Creep

  A familiar voice interrupted her reverie and she looked up into the handsome face of the man she was going to marry.

  “This seat taken?”

  The devilish glint in Morris Gardener’s blue eyes matched his grin. He gazed at her, taking in the details of her face. She loved the way he looked at her, as if she were the only woman in the room. She slipped off the barstool and kissed him, snuggling into the warmth of his thick arms.

  Sheila’s knight in shining armor might be six foot four and 240 pounds with bad knees, but he was all hers.

  And to think she’d almost thrown it all away.

  She would never tell him she was a sex addict. The shame was too great. That part of her life would stay secret even if it meant handing Ethan Wolfe his master’s degree on a silver platter to keep him quiet about the affair. She’d be damned if she was going to lose her job, her reputation, and her fiancé because of a stupid mistake with a self-centered, arrogant grad student.

  Morris’s large hand rested protectively on her lower back as they made their way through the restaurant. She caught a glimpse of the two of them in the decorative wall mirrors as the maître d’ led them to their table. They made a fine couple, she sleek in her black dress and heels, he in his custom suit and Armani tie. This should have been the happiest time of her life.

  She’d never been so miserable.

  CHAPTER : 4

  Ethan entered the offices of Bindle Brothers at Fifth Avenue and Virginia, brand-new briefcase in hand, shoes polished to a spit-shine. Dressed in a navy pin-striped suit and paisley tie, he looked every inch the young, confident businessman he was pretending to be.

  The dark blond wig he wore itched, as did the fake blond goatee, but he didn’t think the interview would take long. Colored contact lenses had changed his eyes from their natural light gray to hazel. A small amount of latex, carefully applied around his nose in thin layers and blended into his real skin with professional movie makeup, added width to his nostrils and bridge, transforming his face in a more dramatic way than anyone would ever expect. Slight changes to the nose could have a major impact on the look of the face—ask any one of the millions of people who’d had rhinoplasty.

  Expertly applied bronzing powder completed the look—not too much, just enough to give him the illusion of a tan without looking powdery. He’d scrutinized himself under harsh lighting before he left home and knew he looked perfectly natural. This was one of his lighter disguises; anything heavier was unnecessary. He’d only met Morris for a few moments, and enough time had passed that he doubted the big man would remember.

  But it was better to be safe than sorry. Ethan pulled out a pair of nonprescription eyeglasses from his breast pocket and casually slipped them on. The trendy black, rectangular frames were just thick enough to create shadows across his eyes, obscuring their shape a little.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the lobby mirror. Perfect.

  Disguises were so much fun.

  He strode through the impressive lobby of the investment bank, all high ceilings and cornice moldings and marble. Well-dressed employees rushed around looking important, their BlackBerrys glued to their hands, creating an aura of tempered frenzy.

  The round mahogany desk in the center of it all had two receptionists. The one with the frizzy hair and fifteen extra pounds smiled at him first. At his approach she sat up straighter, quickly taking her glasses off and primping her permed hair.

  “Good morning.” Another big smile showcased a poppy seed stuck dead between her uneven front teeth. “Can I help you?”

  Ethan smiled down at her, taking a long look at her freckled cleavage before meeting her eyes. “Good morning, Stacey,” he said, reading the name off the tag pinned to her shiny blouse. “I have an appointment on the tenth floor. I’m Tom Young.”

  Stacey’s pale cheeks flushed. “I’ll call up and let them know you’re here,” she said, slightly breathless. “Just a moment.”

  He thanked her and stepped away while she murmured into the phone. He was dying to scratch his head but couldn’t risk shifting the wig. Instead he grinned at Stacey, who blushed and pointed the way to the elevators.

  The bank hummed with activity. Ethan weaved his way to the back of the lobby and to the elevator doors. An attractive woman followed him in, giving him an appreciative once-over before taking her place in front of him. He took a moment to enjoy the view from behind. Bare legs, no panty lines. Either she was going commando or she was wearing a thong. He chuckled. Both scenarios were acceptable. She exited on the eighth floor, her ass cheeks flexing like two well-oiled pistons underneath her tight business-length skirt.

