Nightingale

  “He’s not mine,” I grumbled. “I’m just watching him until Piper can find him a good home. She found him wandering the streets before the blizzard.”

  “Well, he is just the cutest thing ever!” Chloe squealed in that high-pitched, singsong voice people use with their pets—the one that made my head pound.

  I grunted. “Yeah, he’s adorable.”

  Rascal seemed to know we were talking about him because he wagged his tail back and forth. He started squirming, so Chloe set him down. The puppy bounded along the floor, stopping every few feet to smell the carpet.

  “Why don’t you take him?” I suggested.

  “I’d love to …”

  Maybe Chloe would get that promotion sooner than she thought—

  “But I can’t.”

  Maybe not.

  “My building has a strict, no-animals policy,” she continued.

  “Well, do me a favor then,” I said, handing Chloe the hundred-dollar bill Piper had given me before we’d left the restaurant. “Run down to the pet store on Fifth Street and get him some food and one of those cushioned baskets to sleep in.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll go as soon as I finish lunch.”

  I tried to get inside my office before Rascal could follow me, but he was strangely quick for a puppy. At least, he was on dry land. He bounded in just before I closed the door. I opened it back up, trying to shoo him outside where Chloe was, but Rascal trotted over to the couch, intent on jumping up on it, even though he was too tiny to hurdle the high cushions. He stared at the sofa, then at me. Then, he started barking, whining, and prancing around.

  “All right, all right,” I mumbled. “Here you go.”

  I put Rascal up on the sofa, and he yipped with gratitude. The puppy ran from one end to the other, sniffing the pillows and cushions.

  “Now, you might be able to pull that I’m-the-cutest-sweetest-most-adorable-dog-ever stuff when we’re out in public, but not with me. I have a lot of work to do. So, sit down and take a nap,” I ordered.

  Rascal dropped to all fours and put his head down on his paws, almost as if he understood exactly what I’d said. Then again, I didn’t really know what dogs did and didn’t understand.

  While Rascal napped, I got back to work, fielding calls from various assistants wanting to know whose party I was planning for Valentine’s Day. The answer? Pretty much everyone’s.

  Chloe came in around three with the basket and bowls of water and food for Rascal. The puppy hopped down off the sofa and tore into the puppy chow.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch …

  I heard every mouthful go down. With my superhearing, it was like listening to bones break.

  After oohing and aahing over the puppy again, Chloe returned to her desk. A minute later, she buzzed me.

  I pressed down on the intercom. “Yes, Chloe?”

  “Hi, Abby. Wesley Weston is here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment but hoped you could squeeze him in.”

  Wesley Weston was another one of the society circuit’s rich businessmen. Weston made his fortune through some computer gadget he’d invented, something he’d made smaller, better, and cheaper than the other guys, before selling the patent for several billion dollars. These days, he spearheaded a variety of companies under the helm of Weston Corp. Rumor had it Weston was a bit eccentric, buying and selling companies because they amused him and not necessarily to increase the bottom line in his portfolio. Then again, when you were worth close to fifty billion bucks, you could burn a significant amount of cash on mere amusements.

  “Abby?” Chloe asked.

  I glanced at my calendar. I didn’t have anything else scheduled the rest of the day besides the usual round of phone calls. I might as well see what Weston wanted. I’d never done an event for him before. Maybe he’d finally realized he should hire A+ Events instead of leaving the planning to his army of underlings.

  “Send him in,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Chloe opened the door, and a fresh, crisp aroma drifted into my office, overpowering Rascal’s damp fur. Something about the smell bothered me, but I didn’t have time to figure it out before he stepped inside. Weston was a little over six feet, although his boots gave him a few more inches. A royal blue trench coat hung down to his knees, flapping around his beige corduroy pants. A matching blue sweater peaked out just over his collar, contrasting with the faint stubble that covered his chin. His hair was a dark brown and spiked up a bit over his forehead.

