HiddenDepths (6 page)

Though his grandparents had been gone for a few years, Evan
still missed them. They had been the only model of a happy marriage that he had
ever seen growing up, or since then, for that matter. The townhouse, with its
casual elegance, reminded him of them. It was the place in New York he hated
least of all, although that wasn’t saying much.

When the uniformed maid brought him a cup of his favorite
green tea, Evan nodded at her absently.

“Why so glum, Evan?” his mother asked. “I just talked to
your father. Your brother is going to be fine.”

Amanda Evans was every inch the pampered filthy-rich
socialite, her blonde hair perfectly coifed, her skin smooth and unlined, not
from surgery or Botox, but from a lifetime of expensive face creams and good
genes. She was slim and healthy and could have passed for at least a decade
younger than her real age of fifty-three. Still a very beautiful woman, as all
Damien Reynolds’ wives had been, she had never remarried, though Evan knew she
had companionship. But marriage after that first disillusioned love had been
out of the question for Amanda and, knowingly or not, she had passed her
cynicism on to her son. Or maybe his father did that all on his own.

Though Amanda Evans had been briefly stepmother to all of
Evans’ brothers, Damien had never encouraged any of his wives to try to replace
his oldest son’s mother. Damien made sure Michael knew that his mother was his
father’s only love. And for that reason, Evan suspected Amanda was a little
harder on Michael Reynolds than she was on anybody else in the Reynolds family.
Except Damien Reynolds, of course. She still claimed she hated him.

“Why that man insists on keeping contact with me after all
these years, I’ll never know. I couldn’t get five seconds of his attention when
I was married to him. Unless we were in bed,” she added under her breath. “And
now, every time I turn around, his name shows up on my caller ID.”

Evan sipped his tea. “You don’t have to answer, Mother.”

“Of course I do. How do I know he’s not calling about you?
It is the one thing we share.”

“Well, I suspect in his mind he was calling about me.
Michael
is
my brother, Mother.”

“Believe me, there’s no doubt of that. He’s the spitting
image of your father. Thank God you have more of the Evans blood in you.”

Amanda Evans liked to make that kind of observation all the
time, but he never had a clue as to what she meant. He had exactly the same
amount of Reynolds blood in him as Evans blood, although frankly sometimes he
felt as if he had neither. All this money, these things. He was weary at just
being around them. He itched to get back to the isolation of his island.

Was it his fault he wanted to drag Amanda Prentiss back with
him?

“Michael is all right, isn’t he?”

His mother, for all her bark, was soft-hearted.

“Yes, he’s going to be fine. He was ordering people about
before I even left the hospital.”

“Good. Good. I don’t know what Damien would do if he lost
that boy.”

Evan neglected to point out that according to her, she
shouldn’t care about what Damien would or wouldn’t do. But he suspected his
mother had never gotten over her first love, just as Damien had never gotten
over his.

“Actually, as it so happens,” he told his mother, “I think
Michael’s in love.”

“What? With who?”

“A very nice, very tough girl named Vanny Donald.”

“Donald, Donald. I don’t think I recognize the family.”

“She’s from Texas.”

“Ah, oil money.”

“Not exactly.” He didn’t really want to talk about Michael
or Vanny or his father. He didn’t even know why he was here other than, if he
was honest about it, to kill time until Andrea got off work.

He had ordered three dozen white roses to be sent to her at
the office along with a note. With any luck, she would come straight from work
back to his bed.

If he managed to wait that long, of course.

“Well, I don’t know how you’ll ever find a nice girl, in
Texas or wherever, considering how you shut yourself off on that island of
yours.”

“Craigslist,” Evan said sardonically.

“What?”

“Nothing, Mother.” He put his teacup down and stood up,
kissing her cheek. “I should get going.”

“Back to Maine?”

“No, I’m going to hang around a bit. At least another
night.”

She reached for his hand. “You sure Michael’s going to be
okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, I can’t ever remember you staying in Manhattan a
night longer than you had to since you were eighteen years old.”

Yeah, well, he had to.

