Make Me Forget

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Authors: Beth Kery
Tags: Romance
his secretary in San Francisco. Elizabeth knew he often took work to bed.
    “It’ll wait until morning. I’m taking a swim,” he said, turning abruptly.
    “Oh.” She sounded surprised, and Jacob understood why. He didn’t make a habit of taking midnight swims. “Do you need anything?”
    “Nothing that some cold water and exercise won’t cure. Make sure you don’t activate the terrace security system. I’ll do it when I go inside. Tell Tim to go. I’ll call at the guard station when I go in for the night,” he said, referring to Tim Stanton, a security employee who usually took nighttime watch at the rear of the property. He paused next to Elizabeth and met her stare. “I want complete privacy.”
    She blinked at his quiet adamancy.
    “Of course. Whatever you need, Jacob.”
    “I’m sorry for being so brusque earlier. I have a lot on my mind. Thanks for staying late tonight. Why don’t you take tomorrow off?”
    “I have too much to do, you know that,” she said with a smile.
    “Then don’t come in until noon. Relax a little.”
    “That’s not necessary—”
    “I insist. You work way too hard. Good night, Elizabeth,” he said before he walked off the dock.
    * * *
    Harper was feeling restless.
    Or maybe
reckless
was the right term.
    After tossing and turning for an hour plus, obsessively reliving Latimer’s kiss, and growing hotter and pricklier by the minute, she finally got out of bed. She hurried into yoga pants, tennis shoes, and a long-sleeved shirt. She twisted her hair into a sloppy bun. Not allowing herself to think of any motive past a soothing midnight walk to calm her nerves, she headed toward the lake.
    In addition to a three-quarter full moon, the ground lights of several restaurants and private homes lit the beach. After several minutes of brisk walking, a distressing thought occurred to her. Her press pass was in the purse she’d left behind at Latimer’s, along with her driver’s license and credit cards. She needed the press pass, at the very least, for the mayor’s press conference in South Lake Tahoe in the morning.
    Maybe she could contact Elizabeth in the early morning, in order to retrieve it? But no, Elizabeth had never actually supplied her with any contact information.
    She recognized the modern mansion to the right of her. It was Cyril Atwater’s home. That meant the next property down the beach was . . .
    Latimer’s.
    A moment later, she slowed as she neared the perimeter of the Latimer compound. The huge, multileveled terrace of the mansion was sparsely lit and largely occluded from the shore by several tall pines.
    Her purse would likely still be up there. She’d left it tucked in the corner of the couch, and it wasn’t large. There was a good chance no one had noticed it during the post-party cleanup, especially since Latimer and her had been the only ones utilizing the upper level of the terrace. It was only yards away from her reach.
    Couldn’t she just pop up the stairs and get it?
    That was her logic for tentatively approaching the first set of stone steps that led from the beach and dock to the pool level. Her rationalization was the sole thing on which she’d let herself focus. Her return had nothing to do with her regret for walking away from Latimer . . . with her irrational lust for a man she’d just met.
    No. It was all about her press pass.
    Her heart began to thump in her ears as she rose up the steps. She suspected an alarm might go off at any moment. A dozen guards might rush her. As much emphasis as Latimer put on security, surely there were motion detectors out here at the very least, if not video surveillance. She wasn’t scared, though. Not precisely. She was tingling with something that felt like anticipation.
    A splashing, trickling sound entered her awareness. She paused on the stone terrace, her breath stuck in her lungs.
    The pale blue pool glimmered to the left of her, dimly illuminated by several perimeter lights. There was

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