The Pleasure's All Mine (2 page)

Six months earlier, Chicago

“Trust me. She’ll never know we had anything to do with it.”

As much as she loved Eric Ripley, his wicked little smile didn’t sit well with her. For the fifteenth time since Ava Davidson had walked through the door of the lakefront condo, she shifted in the dining room chair, wondering how to dodge whatever bullet he was aiming her way.

“Come on, Aunt Avie. How could Mom believe we’d hook her up with a dude in New York City?”

“I just don’t have a good feeling about it.” Ava maneuvered her fleshy frame around the smoke-tinted glass table and into the spacious, well-organized kitchen to get a few more spoonfuls of the delicious chili that Eric had made in hopes it would sweeten the deal. “Let Raven find her own man.”

“That’s the problem. She won’t even
look!
If we leave it up to her, she’ll never find anyone.” Frustration was evident in Eric’s voice and in the downward turn of his lips. He paused before adding, “That’s why she has all those funny little toys.”

Ava almost choked on her chili. “How do you know about her…toys?”

“Man of the house, the one who flips the mattresses, remember?”

“You can never let her know that you know about those…things.”

He grimaced at her worried expression. “I’ve kept them a secret all this time, haven’t I, Aunt Avie?”

Eric wasn’t really Ava’s nephew, but a seventeen-year-old client who, just the week before, had made waves in his hometown of Chicago when he’d hit the
New York Times
bestsellers list—the youngest male in the fantasy/sci-fi genre to attain that honor. The woman in question, Raven Ripley, known to her readers as Raven Armand, was also one of Ava’s literary clients. The possibility of being caught in the middle of two clients made Eric’s request for help in his romantic plans for his mother unsettling—yet intriguing.

As his agent, Ava should have known something besides chili was cooking when Eric invited her to dinner. He would have told her about a new novel or a new deal over the phone. The boy could be downright tenacious when it came to matching up his mom with Mr. Somebody. But then again, that was one of the reasons she loved him.

Eric had been trying unsuccessfully to find his mother a husband since he was twelve. Raven was attractive, spirited, and solidly single, but that didn’t seem to matter to Eric. He wanted her to be happy and well cared for after he went off to college. Eric simply didn’t want to believe that Raven was perfectly content to spend the rest of her years single, with her fictional male characters—and her…
toys
—as the perfect mates.

What Eric didn’t know was that Raven had a particular inclination that sometimes sent men sprinting for the first available exit whenever she mentioned that she wanted something other than a “traditional” relationship. That, more than anything, explained her single state. But Ava knew Raven certainly couldn’t clue the youngster in on that point, as it was sure to prompt questions that even Raven herself couldn’t answer. How did a woman tell her son that she preferred an open-door relationship, and one where the door didn’t swing in only one direction?

And how could Ava get Eric to realize that more and more women today were perfectly all right without snaring Mr. Right, Mr. Wrong, Mr. One-Night-Stand, Mr. Heavy-Handed, Mr. I-Just-Can’t-Get-a-Break, or Mr. Perfect-at-the-Beginning, Fizzled-at-the-End? After nosing out another set-up attempt from Eric and Ava, Raven had made things crystal clear. “I want to keep my options open. And marriage is outdated anyway. If—or when—I need a man, fornication will work out entirely too well, thank you!”

Ava had been happily married for twelve years to her best friend and high school sweetheart, wasn’t so sure. She respected Raven’s choice, even though she didn’t understand her preference for an “open-door” relationship. Nevertheless, on several occasions she had succumbed to Eric’s pleas for help, hoping to have the pleasure of finding the perfect man and telling Raven, “I told you so.”

Eric was determined and brilliant, had a 4.0 grade point average, and was devilishly handsome with wavy, jet-black hair, caramel skin, and the softest brown eyes she had ever seen. As Ava brought the spoon to her mouth, she grimaced, thinking, And the boy could cook! Her traitorous stomach had led her straight into trouble.

Eric’s lips began to turn up just a bit at the corners. “I know for a fact that Pierce Randall will work out much better than the others.” He nodded confidently, as though trying to convince himself. “She admires him.”

