Falling Into Drew

F
ALLING INTO
D
REW

by

HARRIET SCHULTZ

Copyright © Harriet B. Schultz, 2016

ISBN-10: 0-9891466-8-5

ISBN-13: 978-0-9891466-8-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales, is entirely incidental.

Cover: Kim Killion Designs

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With thanks to Judith Sarah for her friendship and for her willingness to provide honest feedback on the story. To Louise D. for her insight into how a situation in the story might impact the characters. This book would never have been written if readers hadn’t responded so positively to my first three novels. Thank you to each and every one of the people who read my books and told me that they enjoy the stories I create.  Finally, thank you to my husband, Ed, for his love and belief that I can do anything.

Also by Harriet Schultz:

LEGACY OF THE HIGHLANDS

A LEGACY OF REVENGE

LEGACY OF LOVE

CHAPTER 1

Ekaterina “Kate” Porter strode down Fifth Avenue at a New York pace, darting around crowds of dawdling tourists. She shivered in the bitter cold and tugged a cashmere scarf higher on her neck. It was her lunch hour and she had t accomplish a lot in a limited amount of time. Food was not on the list so she told her growling stomach that it would have to wait to be fed.

She ran up the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and quickly dipped her fingers in the font of cold holy water, crossed herself and then bent her right knee beside a pew. Instead of pausing to admire the church’s majestic beauty, she quickly made her way to a side altar where hundreds of flickering votive candles created a soft glow. The familiar scent of burning wax blended with the church’s incense to soothe her and her racing thoughts quieted.

She tucked a few dollars into the donation box and touched a thin wooden stick to a flame. She reached toward the nearest unlit votive candle then hesitated as if trying to figure out which of the small white candles might most effectively carry her prayer heavenward. She told herself that it wasn’t as if she were choosing which number to place all her chips on in roulette. Decision made, her arm stretched to light the votive closest to the Virgin’s statue, then she bowed her head, closed her eyes and lost herself in prayer.

As she rose from her knees, she suddenly lost her balance and started to topple backwards until her inevitable fall was broken by something large, solid and warm. “What the hell,” she began, startled as she felt arms come around her waist to steady her.

“Not the best word to utter in church, is it?” The voice was deep and she could feel the man’s warm breath near her ear. She grasped the arms that continued to hold her against a body whose muscles were evident through the butter soft black leather jacket he wore. She turned her head in time to see her rescuer add a playful grin to his comment. “If I let go, will you be all right?”

Kate wasn’t sure if her heart’s rhythm had been affected by losing her footing or by her first look at the man who’d prevented her from crashing onto the church’s hard stone floor. Even in the dim, flickering candlelight, she could only think of one word to sum up his this blue-eyed stranger’s looks — magnificent.

“I’m fine,” she said once she was able to tear her eyes away from his face. “If you hadn’t been right behind me when I stood, I wouldn’t have…well, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Instead of heading toward the massive bronze doors that led to Fifth Avenue, they walked side by side toward another exit, stealing glances at each other. Kate turned toward the nameless knight when he pulled the door open and held it for her. “Thank you, but your job is done, Sir Galahad. You don’t need to follow me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. My bike’s outside. If I’d left it on Fifth, it would have been towed.” He zipped his jacket then leaned close enough that she thought he might kiss her. He didn’t. Instead he said, “And I thought that it was you who was following me.”

Kate’s dark eyes widened and she gaped at him. This man, with his drop-dead looks and confident strut, flustered her and turned her brain to mush. “Well, bye and thanks again,” she finally said, then silently called herself an idiot.

She bit her lip and watched as the mystery man jogged down the steps. He looked back at her and aimed a killer grin in her direction. Then his expression changed and, for a brief moment, it looked as if he wanted to say something before he lifted one long, jeans-clad leg to straddle a powerful black Harley. Their eyes met and Kate’s cheeks flushed as her mouth formed a silent “O” just before his face disappeared behind the protective black mask of his helmet. The machine roared to life and a moment later he was gone, expertly weaving through a street filled with yellow taxis.

