Wendy Etherington - Sizzle in the City

“It doesn’t matter if we bellow, shriek or wail,” Shelby said, leaning against the van. “We’ll still be two steps behind, and I still won’t know anything about that Trevor character.”

Calla patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. I’m all over that.” She cocked her head. “I’ve seen him somewhere before. I just can’t place the circumstance.”

“And I’ll start asking around about the investors’ meeting and what it’s for.” Victoria slid her arm around Shelby’s waist in a rare show of physical affection. “Max will need money for this new project, so my family will be high on the list. Don’t stress out. We’re going to get this guy.”

Shelby leaned against Victoria and at the same time grasped Calla’s hand. Her friends’ support meant everything. They’d been through bad breakups, job losses and family drama. They’d get through this crisis with the same bond of solidarity they’d shared for years.

Footsteps echoing on the ramp leading from the hotel brought Shelby out of her reverie.

She exchanged brief, wary glances with her friends before peeking her head around the corner of her van to see the source of the interruption.

Trevor.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said as he approached the van.

Shelby, along with her coconspirators, were struck dumb by the breathtaking sight of him.

His glossy hair gleamed blue-black beneath the streetlight. His suit—which had to be handmade—fit his trim body and broad shoulders to perfection. His dark blue eyes glowed with power.

“Nice party,” he said, and stopped directly in front of Shelby.

“Ah … thanks.”

After quick elbow jabs into her sides, Shelby’s best buds fled like vegans confronted with rare steak. They mumbled excuses about checking the suite for leftover supplies, then disappeared.

Ironically similar to Transportation Trevor’s exit from the party earlier.

“Where did you go?” Shelby asked—okay, maybe she accused. “You said you’d defend me if the crab-cake masses attacked, and you were nowhere to be found when the goods ran out.”

“Sorry. I had to take an important call.”

“From whom?”

He moved in, his tempting body nearly brushing hers and laid his palm against her cheek. “My father.”

“Oh.” Given the state of her family, Shelby wasn’t oblivious to the idea that others faced the possibility of caring for their parents. “Is he okay?”

“Irate, but that’s normal. So, yes.”

The look in his eyes, plus his warm hand against her skin scattered her thoughts. “I’m glad, but what—”

Before she could draw another breath, his lips were against hers.

He touched nothing but her lips with his mouth and her cheek with his hand. The moment drew out, romantic, alluring and teasing, as if he was waiting for her approval, as if he knew he’d crossed a line, but was confident he wouldn’t be shoved back.

Shelby had no intention of pushing him away.

She didn’t know him; she suspected him. Of all manner of things.

But she moved closer. There was something about him she couldn’t dismiss or forget. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Leaning into him, she initiated another kiss.

He responded with hunger and experience, angling his head and seducing her mouth with deep strokes of his tongue. Her spine seemed to melt, like chocolate in a double boiler.

She inhaled his warm, sandalwood scent, felt the heat and hardness of his body. He enveloped her like a blanket, though she knew there were layers of unknown to explore, feelings beyond pleasure and comfort.

When they separated, their gazes locked, their breathing labored, she could only manage one comment.

“All in all, it was a pretty damn great party.”

The New York Tattletale

April 17

Party Like a Hotel Magnate by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!)

A quick drop-in before your weekend in the Hamptons …

Oh, not spending your days at the luxurious retreat of the well-to-do?

Maybe you’re drowning your sorrows over your tax bill at the local pub. Or possibly spending your generous refund at Bloomys or Barney’s? (I hear there’s a fabulous shoe sale at the later—just ask for Damon.)

Whatever your weekend plans … never fear, dear readers, I’ll make either your shopping or your weekend shift at the tourist trap turn-and-burn palatable.

Speaking of tasty, I hear Max Banfield had an ooh, la, la soireé at his new hotel, The Crown Jewel, last night. Crab, so fresh from the sea the claws were still twitching, and chicken lettuce wraps were among the food offerings, with the night ending in raspberry creme-filled chocolate truffles.

Need I say yum?

No, I’m sure you have your own version of lusciousness to reflect upon.

Didn’t I tell you about Damon?

—Peeps

Hotel magnate?

Was that a promotion over financial guru?

Trevor tossed aside the newspaper Florence had set on his desk.

Instead of worrying about his brother, he stared out his window, where the streets below teemed with the usual afternoon Manhattan chaos. He’d planned to spend the weekend at his house in the Hamptons, but instead of anticipating the escape and relaxation, his thoughts turned to the sensational kiss he and Shelby had enjoyed the night before.

He’d crossed a line with her and didn’t regret it in the least.

He should have been concentrating on Max and tempering his latest mistake—or at least diminishing its press-worthy moments—but instead Trevor’d found his attention straying to the stunning caterer all night. The usual responsibility to his family paled in comparison to her vibrancy and glowing smile. As practicality seemed to be her mantra, he sensed even she wouldn’t approve of him being so distracted.

He was reminded of the genetic, and sometimes irrational, impulses he’d inherited. Impulses that ruled his mother’s life and ones even his stodgy father had indulged in long enough to produce him and Max.

Perhaps Trevor’s rebel past wasn’t so easily left behind.

And yet he’d been self-possessed enough to recognize the determination in Shelby’s eyes. Just as his mother had resolved to possess jewels, clothes and husbands, Shelby had her own goal in mind.

What, he wasn’t entirely sure. But it somehow involved Max.

He’d confirmed only two things the night before—Max’s financial windfall had indeed come in the form of their latest, wealthy, clearly gullible stepfather. And their father was monumentally annoyed about his name appearing in the American gossip rags.

Surely you can control this situation, Trevor, his father had said on a cell-phone call from his office in London. I have important issues before Parliament to address in the coming weeks. I don’t have time to explain this nonsense.

I’ll handle it, sir.

He’s a grown man, his father had continued. Reason with him. You’re the only one he listens to.

But Max didn’t listen to him. He didn’t take his advice or take responsibility. He wasn’t even a grown man. Not really.

He went to Vegas and blew money. He ran up debts at the London card clubs and pubs.

In some respects, Trevor knew he’d failed his family. At the same time, he had the sense to not remind his father that he was the one who’d married and divorced the flighty, but beautiful woman who’d created Max, who was, in turn, creating the present problems.

You could be the first son, his conscience reminded him firmly. Then you’d be required to follow in the earl’s footsteps as well as adhere to every edict that fell from his lips.