By Any Other Name

415 Pages·2001·1.66 MB·English

by  Davidson Mary Janice

Chapter 1
STEPHANIE DARES was nervous about meeting the Darth Vader of venture
capitalists, but that wasn't why she was under her desk. She was out of sight on
the floor, hooking up the computer. It was slow going; there were about sixteen
cords to match two outlets, not including the modem cords, and she didn't know
as much about this sort of thing as she would have liked. An MIT grad wouldn't
know as much about this sort of thing as I'd like, she thought with grim humor.
Oh, to have invested in an IMac when I had the chance.
Still, it beat pacing, which was her only other option. She'd turned up the radio
nice and loud, but it didn't
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A B B YY.c lessen her annoyance. She wished Darth Vader would get here. And
she hoped he'd have a surge .A B BYY.com
protector with him. That would be just right. That would be just— “Anybody
here?"
She sat up at the sound and bumped her head on the underside of the desk.
“Ouch!"
“Who said that?"
She crawled from under the desk and tried to stand but misjudged the length of
the desktop and banged her head again. “Ouch!” she said again, louder, standing
up and rubbing her head. There was a man standing in the doorway, frowning at
her. She glared, instantly blaming him for her throbbing head, however irrational
she knew that was. “What is it?"
“You're not from the real estate agency,” he said skeptically.
“I am. Are you Darth—I mean, are you Erik Chambers?"
He scowled at her slip and she could feel the blood rushing to her face.
Newsweek had called Chambers and Associates, and Erik Chambers in
particular, the Darth Vader of venture capitalists. The article had been
grudgingly complimentary but had pulled few punches. And while Stephanie
had read every word and had seen the accompanying photo of Erik, she had been
unprepared for the sheer presence of the man.
He was three or four inches taller than she, about six foot two. She liked tall
men; short men made her uncomfortably aware of her height, made her feel
graceless and huge. His hair was short, dark and curly, almost black, and his
eyes were brown. A pleasant external package, but his most arresting feature was
the two-inch jagged scar that slashed past his right eye, a bare half-inch from the
socket. Whatever the scar's history, it had very nearly cost him half his sight.
Flustered, she grabbed for her malt, which had been melting while she crawled
beneath the desk. She took a hasty gulp, swallowed too fast, and winced as a
spike of pain sank into the middle of her forehead.
She nearly groaned, caught in the insidious trap that was the ice cream headache.
She realized with a start that he was speaking to her. At her, actually. She took a
smaller swallow and almost smiled as the pain started to ease. “Excuse me?” she
asked.
He sighed impatiently. “I said, if you'll just hand over the keys, you can be on
your way. I'm sure you've got plenty to do. Somewhere else."
Her temper rose in response to his sarcasm. She welcomed the surge of irritation
—it lessened the effect of those marvelous brown eyes. “I do not have plenty to
do,” she said.
do,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “No doubt."
She coughed. “I mean, I'm supposed to help you set up. Answer any questions
you might have, give you a tour of the facility, and set up the computers. Not
toss you the keys and be on my way."
“No?"

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A B B YY.c “No."
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“Too bad.” He dropped his briefcase on the desk from about a foot. It hit with a
crash and popped open automatically. Stephanie was impressed in spite of
herself. “Let's get to it, then. Here's the lease, signed.
Here's my list of references. Here's—hold still."
He sighed, pulled out a handkerchief, and leaned forward. Gripping her chin
lightly, he started rubbing her forehead with the handkerchief. Stephanie hoped
it was clean. At least he didn't spit on it first.
it was clean. At least he didn't spit on it first.
“You've got dirt all over your forehead. And ice cream on your skirt. You're not
really dressed to be crawling under desks, you know."
“I know. But I was here early and I was bored.” In her ears, her voice sounded
high and strange. For heaven's sakes, the man was wiping her forehead and she
felt as warm as if he were kissing her on the neck. She mentally shook herself.
What was the matter with her today?
Erik Chambers was having difficulty letting go of the gorgeous blonde in front
of him. He'd had a hard enough time finding his tongue when she'd popped up
from underneath the desk like some sort of grimy goddess. She was, without a
doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, smeared forehead or no.
She was tall—nearly his height—with glorious, golden blonde hair piled on top
of her head. A few defiant curls tumbled about her forehead and temples. She
was pale—no, not pale—white, her skin the color of cream, and her eyes the
color of emeralds. A native, he thought. A born and bred Minnesotan.
He'd never seen anyone who had skin that color. Or eyes that clear. Or a
forehead so dirty—there.
“There. You're clean.” He forced himself to let go of her shoulder. She was so
beautiful, she made him feel like a fool. Hell, he was a fool. Hadn't Jessica
taught him enough hard lessons about women? Did he think he needed to learn a
few more? “Let's have the tour."
“Right.” She showed him the reception area, his office, the utility room, the
break room, the rest rooms and the library. It took about ten minutes and she
managed to gobble more than half of her malt during the task. Sir—her guardian,
Sir Archibald Chesterson—had been right when he said this favor wouldn't take
much of her time. He owned the real estate agency she worked for and Erik was
the son of a close friend of his, looking for an office in Minneapolis. She had
agreed to show him around because she'd read the Newsweek article and been
intrigued.
“Everything looks good to me. Tell Sir I'll be renting at least the three months,
but won't open the branch until after the new year."
“Right."
“I'll get a branch manager in here over the next few weeks, they'll be able to get
things up and running for me.” He took another look around the reception area,
flipped open the briefcase, and pulled out a check.
“That ought to do it—rent for the next six months."
“You don't waste any time, do you? You came here with your mind made up and
you hadn't even seen the place."
He raised an eyebrow at the blunt question, liking her for her frankness. “I trust
Sir's judgment. He knows what I like. Didn't he tell you? We've known each
other a long time."
“He didn't say much about you—but he did tell me he knew you when you were
little. I can't imagine you as little."

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A B B YY.c “How well do you know him?” he asked, not terribly interested, but
liking the sound of her voice. It was
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very smooth—like verbal velvet.
“I've known him for ages. I moved out a while ago, but we still—"
At her words, for some reason, a thwarted jealousy so great he could hardly see
swept over him. He felt foolish for not realizing it right away. Obviously, this
girl was Sir's mistress. Sir was very handsome and very rich and English to boot.
Everyone knew women flipped over English aristocrats. And she was the type,
too—blonde, leggy, smart, and just ambitious enough to realize the life of luxury
one could have as Sir's playmate du jour.
“Isn't he a little old for you?” Erik growled.
“Who?"
“Sir! And you call him Sir,” he sneered. “You don't even know his real name."
Shocked, her green eyes blazed. “I do too! And what do you mean, too old for
me? He could be a hundred years older than me and he'd still be perfect."
“Ha! Perfect for rocking by the fire, maybe, but not lovemaking. As I'm sure
you've figured out.” He watched with interest as the color rose in her cheeks and
her eyes widened.
She popped the plastic top off her drink and stepped close. “Five seconds."
“What?"
“To apologize."
“I never apologize.” Insults he expected. Shouts, maybe even calculated tears. At
the very least, a tantrum. But this deadly calm, this was something new.
The color had faded from her cheeks and she looked horribly pale. Her eyes
blazed out at him, narrow and tilted at the ends like a cat's. He began to feel a
little ashamed of himself. What was he doing, tormenting this silly thing? He
had more important things to do, and besides, she wasn't so bad. Maybe she was
very poor, and needed to sleep with Sir so she could pay rent or eat or
something. Sure. That was it. That was— She threw her drink on him, her arm
blurring so fast he had barely time to register the fact she'd moved before semi-