Arlene James - The Man With The Money

Charly. Odd nickname for a woman, especially one that looked like her, not that she was drop-dead gorgeous or anything. Now that he thought about it, she wasn’t his usual type at all. He tended to gravitate toward the heavily, usually surgically, endowed sort. He liked long hair, blond preferably, blue eyes and stunning figures, stiletto heels and red lipstick. What was it about redheaded, shapely but unremarkable Charly that revved his engines so? It certainly wasn’t the way she dressed! He’d had Sunday school teachers who dressed with more pizzazz.

Funny, he hadn’t thought about that at the time. Now that he did, he was pretty sure she hadn’t been wearing any makeup. Her squarish face was pretty, yes, in a wholesome fashion, her mouth pleasingly plump and dusky rose, nose short and, well, neither wide nor narrow, blunt nor pointed. Her brows were straight, short dashes of red-brown above round eyes that were definitely her best feature. An odd golden color mottled with specks of green and blue, they were rimmed with thick lashes much brighter and lighter than her brows. He’d had the strange sensation of waking up to find those eyes gazing at him from the next pillow, their red-gold lashes sparkling with morning light. He wondered what she’d be like in bed.

He always wondered what they’d be like in bed. That’s what kept him moving on, what made him one of the hottest top ten bachelors in the nation, according to the press, that and the millions he had stashed away. He didn’t fool himself that his appeal to the opposite sex was strictly personal, and while he was definitely not above taking advantage of the appeal of his millions, it secretly rankled, just a bit, that his luck with women had improved so phenomenally once his business had taken off. Maybe Charly was his chance to put that old hang-up to rest. Maybe that was why he’d invented a new identity for himself on the spur of the moment.

Something had told him that Charlene Michman Bellamy would run from D. K. Rudell. So he’d be Darren Rudd and let her run to him instead. It would be a new experience, and new experience, after all, was the name of the game, wasn’t it? Same old same old got boring all too quickly, especially these days. Yeah, it was worth five hundred bucks and more just to see if plain Darren Rudd could pull it off.

Stevens had worried that she might be running a scam, that she might not be who she said she was or soliciting funds for anything other than her own use, but Darren didn’t believe it for a minute. She was much too genuine, this Charly. She might be, in fact, the most genuine article he’d ever come across. He shook his head, wondering why that mattered, why it intrigued. But in the end, he didn’t really care: the game was in play, and, as always, he intended to win.

She was waiting in the parking garage, ostensibly adjusting the strap of a sandal with a four-inch-high heel, her firm rump all but exposed by the minuscule skirt of her spandex slip dress, when he slid the silver sport car into its assigned space. As he got out of the car, she straightened and feigned surprise, one long-nailed hand flying up to her chest and calling attention to the abundant cleavage exposed by the two tiny triangles which comprised the bodice of the so-called dress. Frowning, she adopted a petulant air, rippling her leonine mane with a practiced toss of her head.

“I’m glad I ran into you like this, D.K. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about yesterday.”

He activated the antitheft device on the car by depressing a button in the tiny remote attached to his key chain and said drolly, “So you’ve decided to apologize for stepping out of line—way, way out of line—and making that scene yesterday.”

She folded her arms beneath her ample breasts and threw out a hip, red mouth pursed in an effort to appear either hurt or repentant and managing neither, despite great inducement. Tawny Beekman had been living rent-free in a luxurious apartment two floors below the penthouse that Darren Keith Rudell called home. He’d offered it to her as a means of helping her straighten out her abysmal finances, since he owned the building, the apartment had been empty and she’d been evicted by her roommate. The couple of months’ reprieve he’d initially offered had stretched to nearly a year, with Tawny tearfully declaring over and over again that she couldn’t afford a decent apartment since she’d given up “dancing” for a living. She was supposedly supporting herself as a waitress, but he had his doubts. During that year she had done her best to renew their brief affair, though he had deliberately ended their very casual sexual relationship even before she’d moved into the building.

D. K. Rudell knew better than to let his casual affairs come too close. He never made passes at the women who lived in his building or worked in his employ. He never played around with married women or the family members of his friends or business acquaintances. He made certain that no woman ever spent an entire night in his bed, and he never, but never, gave any woman, save the cleaning lady and his sister, Jill, the code to his private elevator and a key to his penthouse, not even their flighty mother DeeDee.

Jill had rarely used the access he’d given her, but yesterday had been an exception. She’d been waiting for him when he’d gotten home from work, anxious to speak to him about their mother’s latest folly, an investment scheme in a diamond mine located in, of all places, Missouri. Tawny had seen Jill accessing his elevator and assumed that she was a girlfriend. She’d ambushed him then just as she had today, complaining bitterly that he’d lied to her about not giving out his key to his lovers. She’d wept and exclaimed that she could satisfy his sexual needs far better than that “frumpy brunette.” When he’d explained, through gritted teeth, that the woman in question was his sister, for pity’s sake, Tawny had accused him of leading her on and breaking her heart. He’d left her screaming that he owed her, so he wasn’t too surprised to see her here again today.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, gliding up to him, “I’m so sorry. How was I to know she was your sister?”

“You weren’t,” he said flatly, “because it isn’t any of your business.”

“I know, I know, but I can’t help myself,” she pouted, sliding a hand lightly over his chest. “You know I’m crazy about you, D.K. You’ve ruined me for every other man. I’ve missed our good times so much.”

“But not enough to move out, I’ve noticed,” Darren retorted dryly.

Anger flashed in Tawny’s artificially green eyes but was quickly replaced by woe. “I thought you wanted me near you.”

Darren lightly placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her away, saying, “You thought wrong.” He dropped his hand and stepped back several steps, adding, “I tried to help out, but you knew the ground rules from the beginning. I’ve been more than generous. Now it’s time for you to go.”

The spigot immediately turned on. “Oh, D.K.!” she warbled, sniffing and blinking her false eyelashes. “How could you?”

He was immune by this time and just shook his head. “End of the month, Tawny. You ought to have a tidy little nest egg put aside by now. It’s nearly four weeks, so you have plenty of time, but I’ll even help you locate a new place if you want. Hell, I’ll help you move, if that’s what it takes, but one way or another you’re out of here by the end of the month. Understand?”

She was sobbing openly now, her lovely shoulders shaking pitifully, her face buried in her hands. “How can you do this to me? I burn for you. You’ll never know how desperately I want you to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “The thing is, see, I’ve moved on, a long time ago. It’s past time for you to do the same thing.”