Destined To Fall (Reluctant lovers #1)

Chapter One

My scream rents the air, ricocheting around the penthouse suite, drowning out the frantic thundering of my pulse and my ragged panting.

I lean back, my hands pressed to my chest as my heart all but jumps out of my body with how fast it ’ s racing.

“ God, we were on form.” I laugh to myself, rolling off.

In my drunken, sex-hazed state, I roll to the wrong side and straight off the bed and onto the floor with an undignified thud, no doubt bruising my derriere in the process. The bemused face that greets me over the edge of the bed says nothing but titters lightly, looking as if he ’ s about to pass out any second.

Freshed and dressed, I am about to walk out the suite door when Antony stops me.

“ I ’ m staying further. I will require you longer.”

“ I ’ ll check my schedule.”

“ I ’ ve cleared it with Laura already.”

“ Of course you have.” I snort, shaking my head, and walk out of the suite.

The ride home is a drunken blur, and I fall into my apartment , cursing and cringing when my front door smashes against the wall. Still muttering to myself, I kick off my pretty torture devices and whimper as they clatter to the floor, the door slamming closed with a loud, reverberating bang.

Argh. My head, you moron!

It ’ s always the same when Antony comes to town, and I never learn, leaving my liver to take one—or six—for the team on more nights than I care to count. The filthy—in more ways than one—rich, Italian-born businessman and I met over five years ago at an invite-only function in New York. It was a hell of a feat to get one of those prestigious little gold cards, yet I was dreading going. The nerves were going to kill me, but I needed to be there, so Laura, now my manager-slash-personal organizer extraordinaire, insisted. A smorgasbord of potential clients ripe for the taking was not something I could pass up.

It turned out to be the biggest snooze-fest. A pap smear with a ninety-year-old doctor would have been more stimulating than that soiree—that was until the most alluring man in the room singled me out.

Antony cut to the chase—I ’ ve always loved that in a man—coming up behind me at the bar to whisper in my ear. His thick Italian accent sent shivers down my spine as he said the four magic words.

“ I must have you.”

Easiest in I ’ d ever had, but I worked it for all I was worth. Turning my head to meet his golden-brown gaze, my body slowly followed suit as I crossed my leg, parting the side slit further. My emerald silk gown moved across my skin like butter, revealing a sizable amount of skin. Antony ’ s eyes zeroed in on my bare thigh, as intended, and I closed the deal with four of my own magical little words no man with lust blazing in his eyes and more money than sense could resist.

“ You couldn ’ t afford me.”

It was really that simple. The rest, an affluent history. Now, every time Antony ’ s in Boston, which is more and more frequently since I moved back six or so months ago, for whatever business he ’ s into—I don ’ t ask, and he doesn ’ t tell—he insists I block out a week for him and him alone. The evenings are always his, but I ’ m allowed a little more liberty during the day, unless required for show-pony duties. I ’ m happy to comply, mostly.

Continuing to dance to my own drunk beat, I make my way through my opulent foyer, the silence that always greets me a little louder than normal tonight, but I ignore it, as usual. My head throbs in time with my heavy footfalls as I enter the kitchen in search of my standard AAPP (Attempted Alcohol Poisoning Prevention).

I ’ m sure there ’ s some rule about hangovers. Don ’ t they only kill you once you pass out and then regain consciousness? Apparently not, because somehow at three a.m., I ’ m still roaring drunk and dying at the same time.

Lucky me.

The blinking red light on my answering machine catches my eye as I open my all-but-empty fridge, squinting painfully against the fluorescent light trying to blind me. I pull out a bottle of H 2 0 from the fridge with one hand and take the mini drugstore worth of pills off the top of it with the other, gently closing the door with my hip. Progress .

Not-so-elegantly, I sprawl across my countertop and jab the play button with the water bottle. On the rare occasion I get a message, usually it ’ s emails . I save this wonderful task for Laura, but I ’ m too inebriated to remember the reason why.

“ You. Have. One. New. Message. ”

I squint at the disjointed, robotic voice as it comes through the speakerphone.

“ Received. On the. Four—teenth. Of. June. At. Twelve, oh, Three. A.M.” Where was I at twelve? Oh…yeah.

“ Hi, this is Maxwell Thatcher.” Maxwell? “ We met tonight, and you slipped me your, ah, business card. You told me you were just what I needed?”