  The businessman wasn’t particularly handsome, not like Sam Sloane or Johnny Bulluci. Weston’s face was too rugged, his jaw too square. He reminded me of a boxer more than anything else—his face had the rough, hard look of someone who’d taken more than a few punches. Still, something about him nagged at me.

  “Hi, Abby, I’m Wesley Weston,” he said, extending a hand. His eyes, a warm, golden hazel, met mine. “I’ve seen you at several events, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  Of course not. None of the society bigwigs ever bothered to introduce themselves to me—unless they needed something. Even then, they focused on what they wanted and how fast I could get it, rather than social niceties like first names and small talk. Or just saying please and thank you.

  “It’s a pleasure,” I murmured, taking his hand in my own.

  The second his skin touched mine, hot tingles flooded my body. His fingers were warm and hard and calloused. Exactly as warm and hard and calloused as the ones I’d felt glide along my body. The ones that had been more gentle and maddening than I’d thought possible.

  I drew in a breath. His smell. The same sharp, clean minty aroma that had soaked into my sheets and pillows.

  “Is something wrong?” Wesley asked.

  His voice rumbled with a low, sexy timbre, the exact same one that had rasped out my name.

  As much as they might annoy me, my supersenses didn’t lie. They told me everything I needed to know. They told me who Wesley Weston was. Who he really was.

  Talon—Wesley Weston was Talon, and he was in my office.

  PART TWO—WREN

  Chapter Eleven

  He’d found me—Talon had found me. That horrifying thought slammed into my mind with as much force as one of Bandit’s bullets.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Appleby?” Wesley repeated, dropping my hand. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Of course not,” I croaked, trying to keep him from seeing how shocked I was.

  I just stood there, looking at him. Wesley glanced over his shoulder at Chloe, who hovered in the door and was just as confused by my glassy-eyed, slack-jawed stance. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, what to think.

  Rascal saved me. The puppy lifted his head from the sofa and barked with curiosity at the new person in the room. Wesley spotted the dog, and a smile creased his face.

  While I gawked, Wesley strode over to the couch, dropped to his knees, and petted Rascal. For his part, the puppy rolled onto his back, giving Wesley access to his pudgy tummy.

  Watching him pet Rascal gave me time to shake off my shock—and realize he hadn’t found me. Wesley Weston didn’t know I was Wren. If he did, he would have swooped into my office dressed as Talon to protect his own secret identity. Instead, he was here as Wesley Weston.

  Wesley Weston, business mogul, had come to see Abby Appleby, event planner.

  Not Wren—and definitely not Nightingale.

  “I’m sorry about having the dog in here,” I said. “A friend just gave him to me, and I haven’t had a chance to take him home yet.”

  “No problem,” Wesley said. “I like animals. Dogs, cats, birds.”

  Of course he liked birds. He’d named himself after part of one.

  The businessman gave me a smile, the same sort of wry, self-mocking smile that had stretched across Talon’s face, the one that made my heart pick up speed like a runaway train.

  “Please,” I said, snapping back to my senses. “Have a seat.”

  Wesley se
ttled himself in the chair in front of my desk. I jerked my head at Chloe. She nodded, walked outside, and shut the door behind her.

  Legs shaking, I plopped in my own chair and tried to pretend like everything was normal. Like my one-night, superhero stand hadn’t just walked through the door in his street clothes.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Weston?”

  “Please, call me Wesley,” he replied. “I need you to plan an event.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  His eyes met mine again, and I noticed them—really noticed them. I marveled at their color. Technically, they would be classified as hazel, but hazel didn’t tell you they were a shimmering gold, rich and jeweled and pure. Bright. Vivid. Intense. No wonder he hid them behind that visor. Supersenses or not, I would never have forgotten eyes like that.

  I shook my head, trying to focus. “What sort of event is it?” I pulled out a legal pad so I could take notes. My fingers shook only a little.

  “I understand you handled the engagement party and merger dinner for Olivia O’Hara and Paul Potter on Saturday night,” Wesley said.