Kate shook her head as if to break the spell he’d cast. As attractive as this man might be — and there was no denying that he was incredibly handsome — bad boys in leather on Harleys were so not her thing. Not anymore. Besides, a man like that would never be interested in her. She attracted men who were sophisticated, smart, successful professionals who wore suits and ties. Not very sexy, but safe. And what was wrong with safe? Yet at that moment she envied impulsive women, the kind that would instinctively know how to end up riding on the back of that Harley, their arms wrapped around the waist of that beautiful man. What might have happened if she hadn’t rudely dismissed him?

The fantasy ended when she glanced at her watch. She had five minutes to dash to the salon near her office for a quick blowout. Perhaps the hum of the hairdryer would help to banish the strangely pleasant encounter from her memory or she’d keep obsessing over how it could have played out differently if only
she
were different. She knew she was in trouble when she began to wonder which part of his body was tattooed. A man like him must have at least a few.

While Felipe worked on her hair, Kate idly flipped through a magazine filled with page after page of clothing, celebrity photos and ads for perfume, cosmetics and expensive watches. She barely looked at the pictures until she suddenly let out an ear-splitting shriek. “Holy crap! It’s him!”

Felipe’s hairdryer slipped from his grip. “Good thing I’m not using scissors today sweetheart or that scream and head jerk would have made you lose a few inches of your beautiful hair or maybe even part of an ear,” teased the stylist.

Kate held up the magazine so he could look over her shoulder to see the page that had caused the outburst. She poked her finger repeatedly at the large photo of a man standing beside a beautiful model. “Look at this! Do you know who this is?”

“Of course I know who he is, darling. Every gay man in New York has fantasized about doing him. It’s that skier. The one who won the gold medal and became very, very rich and a stud of major proportions. You know…shit, I’m blanking on his name.”

“Drew O’Connor. How could I not recognize him? His name’s Drew O’Connor. I think I just met him.”

Now it was Felipe’s turn to shriek. “Where! What! And most important, what are you doing sitting in my chair if you could be with Mr. Gorgeous Hot Stuff?”

“I went to St. Patrick’s to light a candle for my uncle and bumped into him.” She pointed at his photo again.  “I’d been kneeling and I guess I wobbled when I stood up. Next thing I knew, he grabbed me so I wouldn’t fall.”

“Oh, honey. The things you could have done with him if you’d stayed on your knees!” He laughed as her face turned red. “Listen to me, young lady. If that man wrapped those strong arms around me I would have dragged him into a pew and had my way with him.”

“Okay, I admit that he’s gorgeous and sexy, but so not my type. You’ve known me for years, Felipe. Do you actually believe that a man like him would want someone like me?” She glanced down at her conservative, knee-length skirt and sighed, remembering how right she’d felt in his arms. “He rides a Harley,” she added, as if that explained it all. Kate turned toward Felipe and raised her dark brows. “Are you going to just stand there dreaming or finish my hair?”

“He would be lucky to have a woman like you unless he’s an idiot or…could he be gay?” Just the thought brought a huge smile to his face.

“Sorry, Felipe, but he’s definitely straight.” 

“I wonder what he was doing in church,” he mused almost to himself. “Maybe your gaydar is off and I should start going to Mass again.”

The stylist continued to study her while he expertly worked the blow dryer and brush. “Girlfriend, I’ve never heard this kind of longing in your voice about any of the conservative men you’ve dated. Bor-ing. Don’t rule out the bad boys. Contact with some leather that doesn’t say Prada, Gucci or Louboutin might be just what you need.”

“Yeah, right.” she said, dismissing the idea while running her fingers through the tousled waves of hair that gleamed like satin and felt like silk. Parted on the side, it often dipped over one of her eyes, but it was her favorite style. Too bad that Felipe hadn’t worked his magic before her run in with the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

CHAPTER 2

Drew left his Harley in the garage of the glass-walled high rise where he rented a furnished apartment. Most people with his wealth owned at least one house, but he disliked permanence and resisted buying real estate despite the nagging of his financial advisor. Possessions tied you down and he liked being able to simply jump on his bike when he felt the urge to move on. He didn’t need much and was fortunate to have the money to replace clothing and whatever else he’d leave behind. Although his life as a ski bum was far in the past, the desire to chase the next great something still intrigued him, only lately he had no idea what that something might be.