* * * * *

Andrea spent most of the morning at work explaining to one division
president after another that Michael Reynolds was expected to make a fast and
full recovery. It even happened to be true, as evidenced by Vanny’s call last
night and Mr. Reynolds’ few calls this morning. He sounded very much like
himself, except for the fact he had directed her to scout wedding locations as
soon as things calmed down. When Andrea pointed out that Vanny might wish to
have some input on such a matter, he admitted he hadn’t even proposed yet.
Nothing like putting the cart before the horse. In any case, he assured her that
Vanny was not the type of woman who had spent her life dreaming of her wedding.
He added that he suspected she and Miss Prentiss were remarkably alike on that
score.

As in so many things Michael Reynolds simply assumed about
his executive assistant, he was dead wrong. She shuddered to remember the
enthusiasm she had thrown into helping plan her mother’s wedding and how
beautiful and angelic and happy her mother had looked in her ecru silk, her
handsome and powerful groom waiting for her up at the altar. How much she had
dreamed of the day it would be her walking down that church aisle, more
storybook happily-ever-after than any of the thousand wedding magazines she had
devoured at the time.

How ridiculous that had all turned out to be.

As she had for eight long years, though, she put the thought
completely out of her mind, firm in her Miss Prentiss armor. It had slipped off
temporarily with Evan Reynolds, but she had put it right back on, no harm done.
She hadn’t answered any of his questions. Not really. And from all she knew
about him, he had only casual, sexual relationships anyway. So she was sure she
would soon become a distant memory to the handsome, seductive man.

And she could keep from feeling melancholy about that by
continuing to translate this Portuguese annual report for Mr. Reynolds.

“What language is that?”

She looked up. Now
that
was surprising. For all his
laid-back airs, Evan wasn’t a Reynolds for nothing. He was apparently as
willful as all the rest of them. The way they had left it, she would have
expected he would be on the first ferry back to Maine. Yet here he was, all
handsome and casual, in jeans and a green sweater that made his eyes even more
sea green than usual.

“Portuguese. What can I do for you, Mr. Reynolds?”

“We’re back to Mr. Reynolds, are we?”

The girl she was training to take her place should the need
ever arise, Colleen Grady, looked up quickly from her desk in the anteroom to
Andrea’s office. At Andrea’s gaze, Evan looked over his shoulder at the girl.
“Who’s that? Miss Prentiss Jr.?”

The girl cracked a smile. Oh well, she was still in
training.

Andrea held up the report. “How is your Portuguese,
Colleen?”

“A little rusty, I’m sorry to say.”

“This will be good practice for you, then. Please take this
and continue translating it. You can use the library.”

The girl nodded, taking the report, and went on her way
without as much as one flirty glance at Evan Reynolds. Miss Grady did have
promise. It was Miss Prentiss who should be getting back to the basics.

Using her coolest tone, she said, “I thought we said goodbye
at the hotel.”

“You said goodbye.”

“You said you were leaving.”

“I changed my mind.”

A delivery boy came in with three dozen white roses and
deposited them on her desk, leaving without a tip as Reynolds Industries
maintained a “tip” account with every florist in the area. From the nonchalant
way Evan tried not to look at the flowers, she knew immediately who had sent
them. She read the card aloud for good measure. “‘Meet me at my hotel after
work’. The roses are lovely, Evan, but I don’t respond to summonses.”

“Unless they’re from Michael?” he added immediately. “Not
that I resent having my brother give my hook-up orders. Michael gives everyone
orders. And everyone obeys.”

“Do you still have some crazy idea that I’m sleeping with
your brother?”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you haven’t been sleeping with
any guy but me for a very long time.”

She looked at him, considering. “How about a woman? I’m
surprised you didn’t think of that.”

He grinned. “Bring it on. I love three-ways.”

“I’m afraid that’s not to my particular taste, but I’m
pleased to note how open-minded you are. What do you want, Evan?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m flattered by your interest. Really, I am.”

“Not what I was trying for.”

“But I’m not interested in anything long term.”

He said nothing for a second. Then, “Okay. If you say so.
How about one more fuck for the road?”

Colleen Grady suddenly came back in, an older, well-dressed
gentleman in tow.
Oh bother!
Who was this? She thought she had canceled
all Mr. Reynolds’ appointments.

“Miss Prentiss, this is Mr. Jack Tottingham, an old friend
of Mr. Damien Reynolds. He heard about Michael Reynolds and was wondering if
the elder Mr. Reynolds was available for, er, consolation.”

