Wilde Heart (Wilde Women Book 2) (10 page)

Men.
What the hell? Enough already! She was tired and anxious and quite frankly—sick of his shit.

“Well, fine then,” she snapped. “I guess we’re finished here.” Grabbing her big tote bag along with her jacket and purse, she went to open the car door but turned back for one last salvo.

“Thanks for the rain rescue. And the tonsil hockey. You haven’t lost your touch, Ashforth.”

And with that, she swung out of the big sedan, slammed the door behind her, and ran across the sidewalk to the little, overgrown courtyard of her apartment building.

From the backseat, Liam watched her go and shook his head. Negotiate a multi-national, global deal? Yep. No problem. Maintain control around a woman? That woman? Not so much.

“Boss,” Roman muttered. “Let me be the first to say it . . .”

“Shut up,” he answered gruffly.

Laughter came from the front seat.

“I fucked that up royally, huh?” Liam grunted.

“Duu
uuude,
” Roman hooted with a chuckle. “The lady was fishing for reassurance, and you basically told her that she wasn’t worth it.”

“Did not!” Liam barked.

“Oh, fuck yeah, you did—dumb bastard.”

“She said there wasn’t anything between us. No reason to start over.”

Roman barked out another laugh and swiveled in his seat to spear Liam with a fierce look.

“Are you insane? I didn’t know you and the lovely Rhiann Wilde had a history, but if you’re hoping for a do-over . . . you’re going about it all wrong.”

“She said no,” he grumped again for good measure even though he was starting to see the error of his reaction.

“No, she didn’t. She asked you to give her a fucking reason to let you back in, and like the dumb fuck I didn’t know you could be, you stuck your expensive Italian leather shoe in your mouth and told her pretty bluntly that you weren’t interested.”

Silence wrapped around them in the darkness. Liam didn’t know what to say or do.

Eventually, Roman asked, “Did you really buy the magazine because she worked there?”

Shit.
“Yes.”

Liam heard the smile in the man’s response. “Well, I’ll be damned. There may be hope for you yet.”

A
MY—I’M ATTACHING THE ROUGH final version of the finished story. Thanks for all the great input. You’re the best damn beta-reader a self-published author could hope for. By the way . . . I’ve chosen a caterer for the wedding. We’ll talk over the weekend when I have time.

P.S. There’s a bitch at work named Kim. You KNOW I hate everyone named Kim. The woman has it out for me; although I have no idea why. Fingers crossed this book does well. I’m so fucking over this damn job.

Rhiann clicked send on her iPad email and sat back with a smile on her face. In a relatively short period of time, she’d written three full-length books and published two of them. The third, something of a departure from her previous stories, was what she’d just shot off to Amy.

Plodding on feet covered in colorfully foofy socks, she made for her tiny kitchen and the promise of a big glass of ice-cold milk and a decadent peanut butter and jelly sandwich on nutritionally bankrupt white bread. Food of the gods, as far as she was concerned.

Constructing the perfect dinner sandwich lasted about as long as the song in the background she was humming did. Pouring milk into her favorite
Beauty and the Beast
cup—some random plastic collectible from a fast food place—she hip-hopped on her foofy socks, sliding to a perfect halt at the sofa with plate and cup in hand.

Her tablet chirped with a message.

Swoon. A full manuscript. You go, gurl! Can’t believe another one is in the chute being polished for release. Soooo proud :—)

As for a bitch at work—fuck all dragons and their salamander buddies. Don’t let the slime-heads get you down. And NOT all Kims are suspect. Just sayin. . . .

The expectant parents and newlyweds-to-be are in some weird nesting mode. Jax is creating a nursery and basically carrying Brynn around so her delicate feet never touch the ground. They’re hilarious.

Call after seven when I can talk. The hubs can wrangle his kiddies while we dish!

P.S. the book is gonna rock!