  “Yes,” I replied in a cautious voice. “But what does that have to do with your event?”

  “I recently acquired Glo-Glo Cosmetics, and I want everyone to know the company is still a force to be reckoned with.”

  Another part of party planning meant reading the business pages—and listening to gossip on the society circuit. Glo-Glo was the other major cosmetics company in Bigtime—and Oomph’s chief rival. In recent weeks, the two companies had been engaged in an intense bidding war to acquire Polish, the company owned by Paul Potter and his family. Industry insiders suggested whoever got Polish and its lip-care products would corner the makeup market—and brush the other company out of business. Octavia O’Hara had won that round, with the help of Olivia’s engagement to Paul. More than a few folks had whispered the engagement was the only reason Weston Corp. hadn’t acquired Polish—and that Octavia had hurried the two lovebirds’ romance along to ensure that Oomph got control of Polish.

  “What sort of event do you want me to put together?” I asked.

  Wesley leaned forward. “A dinner announcing Glo-Glo’s acquisition of Gelled. It’s a lip-care company just like Polish. Gelled is much smaller, but it has great customer loyalty and the potential for major growth, which is a point I want to drive home.”

  I scribbled down notes, including one to remind myself to call Piper about all this. In addition to being obsessed with superheroes, Piper was rather particular about her appearance, having just about every makeup product you could imagine. She’d be able to tell me everything I needed to know about Polish, Gelled, Glo-Glo, and Oomph, including which colors and products were best for me. Piper was always trying to make me over, to get me to realize my full potential, as she called it. Like any good best friend, she thought I was prettier and more special than I really was.

  “I’d like to start off with a formal sit-down dinner,” Wesley said. “Followed by some talk about the new acquisition, then a night of drinks and dancing. But I don’t want your usual business dinner. I want everything to be hip and young and fresh and cool. That’s Gelled’s demographic, and I want to show everyone how vibrant the company is.”

  “How many people do you want to invite?”

  “Oh, I want to keep it small, say five hundred or so.”

  Small. Right. I made another note. “And when do you want this event to take place?”

  Wesley hesitated. “Well, that’s the thing, and the reason I came here in person. My secretary insisted on it after I told her what I wanted. I was wondering if you could pull something together for Friday.”

  I glanced at the clock on my desk. Just before four on Monday afternoon.

  “Friday? You want me to pull this together by Friday night?”

  He nodded.

  Somehow, I managed to keep my expression smooth and even. “You want me to plan a hip, young, fresh, cool event, complete with a sit-down dinner, music, and dancing in less than a week’s time?”

  “I know it’s asking a lot, but I’m willing to pay whatever fee you require to get it done.”

  Normally, I would have turned him down. I required at least two weeks’ notice for events of this magnitude. Usually three. The only reason I’d done the O’Hara-Potter dinner was because Octavia had paid me through the nose—and suggested if I didn’t, she’d never hire me to work for her again. I’d never worked for Wesley, so I wouldn’t be losing his business if I told him no, but I wouldn’t be gaining any either. And I desperately needed to rebuild my savings after sinking all my money into my loft.

  But this was Talon sitting in front of me. The guy who’d noticed me, if only for a little while. The one who’d seen me, who’d made me feel interesting, witty, and vibrant. Who declared that I was gorgeous. The man who called me Nightingale.

  So I quoted him a figure that was only four times my going rate, instead of five. I might be a freak for wanting to be close to my one-night superhero stand, but I wasn’t stupid. This was going to be a lot of work in a short amount of time, and I wanted to be well paid for it.

  Wesley didn’t even blink. He drew a checkbook from inside his jacket. My eyes focused on his left shoulder, the one with the two bullet holes in it underneath his clothes, but Wesley showed no sign of pain as he wrote the check and handed it to me. His heart rate was fine, and he looked as though he hadn’t done anything more strenuous than breathe the past few days. The G-man superhero really was a tough guy.

