A Kiss in the Dark Read online

  A Kiss in the Dark

  LISA FOX

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

  Copyright © Lisa Fox 2015

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover design by Becky Glibbery

  Lisa Fox asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International

  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

  downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

  stored in or introduced into any information storage and

  retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

  whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

  hereinafter invented, without the express

  written permission of HarperCollins.

  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008115517

  Version 2015-05-28

  I am incredibly blessed to have so many supportive and wonderful people in my life.

  Thank you Sara Brookes, Chris Cinelli, Jessie Cinelli, Allison Gibbons, Kacey Hammell, Dori Koch, Peggy Morgan, Jennifer Probst, Fred Urfer, Liia Ann White, Sabrina York

  And my editor, Charlotte Ledger, who made this all possible.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Also by Lisa Fox …

  Lisa Fox

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  The alarm clock cut through Ryan’s blackout dreams, and he reached for it from under the covers, slapping it silent. He groaned, opened one eye, then quickly shut it. The morning light was way too bright, like needles in his eyeballs. His next breath awoke searing pain in his chest, which ignited a chain reaction of agony that shot through his shoulders, neck, and head.

  “Too early,” a groggy female voice grumbled beside him.

  Ryan’s eyes snapped back open. There was someone in bed with him. He lifted his face off the mattress and slowly turned toward the sound. Every inch of the journey was an exercise in misery. The room spun nauseatingly around, and it took a moment before his eyeballs finally settled in his head enough for him to see the pretty blonde woman beside him. Traces of last night’s makeup still rimmed her wide brown eyes and accentuated her high cheekbones. She had a salon tan and a gym body and he had no idea who she was.

  She smiled and stroked his face, a gentle caress of her long, acrylic nails. “You were incredible last night.”

  She grazed his eyebrow, and the flash of pain brought the memories back with razor-sharp clarity. The smell of the gym, sweat and aggression, bright lights on the ring, fists and blood. Three long rounds, a hard-won fight. His opponent was good, he’d made Ryan work for every point. Despite the regulation headgear, he was sure his face had paid some of the price. Then victory, his arms raised high into the air, and the announcement that he would advance to the finals. There was laughter and champagne—his gaze refocused on the woman in his bed—and the Ring Card Girl from the match.

  She touched her fingertips to his lips, then rested her hand on his chest. “You’re going to be the champion for sure.”

  Prickles of heat cascaded down his spine as her hand moved lower, tracing the path of dark hair over his pec to the center of his body. The scrape of her nails was intensely erotic, almost too much for his bruised body to handle, and every pleasurable shiver set off another wave of pain. She brushed his navel, but he caught her hand before she could do something he would not want to stop. This was nice and all, but the alarm clock had woken him up for a reason. He had to get to work.

  He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Next time—” His chest seized up. Oh God, what was her name? He didn’t know her name! He smiled, trying to cover up the unexpected pause. “—Darling.” He kissed her fingers again. “I’d love to stay in bed with you all day, but duty calls, and my landlord is not a forgiving or generous man.”

  “Call in sick,” she said, sex in her eyes.

  It was tempting, but Ryan had a firm no ditching responsibilities policy. Drink hard, play hard, work hard. The playing had been fun last night—really fun as he was beginning to recall—but today it was time for work. He threw back the covers and got out of bed to remove any further temptation. The hardwood floor was cool beneath his bare feet, the morning air chilly on his naked skin. He took a deep breath to quell some of the heat sizzling in his blood and bring his body temperature back down to normal.

  His nameless lover sat up and the sheet pooled around her waist, offering him a view a man would rightly die for. She was rumpled and tousled and sexy, and the sight of her made him want to seriously reconsider his decision.

  She rubbed her eyes with her fisted hands, a gesture both innocent and seductive. “When will I see you again?”

  “Two weeks.” He needed to get her motivated. He grabbed her top off his dresser, her shorts off the floor, and her panties from the edge of the bed as he circled around toward her. He offered her his hand to help her to her feet. “We’ll see each other at the finals.” She climbed out of bed, and he handed her the clothing. “I’m going to win it all for you.”

  She chuckled and Ryan smiled back. He’d had fun last night. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again. If there was a next time, he’d be sure to learn her name.

  She got dressed and he grimaced. Even in the harsh light, she was hot as hell in that tiny string bikini top, little black short-shorts, and high heels, but there was no way he was going to let her walk to the subway in that outfit in the middle of the morning commute. “Here,” he said, reaching into his dresser. He pulled out a dark T-shirt. “Put this on.”