  On the tenth floor, he exited the elevator and another woman at another mahogany desk greeted him.

  “Mr. Young?” she said, her voice crisp. Her gray hair was fashionably cut and her suit looked more expensive than his. “Please have a seat. He’ll be with you in a moment. He’s just finishing up a call.”

  Ethan walked over to the waiting area but did not sit. The tenth floor was not the highest in the building, but the view of Puget Sound was still incredible, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall.

  The beautiful blue-green ripples of the Sound glistened brightly under the morning sunshine. He wondered absently if Diana St. Clair had ever swum in those waters. He’d never asked her. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture her beautiful body, toned and tight from years of training. . . .

  A hearty laugh made him turn. Striding down the hallway was a big man, well over six feet tall with a belly that stretched firmly over his belt. He was flanked on both sides by women who had to jog to keep up with him. A cerulean silk tie complemented a custom charcoal suit, and Ferragamo shoes encased what had to be size fourteen feet. His graying temples did nothing to detract from his handsome features and a charming smile. In fact, the man looked much better than Ethan remembered.

  Morris Gardener. In the flesh.

  The women tittered with laughter. Ethan didn’t catch what was said, but clearly Morris was a funny guy because both ladies smacked his thick arm and cackled in amusement before walking away.

  “Tom Young?” An outstretched hand came toward Ethan, sausage fingers swallowing his palm in a vise grip. “Morris Gardener. Glad you could make it on such short notice. Come on in. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Bet you’d rather be out there than in here. God knows these days are few and far between in the Northwest. Perfect day to throw the pigskin around. You like football, Tom? Used to play back in the day until my knees gave out. Two years with the Packers, Longhorns before that. Right this way. My office is just down the hall. You want coffee, water, muffin, anything? Theresa! We need sustenance, please!” The big man’s voice boomed loudly in the hallway and another woman appeared out of nowhere, smiling cheerfully at them as she passed.

  He called, they came. He joked, they laughed. There was no doubting who the big swinging dick was around here. Morris Gardener’s presence seemed to shrink everything around him, including Ethan, who suddenly felt very insignificant.

  He forced himself to stand straighter. This was no time to buckle. He was here to scope out the competition and figure out what, exactly, Morris had that he didn’t.

  If he couldn’t have her, then neither could Morris. He’d rather see Sheila dead.

  All he needed was an excuse.

  There was a small stain on Morris’s tie, likely a remnant of whatever he’d eaten for breakfast. It pleased Ethan.

  The big man was on the phone again. Ethan took the time to look around the large office, noting the abundance of natural light and the thick carpet that matched the creamy walls and ceiling. Against one wall, two football jerseys were framed and hung. Both were number 75—one in rusty orange for the Texas Longhorns, and one in forest green for the Green Bay Packers. On Morris’s huge mahogany desk sat a football encased in Lucite. The furnishings were surprisingly modern, all clean lines, steel, and dark wood, a contrast to the more traditional décor in the publ
ic areas of the bank.

  Ethan wondered if Morris had decorated the office himself. The man certainly had great taste in clothes. And he was wearing monogrammed cuff links, for fuck’s sake. A man would only wear monogrammed cuff links if that same man had monogrammed French-cuffed shirts to go with them. Which Morris did. Ethan’s own suit, bought off-the-rack the day before at Macy’s, seemed cheap and bland in comparison.

  He fingered Morris’s business card, noting both the thickness and whiteness of the paper. The lettering was raised and glossy, expensive: MORRIS GARDENER, SENIOR PARTNER, BINDLE BROTHERS. How much did a senior partner at an investment firm make? There was no way to ask without sounding like a total asshole.

  A framed photo of Sheila was resting on Morris’s desk, turned slightly outward so that visitors could see her pretty face. She was smiling, her dark Asian eyes alight with amusement, full red lips parted to reveal straight white teeth.