Ahhh.
Thank heaven for friends like Amy. She was such a sweet, positive person. Rhiann was lucky to have connected with the quirky mom from upstate PA, who worked for her sister Brynn. For the last year, she had been her secret confidante and most ardent cheerleader as Rhi stuck a toe or two into the self-publishing pond.

Clicking on the TV, she dropped the remote and picked up the sandwich. She bit into the slab of peanut butter dripping with homemade jam from Brynn’s Tea Room and groaned blissfully over the gooey delight.

Taking a quick chug of the super cold milk, Rhi relaxed against the back of her Ikea sofa. Muttering aloud, she swept her tongue to each corner of her mouth where remnants of the peanut butter and jelly gathered and licked them clean, giggling, “Damn sandwich is better than sex.”

The workday had been especially tedious, and after that bizarre scene with Liam in his Town Car, she had been all twisted and scattered. Refusing to let him get to her again—she’d be crazy to allow that, after all—had sent her flying to the computer as soon as she stepped through the door as a torrent of words and emotions came pouring out. Before she knew it, Rhi had a couple of thousand words down.

The peanut butter and jelly indulgence was an attempt to soothe her frazzled nerves. Writing about what happened might be therapeutic, but it didn’t stop the deep, slow fire still burning low in her belly.

Had it always been this way with him?
Yeah. It had.
She’d been awestruck from the start. Not even the hindsight of looking back would change what happened. Knowing then what she knew now? That he was capable of crushing cruelty and was, essentially, an empty emotional husk.
Humph. Would it change anything?

No. Absolutely not. What she’d felt with Liam as a foolish coed had changed her. Forever. He was her other. The missing piece. The tiny screw that wasn’t with all the rest of the parts needed to make her whole. She belonged to him in some intensely unequivocal way, even if that belonging wasn’t reciprocated.

It had taken her a long time to understand that love like the kind she felt for Liam wasn’t always a two-way street, but knowing this didn’t diminish the true feelings of her heart.

After inhaling the rest of the sandwich, she sat cross-legged on the sofa and mentally drifted. The TV was on mute so the only sound in the small apartment was her occasional sighs.

Life was a mess. When Brynn visited last month, Rhi had really wanted to discuss how she felt with her sister, but the right moment never came. Brynnie was in mid-infatuation with her hunky butt-whacking man, and at the time, Liam was still just hovering on the periphery so Rhi said nothing. Not about her careening emotions, her secret life as a romance writer, or about how much she was starting to hate living in New York.
None of it.

The truth was, where Liam was concerned, she didn’t know how, or even
what
to tell her sister. At the time, they’d snuck around and hid their relationship from everyone because he’d been working for her father. After they broke up and he’d told her in rather blunt, specific, and ugly terms that while she’d been too easy to resist, he was basically over it—she’d been mortified and too embarrassed to admit what an idiot she’d been.

Brynn, her parents—everyone—would be shocked if they knew the truth. That she’d swooned over the serious grad student and made a nuisance of herself until he’d given in and relieved her of her virginity. Or that they’d crept around like criminals for months on end, engaging in carnal liaisons that left invisible scars—even long after. So much so, that in all the years that followed, Liam Ashforth was the reason she hadn’t worked up even a scintilla of interest in anyone else. Certainly not enough to persuade her to get naked and swap body fluids. The guy had been a hard act to follow.

Flopping onto her back, she lolled on the sofa and groaned into the silence.

What the hell?
Why? Why? Why?
Why was Liam here? Now? And what did he really want?

Her tablet chirped again and she sat up to check the message. It was Amy again.
Hmmm.

Uh . . . this Kim person who is giving you shit. Would that be Kim Walsh?

Whoa. Yes, it
is
Kim Walsh, but what would Amy know about her? Quickly wiping her hands in case there was anything sticky lingering from her gooey sandwich dinner, she swiftly tapped out her reply.

Yep. That’s the one. Tall. Blonde. Tightened and toned by the best of NYC’s Plastic Surgeons. Why?

Rhi could feel her heart hammering in her chest as she waited for Amy’s response.