He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer and sprawled on the gray leather sofa opposite the apartment’s huge flat screen TV. He picked up a remote and surfed until finding an all-sports station. Christ, his knee ached. Ice and Advil would help, but he was too tired to walk to the freezer.

His right knee had been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that he’d lost count. It had an abstract design of intersecting scars from all the surgeries he’d undergone to continue skiing. The left was only a little bit better. His body and its skill had been a business that a lot of people had relied upon for their livelihood. As that company’s only
product
, he drove himself to perform until he was no longer able to. Besides, he fucking loved to ski. The sport had saved him when nothing else could and the carefully invested millions he’d earned gave him the freedom to do whatever he wanted for the rest of his life. Problem was, he had no idea what that was.

Driving racecars had some appeal, but after a high-speed spinout during a trial run, he crossed that off the list. As good as the 150 mph speed made him feel, he had no desire to go up in flames on a race course since his competitive nature would push him to go faster and take more and more risks. The bike now satisfied his need for speed and an adrenalin rush. No way was he going to risk his life for an out-of-control thrill anymore. Maybe that’s what growing up meant.

For some reason, the thought of acting like an adult made him remember the interesting brunette from St. Patrick’s. He’d gone there to arrange a Mass in memory of his beloved gran. He was a very lapsed Catholic, but the fifth anniversary of her death was a few days away. He smiled remembering how she’d drag his ass to church each week during his summers in Ireland, so he knew what he’d done today would please her.

He raised the beer in a silent toast then tried to figure out why he was still thinking about the brief encounter with the very attractive woman who’d stumbled into his arms. It wasn’t often that a female didn’t recognize him and go all psycho to get his attention. This chick was different. Instead of clinging like the models and actresses he was usually paired with, this one just wanted to get rid of him. Intriguing. He smiled at the memory of his body pressed against hers. She’d felt good in his arms and when her eyes had flashed at his…wow. The connection triggered something in him. He wasn’t sure what that was, but it had been a long time since he’d felt anything and so he hadn’t recognized emotion soon enough to react to it. He didn’t ask her name, her number or drop everything and invite her for a coffee. Coffee? Really? His mind might think that was the right idea, but his body clearly craved something more private and less civilized.

He leaned his head back and tried to visualize her. Eyes he’d thought were black in the dim church were actually a warm golden brown in the bright sunlight, which also revealed the copper glints in wavy brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Lashes so thick they almost looked fake framed her eyes. The woman’s skin was winter pale, although it flushed pink when she watched him straddle the Harley. He liked that she didn’t wear lipstick since red smears all over his mouth or other body parts were a major turn off.

She’d smelled good too, sort of like a cinnamon bun. Hell, it surprised him that he remembered so much about a woman he’d only spent five minutes with. It was just as well that he’d never see her again. He’d only fuck things up the way he always did. The absolute confidence he had as a downhill racer didn’t always extend to his personal life, at least when it mattered.

He stretched, grimaced in pain, and forced himself to limp across the dark hardwood floor to the refrigerator to grab two ice packs. With them wrapped around both knees, he felt like an old man instead of a twenty-nine-year-old world class athlete.

“Did you have a nice lunch, Ms. Porter?” Theresa Orsini looked up from her computer screen as Kate rushed past her desk. The longtime assistant was at least twenty years older than her boss, but insisted on calling her Ms. Porter. She’d explained that because Kate was an editor, she’d earned a more formal form of address. So although it made her feel ancient, Ms. Porter she remained.

“I haven’t eaten yet, but I will,” Kate replied. “See?” She held up the container of plain yogurt she’d bought to gobble at her desk. Since running into Drew O’Connor, she’d been determined to lose the five pounds she put on over the holidays. The women he dated were skinny and she wanted to look good if she ever saw him again, not that he’d remember her, but she was entitled to her fantasies.

Theresa broke into her thoughts. “You have some messages and also a two o’clock meeting with Charles Morrison.”

“Remind me again of who he is?”

“He’s an agent and....”

“Oh, right. He wants to pitch a project.” Kate started to walk toward her office. “Can you buzz me five minutes before the appointment so that I can get ready to meet him?”