  She was laughing at him.

  Phone still glued to his ear, Morris turned his back for a moment as he reached for something on the bookshelf behind him. In one smooth motion, Ethan turned the photo toward Morris so he could no longer see Sheila’s face. Better.

  Morris finally put the phone down and jotted a quick note on his yellow memo pad. “My apologies, Tom. I’m working on a deal with Japanese investors over the phone—not the easiest thing to do even with all our technology.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Gardener.” Ethan slipped the business card into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m just glad you could fit me in.”

  “Call me Morris.” Bits of boisterous conversation drifted into the office from the hallway. “Whoa, I’d better close the door. My team is a chatty bunch and it can be distracting.”

  Ethan’s heart rate quickened. “Uh, would you mind terribly if we left it open? I have a tendency to get a bit claustrophobic.”

  Morris raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

  “Only during interviews.” Ethan’s grin was sheepish and he hoped it hid his burgeoning panic.

  Morris relaxed in his seat. “No problem, we’ll leave it open.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Morris,” he said again, waving a hand dismissively and turning to face his computer. Large fingers clicked on the mouse. He scrolled until he found what he was looking for. “There’s the e-mail. You know, Tom, I’m glad to meet you because Randall says you’d be a tremendous asset to our organization. He says the two of you know each other from Stanford and you moved here to get married. What did you study?”

  “I majored in economics at Stanford, then went to Wharton for my MBA. Specialized in strategic investments for global industries, particularly those based in the Middle East.” The story rolled smoothly off Ethan’s tongue. He’d practiced reciting it for days. “Met my fiancée here when I did an internship at Microsoft in their business development division. Decided Seattle might be a nice place to raise a family.”

  “Where you from originally?”

  “I grew up in Texas. Austin.” Same place as Morris.

  “You’re kidding. What area?”

  “Tarrytown.”

  “Clarksville!” The hearty laugh again. It hurt Ethan’s ears. “Small world. How long were you there?”

  “I graduated from Steve Austin High in ’99. Left for Stanford after that.”

  “I graduated in ’78. Go Hawks!” Morris seemed pleased. “Christ, we’re practically family. Does Randall know that you and his old man are from the same hometown?”

  “He didn’t mention it? I thought for sure that’s why you agreed to meet me.”

  “Well now, he might have, maybe it slipped my mind.” Morris’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes changed ever so slightly.

  Interesting. Morris Gardener wasn’t a half-bad liar. Ethan tucked this tidbit away for future reference. He knew for a fact that Morris hadn’t talked to his oldest son, Randall, in years. Sheila had confided this little piece of gossip to Ethan months ago in bed, after a particularly sweaty romp involving her silk scarf and a jar of chocolate body paint.

  It had been the easiest thing in the world to make up an e-mail address for Randall and contact Morris, asking dear old Dad if he could make time to meet with his good buddy Tom from college, who was in town and job hunting.

  Ethan said, “Randy told me you’ve been here at Bindle for over ten years, used to work at LoneStar Capital.” He’d actually read this off the man’s bio that was posted on the firm’s website.

  “That’s right, Tom. Transferred over in ’99 and never looked back.”

  “So you’re clearly happy with your career here. How would you describe the corporate culture?”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

  A well-timed self-conscious laugh. “Right. Sorry.”

  Morris grinned. “Don’t be. Determining whether this job is the right fit for you goes both ways. Let’s see . . . corporate culture . . .” A rambling five-minute explanation followed, then, “Now, let me tell you more about the job.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Ethan sat politely while Morris droned on about the responsibilities of being a junior account manager, interjecting with questions when appropriate. If he’d really been Tom Young, the job might have sounded okay. Morris was probably a decent boss. Ethan kept his face composed, nodding in the right places and forcing himself to take in as many details as he could—one never knew what might be useful later.

  It was clear Morris was a smart man. This didn’t surprise Ethan. Sheila wouldn’t waste her time on someone who didn’t match her own intelligence. But everything about her fiancé was large. Big body, big voice, big hands, big feet. He made Ethan feel . . . small.