  She pulled his shirt on over her head and it came down to around her knees. Good. She slipped her arm through his, and he escorted her to the front door. He had a lot of work waiting for him at the office. His first order of business was to finish the coding on The Candy Connoisseur’s website. Then he was sitting in on a meeting about a new client, a swanky new cosmetics company specializing in high-pigment eye shadows. He needed to get himself on that project. If he could sweet-talk the team leader—or even bribe, he wasn’t above bribery—maybe…

  “Okay, see you then,” his companion said, pausing on the threshold. She looked up at him and giggled.

  He nodded absently and held the door open for her. He also really needed to update that art gallery’s website for one
of the other senior programmers like he promised. He couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten about that. Damn. It was going to be a long day.

  The Card-Girl lingered in the doorway, and Ryan became slowly aware that she was not moving. He met her gaze and the look in her eye said all that needed saying. She wanted a kiss goodbye. He didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. He wasn’t a monster after all—just a man who had to get to work. He gave her a nice, long, slow one before sending her on her way.

  He shut the door behind her, the memory of her fading right along with the scent of her perfume. A part of him wanted to spin out fantasies of seeing her again, of maybe spending some real time with her, talking and laughing, getting to know one another. Every once in a while, the simple desire to have someone constant in his life made him acutely aware of just how lonely he was. But those thoughts were easily pushed aside. He’d witnessed the reality behind that particular fantasy far too many times to want any part of it. The way he lived now was good. Easy. And that was exactly the way he wanted to keep it.

  He turned from the door and headed for the bathroom with a smile on his face. Sure, he hurt everywhere, and the hangover was really beginning to settle in now, but life was good. Really, really good. He indulged in a scorching shower, the hot water loosening his sore muscles. The mirror over the bathroom sink reflected his massive black eye in vivid detail, and he gave himself a jaunty wink while he brushed his teeth. God, he looked terrible.

  His face hurt way too much to shave, so he let it go without a second thought. He went back to his bedroom and peered into the closet. He wasn’t seeing clients yet, so it didn’t really matter what he wore. Today he chose old, comfortable clothes—faded jeans and a navy cotton T-shirt. Thankfully he didn’t work in a suit and tie kind of office—unless you wanted to wear a suit and tie of course. Some people did. Ryan was not one of them.

  He dressed, reassessing his priories for the day. He couldn’t wait for his new-employee probation to be over so he could do some real work, actually build and maintain a website for one of the eclectic and often flamboyant clients Sharpe Designs seemed to attract. That was still a while away unfortunately. When he was hired, he’d been told it would take a minimum of eight months, but probably more, before he got his own solo accounts. As of three days ago, he’d only been there six.

  Seagulls were screaming over the Coney Island boardwalk, fighting over the spoils from last night when he exited his building. He said a cheerful good morning to the line of elderly ladies sitting outside the senior center next door, all ready to take in some sun in their plastic lawn chairs with their umbrellas and fans and packs of long, thin cigarettes close at hand. They giggled and waved, just as they did every morning he walked by.

  The breeze off the Atlantic Ocean was crisp and invigorating, and he breathed deeply as he headed up the avenue toward the subway. People were already dotting the beach, surfers on the low waves. He passed Nathan’s, closed at this early hour, but the scent of the hotdogs ever present in the air. Underneath the aches and pains, his body wanted to move, to stretch, his muscles longing for the daily run along the beach he usually treated himself to. He was a little too late for that today though. He’d run later, when he got home from work. It was just as well. It would be cooler in the evening, and it would give his hangover a chance to subside a bit.

  He descended into the darkness of the station and when the subway arrived, he got onboard, squeezing his way into the car with the other commuters. He allowed himself a small grin as he caught another glimpse of his black eye in the reflection of the doors. He’d made it into the finals. He never thought he’d make it that far. He was good, but some of the people he’d gone up against had been on the circuit for years. He was relatively new to the sport and exceptionally new to New York. He didn’t know his opponents, had never sparred with any of them, had no concept of their strengths or weaknesses. When he’d signed up for the tournament, he figured he wouldn’t make it past the second round, but at least he’d gain a working knowledge to take it all next year. But here he was, getting ready for the finals. It was out of control. He was going to have to call his mom when he got back home. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

  The train burst out of the tunnel into a blast of sunlight, rumbling over the Manhattan Bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge stood in the distance, lower Manhattan spread out before him. That view always got him revved him up, got his blood pumping. Philly was his home, where he was from, but New York was a pretty spectacular place.

  His stop arrived, and he jumped off the train. He exited the station, turned off Broadway, and onto Spring Street. Commuters in suits and jeans, hipster gear and hippy skirts stood on lines for the corner coffee carts, fueling up for the day. He wasn’t all that late when he arrived at the converted brownstone that held the Sharpe Design offices, and he congratulated himself on a job well done.

