Determined (Determined Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

I nibbled at my croissant and switched my focus to the events of the day. Tonight was Curtis’s annual Autumn Soiree. How this man managed to have an opening one night and a big blow out bash the next was beyond me, but if anyone could do it, Curtis could.

I mentally reviewed what I was going to wear. Carrie had lent me a chic black sweater dress that went well with some black boots I had. It was the perfect autumn outfit for the unpredictable Bay Area weather and was stylish enough for a party. I sipped the rest of my milky, lukewarm coffee, and got up to head back home. The streets were already starting to fill with cars and shoppers, and I was glad to retreat to my serene studio.

~

I spent most of the day puttering around, cleaning, and putting away laundry. In the afternoon, I took a break and turned the television to a brainless reality show while I perused the internet, catching up on what my friends were up to via social media. Those who had relocated to the East Coast after graduation were already posting pictures of golden leaves and snowmen.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Curtis.

Is he with you?

I stared at the text for a moment. Ah, he meant David. God, Curtis, what presumption. Just because he gave me a ride home? I texted him back.

No

No, like he left already?

I sighed.

No, no like he was never here. He gave me a ride ... that was it!

My phone vibrated with an incoming call. Guess who.

“Hi, Curtis.”

“Sammie my dear, how you feeling?” His soft voice came gliding over the phone. It was clear he was just buttering me up.

“Much better, thanks. I don’t know what came over me last night.”

“I do. His name is David Keith.”

I groaned into the phone.

“Spill it girl, what happened? Did he take you to his castle?”

“What are you talking about Curtis?”

“Do you know anything about the man you bummed a ride from, Sam?” he asked, teasing me. “David Keith is the head of Keith Ventures. The venture capital company?” he said, as if it should ring a bell.

“Never heard of it,” I replied dryly, trying to pawn off my interest. My body couldn’t deny it. Just hearing his name made my skin sensitive and my pulse quicken. I picked up a stress ball from my nightstand and played with it.

“Honey, Keith Ventures is one of the most powerful companies in the country, if not the world, right now. They are a primary funder of a lot of new tech and bio-tech companies in Silicon Valley and around the country. I think he’s a billionaire. He’s always on the San Francisco’s hottest bachelor lists—much to the detriment of my community, might I add.” He chuckled. “But, Sammie, he’s notoriously hard to pin down, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mention of a serious girlfriend, so be careful. Have
fun
, but be careful.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa Curtis, I didn’t even say anything happened. Besides I think he has a girlfriend now. There was a strawberry blond with us last night, and they left together. They both dropped me off at home. That’s all that happened.” I tried to keep my voice upbeat and positive.

“Girl, don’t let that stop you. Did you see a ring?”

“No, but I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again soon, so it’s probably a moot point. We just don’t move in the same circles. Hey, do you need me to bring anything to the party tonight?” I said, trying to change the subject.

He took the bait. “Oh no honey, we’ve got everything. Just bring your fabulous self, and don’t eat before you get here, we will have tons of food. And men. In case you are hungry for that.”

I laughed. “Curtis, I have an inkling the feeling won’t be mutual.” I knew that all these ‘men’ he was offering wouldn’t be interested in anything I, or my gender, had to offer.

“Whatever Sammie, more for me!” he cried gleefully. “I will see you at seven?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. See you then. Bye Curtis.” I pressed end on my phone, and sighed in relief. Successful deflection.

But then just as quickly I returned to our conversation. Keith Ventures? I went back to my computer and Googled it. The search results were pretty dry. Looks like they were based in San Francisco, but Curtis was right, they did have offices all over the world. I clicked images. There he was. David Keith. David Keith in his corporate photo. David Keith at various galas and charity events, each time with a different woman on his arm. David Keith in a
Forbes
article. Hmm. He looked really good in suits. David Keith in
Esquire
. That photo had a bevy of blondes surrounding him at a conference table with a headline proclaiming, “How He Thinks”
I’d like to read that article
, I mused.
Might give me some good insight into last night.
I clicked on it and started reading. The interview started with a quick summary of how he started his company. I learned that he made he made his initial investment money by gambling on sports when he turned twenty-one and then used that money to take a popular internet service from start up to initial public offering. I gazed at the picture on the website. Damn, rich or not—he was hot.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. My heart flipped. Maybe it was him. I mean, he did know where I lived, right? I sped over to the mirror to smooth my hair.
Dammit Sam, why don’t you keep yourself presentable at all times?
Another knock. I shook my arms to get rid of my nerves. It was probably just Clark with some quiche.
Calm down, Sharp.

