High Society Sabotage

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“Johnson.” He spoke the name sharply and loudly when the beep sounded. “If you ever want to collect another paycheck, you’ll answer this damned phone and you’ll answer it now.”

A loud noise sounded on the other end of the line as someone bobbled the receiver.

“Sorry. Sleeping,” Johnson said.

Kyle could care less.

“I suppose you’ve been sleeping ever since you ignored my last message.”

“No, I—”

Kyle didn’t give the man a chance to utter another syllable. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be at my front door first thing this morning.”

Silence beat across the line.

“With your explanation of why my electronic signature is on a series of welcome documents for investors in something called the Kingston Trust.”

“You’ve got to be—”

“Listen to me,” Kyle interrupted again. “You are the only person at TCM with access to my signature. If you didn’t sign these documents, then you know exactly who did. Be here by nine o’clock. Or else.”

Kyle slammed down the phone.

He shut down the computer, plucked the empty beer bottles from his desk and dropped them in the recyclables container as he passed.

He headed not for his bedroom, but for his work-out room instead.

Sleep wouldn’t come tonight.

He knew that from experience.

And if he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, he’d have to do something else to defuse the tension knotting every muscle in his body.

The image of Sara Montgomery flashed through his mind’s eye. Spending some quality time with the woman would definitely be one way to the defuse the tension, but based on the fiery spirit she’d shown, breaking down her defenses was going to take some time.

He pulled on a pair of running shoes, fired up the treadmill and stepped on as the machine kicked into high gear.

Before long, Kyle was running at top speed, pressing through the pain of yesterday’s injuries.

He put in five miles then hit a hot shower.

By the time Dwayne Johnson arrived, Kyle planned to be calm, collected and ready.

Johnson would never know what hit him.

SARA TOOK A LONG SWALLOW of her favorite coffee, studied the empty brownie container and grimaced. The oven timer chimed and she crossed her fingers as she approached the kitchen.

She’d been forced to find an all-night convenience store that sold brownie mix in order to replace the batch she’d eaten.

She had to admit Angel’s brownies had been like none Sara had ever tasted before. And they’d certainly helped pass the time while she studied the files on Kyle Prescott.

She opened the oven and smiled at the sight of the tray inside. Her brownies might not be works of art, but they certainly looked edible enough. She reached for the pan and winced as her finger brushed the scalding hot tray.

She stepped back, searching her kitchen for any sign of an oven mitt. She spotted a pair hanging on the side of the fridge, then returned to the task at hand.

A few minutes later, the tray of brownies sat cooling on the counter. Sara had moved on to the bathroom, where she studied her tangle of still damp waves.

The run she’d taken this morning had done wonders to unknot the tension in her shoulders. The exercise couldn’t hurt in the calorie department, either. A fleeting thought of how many brownies she’d consumed crossed her mind, but she shoved it away.

She had bigger things to worry about today. Check that.

Bigger people.

Namely, Kyle Prescott.

The image of his handsome face flashed through her mind. The way he’d had full command of those he spoke with at his stepfather’s party and the way he’d cut off his half brother’s line of inappropriate questioning.

Sara rubbed her lips, gently remembering the feel of Kyle’s mouth pressed to hers.

Her belly gave a traitorous twist and she groaned. Just what she didn’t need. An unwanted attraction to the man who stood for everything she loathed in life—money, the attitude it inspired and the spoiled ways of someone who’d had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter.

The genuine concern Kyle had shown after the accident battled with the thoughts racing through her brain, but she merely shook her head. She had no doubt the gentleness he’d shown after the accident had been the result of the fall he’d taken, nothing more.

The man’s modus operandi was arrogance. That’s what she had to prepare for.

Nothing else.

Her slim denim skirt hugged her hips and ended just above her knees, showing off several inches of skin between the hem and the top of her favorite boots. Butter-soft antique white leather, hand-painted and stitched to perfection, hugged her legs, the colorful design climbing either side of her calves.