  He entered the daily bustle, waving to a few people as he made his way back toward his corner cubicle. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee hung in the air, and despite his queasy stomach, the lure was too powerful to resist. He needed to check his messages first, then he was going upstairs to the lounge and grab a cup. When he arrived at his desk, he frowned, plucking a Post-It note off the monitor. Please come see me when you arrive – Ron, it read, the request written in elegant, flowing script.

  Butterflies invaded Ryan’s belly. He didn’t think he was in any trouble, but a note from the owner was not something anyone wanted to walk in to. He scanned his memory for what he had been working on lately, wondering what he might have screwed up. Nothing came to mind. He tossed the note into the plastic garbage can beside the cubicle and looked toward the polished staircase by the entrance. The only way to find out what was going on was to go up to the top floor and see what the man wanted. He grabbed a notebook off his desk and headed upstairs.

  He jogged up, taking two steps at a time, and when he reached the top, he took a left. He passed by a small alcove and a line of executive offices. His sneakers were silent on the lush carpet. Ron’s assistant, Mary Ellen, was poised at her desk, lacquered nails tapping away on her keyboard. She was an elegant though hard woman, who took her job as sentry very seriously. If she did not want you to get to Ron, you didn’t get to Ron. Even Ron’s husband and partner, the CFO, Alan Altman, got turned away. She was not playing. No one was safe. Ryan held his breath while she called back, only exhaling when she waved him inside.

  He stepped into the spacious office and smiled when he caught his boss’ eye. Ron had the same welcoming expression on his face that he’d had the first time Ryan met him. A little less than a year ago, Ryan had decided to attend a lecture on web design at a friend’s grad school in Philly. He’d been discontent with his job, feeling stagnate and bored, and he was hoping for some inspiration, maybe an idea or two on what he could do next. Ron’s presentation totally blew him away. The dapper businessman from New York encouraged the students to think about web design as a career choice, not because it was a growing industry or there was the opportunity to make lots of money, but rather because a web designer could actually make a difference in people’s perceptions. By designing a person or company’s website, your creative vision could and would dictate how people thought of that brand. It was an immense responsibility, but also deeply rewarding. Before Ron was even halfway done speaking, Ryan had already decided he was going to talk with the man that night. Six months later, he was the newest employee at Sharpe Designs and proud of it.

  “Oh, good,” Ron said, standing up as Ryan entered. His coat was perfectly pressed even though he had been sitting, every hair in place. Ryan felt like a bit of a scrub with his faded jeans and black eye, but it was too late now. He had to just go with it. “I was hoping you’d be in around your usual time this morning.” He gestured to the guest chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said, taking a seat. He rubbed his palms together, trying to get rid of the slight clamminess. “What’s going on?�
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  Ron grinned as Ryan sat. “That is a lovely black eye you have there. I hope you won.”

  “I did.” Pride filled his heart once again. “I’m in the finals in two weeks.”

  “Wonderful! Give the date to my assistant. Alan and I want to come.”

  “That would be excellent,” Ryan said, deeply flattered that they’d want to see him fight. His new coworkers were unlike any he had worked with before. They actually seemed to care about one another. It was nice. Refreshing. “I’d love that.”

  “Fantastic. We’ve very excited for you.” Ron leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop. Ryan read the signs and sat up straighter. Small talk was over. It was business time. “I’ve been very impressed with the work you’ve done here, Ryan.”

  Ryan blinked. This was not what he expected at all. “Thank you.”

  Ron shuffled some papers on his desk, isolated a single sheet, and read it over before meeting Ryan’s gaze again. “I think it’s time for you to take on clients. I have the perfect one in mind. She’s coming in today. In a few minutes, in fact.”

  Ryan’s mouth fell open. Today? No way. He was dressed like a bum, in pain, and worst of all, he was totally unprepared. “I don’t know anything about her.”

  “It’s okay,” Ron said soothingly, obviously picking up on Ryan’s nerves. “It was a last-minute appointment. She was free, and I thought of you. I told her this would be just a consultation. You can go over with her all the things she would’ve normally filled out online. She’s not expecting any results yet.”

  Ryan’s heart sped up in his chest. This was what he had been waiting for since the day he’d started with Sharpe. Finally, the chance to make something functional and beautiful and creative. He could not wait. “Who is she?”

  “An author, named Grace Betancourt.” Ron flicked the mouse and called up something on his computer screen. “I’m giving you Kat Greer as the graphic artist on this one. Her role will be to set up the designs according to your and your client’s specifications, and advise you in any way she can about the general aesthetics.”