I opened the front door and a delivery driver was standing there.

“Delivery for Samantha Sharp?” He looked at me, slightly bored.

I glanced down. He was holding two large boxes. One was flat and the other was rectangular. Neither had a label.

“Uh, that’s me.”

“Sign here,” he said as he pushed a clipboard at me. I picked up the pen and scribbled something that resembled a signature. He took the clipboard and left, leaving the two boxes on my doorstep. I brought them inside, feeling bewildered. It wasn’t my birthday, and it wasn’t close to the holidays. I didn’t remember ordering anything online recently. I grabbed a key from my keychain and ran it the length of the packing tape, opening the first box. Inside was a box from Banana Republic with a big bow. I untied the bow and opened the box. Under a few layers of cream colored tissue paper was a white dress. The same white dress I wore the night before at the gallery opening, in my size. This one didn’t have a red wine stain on it, though.
How the hell ...?
I picked up the tissue paper, searching for a clue as to who sent it, but my gut already knew. My pulse quickened. I found a small white card at the bottom of the box. In elegant script it said,

With heartfelt apologies,

David

No. Fucking. Way. Who was this guy? How did he find the same dress, let alone know my size? And in only a couple of hours? I re-read the card. Heartfelt? Was he embarrassed by his girlfriend, or ...? I glanced back down at the dress, pleased. I did really like that dress. Then I remembered the other box and pulled it over. It was heavy. I used my key to cut the tape, and inside was a second box, dark grey. I opened it and a heady scent flooded my studio. Dozens of white roses. Three dozen, precisely. And a beautiful crystal vase. I took the vase to the sink and filled it with water. I grabbed some scissors and cut the ends of the stems to fit the vase and spent a few moments arranging them. Gorgeous. I put the bouquet in the middle of my small table and stepped back to admire them. Elegant. I went back to the box in search of a card, but there was nothing.

What the hell does that mean?

I glanced at the clock. Shit. It was later than I thought. My best friend—and ride tonight—was going to be by soon, and I needed to get ready.

I turned on the shower, and while it warmed up I brushed the knots out of my hair. I hopped into the steam and scrubbed myself down. I went to town—shaving my legs, deep conditioning my hair, and slicking body oil over everything after I toweled off. It felt good ... purifying. I finally felt refreshed and ready to psych myself up for a fun night

I pulled on the sweater dress and contemplated my footwear choices. Black boots as originally thought, or pumps? Or black ballet flats? The flats looked dowdy, and the pumps- well, I figured I might not last the night in heels that high. The boots won, and I zipped them on. I returned to the bathroom and blow-dried my hair into a sleek style. At the mirror, I pulled out a box full of makeup. I don’t normally wear much—usually just tinted moisturizer and pinkish lip-gloss. But tonight I was feeling brave and a little bold. Maybe it was the hormone hangover from last night. I got close to the mirror and rimmed my eyes with dark kohl and laced my lashes with two coats of black mascara. I leaned back, checking my work. Not bad.
Looking sharp, Sharp!

3

I shut the door to the studio behind me and turned the key in the lock. The evening air was damp, and I could tell Clark and Leslie were making stew for dinner. It smelled amazing. I trotted to the sidewalk and waved to my best friend Carrie, who was idling in her beat up old Volvo. I opened the passenger side door and slid in.

She whistled. “Damn, Sam. You look hot!”

I blushed.

“Thanks. Thanks again for lending me the dress. It’s so good to see you!” I gave her an awkward hug over the gear shift. “I can’t wait to hear about L.A.” Carrie was just down visiting her Dad for his 50
th
birthday, and while she missed the show opening, she did vow to be my date for the party, so all was forgiven. I hesitated. “Are you sure I look okay?” I’ve never really been one to dress to impress.

