Read Online In a Heartbeat by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Tags: Fiction
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ragged crop of blonde hair, the earnest whiskey-brown eyes, the wide trembling mouth. And also the long legs and the extremely short skirt that suddenly, for some reason, reminded him of Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct
. And nobody, he recalled uncomfortably, had been more wicked than her character.
With an embarrassed cough, he uprighted his chair and took charge again. “And so did you?” he asked abruptly. “Telephone him, I mean.”
“I tried, God knows I tried endlessly. But Ed’s office was like a fortress with a barricade of secretaries and assistants placed firmly between me and the boss. They said Mr. Vincent did not accept calls, and could I please tell them what I was calling about?” Mel lifted her shoulders, she shook her head. “How could I tell them? They would think I was some kind of nut. Mr. Big Shot, I thought. So full of himself. Too important to speak to little people. I almost let it go at that,” she added soberly, “but then I reminded myself. Ed Vincent was a big shot
in danger
.”
Camelia watched her closely, waiting for her to tell what had happened next. Her head was tipped back, her eyes closed, as though she had retreated somewhere inside herself and was reliving her story.
“So I got on a plane to New York,” she said finally.
18
The reception area on the fiftieth floor of Vincent Towers Madison was spacious, discreetly furnished in soft grays and taupe, and the receptionist was sleek and blonde in a matching gray suit with taupe lipstick. Mel wished now she had dressed for the occasion instead of just flinging on any old thing, she was in such a rush to get to New York to warn him.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Vincent doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”
The receptionist was polite, dismissing her as she turned to answer the telephone.
The hell he doesn’t.
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Mel was across the room in three quick long-legged strides and through the connecting door that led to the inner sanctum. Startled eyes watched from windowed offices as she strode along the corridor. A pair of tall double doors dominated the end of the hallway. She could hear the receptionist running down the hall after her, shouting at her to get out of there. She flung open the doors and marched in.
Ed Vincent was standing alone by the window, looking down at the busy traffic crawling soundlessly along Madison Avenue. Swinging around, he stared, astonished, at the young woman with short-cropped blonde hair and very long legs, wearing a very short skirt, very high-heeled ankle boots, and a battered black leather jacket, standing in his office.
Melba’s voice sounded high-pitched and squeaky as she blurted out quickly, before he could stop her, “Mr. Vincent, I came all the way from LA to tell you this. Honey, someone is trying to kill you.” He was staring at her, stunned. “I just thought you should know,” she added, realizing how crazy she must sound.
The receptionist ran in, followed by security. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent, but she just barged her way through, she’s some kind of nut. . . .”
He lifted a hand. “It’s all right. Please leave us.”
Mel took a deep breath, suddenly intimidated. Ed Vincent was younger and more attractive than she had expected. And bigger. Tall and rugged, with deep-set bright blue eyes under black brows, thick dark hair, a craggy face, and a short beard. He was well dressed in a conservative dark business suit and a blue shirt. He looked like what he was: a rich, successful, confident man. A big shot, lord of the grand offices in the incredible Manhattan building that he owned.
Ed waited until the door closed behind them. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he said, “You may be right. I can think of a lot of people who might prefer me not to be around.”
Melba rubbed one foot nervously behind the other, balancing like an awkward heron on one high heel, suddenly uncertain about what she was doing here. He was
Basic Instinct
. And nobody, he recalled uncomfortably, had been more wicked than her character.
With an embarrassed cough, he uprighted his chair and took charge again. “And so did you?” he asked abruptly. “Telephone him, I mean.”
“I tried, God knows I tried endlessly. But Ed’s office was like a fortress with a barricade of secretaries and assistants placed firmly between me and the boss. They said Mr. Vincent did not accept calls, and could I please tell them what I was calling about?” Mel lifted her shoulders, she shook her head. “How could I tell them? They would think I was some kind of nut. Mr. Big Shot, I thought. So full of himself. Too important to speak to little people. I almost let it go at that,” she added soberly, “but then I reminded myself. Ed Vincent was a big shot
in danger
.”
Camelia watched her closely, waiting for her to tell what had happened next. Her head was tipped back, her eyes closed, as though she had retreated somewhere inside herself and was reliving her story.
“So I got on a plane to New York,” she said finally.
18
The reception area on the fiftieth floor of Vincent Towers Madison was spacious, discreetly furnished in soft grays and taupe, and the receptionist was sleek and blonde in a matching gray suit with taupe lipstick. Mel wished now she had dressed for the occasion instead of just flinging on any old thing, she was in such a rush to get to New York to warn him.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Vincent doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”
The receptionist was polite, dismissing her as she turned to answer the telephone.
The hell he doesn’t.
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Mel was across the room in three quick long-legged strides and through the connecting door that led to the inner sanctum. Startled eyes watched from windowed offices as she strode along the corridor. A pair of tall double doors dominated the end of the hallway. She could hear the receptionist running down the hall after her, shouting at her to get out of there. She flung open the doors and marched in.
Ed Vincent was standing alone by the window, looking down at the busy traffic crawling soundlessly along Madison Avenue. Swinging around, he stared, astonished, at the young woman with short-cropped blonde hair and very long legs, wearing a very short skirt, very high-heeled ankle boots, and a battered black leather jacket, standing in his office.
Melba’s voice sounded high-pitched and squeaky as she blurted out quickly, before he could stop her, “Mr. Vincent, I came all the way from LA to tell you this. Honey, someone is trying to kill you.” He was staring at her, stunned. “I just thought you should know,” she added, realizing how crazy she must sound.
The receptionist ran in, followed by security. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent, but she just barged her way through, she’s some kind of nut. . . .”
He lifted a hand. “It’s all right. Please leave us.”
Mel took a deep breath, suddenly intimidated. Ed Vincent was younger and more attractive than she had expected. And bigger. Tall and rugged, with deep-set bright blue eyes under black brows, thick dark hair, a craggy face, and a short beard. He was well dressed in a conservative dark business suit and a blue shirt. He looked like what he was: a rich, successful, confident man. A big shot, lord of the grand offices in the incredible Manhattan building that he owned.
Ed waited until the door closed behind them. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he said, “You may be right. I can think of a lot of people who might prefer me not to be around.”
Melba rubbed one foot nervously behind the other, balancing like an awkward heron on one high heel, suddenly uncertain about what she was doing here. He was
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