That was, after all, the whole point of due diligence.
Damn it all to hell. He ran a finger through his hair, cursing incompetence generally and wishing for the good old days when no one reported to him but himself. Back then, he knew the job had been done right because he was the one who’d done it. And on the rare occasions when there was a screwup, he knew perfectly well where to lay the blame. Right at his own two feet.
Now he had to deal with committees and boards and shareholders. He had a hell of a lot more money than he used to, but on days like this one, he had to wonder if he was having as much fun.
On the street to his left, traffic moved by at a snail’s pace and horns blared, as taxis and commuters fought for space on the road. He’d been walking ever since seven, not watching where he was going. Just moving. The Big Apple wasn’t really that big; he certainly hadn’t feared he’d get lost.
And now here he was, somewhere far away from the familiar sights and sounds of Times Square or Wall Street, pounding the pavement, working off his frustration on the streets of Manhattan. His shirt clung to him, damp from the combination of his exertion and the dense humidity. He still wore his suit jacket, and now he took it off, hooking it on a finger and tossing it over his shoulder. And as he did, he took a look around, delighted by what he saw—rows and rows of brownstones, the type that used to cover the island before the big conglomerates moved in with their skyscrapers and changed the skyline.
Bryce had no problem with skyscrapers. Hell, he owned three. But it was the older buildings that still held his heart. The kind of structures that not only reflected history, but were history. Homes and businesses that had stories to tell. The kind of stories that fascinated Bryce.
He slowed his pace, taking time to absorb the scenery and scope out the neighborhood. The family-owned brownstones had mostly been converted to apartments above retail space long ago. Even so, the area was quaint, and he began running through the familiar calculations—purchase price, the cost of necessary improvements, potential profit once he turned the property.
Not that deals were easy to come by in Manhattan. Prices were on the rise once again, and Bryce knew the market well enough to realize that finding a steal was unlikely.
Which was why the Apartment for Sale sign in the bookstore’s window surprised him. He paused, taking a step back so his gaze could take in the whole building. It was five stories of utter charm, with flower boxes under the windows on the fourth and fifth floors, and a wrought-iron railing leading up to the main entrance. The door was glass, and through it he could see a cozy antiquarian bookshop. The store’s name, Archer’s Rare Books & Manuscripts, was etched on the glass, and was also painted on a hanging sign that faced oncoming pedestrians.
He slipped his jacket back on, then stepped to the door and turned the knob. He pushed the door open, smiling to himself as the little bells tinkled to announce his entrance. Charming. He stifled a grin, anticipating the imminent arrival of a short, balding man with half-glasses and a ruddy complexion. Instead, he saw a tousled blond sex kitten in a tight black skirt, lavender glasses, matching fingernails and triple-pierced ears.
She stepped in from a back room, her huge blue eyes wide with surprise. “Oh,” she said, a delightful blush blooming on her cheeks.
She drew in a breath and licked her bright red lips, and Bryce had the feeling he’d interrupted something, though he had no clue what. He half smiled. Maybe she kept a lover hidden in the back room. The thought amused him, and he couldn’t help but wonder how those well-defined thighs and that perfect rear would feel under his touch.
“I—” She stopped, turning to glance at the entrance, her brow knitted in confusion. “Did you come in through the front door?”
“That’s the traditional form of entrance, yes.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened, and she shook her head, as if annoyed with herself. Her blond curls bounced, and Bryce found himself smiling.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Stupid question. It’s just that the store doesn’t actually open until ten. I stepped out earlier for a bagel. I must not have latched it behind me.”
He turned and glanced again toward the door, for the first time noticing the Open/Closed sign that hung on a side window. Considering he could see Open, the sign facing the street must say Closed. “My mistake,” he said. “I just barged in. I didn’t even see your sign. You’re right. You’re not open yet.”
She laughed, the delightful sound chipping away at the last vestiges of his bad mood. He wondered if he could think of something else to say that would amuse her, and then immediately wondered what the hell had gotten into him. Lack of sleep, most likely.
“I was beginning to think I’d lost track of time,” she said. “I was…well, I was working in the break room.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow. Already after nine o’clock. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“That’s early for most people.”
She shrugged. “I have a lot to get done,” she said, almost to herself.
Bryce could take a hint, though the thought of leaving didn’t sit well. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back when you’re open.”
“Oh, no,” she said, her voice breathy. “It’s okay.” She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. She didn’t touch him, but her proximity alone was enough to set the air between them humming. “You don’t have to go.” Her mouth drew into a frustrated line, and she pulled her hand back with a little shake of her head. “What I mean is, I’ve always got time for a customer.” She stood up straighter and smoothed her skirt. “How can I help you, Mr….?”
“Worthington,” he said. “Bryce Worthington.”
She didn’t react at all to his name, and Bryce said a silent thank-you. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Joan recognized either his face or his name. But she didn’t and Bryce was happy to remain quietly anonymous. “And you are?”
“Joan Benetti.”
“Benetti?”
She frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
“I was just expecting you to say your name was Archer.” He nodded toward the sign. “This seems like a family-owned shop.”
“Oh! Right, yes. Actually, it is a family name. My, uh, partner’s father founded the store.” Her brow furrowed. “Did you just come in to browse?”
He cleared his throat, wishing he were a customer. He had a feeling customer service would interest Joan Benetti a hell of a lot more than real estate sales. “Actually,” he confessed, “I’m not here to buy a book.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyebrows lifted above the purple frames of her glasses, and a hint of a smile touched her lips. “Well, you don’t look like you’re selling anything…”
Bryce laughed. “No, I have a few questions about the building. Maybe I could ask them over breakfast?” He wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask. All he knew was that the idea of spending more time with this woman appealed. “The coffee shop at the corner’s open right now. And you have almost an hour before the store officially opens.”
Her eyes danced behind her glasses, and she dragged her teeth over her lower lip, clearly hesitating. He leaned against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Well?” he pressed, hoping she’d say yes. The woman intrigued him and amused him. “What do you say? A breakfast date? If you’re really in a crunch, you need to eat well. Vitamins, minerals.” He let his gaze roam over the view she offered, taking in the bright red pumps—designer knockoffs, he was sure—and the shapely, stocking-clad legs. And considering how short she wore her skirt, there wasn’t a lot left to the imagination. “Definitely a healthy breakfast,” he said, forcing his eyes away before his gaze climbed any higher. “You need to be good to your body.”
“Believe