Chapter One
Saturday, September 14
2:35 P.M.
West Seventy-Second Street, New York City
It had been a day from hell.
Four hours in Dellinger Academy's conference room. Two
five-minute bathroom breaks. Three sets of hostile parents
in total denial. And another one of Taylor's precious
Saturdays wasted by an elite private school administration
that didn't want to rock the boat.
All the parties involved were so caught up in their own
agendas, they seemed to forget that at the center of this
storm were three seventeen-year- old kids about to
implode.
As a counselor, Taylor had tried desperately to speak for
the teens. She knew their fears -- fear of failure, of
inadequacy, of letting down their parents.
Fear of growing up.
Didn't anyone remember how traumatic that transition was?
Apparently not. Because today's scenario had been as
maddening and familiar as always.
After doing her tactful, psychological dance for half a
day and getting nowhere fast, Taylor left the boardroom at
the close of the meeting frustrated, worried, and with a
splitting headache.
By the time she got home and blew through the lobby of her
apartment building, she was counting her blessings that
her roommate, her cousin Stephanie, was en route to the
Hamptons. Taylor had the place to herself. All she wanted
was a hot bath, two extra-strength Excedrin,and a long
nap.
The last thing she expected, or needed, was to find Gordon
Mallory in her living room, as comfortable as if he owned
the place.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him, wishing
she wasn't already halfway to her bedroom and in full
view. If she'd just realized he and Steph were still at
the apartment, she would have retraced her steps, waited
until they'd taken off, then returned when she could have
her peace and solitude.
But it was too late. She was directly across from the
living room, and from Gordon. Steph was nowhere to be
found, but knowing her cousin, Taylor assumed she was in
her bedroom, throwing together some lastminute surprises
for her nightlong bash on Gordon's yacht -- a bash she'd
be enjoying with about twenty other partygoers. After all,
it wasn't every day that a bunch of lucky young Turk
investors made a windfall off an investment partnership
like the one Gordon had orchestrated. Kudos for the fast
crowd.
"Taylor." Gordon tipped his lean, dark head in her
direction, raising his old-fashioned in greeting. He'd
been strolling from the sideboard to the sofa, sipping his
Scotch while he reorganized the contents of Steph's
overnight bag. The picture of self-assurance. Right at
home.
Then again, Steph had made sure he felt that way from day
one. Gordon fit her boyfriend checklist to a tee and then
some; rich and successful, good-looking, grand of gesture,
glib of tongue. Really smooth. He knew all the right
people, went to all the right clubs. On top of that, he
was older, sexy, experienced, ambitious -- fast-track all
the way. Definitely the kind Steph fell for.
Except that this one had a dangerous edge to him that
worried the hell out of Taylor. It was there in his hard
brown eyes -- a kind of detached ruthlessness. Taylor just
didn't trust the guy.
Unfortunately, Steph did.
"Hello, Gordon." Taylor's tone was cordial but aloof.
He was dressed casually, in khakis, a golf shirt, and dock-
siders, but there was nothing casual about the way he
carried himself, or about his expression as he eyeballed
Taylor. He was scrutinizing her, as one would assess a
fine piece of art.
"What a beautiful interruption," he said. "I didn't hear
you come in."
"So I gathered." Taylor was used to his I-want-you
signals. It was all part of his MO. But this time he was
blatant. His intensity was palpable. And the bottle of
Scotch was sitting open on the sideboard, ready for him to
pour his next refill. How many drinks had he had?
Taylor tossed down her purse and folded her arms across
her breasts, her eyes narrowing on his tumbler. "How many
Scotches does that make?"
"Two." He set down the glass. "Don't worry. I'm chilling
out. But I'm sober."
Yeah, right, she thought. Chilling out. More like revving
up. "Good. Because you and Steph have a big weekend
planned. Get drunk during the party, not before."
"Sage advice. I'll keep it in mind."
Her headache was getting worse. Taylor didn't want to spar
with Gordon; she wanted him to go away. "I didn't realize
you and Steph would still be here," she said
pointedly. "It's almost three o'clock. Doesn't your
charter leave for Montauk soon? I wouldn't want you to
miss it."
Gordon's sculpted features tightened. "That's why it's
called a private charter. The helicopter will wait until
we get there. As for your subtle shove out the door, why
the rush? Are you expecting someone?"
"Just my privacy. Look, I didn't mean to be rude. But my
day was a killer. I've got a miserable headache. I was
hoping for some downtime -- a hot bath and a long nap."
"Poor baby." The hostility vanished. Gordon closed the gap
between them and planted his hands on her shoulders,
gently kneading them. "Tension has no right ruining such a
perfect package. How about a back rub to ease the stress?"
His words creeped her out. His gesture wasn't friendly. It
was intimate. So was his proximity. And where he'd
positioned himself was like a roadblock.
Taylor's instincts took over. She took an exaggerated step
backward, breaking all contact. "No, thanks." She threw a
quick glance at her cousin's bedroom, wondering when Steph
would emerge. Now that she considered it, the apartment
seemed strangely silent. No banging of closets, no
thudding of drawers, no cheerful chatter emanating from
Steph's neck of the woods. That was weird. Steph was
animated and exuberant; you always knew when she was
around ...
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