LITMIR.BIZ

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be uncouth to leap up and down for joy. Never in a million years would she be able to afford to eat there.

      She took the card, the paper smooth between her fingers. On the back, he’d written dinner, 9:00 p.m., Talon. On the front, no job or company was listed. Simply a mobile phone number and Bryce Worthington as if that were all she needed to know. Hell, maybe it was.

      “Then it’s settled,” he said. “A little wine, a little literature, a little erotica.” He met her eyes. “Does that sound good?”

      Joan swallowed. This wasn’t a man people said no to. And, frankly, her entire body was screaming yes. Not that she intended to listen to her body. Bryce Worthington might be interested in a date—might be using the sale of erotica as a ploy to get her to dinner—but that didn’t matter. Joan intended to stick to her guns.

      She licked her lips. Too bad for her.

      “Joan?” he pressed. “Are we on?”

      She nodded. A silent, professional gesture. As if she delivered erotica every day of her life to men who made her nipples ache and her panties damp.

      But her panties didn’t matter. Because Joan was meeting this man only to sell him some erotica. And nothing else was going to happen.

      Nothing at all.

      A COLLECTOR? Bryce smiled, shaking his head as he slid into the taxi he’d hailed.

      “Where to, buddy?”

      He gave the driver the address for Leo’s office, then settled back in the worn vinyl seat, thinking about his lie. The truth was, he owned one collectible first edition—Tom Clancy’s The Hunt For Red October—that he’d inherited from his father, a submarine buff who’d bought one of the early copies before the book became a bestseller. Valuable, sure. But not exactly the sort of collection he’d suggested filled the nooks and crannies of his home.

      Not that he felt any guilt about the fib. He’d seen the look on her face as she’d sat in the break room. A look of rapture, as if she was lost in thoughts just as erotic as the images scattered over the table. Her fingers hadn’t moved from the gentle curve of her collarbone, but somehow Bryce had just known that in her fantasies, she was stroking and caressing her own soft skin. Touching places his fingers ached to touch.

      In that moment, he’d been certain. He wanted to see this woman again, and he was thrilled that his earlier plans for the evening had been cancelled. He’d been invited by one of his model friends to attend the opening of a gallery, a high-profile fund-raiser. He’d been happy to do it. Going out with Suki was always relaxing. They’d been friends for years, but weren’t the least bit attracted to each other despite the rampant rumors in the press.

      Originally, he’d been disappointed when she’d called to tell him the benefit had been postponed. Now, though, he was glad for the cancellation. It meant that his calendar was open. A rare thing, and extremely fortuitous, especially considering how much he wanted to spend the evening with Joan Benetti.

      Unfortunately, she seemed less than enthusiastic about a date. Too bad. He’d sensed a chemistry between them that he didn’t want to believe was one-sided. But she’d hesitated, and Bryce had turned to more creative methods to get her to go out with him. Well, what the hell? Best case, he’d have the woman in his arms. Worst case, he’d end up owning a few first editions. Either way, he certainly couldn’t complain.

      After all, the erotica on the table had been intriguing, to say the least. His body tightened merely from the memory, and he shook his head with wonder. Potent stuff.

      Erotica had never been in his field of interest, but Bryce hadn’t gotten where he was by turning away from new experiences. From what he could tell, Joan seemed to be an expert on the subject. And maybe, if fate was kind, Bryce could talk her into giving him a few lessons on the subject. He could hope, anyway.

      And if the lessons were hands on, well, that would be all the better.

      3

      FIVE YEARS. He’d been without his beloved Emily for five long, lonely years.

      A lump filled Clive’s throat, just like it always did when he thought of her. His sweet Emily. So precious, so innocent.

      She hadn’t deserved to die.

      Even now he could remember how she’d looked on their wedding day, her brown eyes so full of life, her near-black hair in stark contrast to the pure white of her dress.

      His Emily. His love.

      Slowly, Clive bent down and pulled the battered suitcase out from under the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the carpet, worn and stained with God-only-knows-what. This was what he’d been reduced to, living in pathetic fleabag motel rooms that could be rented by the hour and had probably never even seen disinfectant. But it was necessary. The motels he’d chosen for the long drive from California to Jersey were cheap. That meant the clerks didn’t even blink when you paid in cash, and they couldn’t care less who was renting the room. That’s what Clive wanted. To be invisible. He’d need to be invisible if he was going to make this work.

      Slowly, almost reverentially, he snapped the latches on the case and lifted the lid. He pulled out the flannel pajamas he’d used as lining and there, under the dark green material, he saw them—the shotgun and handgun he’d purchased specifically for this project.

      He drew in a breath, anticipation mixing with nerves as the time drew near.

      Soon, very soon, that son-of-a-bitch Bryce Worthington was going to pay.

      “BRYCE WORTHINGTON? You’re going out tonight with the Bryce Worthington?”

      Joan squinted at Kathy as the younger girl brandished the pencil in her hand as if she was going to skewer Joan for not understanding the full impact of the date with Bryce. “Um, I guess so,” Joan said. “I’m going out with a Bryce Worthington. Who is he?”

      “You don’t know?” Kathy shook her head in amazement. She was eighteen, a freshman majoring in English lit, and had recently been hired to work part-time in the store. Until today, she’d been in awe over the Dickens serials that Ronnie kept locked in the second-floor vault. Now, though, she’d transferred her enthusiasm to Joan’s date. “You really don’t know?”

      Joan sighed. “I really don’t know.”

      Kathy performed an exaggerated eye roll while exhaling, conveying the impression of being both disbelieving and put-upon. “He’s like a bazillionaire. This self-made Texas businessman. And he’s single. All those bachelor-type television shows have been trying to get him to go on, but he flat-out refused them.”

      Good for Bryce, Joan thought, her estimation rising a notch. She’d liked Bryce instantly and had had an instinctual feeling that he was a man with whom she’d get along great. Even after all of Kathy’s oohing and aahing, she still wasn’t sure she could place Bryce in the social hierarchy. The way Kathy talked, he fit somewhere between God and Ben Affleck. Big news, indeed.

      “You’ve really never heard of him?” Kathy repeated, apparently unable to believe that Joan lived under a rock.

      “Really,” Joan said, more defiantly. She’d never paid a whole lot of attention to that rich celebrity stuff. She would happily follow the careers of musicians, actors and authors she liked. Even politicians, whether she liked them or not. But she did not follow the careers of big-shot businessmen.

      Kathy just frowned, shaking her head a little.

      “What?” Joan asked, sure the freshman was about to deliver a lecture about staying up on current events, though Joan was willing to debate whether Bryce’s eligibility really was newsworthy. Especially since, as much as Joan might fantasize about a fabulously wealthy knight taking her away from all this, her odds of winning the Powerball lottery were significantly better than winning the heart of Bryce Worthington or any other man with a well-stuffed bank account. That was just too much like some unrealistic fairy tale.

      “I

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