Chapter Twenty-Eight

October 19

New York City

M iles refilled his coffee mug and returned to his workspace in the loft. He scanned the emails on his laptop, responding to a few, deleting others, and ignoring the vaguely worded message from Chug Ugentti’s personal assistant requesting an update. Scanning the desktop, Miles searched for a reason for his disquiet. The blotter was aligned with the edge of the desk. His Monte Blanc pen sat perpendicular on his right. A thin semicircular coffee stain ringed the base of his mug on the coaster. That must be it. Miles wiped away the spot and dried the cup with a tissue before returning it to its place.

Who was he kidding? The coffee was not the reason he couldn’t concentrate. Miles closed his eyes, each beat of his heart triggering a picture in his mind. Thump: Clara naked and on the bed, submissive and needy: yes, Miles . Thump: a bead of sweat dripping from his face to her cleavage. Thump: those sea-blue eyes staring up at him in wonder. Thump: his thick erection ripping through her virginity. Thump, thump, thump.

For years, Miles had denied himself the privilege of touching Clara, of even entertaining the idea that she could be his. He had been content kissing her with pranks, holding her with sharp remarks, and protecting her by chasing off any man who had the slightest notion of the forbidden acts that ran through his own head on a loop. But now his axis had tipped. Everything had changed.

He had known not to look at her; one glance into those fathomless eyes would be like plunging into the miraculous depths of the ocean—he would never want to resurface, happy to drown in her gaze. Nevertheless, he chanced a glance. That was his big mistake. Well, one of many. Her face, it was incandescent. The mere thought that he had brought her such pleasure—the feeling was indescribable. He wanted that look on her face every minute of every day, and he wanted to be the one to put it there. The only one.

Miles adjusted himself. Jesus, his dick hadn’t settled down yet despite thoroughly fucking Clara and two subsequent showers. Thoroughly fucking Clara . That was a bell he could never unring. Congratulations, Jackass. You’re officially standing knee-deep in worms from the barrel-sized can you just opened.

Rustling at his feet had Miles looking down. Loco, the psychotic cat, was weaving around his legs in a figure-eight.

He nudged the animal away. “Fuck off.”

He hoped Clara knew that that was the end of it—a one-off. Miles wasn’t capable of more. Whatever the fuck more even meant. Clara needed to realize that one night was all they would ever share.

Miles needed to realize it.

As much as he tried to tell himself that he was repaying a debt, that he was attempting to prevent Clara from finding some random hook-up for the sole purpose of deflowering her, that he was fucking her into submission, Miles knew it was a big fat lie.

He wanted her.

For years, Miles had slammed the drawbridge in his brain, refusing to acknowledge, beyond dispassionate observation, Clara’s allure. She was captivating and wild. But that wasn’t what pulled Miles into her orbit.

He was drawn to her soul.

Yes, their lives had followed very different paths, but Miles firmly believed Clara wasn’t the woman she was because good things had happened to her. Good things had happened because she was the woman she was. She was kind and generous and trusting. And now he knew her body, her taste, her scent…

Enough. Never in his life had he allowed a woman to occupy his thoughts, and he wasn’t about to start now. Determined to get the vixen out of his mind, Miles returned to his work.

His phone buzzed in the stand, set at a forty-five-degree angle beside his laptop.

The first message was a text from Clara: I think your prank backfired .

The second was a photo.

It took him a moment to process the picture in the text thread. Once he realized what he was looking at, Miles slammed the phone on the desk with such force that a spiderweb crack shattered the screen.

Without thought or hesitation, he flew out the door.

C lara emerged from the Art History building and paused at the top of the stone stairs. It was a warm day, and the autumn sun was rejuvenating. She tipped her head to the sky to soak it in. Continuing across the quad, Clara waved to some of her undergraduate students sitting on a blanket in the grass. Columbia was in the middle of one of the largest metropolitan areas on Earth, but it was a world unto itself—a serene, sheltered enclave amidst the chaos. Even during breaks, it was a bustling, vibrant place. She loved it here.

A presence keeping stride had Clara slowing her pace. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Miles had an aura of composure and command that she sensed. She did notice the group of women pause their tai chi routine to glance his way.

Hiking her book-laden tote higher on her shoulder, she grumbled, “What do you want?”

“I’m still deciding.” With a graceful move, Miles took the bookbag from her shoulder and slipped it over his own.

“Perhaps there are some lingering effects from that untreated head injury. I’m Clara, by the way,” she deadpanned.

Miles huffed. “As if I could forget you.”

Clara made a sound of disbelief.

“Glad to see you wore a sweater. I was concerned your classmates would have trouble focusing on the lecture.”

Clara looked away to hide her delight. After texting him that his prank had backfired, she’d added a photo of just her chest, braless in a tiny, white T-shirt.

“I’m not an idiot, Miles.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest, concealing her body’s response to his inspection.

He replied sincerely, “I know that.”

“Good. Maybe you and Reynard will finally learn your lesson. I don’t need a chaperone.”

“A father will never stop worrying about his little girl, Clara.”

They exited the campus and continued on 116th Street. Clara sighed, “I know. What’s your excuse.”

