HiddenDepths (2 page)

He finally caught her by herself near the candy machine, out
of the way of the rest of his family.

“Remember me?”

She looked up, the big blue eyes wide and innocent.
“Certainly, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Don’t you ‘Mr. Reynolds’ me. What was that all about?”

“What was what all about?”

“At my father’s party. You…we…”

“We had sex, Mr. Reynolds.” She laughed. “My, I certainly
never thought I’d say that.”

“God, I hope not. You’re not Michael’s, are you? Because
from what I can see of that Vanny, she’ll give you a fight to the death on that
one.” He didn’t really think it but he couldn’t stop himself from saying it, if
only to insult her.

Her voice was cooler. “I’m not anybody’s, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Evan,” he snapped.

“Evan.” There was a long pause, with neither of them
speaking. She finally asked, “Is there something I can do for you,
Evan
?”

“As a matter of fact,
Miss Prentiss
, there is. You
can fuck me again.”

A long pause, then, “Where?”

Whatever Evan had expected, it wasn’t that. What was with
this chick?

She dug into a side pocket of her skirt and extracted a
crisp dollar bill, feeding it into the candy machine and tapping out a code
that caused a bag of peanut M&M’s to fall from a hook inside the glass to
the bottom bin. She reached through the swinging door to get her prize and
nonchalantly ripped the little bag open, pouring some into her palm and
bringing it delicately to her lips to eat them off.

He watched her chew and swallow as if she were performing
some strip show for him again. And in his mind maybe she was. She had a long,
white throat and he remembered how it felt as he flicked his thumb along its
length. Like velvet.

“Well?” she said. “Was that a sincere proposition or were
you just trying to offend me?”

“Both. Why? Was that a sincere ’where’?”

“Depends.”

She held the bag of candy toward him and he shook his head.
If he kissed her now, she would taste like chocolate and he’d rather get his
fix from her lips than from her hand. Shifting from one foot to the other, he
calculated how best to get them the hell out of this hospital and back to
somewhere with a bed. She crunched on a few more M&M’s and licked her lips.

Of course there were a lot of beds in a hospital. Maybe they
should make do.

“Depends on what?”

She flashed him a warning look accompanied by a friendly
over-his-shoulder greeting. “Hi, Vanny. Great minds think alike. Did you have
the same idea I did?”

Quick sex?
Evan glanced over his shoulder.

“I still have a few singles if you need one. I went for M&M’s,
but there’s quite a selection here.”

Michael’s new girlfriend, Vanny Donald—a bizarre but
beautiful sight in a rumpled bathrobe, her golden-blonde hair tumbling around
her and one hand pressing a bandage to her temple as if that alone kept it
on—suddenly joined them, smiling apologetically. “Oh no, I couldn’t eat a
thing, chocolate or otherwise. Thanks, Andrea. But I came over because
Michael’s been asking for you. Could you go in and see him? Something about
some embassy or delegation or something. He can’t stop thinking about business
for a minute.”

“Certainly, Vanny. It’s no problem at all.” Andrea Prentiss
tossed her now-empty candy package into the waste dispenser and smiled that
cool smile of hers. “It’s what I’m here for. I’ll go right in to him.”

And then she was gone before Evan could either shepherd her
into an empty hospital room or sputter out the name of his hotel and pass her a
key. He watched her go.

“She’s a trip, isn’t she? Now which one are you?”

Looking back to Vanny, he remembered his manners, holding
his hand out automatically to shake hers. “I’m sorry. I’m Evan. I guess we
didn’t get a chance to meet at the party and with everything going on here it
didn’t seem like the time.”

Vanny shook his hand firmly, even though the rest of her
looked a little shaky. She leaned against the candy machine. “Good to meet you,
Evan. I’ll eventually get all the brothers straight. I’m an only child, though,
so I guess it’ll be a challenge.”

Evan didn’t question her assumption that she would be around
Michael long enough to need to know his family. Their father had dropped
numerous clunky hints that this was
the one
for his oldest son. One look
through the hospital room window at the hug Michael and Vanny shared when he
finally came to left no doubt in Evan’s mind that for once his father was right
on the subject of matrimony.