Miss Grady had a lot to learn. Bringing anyone in for an
unscheduled appointment with Michael Reynolds was unheard of. One with Damien
Reynolds was unthinkable.

She gave Mr. Tottingham a cold stare, but unfortunately he
was staring at her with what looked like amazement. Tottingham. Tottingham. It
didn’t
sound
familiar. She frowned.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Damien Reynolds is unavailable. If you’d
like to leave your card—”

“Do you know you’re the spitting image, young lady, of
Angelica Stavros?”

Now that the moment had come, Andrea felt pretty calm about
it. Actually hearing the name spoken in her presence, linked to her, didn’t
even cause her to catch her breath. She doubted her complexion even reddened.
Evan Reynolds was staring at her, of course, but he’d been staring at her since
he got there. It had nothing to do with that long-forgotten name or this man
whom she really did not recognize.

She smiled at him condescendingly. “You’d be surprised how
often I get the line that I look just like someone.” She added in an aside to
Evan, “Usually it’s when I’m seated on a barstool.”

“I’m surprised you ever relax enough to make it into a bar,”
Evan quipped.

“Who’s Angelica Stavros?” Miss Grady asked and Andrea
glowered at her.

“I’m afraid we’re really quite busy here, Mr., er,
Tottingham, you said?”

“Angelica Stavros was a Greek heiress who died quite some
time ago,” the older man explained.

“Are you Greek, Miss Prentiss? With your coloring, I
wouldn’t guess that,” Evan said.

She gritted her teeth. “As a matter of fact, I’m
not
Greek.”

“Mrs. Stavros wasn’t either,” Mr. Tottingham threw in. “She
was married to the Greek shipping magnate, Fredrico Stavros.”

“How fascinating.” She stood up, her ultimate signal for
someone to leave. For good measure, she added in a clipped tone, “Miss Grady,
please show this gentleman out.”

Just then, Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Damien Reynolds, had the bad
timing to make one of his increasingly infrequent trips to the office. Still
tall and imposing with a full head of white hair, Damien Reynolds strode into
the office with the gait of a man decades younger. As was always his way, he initially
ignored everyone in the room with the exception of anyone to whom he was
related by blood. Stopping short in front of his youngest son, he exclaimed,
“Evan! My God, what a surprise. What are you doing here? Is everything all
right?”

Andrea witnessed the relaxed Evan Reynolds stiffen a little
in his father’s presence. “Fine, Dad. I stopped by to see Miss Prentiss.”

“You did? Why?”

Sometimes, for all his good breeding, social graces seemed
to be lost on Damien Reynolds. Evan’s mouth quirked up on the side. “I was
trying to get her to go out on a date with me.”

A euphemism if she’d ever heard one, but she had enough
problems at this point with Tottingham still standing there. She wasn’t about
to quibble.

Mr. Reynolds glanced from his son back to her. “Oh well,
I’ll stay out of your hair, then.” He handed his overcoat to Miss Grady,
saying, “And who the hell are you?”

“She’s an executive assistant trainee, Mr. Reynolds,” Andrea
explained, not bothering to supply Colleen’s name as the old man wouldn’t care
to have it.

“Damien, it’s me, Jack Tottingham.”

Damien turned to the voice, his usual haughty expression
softening a touch. “Tottingham. What are you doing lurking there? Why didn’t
you say something?”

The men shook hands.

“I heard about your son and was in the neighborhood. I
thought I’d just stop in and see how you’re faring.”

“Bullshit. What do you want?” He ushered him toward his
office, saying over his shoulder, “Interrupt me if Michael calls, will you,
Miss Prentiss?”

“Of course, sir.”

When the door had closed behind them, she noticed Evan
staring at it. “Goodbye to you too, Dad,” he muttered.

“Don’t you have some Portuguese to translate?” she snapped
at Miss Grady, who was hanging her boss’s coat on a wooden hanger in the front
closet. It was all her fault for bringing Tottingham in here in the first
place, quite a breach of etiquette, which under other circumstances she would
have been sure to address in thorough detail.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Miss Prentiss. I was just getting a drink
of water and he tapped me on the shoulder. I thought I’d better bring him in.”

She refrained from giving a lecture and opted for a
dismissive glance, which caused the girl to disappear in seconds.