“Is that all?” Ava relaxed. “Eric,” she said, patting one of his long, tapered hands, “admiration is like a cute, cuddly kitten; love is like a full-grown tiger.”

He was silent for a moment. Then something in his expression crumbled. Eric closed his eyes, then pursed his lips as though trying not to cry. He opened them, releasing a long, sad sigh. “But he’s the first one.”

“First what?”

“The first man I’ve ever heard her say she respects.”

Ava chuckled, breaking open a piece of jalapeño cornbread. “She’s never even met the man.”

“She didn’t have to.” He moved over to the chair beside hers, brown eyes dancing with excitement. “She saw him a couple of times on that reality television show. You know, the one about finding a new music group? He was one of the producers. Sometimes he’d pop in to see how the contestants were shaping up.”

Oh, Lord!
“Being on television doesn’t make for husband material!”

“It’s not because he was on television. It was how he carried himself. I think he’d be perfect.”

“
You
don’t count,” she said, resisting the urge for another bowl of chili. She’d loosened her belt after the first one; unzipped her pants a little for the second. She’d have to take them off if she went back for thirds—probably not a good idea, given the present company.

“He’s really cool people.”

Ava froze, another spoonful midway to her mouth. “That’s why you took that internship in New York.”

Eric’s smile could’ve thawed frozen vegetables. “Yep. I got to see the man up close and personal, as the sports guys say.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on a denim-clad arm.

Thinking about what trouble Eric must have gone through to research the man he thought his mother should date cracked Ava’s resolve. She placed the spoon gently inside the bowl and pushed it away. “We’ve been wrong about men before.”

“I’m sure about this one, Aunt Avie. He
is
the perfect candidate. He has integrity, good taste, and intelligence—all the things she’s tried to instill in me.”

It was a damn good argument, and he knew it. Pierce Randall
was
the perfect candidate. Ava knew of him from some of her former clients in the music industry. He had a reputation as someone with a quiet strength and determination; a good match for Raven. And because the man was also seasoned and world-savvy, he might not be frightened off by Raven’s other…
interests
. Hell, he might even like to watch!

Ava slumped in her chair, hand resting on her uncomfortably full stomach. “She won’t like it.”

“She’ll thank
us
later.”

“I don’t like that
us
word either.”

His hearty laugh warmed her heart. “I can’t do it without you. You’re a lawyer. You know how to…
manipulate
people.”

Ouch!
“That was low, even for you, Eric. Some thanks we got the last time we were busted—she sent you to live with me.”

“Only for two weeks,” he said, grabbing an apple from the basket in the center of the table. “And we had a great time, didn’t we?” He grinned sheepishly and tossed the apple in the air, catching it expertly. “I didn’t know you could skateboard like that.” He put the apple down, slid off his chair, grabbed her hand, and went down on one knee. “Pleeeeeease, Aunt Avie,” he begged, and smothered her delicate hand with little kisses.

“Oh, get up!” She shooed him away. “Your mom is a lost cause.”

“With you, there’s no such thing as a lost cause.” Eric’s mischievous grin unsettled her. “Who was the first lawyer to successfully win a case where a wife sued her husband for custody of his mistress?”

“That’s not how it really went down.”

In that case, the wife caught the husband cheating and asked for the mistress to come live with them, to earn her keep the honest way—on her feet helping the wife instead of on her back servicing the husband. In the lawsuit, the wife had not only requested that she gain “custody” of her husband’s mistress, but since he had brought her into their lives, she also asked for maintenance payments from her husband, not just for her family, but also for the mistress.

“But you won.”

“No, I didn’t.”

One eyebrow shot up. “The mistress is still living with the wife and the husband, right? And the husband’s still paying for both of them?”

Ava opened her mouth to reply and then thought better of it. Good point.
Spencer vs. Spencer
had made headlines across the country. She had won, but had almost lost one of her best friends in the process. Since then she had sworn off interfering in her clients’ love lives again.

Eric nudged her playfully. “I’m sure about this one, Aunt Avie,” he said again. “This one last time, and I’ll give up.” Eric’s gaze never left hers; his eyes sparkled with their usual boyish charm. And really, who could resist that smile?

Ava’s eyes narrowed to slits.