“Well, we’re not together as a family all that often, so it
probably won’t come up too much.”

Vanny glanced toward the waiting room where, actually, they
were all together for the second time in days. They had gathered at their
father’s East Coast mansion for a party over the weekend to celebrate his
sister Samantha’s marriage, but Evan had been too preoccupied with Miss
Prentiss to appreciate the fact. He stayed in town longer than he had planned,
stewing over whether to reach out to his surprising new hook-up.

And now here they all were again, brought together by the
shocking news that Michael had been shot. At least the person responsible had
been caught and was behind bars.

“I don’t know why you don’t hang out together more. You guys
seem like a great family.”

“We do?” Evan dug his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“That’s because you don’t know us that well. We’re a motley crew.” With
different mothers and such a dictatorial father, Reynolds family relations were
sometimes less than ideal. But maybe they ought to work harder at that. First
there was the scare of Samantha’s kidnapping by modern-day pirates and now
Michael had been shot. It seemed petty to get so caught up in the politicking
of a large family. He loved his brothers and his sister. Hell, he even loved
the old man, who, poor guy, looked as if he’d aged a decade from the party to
the intensive care unit where his favorite son and heir to the vast Reynolds
Industries empire lay.

Evan’s brother Chris came over and put a gentle hand at
Vanny’s elbow. “Michael says you were supposed to come back in with Miss
Prentiss. I’m ordered to send you back there right away.”

She gave a weak smile. “He’s up to ordering everybody around
again. That’s a good sign.”

When she was gone, Chris lingered, smirking at Evan. “So.
Hitting on Miss Prentiss, were you?”

Before he could object—which would have been lying, of
course—his brother went on. “I’m here to save you some trouble. Don’t bother.
She’s cold as ice.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“She’s been Michael’s assistant for years. If you’d ever
been to the office in recent memory, you’d know that.”

Chris, his third-oldest brother, had done his stint at
Reynolds Industries, as had most of Damien Reynolds’ sons, himself
ex
cluded.
Chris was working at a private equity firm now, though.

“I know she’s Michael’s assistant.” He knew
now
anyway. What he didn’t know was whether they had been anything more. “Was there
ever any, you know,
thing
between her and Michael?”

“Hell no! That’s probably how Michael picks his assistants,
based on whether they can resist throwing themselves at him.”

Evan’s mouth tightened.

“And this one,
Miss Prentiss
, is made for the part.”

“I take it you’ve hit on her unsuccessfully.”

“Evan, every guy who’s ever been in that office has hit on
her—unsuccessfully.”

He didn’t like the idea of that for some reason. “So she
doesn’t date guys who meet with her boss. That’s not such a surprise.”

The fact that she’d sleep with her boss’s brother sort of
was, though.

Chris shrugged. “It’s not just that. She probably doesn’t
date anybody. Cold, I’m telling you. Gorgeous, but untouchable.”

Evan snorted, a little tempted to tell his big brother how
very wrong he was. But of course a gentleman, even Reynolds to Reynolds, never
tells. “Just because she shot you down doesn’t mean she’s frigid, you
egomaniac.”

“Not just me. Although I admit, that
is
unusual enough
to suggest it.” Chris grinned. “She blows off everybody. I’ve heard her shoot
guys down in French, in German, even in Italian and I don’t speak Italian.”

“Maybe she wasn’t shooting that one down, then.”

“Sure she was. It was Carlo Bruscinni, you know, the racecar
driver. We went out and got drunk after his meeting with Michael and he
couldn’t stop talking about the ‘alluring Miss Prentiss’ who had frozen him out
every time he’d tried to get her to go to dinner with him, by which he of
course meant hit the sheets.”

“Maybe she’s married.” God, now that was a depressing
thought.

“Yeah. To her job. But why so interested?”

Evan shrugged. “You just got through telling me she’s broken
the heart of every guy she’s ever met.”

“The balls.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s not like you is all.”

He settled for “She’s…interesting.”