Evan was still staring at his father’s closed door. “I
always hated coming here.”

She ignored the stab of sympathy she felt at that, and said
coldly, “I didn’t ask you to come here. In fact, I’m asking you to leave.”

He focused his green eyes on her once more. “Without my
fuck?”

Her cell phone rang and she ignored it, allowing it to go to
voicemail.

“Wow, I’m flattered now. You ignored your phone.”

She said nothing.

He ran a hand through his ruffled brown hair in what looked
to her to be an uncharacteristically agitated gesture. “I’m sorry, Andrea, but
I just don’t get you.”

“There’s nothing to get.”

“Just Perfect Miss Prentiss. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

He dug his hands in his jeans pockets and she tensed,
although it had nothing to do with him. She was feeling that old, horrible
panic seep back into her. If Tottingham had made the connection, it could come
back to haunt her. She couldn’t stay. She’d make a phone call or two, but it
was as good as sealed once he said the name Angelica Stavros.

Evan stepped a little closer and she deliberately stood her ground.

This was why she didn’t see men. She knew it was. This and
whatever twisted, scarred hunk of flesh of a heart her adolescence had left
her. She didn’t know what she had been thinking to let Evan Reynolds’ sweet
smile and seductive ways make her forget it. Forget this drumming in her head,
the clammy palms and shortness of breath.

It had been a long time, but the feeling was just as fierce.

She fought it down and said coolly, “I enjoyed our time
together, Evan. But not only do I not want anything long term, don’t even call
me next time you’re in town. I don’t want to see you again.”

He laughed. “Because I came to the office?”

“Because I don’t.”

He shrugged. “Fine. I’m not going to turn into one of your
swooning admirers or anything. We had a nice time. End of story. Do you read
poetry, Miss Prentiss?”

She didn’t answer.

“Check out ‘To His Coy Mistress’ sometime. You and your cell
phone can enjoy eternity together.”

“Is that some kind of a threat?”

“More of a literary allusion.”

“Goodbye.”

For all he had acted as if he was going, he stayed rooted to
the spot, watching her. Usually she could freeze a man out in seconds flat. But
she had never already slept with them, enthusiastically, on two separate
occasions. No doubt that made it a little more difficult.

She went to the door and held it open pointedly.

“I just wanted to get to know you better, Andrea. Not just
for the sex.” He smiled. “Although that was better than I’ve had in a long
time.”

“And free,” she piped in and though she really was trying to
get him out the door, she seemed to have accomplished the opposite effect with
that crack, finally pissing him off. He left all right, but he grabbed her
elbow and yanked her out the door with him into the hallway, backing her
against the wall.

“Is that what’s bothering you, Andrea? That it was free? Are
you more kinky than I gave you credit for being? Maybe I don’t feel bad for not
paying the check, but you feel bad you were stiffed. Is that it? Well, I’m more
than willing to be fair.” Kicking her legs open, he stepped squarely between
them. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller still and hunched down a
little to press their bodies together at precisely the right point. “How much
for a quickie?” he whispered.

A glance up and down the hallway proved it empty, but who
knew how long that would last. She didn’t have time for these games, especially
now, and when he reached for the hem of her skirt, she slapped his hand away
irritably, without thought. “Stop that. Someone could come by.”

His green eyes, so warm and relaxed and friendly, suddenly
looked…not. “Come on, then.”

With an unyielding grip on her upper arm, he yanked her into
an unoccupied office down the corridor, slamming the door shut behind them. He
fiddled with the doorknob for a second, but realizing there was no lock on it
abandoned the effort.

“We removed the lock on this office door. Long story.”

He didn’t ask as his hands went to his jeans. “Bend over the
desk and pull your skirt up.”

She folded her arms over her chest, and favored him with her
most withering stare. “I’m not amused by this, Evan.”

“Call me Mr. Reynolds. Maybe that’ll turn you on.” He unbuttoned
his jeans as she looked around the darkened office and parked one hip on the
desk. It was one of the smaller offices they used for visiting executives,
although the last young up-and-comer to occupy it had given them more trouble
than he was worth.

“Funny you should duck in here,” she commented. “It must
have a sense-impression that lures overconfident, oversexed males. Although I
guess that’s a tautology. We had an executive trainee from Wharton in this
office recently who used it as his own personal hook-up center. He made a pass
at anything that moved.”

