Risky Business. Jane Sullivan

And that was it. And from that day forward, he’d fervently hoped that somehow, someway, someday, their paths would cross again. How could he have known it would be a thousand miles away in Denver, Colorado?

      All at once, the cab they were following accelerated, weaving hard to the right, then to the left, putting two more cars between them.

      “You’re losing them!” Jack told the driver.

      “The guy’s a maniac,” he muttered. “I’m doing the best I can.”

      Jack yanked two twenties out of his wallet and held them up. “You need to do better.”

      The driver had a sudden change of attitude and stomped the gas. “Hang on.”

      With a little creative maneuvering of his own, Jack’s driver managed to gain on the cab ahead of them. Every muscle in Jack’s body was tense, every nerve ending alive. He had to catch up to her. He had to.

      Then the light at the next intersection turned yellow. Jack’s driver slammed on the brake and brought their cab to a tire-squealing halt, while the other cab crossed the intersection and buzzed away.

      “Damn!” Jack said, smacking the back of the seat with his fist. He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe he’d come so close to finding her, only to lose her again. He slumped back against the seat, still cursing under his breath.

      “Hey!” the driver said, “It’s stopping half a block up!”

      Jack sat up again, hope surging through him. Looking down the street, he saw that the cab had pulled up next to the curb and the woman was getting out. Her straight dark hair swung across her shoulders as she bustled herself and her packages through the door of a high-rise bank building.

      The light changed. Jack’s driver hit the gas, and a moment later he pulled up to the curb in front of the building into which she’d disappeared. Jack tossed him money, then leaped out of the cab and raced into the building. Scanning the lobby, he spotted her standing in a crowd near the elevators.

      As he sprinted toward her, a set of elevator doors opened and she got on. The crowd followed her, leaving just as big a crowd behind waiting for the next elevator. He pushed his way through the people with as much civility as he could given his desperation, getting dirty looks left and right. But he had to catch that elevator.

      The doors were closing.

      “Rachel!” he shouted.

      He reached over the shoulder of a man in front of him and tried to wedge his hand between the doors.

      “Hey, buddy!” the guy said. “Back off! The elevator’s full!”

      The doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent. Another came, and the people turned and hurried toward it, leaving Jack standing there alone, cursing his luck. Or lack of luck. This was a forty-story building, and thousands of people worked here. How would he ever find her?

      He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. In a moment he had the manager of the Fairfax Hotel on the line and told him something had come up and he’d have to reschedule his tour for later in the day. The man sounded a little annoyed, but Jack couldn’t have cared less.

      Then, as he stuffed the phone back into his pocket, he remembered that he did have one piece of information about Rachel. If she’d been telling him the truth about her profession, she was an architect.

      He strode back through the lobby, found the building management office, and a few minutes later he got what he was after: the names and addresses of five architectural firms housed within the building.

      He returned to the elevators, his body humming with anticipation, images of Rachel swirling through his mind. She was beautiful, but the world was full of beautiful women, and his attraction to her had gone way beyond that. Even though their time together could have been counted in hours, for maybe the first time in his life he’d been thinking about the possibility of making a relationship permanent.

      He’d find her. One way or the other, before this day was out, he’d find her. And if he had his way, he’d have her back in his arms again.

      2

      RACHEL WESTOVER GOT OUT of the elevator on the thirty-eighth floor, then turned and backed through the glass door of Davidson Design, dragging two large shopping bags along with her. If this day got any worse, she wouldn’t be able to stand it.

      She’d realized this morning as she was leaving for work that she really could use a couple of new sweaters and a few other things if she intended to go to a ski resort for the next four days. So she’d ventured out for an early lunch hour, fought the crowds at both Ann Taylor and Express, stood in line next to a woman with a screaming baby, paid far too much for everything because she had no time to shop for a bargain, then took a cab back to her office driven by a guy who didn’t know the meaning of the word brake.

      But at least now she was ready for the retreat. Four days of skiing in Silver Springs, courtesy of the big boss, Walter Davidson. The man liked to promote a “one big, happy family” feeling among his employees, and occasional employee/spouse retreats were his way of making that happen. Rachel had never been very comfortable in social situations, particularly those which she was forced to attend, so she wasn’t looking forward to this one. Unfortunately, turning down such a generous invitation would make her look ungrateful. And with the new project manager position opening up, she definitely didn’t want to appear that way.

      The receptionist, Megan Rice, an animated little redhead with big brown eyes, peered over her desk.

      “Hey, Rachel. Have fun shopping?”

      “Not in the least.”

      “Aw, come on. It’s always fun to spend money.”

      Not for Rachel. Saving money was fun. Spending it was painful.

      The phone trilled. Megan punched a button on her console, answered it, then routed it with another touch of her fingertip. Most companies had done away with call-routing receptionists and gone to voice mail. But Walter Davidson insisted on maintaining the personal touch, and Megan manned the central nervous system of Davidson Design with astonishing proficiency. She greeted visitors, did overflow word processing and generally took up slack wherever she found it. But despite her obvious competence, there was something about her that had always made Rachel feel just a touch uneasy.

      Maybe it was the barbed wire tattoo on her upper arm that occasionally peeked out from under her sleeve. Maybe it was the glint in her eyes that said she always knew way more than she was saying. Maybe it was the phone calls she made sometimes to somebody named “Blade.” But for one reason or another, Rachel had come to suspect the truth: lurking behind those big brown eyes was the heart of a hell-raiser.

      And now the hell-raiser was smiling at her.

      Under normal circumstances, Megan’s smile was just a smile. But today was Rachel’s birthday. Megan was the self-appointed celebrant of all birthdays on the premises, and she accomplished that duty in ways that struck fear in Rachel’s heart. Rachel hated people making a fuss over her. But when it came to birthdays, Megan went beyond fuss and edged right into human torture.

      A bouquet of black balloons.

      Candles that wouldn’t blow out.

      A six-foot rabbit belting out a singing telegram.

      A T-shirt that read, I’m Not Old, I’m Chronologically Challenged.

      “Any messages for me?” Rachel asked.

      “No,” Megan said with a smile. “But I have something for you.”

      Oh, no.

      Rachel glanced quickly over one shoulder, then the other. She saw nothing suspicious, but that didn’t mean a thing. It could come from anywhere at any time, so she had to stay on her toes.

      “Please, Megan,” she said. “I know it’s my birthday, but—”