Ever the gentleman, Miles shifted her to his left side, away from the street. “Your sparkling personality?” he replied.

“Could be. Or maybe you don’t like the idea of another man touching me.”

“I thought we settled that issue .”

“Or maybe you just showed me what I’ve been missing.”

Miles pulled her to his chest and out of the flow of pedestrians. He growled into her ear. “Careful, Bluebird. I wouldn’t kick the hornet’s nest if I were you. Bad girls get punished.”

Oh. My. God. Clara nearly gasped. Miles’s breath on her neck, his clean scent surrounding her—her body remembered him. And responded.

“If I reached between your legs right now, what would I find, Bluebird?”

God, the arrogance. Clara wished it didn’t add to his intoxicating dominance. She shoved him back to cover her arousal.

“I’ll deal with my personal life. You, on the other hand, need to get a life .” She was about to resume her rant when Miles stared over her head, his eyes wide. Behind her, she heard the gunning engine. Before she knew what was happening, Miles wrapped her in his arms and pulled her behind the traffic light pole. Just then, a dark van hopped the curb with skidding tires, coming so close it brushed the side of Miles’s body. They staggered closer to the storefronts. Miles kept her cocooned until the van was long gone. She heard him mutter, “Fucking Ugentti.”

Clara stayed in the safety of his embrace longer than she should have. Miles, too, seemed reluctant to let her go.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She stared up into his concerned brown eyes. “You’re the one who was hit. Are you?”

“Fine.”

“Who’s Ugentti?”

“Hmm?”

“Just now. You said ‘fucking Ugentti’.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Miles,” she scolded. “You were almost flattened.”

He turned her forward and resumed walking. “I have a client who is dissatisfied.”

“So he’s trying to kill you?”

“Warn me, most likely.”

They paused at the base of her stoop, and Clara faced him again. “Miles, if your clients are expressing their dissatisfaction by running you down, it might be time for a career change. Maybe a job where people who don’t like your service post a Yelp review.”

Miles brushed her cheek with his thumb; against her will, Clara leaned into his touch. He bent down, and for the briefest moment, Clara thought he was going to kiss her. She froze as his lips touched her forehead.

“See you later, Bluebird.” Miles slipped her messenger bag from his shoulder and gently hung it across her body.

“Where are you going?”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “It’s time for a career change.”

Clara stood on the sidewalk for a full five minutes, watching until Miles hailed a cab on the corner. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she retrieved her keys and turned to her building. As was her habit, Clara checked her surroundings before opening the front door. The sidewalk had the usual foot traffic—a dog walker with a handful of leashes, a mother pushing a stroller, a mail carrier. Across the street, a man sat in an older model sedan. He wouldn’t have caught Clara’s attention, but for the fact he was looking right at her. When she met his gaze, the guy looked away. Unconcerned—Clara received plenty of unwanted attention on the streets of New York—she opened the door and went inside.

M iles spoke on the phone as he stepped into the elevator of his Upper East Side apartment building.

“It’s a good fit for you, Miles. I can’t think of a better man for the job.”

“I’m excited. It’s time for a change.”

“And I need someone running Bishop Security in New York. It’s long overdue.”

“I appreciate your patience, Nathan.”

On the other end of the line, Nathan Bishop had a smile in his voice. “I knew you’d come around. We’ll fly you down here next week, and we can iron out the details.”

“Look forward to it.”

“The team will be happy to know you’ve finally agreed,” Nathan said.

“When will you tell them?”

There was a brief pause. Then Nathan replied, “You can tell them yourself.”

Puzzled, Miles replied, “Okay.”

“Have a good night.” Nathan ended the call as the doors parted.

In the eleventh-floor hallway, Miles was already shedding his suit jacket. The entire drive there, he was consumed with how Ugentti had managed to track him to Harlem. As he slipped the key into the lock, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

After checking the caller, he swiped accept and said, “Give me some good news, Gordie.”

The reporter chuckled. “As I predicted, my buddy at The Herald was all over it. He lapped up the story of Ugentti screwing his interns. That shit never gets old. He’s finishing up the article and fact-checking tomorrow. It’ll be in the online edition and the morning paper—front page below the fold—the day after.”

“I owe you, Gordie.”

“And I’ll collect.” Gordie grew serious. “Be careful with this guy, my friend.”

“Always.”

Miles ended the call and entered his apartment, returning his attention to the task at hand.

The only article of clothing he was wearing that he had also worn to the Ugentti meet was the pair of John Lobb loafers. After sitting at his desk in the small study, Miles slipped off the shoes. Opening a desk drawer, he withdrew a scanner. Slowly, he ran the device over the shoes and watched as the red light on the small screen filled the bar.

Sitting back in the chair, Miles looked out the window at the clear autumn sky. On that busy Harlem street, he had hoped the incident with the van had simply been an accident—a deliveryman running late or distracted by their phone.

Now, as he walked in his socks to the bedroom, Miles knew that the driver had been aiming for him.

Miles placed the shoes with the tracker on their assigned shelf in his closet. They would come in handy when the time was right. He grabbed the battered biker boots.

Ugentti thought he was smart.

Miles was smarter.