“Including you?”

“Oh my goodness, he wouldn’t dare. He tried to stay out of
my way, but when I found one of our more promising securities lawyers, a Miss
Randall, sobbing in the restroom one afternoon due to some Neanderthal comments
he had made on her ‘inability to deal well with people’—by which he apparently
meant talk sports and laugh at his stupid jokes with the best of them—I took
care of him.”

“Tattled to Michael, did you?”

She scoffed. “As if I’d need Mr. Reynolds to take care of a
lowlife like that guy. I fired him myself and thanks to Miss Randall, didn’t
even have to pay him severance. Apparently she also didn’t deal well with
people when they played with her hair during meetings and tried to inch her
skirt up her knee while she was giving much-needed legal advice about the
jurisdiction of the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

“How very gender-friendly of you, Miss Prentiss. But I’m
sure Miss Randall got an earful about unprofessional behavior like crying in
the office as well.”

“On the contrary, I complimented her on doing it in the
bathroom. I did remove the lock on this particular office door, though, as a
cautionary tale.”

Evan closed the distance between them and with very little
effort flipped her around and bent her over the desk, his hand flat on the
small of her back as she felt the cool wood of the desktop against her cheek.
The reminder of how strong he must be with all his manual labor troubled her in
the context of the world Tottingham had so abruptly brought back to her.

“Much as I’m enjoying your professional reminiscences,
babe,” he whispered in her ear, “the truth is I just want my fuck, okay?”

She let the statement hit her head-on. Hurt her. It was true
in any case undoubtedly. Better this was how they ended it rather than with him
waxing lyrical about building shelters for puppies with his own two hands and
making his way in the world without relying on his family billions. “I never
had a doubt, Evan.”

He shoved her skirt up and prompted, “Mr. Reynolds.”

Given her persona, most people assumed she was probably the
opposite of a submissive. Indeed, she’d endured many a joke about how she must
have a whip and a closet full of leather and stilettos and some secret website
where she chided men about how very bad they’d been and how they needed a
spanking. But that had never appealed to her any more than the part she had
played in the past did either.

She didn’t want to be a dominant or a submissive. All she
wanted was—

She cut the thought off as he slid her panties down her
thighs, those callous-roughened hands still gentle for all the menace of his
words. The probing of his fingers between her legs proved her dry.

“Oh not good, Andrea,” he chided, massaging skillfully as
her breath hitched. “Don’t girls like you have some secret tricks to bring you
into the moment? Make an asshole like me think you’re dying for me to fuck you
up against a desk?”

She wished she did have some trick, not to get excited, but
to stay dry. She was going to let him have his “last fuck” and she wanted it to
be as cold-blooded as possible, painful even, not just emotionally but
physically, so she could hoard the pain for some future night and use it to
make her strong enough to resist the memory of Evan Reynolds because she
herself hated to cry, bathroom or no bathroom.

But as he’d proven every time he’d gotten his hands on her,
remaining indifferent to this particular man was for some reason beyond her.
The light manipulation of her clit with his middle finger, his lips against her
ear, nipping at the lobe, the feel of his powerful erection against her bare
bottom—all of them combined to bring a sudden rush of moisture between her
legs, which he discovered with an approving croon when he slid one finger up
her pussy. A second finger joined the first, pushing against the walls of her
vagina, and the cool of the wood against her cheek felt hot now.

“That’s better. And don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. I know
you’ve got important work for the main Mr. Reynolds to get back to.”

She should have stayed quiet, let him use her, but again,
she’d never been much of a submissive. She used to be much better at playing
one, though. Gripping the edges of the desk, she raised her head and said over
her shoulder, “You sound like a spoiled little brat, jealous of his daddy or
his big brother.”

Evan withdrew his fingers swiftly from between her legs and
she heard what she knew must be the inevitable condom coming out of his pocket
or wallet or wherever, and his jeans being shoved down his thighs.

“Do I?”

The thrust of his hot cock inside her from behind a moment
later shoved her forward and she didn’t try to stop the momentum, closing her
eyes, balancing her palms on the desk top. All the way inside her, he gripped
her hips to keep her in place and slid out only to ram inside again, eager but
still not brutal or punishing. Indeed, it felt marvelous.