She closed the office door, hung up her winter coat and groaned when she realized that the pile of unread manuscripts on her desk had grown in her absence. Although they’d made it past the first readers, most would be rejected. She pulled the yogurt’s foil cover off and a blob of white stuff landed in her lap. “Oh, shit.” She scowled, dabbing at the greasy stain left behind and decided that was reason enough to switch to nonfat from the richer variety she carefully spooned into her mouth. It was too late to make a quick trip home to change. The soiled, narrow black skirt might make her look less professional to the agent, but he was the one who needed to impress her or so she told herself.

When Theresa reminded her that she had five minutes before her meeting, she grabbed the long gray scarf she’d worn with her coat and wrapped it around her hips, sarong style. A quick check in the mirror told her it hid the stain and actually looked good. Maybe she’d start a trend.

Precisely five minutes later, she stood and extended her hand as a smiling Charles Morrison strode into her office. Six feet of male perfection was definitely not what she’d expected. His black hair was artfully tousled and he wore a navy blue suit that hugged his wide shoulders as if it were made for him. It probably was. He exuded the kind of easy confidence she’d observed among New York’s wealthiest. This must be her day for hot, handsome men, she thought, and tucked her freshly styled hair behind one ear to keep it out of her eyes.

She took a quick look at the card he handed her and lifted her brows in puzzlement. Morrison was a sports agent, not one of the high-powered literary agents she usually dealt with. She moved from behind her desk to a seating area in her spacious office and invited him to take the chair facing hers.

“Well, this is a first, Mr. Morrison. I’ve never met with a sports agent before.”

“I’m glad that I’m the first,” he said. The way he said it was serious, but his eyes sparkled with humor. Was he flirting with her? If so, she chose to ignore the
double entendre.

He leaned back and crossed his long legs at the ankle, totally at ease. There was no way in hell that Kate could miss spotting the colorful athletic shoes on his feet. They were an odd choice to wear with a suit. He noticed the direction of her gaze and laughed.

“It looked like snow today and I have a habit of falling on my ass when the sidewalk’s slippery. Leather shoes and winter don’t mix.” He grinned, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with humor.

“You’re right. They’re great shoes, just surprising that’s all.” She shrugged as if it were no big deal and returned his infectious grin before resuming their conversation.

“So, Mr. Morrison, tell me why you’re here.” She crossed her legs and waited.

“Wow, you really cut to the chase. Direct. I like that.” He sat up straight and then leaned toward her. “I’ve never pitched a book so I’m not sure how this works, but despite my inexperience with publishing, I’m very familiar with my client since I’ve represented him for several years.”

Kate eyebrows rose. “And? Am I to assume your client is an athlete who wants to write a book?”

“Right. He’s a world famous athlete and I believe his story is one that would interest many readers. It even has the potential to become a movie or something on TV. He no longer competes and is looking for a new challenge.”

“Is this
client
, the one whose identity you’re obviously protecting, a writer or would he require a ghost?”

The agent cocked his head to the side and didn’t respond immediately. “You know, I’m not sure. He’s smart and his emails to me have sure as hell been entertaining, so maybe he can write. At this point I’m just feeling out the market to get a sense of whether I should even discuss this with him.”

Kate stared at him for a moment and then stood, her face flushed. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Morrison, but this meeting is over.”

“Over? What do you mean? We haven’t even…”

“You won’t tell me who this paragon is and you don’t even know if he’d be interested in pursuing a memoir or autobiography or whatever it is you have in mind. Without that information, how do you expect to get feedback from me or any publisher?”

“Okay, okay. I understand your position. I can’t reveal his name, but believe me, he’s famous and has an interesting story. I told you I’m new at this. Help me out here.” He raised both hands, palms up and added, “Please.”

Something about this man and his proposal intrigued her, but she refused to be pushed into an answer without more information. She released a breath. “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this, but if whoever you represent is willing to meet with me to discuss this further, I will take the meeting. Otherwise, good luck and thank you for coming in.”

Charles was a savvy enough negotiator to realize that the person in power had decided the meeting was over. Hell, he’d done it often enough when someone wanted something from him. This time around, a beautiful woman held all the cards, so he shook the hand she extended toward him as she stood beside the open office door. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered under her breath, turning back to the stack of unread manuscripts on her desk.