Spike shook his head, wondering if he had brain fry. Between pants, he managed to get out, “I’m here for…O’Banyon’s party. My name’s…on the list.”
Klink’s eyebrows arched in a haughty rendition of Yeah, right, loser. “Bike messengers aren’t allowed up in the building. You’ll have to leave whatever you’re delivering with me.”
Oh, man…
Sometime soon this night was going to end, Spike thought. One way or another, it was going to be over.
Madeline Maguire hung around the fringes of the engagement party, thinking that she didn’t really have her land legs yet. Or her interpersonal ones, either. As a professional sailor, she spent most of her life battling the ocean and it was always hard to downshift into some semblance of normalcy whenever she took a break.
So this kind of social playing field felt like Mars.
Part of the problem was a crushing lack of urgency. On a racing yacht, every word was significant, every creak a clue to be deciphered, every minute shift in direction an important event. As a result of years of experience and training, her instincts were finely tuned and hyperalert. And her capacity for multiprocessing what they told her was one of the reasons she was such a good navigator.
In this environment, however, there was absolutely nothing to respond to.
Which left her feeling flat.
The high point so far had been arriving and seeing Alex Moorehouse. Alex had been captain of the crew she’d belonged to and was not only her mentor but a friend. He and his fiancée, Cass, were two of the finest people Mad knew and seeing them was well worth the hassle of getting to Manhattan.
In fact, the whole crew had wanted to come tonight, but the rest of the boys were stuck in the Bahamas rehabbing a boat after a bad storm. Following an unanimous vote, Mad had been designated the official ambassador. It was a good choice and they all knew it. The boys didn’t do the civilized world all that well and it was better for everyone that the representative from the crew be able to put up a good front.
Not that she was doing so well at the social stuff right now, Mad thought. She could make a wallflower look like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
Except there was no one she really wanted to talk to. The fifty people in the penthouse were mostly from her half brother’s world: powerful, edgy men with competition in their blood; willowy, beautiful women with hard eyes and harder smiles. Of course, not everyone was like that. Alex’s family was warm and lovely and there were a few others who seemed approachable. But somehow, the players stood out and made her want to hang back.
Plus, she had a preoccupation.
Her eyes sifted through the party again, scanning faces and bodies, searching for a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair that stood up in spikes.
Spike had to be coming tonight. Alex was one of his closest friends. And from what she’d heard, so was Sean.
He just had to be coming.
“Looking for someone?” a deep voice asked from behind her.
Mad glanced over her shoulder. Sean O’Banyon, Wall Street genius, mostly reformed street thug and all-around good guy, was giving her one of his gotcha stares.
She smiled. And lied to one of her nearest and dearest. “I’m not looking for anyone. Not at all.”
“Come on, Mad. Your eyes are playing floor hockey with every man in here. Except you’re not finding the one you want, are you? So who do you wish you were seeing?”
Sean was the brother she wished she had instead of the one she’d gotten. But she didn’t feel comfortable talking about Spike with him. The two were friends. And besides, given her history, nothing good was going to come of whatever interest she had in the man.
And unfortunately, she was interested in Spike. She’d met him when she’d headed up to Saranac Lake this winter to see Alex. The attraction had been instantaneous on her end, but she’d kept it to herself. Like most men, Spike didn’t say much while he was around her and he didn’t make a lot of eye contact. And no touching, not even casually.
So it was pretty much what she was used to. When you were six feet tall in your stocking feet and a professional athlete, most men didn’t think of you as girlfriend material. Or even as a female. If they liked you, or respected you, you were one of the guys. If they didn’t, they stared at you as if you were an alien or wrote you off as a lesbian.
Usually, either reaction was tolerable to her. More than tolerable, really, considering her few tragic attempts to make a connection with someone of the opposite sex. It was just…She wanted Spike to notice her, and not as an oddity, but as someone he might like to put his arm around. As somebody he might want to kiss, even just once.
She winced, trying to think of the last time she’d had a man’s lips against hers. God, how long…Whoa, that was not a good number. Too high for someone her age, way too high.
And that would be years, not months.
“Mad? Where’ve you gone?” Sean prompted.
She shook her head. “Sorry. So I like what you’ve done to the place.”
The penthouse he’d bought last year was done up fit to kill in a sleek, masculine style. Clean lines everywhere, minimal clutter, a lot of leather and metal. The panoramic views of the park and city were phenomenal and unimpeded by fussy drapes.
Sean glanced around. “Thanks, I like it. Architectural Digest photographed everything for next month’s issue. Blair Sanford did the interior.”
“It suits you.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re all about hard edges.”
Sean laughed, his harsh face softening a little. “In my business, soft gets you spread like paste.”
Sean had been her family’s investment banker for the last ten years and he’d helped turn Value Shop Supermarkets into a nationwide chain. Her relationship with him, though, wasn’t based on what he could do for her portfolio. She loved and trusted him more than she did her immediate relatives.
It was ironic. Usually she avoided men who looked like him because they reminded her of her late father and very-much-alive half brother. Sean had a real slick, glossy image. Dolled up in his fancy Savile Row suit and his silk tie, he seemed like your typical Wall Street money man. Except he wasn’t. He’d grown up in South Boston, in a tough neighborhood, and he’d never forgotten the lessons he’d learned on the street.
Which meant he was also a little scary. And gave her only more reason to love him.
“Listen, Mad, we need to talk.”
She cringed. “I can tell by the sound of your voice—”
“It’s about your half brother.”
Her eyes left his. “I’m not going to see Richard, but you can give him a message for me. Tell him to stop calling. He’s using up my voice mail space.”
“Mad, this is important—”
Up ahead, the door to the penthouse opened.
And Mad flushed from her earlobes to her toenails.
Spike was wearing a black leather jacket, a black button-down and a pair of black slacks. His jet-black hair was sticking straight up off his head in all directions, but instead of looking unkempt, the jagged peaks emphasized the hard lines of his beautiful face. His big body filled the doorway. The hall. The whole apartment as far as she was concerned.
Oh, God, his eyes…Those incredible, impossibly yellow eyes were still hidden under heavy lids and thick lashes. And the tattoos…On either side of his neck, two elegant, curving designs marked his skin. In his left ear, he had a thick, silver piercing.
Mad