  Ethan hated him.

  “Based on your qualifications, Tom, I think you’d be a great fit for this division.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Morris.”

  The big man cleared his throat. “Now, I gotta confess that we’ve done things a bit backwards here. Obviously I wanted to meet you since my—Randall—spoke so highly of you, but you’ll need to submit a résumé with Human Resources and be interviewed by our hiring committee before an official offer can be made. Though with your background, I don’t foresee any problems.”

  “I understand. I’ll send them the information today.”

  Morris stood up. Ethan followed suit.

  “Great meeting you, Tom. I’ll be putting in a strong recommendation.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate that, Morris.”

  The older man hesitated. “Listen, any chance you’ll be talking to Randall over the next day or two?”

  “Probably. He’ll be curious to know how our meeting went.”

  “Uh . . .” Morris’s face flushed. A bead of sweat appeared at his graying hairline. “Maybe you could tell him to give his old man a call. I’m getting married in a few weeks and he, uh . . . never officially confirmed whether he’s bringing his girlfriend . . . uh . . .”

  “Donna.”

  “Right, Donna.” Morris paused, then threw a hand up in the air. “Ah hell. You’ve been friends with Randy for what, eight, ten years? You must know we’ve hardly spoken. Not since his mother and I divorced. I’m a recovering alcoholic. Wasn’t exactly the best husband and father back then.”

  Ethan gave a sympathetic nod. “He told me. We’ve talked about it quite a bit, actually. But I think—” He stopped. “You know what? It’s not my place to say.”

  “Please, speak freely.”

  Ethan counted to five, hoping for just the right amount of hesitation to seem uncomfortable but also concerned. “Well, he’s been doing some thinking. He and Donna have been going through some difficulties of their own, and I think it’s given him some perspective on you and his mom divorcing.”

  “Really?” Morris’s round face was so filled with hope that Ethan almost felt a pang of pity. Almost. “He told you that?”

  “Pretty much. And he also said that you and h
e—”

  A loud beep shrilled from the phone. Pained, Morris held up a chunky finger and pressed the speaker button.

  “Yes, Darcy,” he barked.

  Her crisp, no-nonsense voice chirped, “Mr. Evers and Mr. Chan are here. Waiting for you in the boardroom.”

  “Be right there.” Morris pressed the button again. “I’m sorry, Tom, what were you saying?”

  The timing was perfect. “You know, Morris, it would be better if you talked to Randy directly. I’ll let him know our meeting went well and pass along the message that you’d like him to get in touch. I really appreciate your time.”

  Ethan shook Morris’s hand firmly and headed toward the doorway. He was just outside the glass door when Morris stopped him. A few employees were milling around in the hallway, chatting, and they looked over curiously.

  “Hey, Tom, wait a minute there.” Morris leaned in close, well beyond the boundaries of personal space. Immediately Ethan felt trapped. The big man’s voice was low, out of earshot of the other employees. “I know you’re a good friend of Randall’s. I’m ashamed to say I think I need some help here. I understand if you’re not comfortable, but he’s my son . . .”

  “What can I do?”

  “If you’re free for dinner tonight, maybe you’d let me buy you a steak and pick your brain about the best way to approach him. The last few times I’ve tried, he’s shot me down.”

  It wasn’t hard for Ethan to feign discomfort with Morris standing so close to him. “I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure how Randy would feel about that.”

  “No, no.” Morris looked around and moved in even closer. Ethan fought the urge to step away. “I’m not asking you to give away any of his confidences. You’re his buddy, that wouldn’t be right. But I could use some help figuring out what to say. And how to say it. I need to find common ground. He’s my son. He’s never even met Sheila, my fiancée.”

  Ethan pretended to think it over. “Sure. Okay. I’d be glad to help.”

  Morris rewarded him with a huge grin and clapped him on the shoulder. He finally took a step back and Ethan stifled a sigh of relief.