Found this on the Internet. Click on the link. Did you know they were a thing?

A thing?
Who?
With a lump of dread pulsing in her stomach, she clicked on the link in Amy’s message and felt the floor drop out beneath her by what she saw. It was a journal article—one of those financial publications and the blurb Amy sent was in the
Out and About
column.

The reclusive president of BPG, Liam Ashforth, arrives at the Ninth Annual Black Tie Gala benefitting childhood cancer research. Accompanying Mr. Ashforth is Mrs. Kim Walsh who, in addition to being Mr. Ashforth’s date for the evening, serves as chief financial officer for BPG.

The picture with the blurb sent Rhiann’s heart plummeting.
Oh. My. God.
There in high-def for all the world to see was Liam in formal attire looking like the Fifty Shades of Fuck My Life she knew him to be and BPG’s unctuous finance director. The one who was making all sorts of problems for Rhiann and her team at
Passion.

The bitch was dressed in a Badgely Mishka gown that Rhi supposed the vile woman thought was sexy—but on her fake body, the electric blue creation with plunging neckline and cut outs over the abdomen just made her look like an aging woman trying too fucking hard.

But it was the possessive way she wrapped her hand around the arm of her escort that made Rhiann see red.

That bastard!
Oh, my god.
He’d been playing her! That had to be it. Were they working together? Buying the magazine? Taunting her? Making her jump through hoops for their sick amusement?

Roaring with an anguished howl, she tried to calm her shaking limbs. Feeling stupid and gullible, Rhi crumbled. Her pathetic need to believe in happily ever after had unleashed her most secret of secrets when she first heard that BPG was Liam’s company. While everyone at the magazine was thrown into a royal tizzy at the news of the buyout, she had been blown over by the fantasy that he had come for her. It was what she’d privately yearned for and cried over. That one day—he’d return. How stupid could she be? Insane, burning jealousy fueled the anger exploding inside her.

Kim fucking Walsh?
Suddenly, a lot of things were starting to make sense. She recalled an announcement after the buyout by the managing editor, warning each of the department heads and team leaders—Rhi included—to expect a personnel meeting with BPG brass. That was also when she learned that BPG and Liam Ashforth were one and the same.

She’d gone to her meeting with mixed emotions—not sure what to expect and already on the fence about every facet of her New York life . . . including her job at
Passion.

Surprisingly, the interview had gone very well. The Walsh woman was there, and she had asked most of the questions. A lawyer was present and two more of BPG’s executive team. At first, the cool, sculpted blonde had appeared friendly. Curious about Rhi’s role at the magazine.

It had been going smoothly until everything changed. In the midst of a question and answer, she watched as the woman flipped absently through a file—probably her personnel folder, and stopped.

“I see from your file, Miss Wilde . . . that you earned your degree at Penn State.
Interesting.
”

She hadn’t known what to say or how to react to the odd formal tone so she smiled cautiously but said nothing.

For a long moment, the woman stared at her with an unreadable expression.

“Penn State is Mr. Ashforth’s alma mater,” she murmured silkily.

The hint of accusation in her tone threw Rhi. She’d wondered if she was missing something. Now she knew she had. Obviously, the bitchy woman was aware of Liam’s connection to her father. But not realizing that at the time, she’d merely nodded and replied, “Is that so?”

Everything had instantly gone to hell in a hand basket. From that moment on, the one-woman cunt patrol had been up Rhiann’s ass about everything. Interfering in how she directed her team, questioning every little expense, even arguing with her about a tray of bagels made available at a shoot.

“Bagels?” she’d accused with a dismissive sneer directed at the catered spread. “Models don’t nosh on bagels, Miss Wilde. That was a frivolous expense.”

Rhi hoped the bitch was kidding when she patiently explained that the craft services supplied by the magazine were for everyone. Not just the models. Feeling satisfied that she’d answered the charge and made her point, Rhi waited for the comeback she knew was coming.