Ooooh . The tightly wound guy who couldn ’ t take his eyes off me. He was appealing in that older, distinguished way, with thick, perfectly kept salt-and-pepper hair. There was no mistaking that he needed to let go and live a little. So rigid and tense, so…something. I couldn ’ t put my finger on it. While Antony was preoccupied, I slid him a card—not my usual MO, but what the hell, bourbon makes me everyone ’ s friend.

“ You might be right. I ’ d like to set up a meeting at my office for tomorrow, if possible. I ’ d like to discuss a few things.” His office? He sounds too business…too out of his element. It makes me smile. I love fresh meat. “ You can call my secretary on—” Shit. Pen .

I slide off the counter, my nylon-covered feet slipping on the polished concrete floor, and pull out all the kitchen drawers, completely missing the phone number being rattled off. Well, fuck.

Clearly, I ’ m too inebriated to function tonight—or is it this morning now? Whichever it is, I need a shower and meds. I swallow two ibuprofen, chasing them down with half the bottle of water, and stumble my way to my bedroom. I collapse face-first on the king-size bed and moan into the thick, plush comforter. So soft and fluffy…

I startle awake to a loud screeching noise piercing my eardrums, vaguely aware that I must have dozed off at some point. I blink rapidly, the sun pouring through my open blinds, and roll over to look at the digital display. Squinting, I manage to focus enough to read 9:06 a.m. on the clock and shuffle up the bed to smash it.

The screeching continues, and it dawns on me that it ’ s not an alarm but the landline. Fucksticks.

I fall out of bed, staggering to my feet as I slip and slide my way to the kitchen, pulling my nylons off as I go. I pick up the phone just as the answering machine takes the call.

“ Hello —”

“ Hi, you ’ ve dialed Vivienne —”

“ Ah, shit.”

“—I ’ m currently tied up at the moment—” I hammer at the buttons until my pre-recorded message stops.

“ Sorry about that.” Damn it, it ’ s the business phone. “ How can I be of service?” Argh. And that is why I don ’ t answer the damn thing.

“ Ah …not a problem. Is this Miss … Vivienne? ” The timid woman ’ s voice comes through the other end.

“ Yes? ”

“ This is Mr. Thatcher ’ s secretary. ”

“ Thatcher?”…Thatcher … Oh!

“ From Maximum—.”

“ Maxwell Thatcher?”

“ Yes, the very one. One moment, please.”

I ’ m put on hold before I have a chance to respond. I groan and stretch out my neck, my muscles still lethargic and stiff after a night of hard drinking and even harder sex. The annoying hold music makes my head throb, and I debate making food or going back to sleep after this. Sleep wins out, and I head back to bed, awkwardly stripping off last night ’ s clothes with the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder.

“ Vivienne? ” I startle, almost dropping the thing. “ Hello? ”

I scramble with the handset, almost taking my ear off in my haste. “ Maxwell,” I puff. “ Hi. You ’ re in early.”

“ Yes, well, no rest for the wicked.”

I know that all too well.

“ Thank you for taking my call so early.”

“ You did seem rather insistent on my machine.”

He chuckles, the sound coming out forced.

“ Relax, Maxwell. I ’ m very easy to handle.” Oh, I ’ m so punny . “ What can I do for you?” He takes a deep breath in and drags it out before continuing . In relief or resignation, I can ’ t tell. “ I believe you have a particular skill set I would like to hire.”

Just the one? “ I ’ m listening.”

“ I ’ d like to go into further detail in person, if you are available to come to my office.” His inflection is nervous, anxious even. Something makes me think this will not be a straight-cut arrangement. My curiosity has the better of me, and I find myself agreeing to his office meeting.

“ I can be there at twelve,” I state, flicking my eyes to the digital display on the landline. Still time for a nap.

“ Perfect. I ’ ll patch you through to my secretary, and she can give you directions. Until later, Vivienne.”

The hold music kicks in again, and I fight the urge to hang up and crawl under the covers, foregoing the information.

“ Miss Vivienne? ”

“ Mmmh? ” The struggle to keep my eyes open is real.

“ I can forward the directions straight to your cell, if you would like.”

“ Oh, yes. That would be stellar. Thank you.” I rattle off my cell number, and after a few pleasantries, we end the call.

I set two alarms and bury myself in the warmth of my bed, the cream satin sheets and comforter enveloping me in a warm hug, and fall asleep moments later.