Eric threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I promise.” His smile said otherwise as he moved in for the kill. “Just help me one last time, Tee Tee Avie, and we won’t have to do it again. We can’t lose.”

Okay, so the gloves were off. The name he’d called her at age two always melted her heart. She was unable to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. Still she said nothing.

“I want to make sure she’s all right. I want to walk her down the aisle before I die…”

Ava closed her eyes against a sudden crush of pain. Playing the death card? He had never done that before. There was no stronger plea than that, given his condition.
Damn!

“You’re just like her,” she said in a pained whisper, trying to keep the tears from filling her eyes. “Don’t know when to give up.”

“That’s a compliment, isn’t it?”

His infectious excitement won over logic and reasoning. She smiled warmly. What could it hurt? “Okay. One
last
time.”

Eric rubbed his hands together like a chef preparing to serve his best five-course meal. “All right, here’s the plan…”

Six weeks later, New York

Raven Ripley was looking forward to killing Ava Davidson with her bare hands. How dare she force Raven to come to this event without bothering to show up her damn self! Oh yes, her lawyer friend had an ass-kicking coming—straight up, no chaser.

She didn’t look up—not even once—from her small writing tablet. She furiously guided her pen across the yellow paper, so fast that the blue lines appeared blurry. She ignored the hundreds of handsome men and beautiful women around her, schmoozing and air kissing each other, all of them glamorous, whether casually chic or barely dressed.

The atmosphere had been tinged with excitement, as if the room itself knew the event would move from benefit to album-release party and soon turn into a frenzied feast for the eyes. On the dance floor, writhing and gyrating bodies kept time with the upbeat rhythm—some better than others. Laughter rose and fell at random. Everyone here was attending by choice—everyone except her. She bristled as she recalled Ava’s firm voice: “If you don’t show up tonight, I’ll drop you as my client.”

“The hell you will,” Raven had shot back.

“Try me,” Ava had replied in a dry tone that brooked no resistance.

Now Raven was at a party where some had slept with their friends, agents, co-workers, or whomever might be useful. Celebrities, people she knew by face and name, but nothing more, were everywhere. Raven, always one to avoid the social scene, did not intend to play adoring fan just to be accepted in their circle.

With lively conversation, tinkling sounds of laughter, and blaring music as a backdrop in a series of ballrooms with breathtaking décor, Raven was neatly tucked away in the corner on a navy blue velour chaise. She had started the seventh chapter of her story and was going strong. Her blue pen froze mid-stroke as the rich timbre of a male voice resonated just under the music. “If you didn’t come to play well with others, why are you here?”

Raven’s gaze traveled up from shiny black wing-tipped shoes to a tailored black suit filled evenly and naturally by a massive, muscular frame. She continued north to the full, kissable lips set in a grim, disapproving line. The dark brown eyes gazing intently at her made her breath quicken. The fact that he was clean shaven and bald added to the striking look. An instant of heat flushed her body. Her heart slammed against her chest.
What the hell was wrong with her?

Tall and handsome in an unconventional way, he had a commanding presence. His build suggested a no-nonsense, dedicated football player who took workouts as seriously as game day. Though he wore a suit well, Raven could picture him in jeans or sweats. From his weary eyes, it seemed that this event was not a choice, but a chore as well.

“I came because someone twisted my arm,” she snapped, meeting his glare with an icy one of her own. For some reason he looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

His eyebrows twitched just as lips, which promised a world of pleasure, lifted into a mocking smile. “Twisted your arm?”

“Yes.”

“For
this
party?”

She nodded and waited for him to walk away. No such luck.

“You must not be from this planet.”

Raven’s lips spread into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Trust me. Planet New York wasn’t my first choice. The spaceship had a flat.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

Mr. Handsome scanned the dance floor, taking in the response to the increased tempo of the music and said, “Figures.”

She bristled but kept a tight rein on her temper, but was failing miserably at keeping her hormones in check. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only someone who wasn’t from here would come all this way and deliberately try not to have a good time.”

“I am having a good time.” She crossed her left leg over the right.
Shoot! Why did she do that? The sharp slit in her dress bared more flesh than she intended.