Chapter Two

Beau

I’m not in the mood for a madhouse.

And a madhouse is exactly what’s rolling up the loading docks of the Pearl, the theater attached to my latest New York City acquisition.

It seemed like a good idea when West approached me about this latest collaboration. A once-in-a-lifetime investment, he said. Partnership opportunities for all the businesses at Hawthorne International, he said. You’ll like it, he said.

Like a fool, I believed him.

He’s not even here to witness this chaos.

Granted, it’s an organized kind of chaos, but I’d prefer no chaos at all, thank you very much. The Pearl acquisition is the kind of thing that makes us all look fun-loving and wonderful to the public but serves as a huge distraction from my real work, which is much less frivolous than this.

I want to get out of here, head right back to hide away in my private office in my penthouse. But my personal wants are not high priority. Not today. If this falls into a complete shambles, I won’t forgive myself.

“Mr. Bennett,” someone gasps nearby, and my entire soul sighs at the sound of it. “Mr. Bennett, hi. Excuse me. Hi.” He’s short, wiry, and what I took to be a gasp of exertion was clearly from excitement, because this man is vibrating with a kind of wild energy that infects the rest of the room. I can already feel it rubbing off, and I don’t like it. He sticks out his hand. “Simon,” he breathes, giving me a fierce smile. “Simon Smith.” Am I supposed to recognize him? “I’m the director, and I am so excited to be here at the Pearl. It’s a historic place you’ve got on your hands—”

“This is your crew?” It’s rude—it’s terribly rude, but I cut him off at the pass. The people streaming onto the loading docks are about as organized as the lines at the discount ticket office in Times Square.

He frowns. “Yes. There were some last-minute additions to the staff because this was an unconventional—” He gives me an awkward smile. “It’s not the typical production schedule. The producers should be—”

Simon’s voice fades into the background. A deep breath doesn’t dispel the irritation from prickling on my skin. Something needs to be done, but I don’t know the first thing about theater productions. Nor do I want to learn, frankly. I’ve spent enough of my time over the past year overseeing the renovations to this place. Amid the important projects, of course. The public needs to see something. You’d be surprised how nosy people can get when they think something is being covered up.

Two men carrying an oversize steamer trunk—a steamer trunk, really?—teeter awkwardly on the ramp leading in from the loading dock. “Shit,” one of them says, the veins in his arms standing out. The steamer trunk twists between them, and one corner smashes into the newly refurbished wall. I don’t flinch. Not outwardly, at least.

All right, I’ll be honest. This isn’t my highest-profile project, clearly. I was tied up outfitting an ultrasecure town house meant for classified government meetings most of last year. I agreed to the Pearl project because West talked me into it over one too many beers when we all went to the Virgin Islands. All of us—the Overton Academy group. I won’t tell you what we called ourselves back in school. Mortifying stuff. Anyway, it was one of those trips, and I came back to New York with the deed practically in hand. West fled the country for a tropical vacation. He’s still there.

West is going to love this.

I hate it already.

Three months and the production run will be over. Building management can send someone to plaster over the crack in my brand-new wall, and that’ll be that. I can go back to the things that matter for a while, until it’s time for something with a higher public profile.

“How much longer is this going to last?” It’s not like me to interrupt a man twice, but I’ve lost the gist of what Simon’s saying entirely.

“I—”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll step outside and see for myself.” There can’t possibly be many more trucks full of this stuff outside. The loading dock is only so large, and the noise from traffic isn’t much worse than usual, which means they’re not blocking anything. Before he can say another word, I launch forward, letting the slope of the ramp take me quickly outside into the suffocating humid air of late summer.

It is a bit of a neat procession, I guess, but they’re still coming, more and more boxes and bags, and God knows how many of them will trip going up the ramp and destroy the walls.

And then I see her. How could I miss her? Dark hair, a shock of pink at the ends, standing in the very center of everything like a conductor. Even the daylight is conspiring to put her right at the center of my attention, the sun gleaming against her hair as she flits back and forth from one person to the next. She’s all over the place.

She’s also got a body that makes it hard to look away, even hidden underneath the smart little blazer. The black slacks she’s wearing hug her ass perfectly, and I want to feel that curve under my hand.

She doesn’t see the bike at the other end of the block. The guy riding it is tearing down the sidewalk, a package strapped to his back.

I react.

This woman—this gorgeous angel of a woman—doesn’t see me until I’m almost on top of her. She tries to back up, but her path is blocked by two men carrying an antique bench between them. “Sir. Sir!” she shouts, trying to get me to stop. “I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“Move,” I growl, throwing one last glance over my shoulder. The bicyclist is bearing down, his face set in grim determination. He must work for tips. “Move!”

“I—” She gets one more word out and then gasps, her eyes flying open wide.

She’s an inch away from me, and even with this psychopath on a bike about to kill us both, I’m struck by the intoxicating blue of those eyes. My arm is gripped around her waist before I’ve had time to think, pulling her lithe body in close to me and yanking her to the side.

The bike whizzes by. The two men carrying the bench lurch out of the way. “Hey, fuck you!” one of them shouts at the messenger’s back. A pathetic apology trails back on the afternoon breeze.

My entire body is humming from the electrically charged jolt of having her body lined up against mine. This woman. This woman with the ridiculous hair, with the energy that stirs up the entire street in a way that I can’t stand. It doesn’t feel strange at all, holding her in my arms.

No. No.

Finally she disentangles herself from my grip, catching her breath. The light in my chest dims the instant she steps away from me, her lips slightly parted, staring incredulously after the guy on the bike.

Then she turns back to me, her lips slightly parted. “This is going to sound like a total cliché,” she breathes, a hand on her chest. “But you saved my life.”