With only minutes to spare, my cab pulls up outside Maxwell ’ s building, the tall, uninviting monstrosity awaiting me like a dentist ’ s chair. Something about office buildings and cubicles makes me uncomfortable. I think it ’ s the thought of ending up in a mundane nine-to-five that sucks the life out of you day in and day out. I ’ ve been a wild animal for far too long to be caged now.

With a deep breath, I push my way through the glass doors off to the side, avoiding the revolving ones at all costs. They give me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. I shudder just looking at them. They ’ ve given me anxiety since I was little.

I step into an elevator, only to have to get out again. There are thirty-five floors, and I haven ’ t a clue which one I need. Cursing under my breath, I rush to the security desk to ask, hoping I don ’ t have to lose more time by trying to fish out my cell and risk the contents of my clutch ending up on the floor. I ’ d hastily dumped it inside and shoved the pile of makeup I ’ d used in the cab on top.

“ Excuse me, sir?”

The security guard looks up from the array of screens in front of him and gives me a curt smile.

“ I ’ m looking for Maxwell Thatcher. You don ’ t happen to know which floor he ’ s on? ”

“ Of course, everyone knows Mr. Thatcher. He ’ s on Twenty-first floor, ma ’ am.”

“ Wonderful, have a great day.”

My finger repeatedly jabs the up button and my shoe taps impatiently as I wait for an elevator to come down. After remembering more of last night, I wonder why Maxwell needs a meeting first. I can ’ t shake the feeling this isn ’ t my regular thing. He seemed unlike any of my normal clients, even in the light of day, and I ’ m now questioning what made me give him my card. For once, I might not be able to deliver, or truthfully, know if I want to play. Though that ’ s a little rich coming from me. I get paid to be, to do, not to think. I ’ m the arm candy of the ridiculously rich, the dirty secret of the filthily inclined, and the wet dream incarnate of the politically incorrect. What aren ’ t I up for?

The ding breaks my train of thought, and I step forward without looking up and walk tits-first into large, masculine hands.

“ Jesus! ” The hands tense, then move at lightning speed from my breasts to my upper arms, steadying our collision.

I ’ m about to snigger when I look up at startled, piercing blue eyes the color of a deep summer sky, inches from my own and fixed on me. The raw intensity in their depths has my laugh dying before it can make a sound.

“ I—wow. I ’ m sorry, are you okay?” he asks, and I stare for a beat too long.

“ Fine, ” I recover. “ You were very gentle.” A satisfying pink tinges Mr. Grabby-Hand ’ s embarrassed face. “ It ’ ll take a lot more than that to rattle my cage, though.”

He chuckles and removes his firm grip, trailing his fingers down my bare arms an inch before dropping them to his sides.

“ And, uh, usually at least a drink first.” To my surprise, it comes out a little breathy. “ I don ’ t make a habit of handing out free passes.” I wink, regaining my wits.

I step around him into the elevator and press my floor when he turns around, planting himself between the closing doors, stopping their progress. “ So, how about that drink , then?”

“ Some other time.”

He grins wider but makes no move to release the doors, or me, from his gaze. Damn, what a gaze. He ’ s cute, I ’ ll admit. Not your traditional kind—his nose is a little big by model standards—but that boy-next-door kind. With hypnotizing blue eyes, thick dirty-blond hair, and just enough scruff on his jaw to give him that manly feel. I have a feeling without it, he ’ d look twenty. With it, he looks about twenty-six.

“ There ’ s a little cocktail bar just next door that does a mean menu. The least I can do is buy your breasts a drink. Maybe lunch?”

I laugh. How can I not? My eyes drop to his polished Ted Bakers and trail up the fitted black jeans he ’ s paired with a tailored dark charcoal suit jacket and tie, then back to his amused face. My lip twitches, and my curiosity stirs.

“ Okay. Now, can you let me go?”

He steps out of the door ’ s path, and the corners of his lush mouth twitch with what I can only gather is satisfaction. It almost radiates out of him.

“ One hour . In the lobby?” His brow quirks, waiting for my response, and I nod as the doors close. “ Wait.” He thrusts his hands between the doors again, making them bounce open a second time. “ I don ’ t know your name.”

“ Vivienne. ”

“ Vivienne, ” he repeats, and I get a full-face smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his whole face beams as the doors close.

Well, damn.

It takes seventeen floors before it clicks that I might have just agreed to go on a date ? With a guy. With your everyday, I-work-in-an-office, Joe kind of guy. One that groped me, nonetheless, and I don ’ t even know his name. I shake my head at myself. I ’ ve done far stupider things in life and probably worse.