HiddenDepths Read online

  “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 excluded. 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 corne
r 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.”

  Jack laughed. Any girl Carlo set his sights on wouldn’t keep her virginity for long. Not that he gave a rat’s ass about his companion’s sex life, but he wanted to be congenial, so he said, “Oh? Who would that be?”

  “The alluring Miss Prentiss.” He said it as if it was some kind of a title. “Look at this.” Whipping out his phone, he brought up an image, showing it as proudly as he would a wedding picture. Pathetic. It was a shot of a brunette scowling at the camera. She was pretty enough, but really…what nonsense.

  “She’s going to bear my children someday,” Carlo said, although his attention had drifted from the photo or even the television screen to a lush redhead who slid into the barstool two down from him. He smiled at the flesh-and-blood alternative to his goddess and started to slip his phone back into his pocket.

  “Wait a minute.” Something about the woman in the photo seemed familiar. “Let me see that.”

  Carlo handed him the phone, turning to the girl next to him and saying offhandedly to the bartender, “This lovely woman’s drink is on me.”

  Jack stopped paying attention to Bruscinni. The car mogul was going to blow him off anyway and not invest in Jack’s latest attempt to heave himself back into the style to which he had been accustomed and had been sadly lacking due to his personal finances as of late.

  He stared at the picture. Jesus, he knew who that looked like. The high cheekbones, the full lips, even the coloring.

  Just like her.

  Not sure what he could do with the observation, but it was interesting. After a minute more of staring, he handed the phone back to Carlo and got up. “Perhaps we should speak another time.”

  Carlo, not taking his eyes off the redhead, nodded and Jack left the bar, ignoring the bartender who at the last minute held up his check. At least he’d stuck Bruscinni with his bar tab.

  He was going to pay his old friend Damien Reynolds a visit tomorrow. He’d see if the resemblance held up in person. And then, who knew?

  * * * * *

  The penthouse suite at the Wrentham was old-fashioned but simple. Just as Evan liked things. Or furnishings anyway. Solid-oak floors without a lot of fussy carpets. Big pieces of dark wood with ample cushion crafted for utilitarian purposes like sitting and sleeping. And fucking.

  He wasn’t old-fashioned about sex, by any means. Up-front attitudes about sex were one of the few ways in which modern society had progressed from frontier days in his book. So he wasn’t judging Andrea Prentiss for hooking up with him. Hell no. He was just pissed she hadn’t told him who she was and had let him think she was the escort he hired. He felt as if an elaborate joke had been played on him.

  Of course, since the sex was so good, he was willing to forgive and forget.

  He looked at his watch. An hour or two, she had said. It was three by now. Pushing open the balcony door, he went out into the fresh night air. Or as fresh as New York air got. It had rained torrentially earlier in the day but it was dry now, the air moist and the elevation of his balcony isolating him from some of the deafening block of sound he always noticed when he visited New York these days. Sound so loud you could hear it through a locked window until you got up forty stories or so. Sometimes it took higher. He put his hands on the cold wrought-iron railing and looked down at the blinking lights of the city. God, he hated New York. He felt lonelier in this place packed wall to wall with people than he did alone on his island. Trite maybe, but true. Usually he got laid and left. He couldn’t get out fast enough. But Andrea Prentiss had kept him here this time. Good thing too, since he would have wanted to be there for Michael anyway.

  But Michael was going to be fine. It was himself he wasn’t so sure about.

  By the time it got to four hours since she had promised to meet him, he was annoyed. As the only laid-back loner in a family of domineering males, Evan wasn’t used to being pissed off or impatient, especially over a woman. He sincerely hoped one more round in the sack with Andrea Prentiss would get it out of his system and he could go back to the serenity of his real life.

  The doorbell rang. He had left word at the desk to let Miss Prentiss up whenever she arrived. At the sight of her when he opened the front door to the suite, he forgave her immediately. God, she was lovely, with white skin and red lips and hair so sable brown it could have been mink. How had he ever mistaken her for a whore? Class radiated from her, her heart-shaped chin tilted up slightly.

  She had a raincoat on in deference to the previous showers and when she unbelted it, he was sort of disappointed she wasn’t naked underneath. But her outfit, like everything else about her, screamed class. A black satin shift, not too clingy, not too short, and pointy black heels that made her almost as tall as he was. Her hair was up again, but this time in a loose knot at her neck.

  She swept past him, dropping her expensive Louis Vuitton bag onto a chair.

  “You’re late,” he noted, shutting the door behind her.

  “Oh my goodness. Is my reservation gone?”

  Her comment made him feel petty, especially since he had probably never complained about anyone being late in his entire adult life. He was the one who was always late, and if by some miracle the other person he was meeting was even later, it made no difference to him. He usually felt as if he had all the time in the world. But waiting for Andrea Prentiss, he had been as anxious as a kid waiting for the circus—or wa
iting for his half-assed father to pick him up to take him there—and he didn’t like the flashback. He tried to reclaim some of his usual cool as she shrugged out of her raincoat and he hung it on a hanger in the front closet. “You get up all right?”

  “Of course. They know me at the front desk.”

  “Do this a lot, do you?” he joked, but it didn’t quite come off.

  She paused. “I mean because of my work with Mr. Reynolds. I’ve had dealings with all the better hotels.”

  “Why do you keep calling Michael ‘Mr. Reynolds’?” he snapped. “It’s creepy.”

  Her chin hiked up a little higher. “I’m not interested in your impressions of my vernacular. Or in your assessment of ‘creepy’. Some people might think it was ‘creepy’ to arrange for a prostitute to come service you at a family party.”

  “Not you, though, I guess.”

  “On the contrary, I found it heartwarming. I admire multitasking.”

  Her delivery was so deadpan she could have made it as a stand-up comic and he found himself inadvertently laughing. So in the spirit of friendlier relations, he pitched an obvious softball. “So what are you interested in, then?”

  She cocked her head. “I thought we’d already established that. Where’s the bedroom?”

  Okay, now nobody could ever say Evan Reynolds wasn’t cool with anonymous sex. More than cool with it. He preferred it. Even more specifically, right at this moment, he preferred it with her.

  So why was he hesitating?

  He had no idea why, but he was rooted to the spot for a second instead of springing forward to the main act as he should have done at her question.

  She found the bedroom without any help from him, though, just wandering off in the right direction, and he followed. Once she was by the bed, she reached for the side zipper of her dress, not looking at him. Stunning himself, he said, “Hold on a minute.”

  She glanced his way.

  “Is this your thing?” he asked vaguely.

  “Is what my thing?”