  “I’ll start calling my suppliers now to give them a heads-up and swing by your office in the morning to pitch you some ideas,” I said. “Say around ten?”

  “That will be fine.”

  I stood and extended my hand to Wesley. “I guess we have a deal, then.”

  He took it, his calloused fingers squeezing mine just as gently as they’d slid across my skin before. Treacherous, hot tingles spread through my body. Wesley’s hand lingered on mine, his golden gaze sharp and probing on my face, as though he saw something unexpected in my green eyes.

  For a moment, I wondered if he knew who I was—if he’d figured it out, just like I had. Because the attraction I felt for him was intense. Palpable. Undeniable. Like lightning surging through my whole body. But the smile he gave me was too bland and nonchalant. The notice he’d given me, the interest, had already melted away. He’d gotten what he wanted, gotten me to agree to plan his event, and I was all but invisible once more.

  “Until tomorrow,” Wesley said, dropping my hand.

  “Until tomorrow,” I replied, resisting the urge to massage the tingles out of my fingers.

  He walked over to the couch, where Rascal perched, his brown eyes taking in everything. Wesley gave Rascal another pat, which the puppy happily accepted. Then, the businessman opened the door and left my office.

  I stood until the door swung shut again. Then, I leaned over and braced my hands on my desk. My fingers tingled. My knees twitched. Tremors shook my body.

  Fear was not a pleasant feeling, and I’d been so afraid he’d known. That he’d figured out I was Nightingale. That he’d finally realized I was nothing but a drab, brown wren.

  Fear of disappointment, fear of rejection—those were two more reasons I didn’t date much. I’d had more than my share of both. Ryan had just been the last in a long string of breakups. Each time, each experience, each failed relationship stacked another brick on top of the wall ringing my heart.

  But Talon had soared over my defenses as easily as he’d defeated Bandit’s goons. And I’d been thrilled by it—happy to fly up there with him, if only for one night.

  But now it was time to come back down to earth. Back down to Bigtime, where things always seemed to work out for other people, instead of for me. Back behind my wall, where I’d be safe once more.

  I breathed in, forcing the cool, stale office air into my lungs until I got control of myself. No matter what had happened bet
ween Wesley “Talon” Weston and me, it didn’t change the fact that I had a major event to plan—and less a week to make everything perfect again.

  I straightened and pushed the button on the intercom. “Chloe?”

  “Yes, Abby?”

  “Get Kyle Quicke on the phone. I need to order five hundred more pounds of chicken.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I spent the rest of the day feeling like I’d been split into two people, like so many superheroes and ubervillains before me. Gentleman George. Captain Sushi. Caveman Stan.

  First, there was Abby Appleby, who called Kyle Quicke and the other usual suspects to order supplies and book workers, space, and more for the Weston event.

  Then, there was Wren, who kept remembering her time with Talon and comparing him to Wesley Weston—and found little lacking in either man.

  “Abby?” Chloe said.

  I jumped, startled by the sound of her voice. My assistant hovered in front of the desk, Rascal cradled in her arms.

  “Did I scare you?” Chloe asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, letting out a breath. “You did.”

  She frowned. “But you always hear me come in.”

  With my superhearing, I could hear every move Chloe made, even when she was at her desk, the door to my office shut, and I had music on. She was a good employee, only goofing off and playing computer solitaire late in the afternoon when she was killing time before she went home.

  “I guess I was just distracted planning the Weston event.”

  Chloe nodded. “Well, I’m leaving for the day. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, because I’m leaving too.”

  She blinked. “You are? But it’s only five. You never leave before seven, especially when you have a new client.”

  I shut down my computer. “Well, tonight I’m going home. I’ll work on the Weston event from there.”

  Chloe’s hazel eyes widened, and she stared at me like I’d sprouted blue fur. Maybe I should. People would probably pay more attention to me. Even Wesley might notice me then, at least until Yeti Girl arrived on the scene.