grinned and Michael’s anger dissipated. He loved his brothers’ senses of humor. He was just really rattled by not landing the Kawashima deal.

“I’m glad you and Claire hit it off, Will, but for me, a woman isn’t the answer. Believe me. There are only three kinds of women in my life: Type A: Those who want me for my money. Type B: Those who want me for sex. Type C: Those who want nothing to do with me at all.”

“There are a lot of type C’s,” Chance said.

Michael couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, there are. Smart ones avoid me.” Which had never really bothered him until last night. The woman next door had made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with him once she discovered his identity. Usually, he would have rejoiced at this rejection—she wasn’t his type at all—but for some reason it stung. And he’d been rude, which was way out of character. The leash remark was inexcusable. His stomach churned just thinking about it.