“Heck yeah. What about me? What do you think?” She did a mock turn in her seat.

“Wait, let me see ...” I looked her over. She was wearing a flowing navy dress with a seventies vibe. On someone else it might look like a mu-mu, but on Carrie it looked cooler than cool.

“Do you like it? I got it in L.A.!” she exclaimed before I could say anything, her eyes bright with delight. She knew she looked pretty good. Although it was hard for her to look bad. Carrie had those all-American good looks—blond hair, tan skin, the body of a cheerleader. She was one of those annoying people who would look great in a trash bag.

“Love it. You’ll be the hit of the party,” I said as we drove off.

Carrie regaled me with stories about her time in L.A. during our short drive. She was only gone for a week, but it was so good to have her back. Carrie and I met while we were both undergrads at UC Berkeley. She and I were in the same Introduction to Sociology class. I liked that she was so outgoing. If it hadn’t been for her, I probably would have spent most of my undergraduate career buried in a book. She was also one of my few friends who had stayed in the area after graduating, and I was glad to have her as a party-partner tonight.

Curtis Kinsler lived by himself in Berkeley, in one of the big, old houses near the university. He had inherited the place from his parents. The entire block was comprised of homes as big as apartment buildings, built when land was cheap and plentiful. We parked a few streets over, lest any of his more accomplished guests see us for the beat up Volvo driving vagrants that we were. Arriving at the Kinsler residence, we paused at the front gate and took it all in. Curtis had really gone all out. Little twinkling white lights covered everything from the wrought iron gate all the way up to the front door. He must have worked on the set up for weeks. Carrie and I turned toward each other and took a deep breath.

“Ready?” She looked at me.

“Ready.” We opened the gate and ventured in.

Inside, it was as if the old home was
meant
to host evening soirees. It was a house from a time now past, with dark wood paneling, inlaid floors, and a gorgeous grand staircase in the foyer. Curtis was positioned to greet all the guests as they came in. The house was already packed.

“Sam! Carrie! So glad you could make it!” He reached out and bestowed a pair of air kisses on each of us.

“The house looks great, Curtis,” I remarked, stepping back to take it all in. Save for a huge chandelier in the entry way, the entire house was lit only with candlelight.

“Yeah, you’ve really outdone yourself,” Carrie chimed in, “Thanks so much for inviting us.”

“Always glad to have you, dears. Besides, we needed some ladies to balance out all the um—male energy here.” He smirked and gestured to the space surrounding him, which was filled with a disproportionate amount of attractive young men. “Now, go get yourselves a cocktail and have some fun.” He pulled me closer and mock-whispered, “And I will find you later, missy! I still want to hear about last night.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me over his tortoise-shell frames. Carrie shot me a curious look as we walked away.

“Let’s get a drink, and I will tell you all about it,” I placated Carrie, patently aware that there was nothing, really, to tell.

Throughout the house, the candlelight and darkness could have been eerie, but honestly, it was beautiful. We wandered and found ourselves in a large living room. Coffered ceilings and leaded glass windows floated over the scene. And, of course, exquisite artwork decorated the walls. Beautiful people were lounging on leather chesterfield sofas, engaged in conversation. On the opposite side of the room was a full bar with two model-esq male bartenders dressed in crisp white shirts and black vests. We bee-lined for them.

“Ladies.” One of the bartenders made eye contact. “What’s your pleasure?” He wiped his hands with a bar rag and leaned forward.

“Jack and ginger, please.”

“Make that two,” added Carrie.

“Coming right up.” The bartender swiftly mixed our two cocktails, while Carrie and I surveyed the crowd. I didn’t recognize anyone.

“Here you go, ladies,” the bartender said, as he proudly placed our drinks in front of us. I dropped a couple of bills into his tip jar, and we picked up our glasses.

“Cheers, love!” I said with a fake British accent.

“Cheers, baby!” mirrored Carrie. We clinked our glasses and turned around, taking in the scene.