Chris looked down the corridor toward Michael’s room, where
Miss Prentiss was presumably taking orders as usual. “Yeah, once I got over my
bruised ego, I found I kind of like Miss Prentiss. She’s tough. And smart as
all hell. I’ve never seen her lose her temper. And if you had ever worked for
Michael, you’d know how unusual that is. She speaks, like, a million languages.
She could be running a division, easy.”

“Why isn’t she?”

“I don’t know. Probably because Michael wouldn’t let her.
Shit. Everybody knows how hard he is on assistants. He probably pays her more
than most of the heads of divisions just to keep her. So don’t even waste your
time trying to lure her back to that lighthouse of yours.”

“I was thinking more like my hotel,” he muttered, not sure
whether he meant for Chris to hear or not.

But the moron did. “I’d like to see that!” he scoffed
loudly.

“Fuck you. No watching.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subject of their
conversation walking briskly down the hall away from them toward the exit. Evan
shot forward and caught up to her, grabbing her arm before she got to the
elevator. “Hey!”

She looked down pointedly to where he gripped her and then
back up to him, as if to say
what
without actually going to the trouble
of saying it.

“Where are you going?”

“I have some errands to do for Mr. Reynolds. Mr.
Michael
Reynolds.”

“Maybe, but you’re sure as hell going to take care of some
business for Mr.
Evan
Reynolds.”

Chris was watching them, but far enough away so he couldn’t
hear.

“Where?” she repeated tightly, staring him straight in the
eyes.

“The penthouse suite at the Wrentham.”

“Fine. Give me an hour or two.”

He dropped his hand and she left.

Chris came up to stand behind him. “Wow. No need to
manhandle the poor girl,” he scolded. “No means no, bro.”

Evan didn’t bother to correct him.

* * * * *

Jack Tottingham ordered another Bloody Mary and waited for
his appointment to show. He glanced at the flat-screen television in the corner
of the bar, which showed a man being taken out of an exclusive apartment
building in handcuffs. A plainclothes policeman was walking beside him in the
pouring rain and putting him into an unmarked police car. They’d been playing
the same clip over and over, alternating it with a shot of Michael Reynolds
being rushed into an ambulance and spirited away to be patched up by the best
doctors Damien Reynolds’ money could buy. Good. About time some rain fell in
his old school chum’s charmed life.

Jack looked at the deluge on the screen.
Rain fell
.
Good one.

Carlo Bruscinni slid into the barstool next to him. About
time.

“Sorry I’m late.” Carlo shook his head at the bartender who
came over. “Nothing for me.”

Bad sign. This appointment was apparently going to go the
way of all Jack’s other ones. South.

Bruscinni had his eyes glued to the TV screen. “Did you see
that? Incredible thing. Nobody is safe these days.”

“Yes, well, sometimes you get what you ask for.”

“Oh? You know Michael Reynolds?”

“No. I knew his father.”

“I don’t know the patriarch, I must admit, but I’ve always
found the sons to be quite straightforward. I’m sorry to see this,” he gestured
toward the screen, “trouble. Although perhaps I should give my little goddess
there a call and see how she’s faring.”

Jack looked at the clip he’d seen a dozen times since he had
sat down in this dreary, overpriced bar. Michael Reynolds’ white, apparently
unconscious figure on a stretcher—incredible Damien hadn’t managed to put a
quash yet on broadcasting this tape, but he undoubtedly had other things on his
mind than controlling all his puppets in the media right now—while some girl
who was no more than a tumble of blonde curls hovered anxiously over the
stretcher and climbed into the ambulance behind it.

“Goddess?” Like all Italians Jack knew, Carlo was a
notorious womanizer. Typical, the man would view that scene and think about the
woman in it, although Bruscinni should take care if he intended to poach on
Reynolds’ preserve. That family was full of men who were quite the womanizers
themselves. “The blonde?” he asked absently. “She doesn’t look like much to me
but I suppose she isn’t at her best right then.”

“No, not her. I don’t know who she is. No, I mean Michael’s
secretary.”

“Oh, is he sleeping with her too?”

Carlo muttered some curse in Italian that Jack knew the gist
of if not the literal translation and held a hand up to his heart. When he
switched to English, he said, curtly, “No. I would never believe it of my
angel.” He added wryly, “She’s saving her virginity for me. I know it.”