Rhys ran a hand through his hair. If Delacourt and Daisy could overcome obstacles like that, maybe it was time for him to try again.
Rhys snorted softly. What the hell was he thinking? If he had learned anything in the last five hundred and twelve years, it was never to make the same mistake twice.
Chapter 2
Megan DeLacey sighed when she glanced at her watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after midnight. Two hours until closing and, except for the owner, Shore’s was empty. She didn’t really like working nights and, if the pay and the perks hadn’t been so good, she would have gone looking for a new job long ago.
Shore’s was an exclusive men’s shop that catered to wealthy clients—mainly eccentric rock stars and theater and movie people who preferred to shop late at night, thereby avoiding those who were less rich and famous.
Robert Parker had taken his knowledge of menswear and his friendship with a well-known actor and parlayed that combination into a tidy little business. Shore’s opened at ten A.M. and closed at four P.M. to accommodate those who preferred to shop during the day, and then reopened its doors at eight P.M. and stayed open until two in the morning. Megan and Mr. Parker worked the late shift.
Parker stocked only the finest men’s apparel—Shore’s most inexpensive shirt sold for $375. Megan thought it was an outrageous price to pay for a short-sleeved cotton shirt, but then, she had been raised by a frugal mother and a father who was frequently out of work.
Parker also kept an assortment of spirits and black caviar on hand for his exclusive customers, as well as imported chocolates for the ladies. The chocolates were one of the perks Megan enjoyed the most, as Mr. Parker let her take home whatever was left at the end of the week.
Megan had worked at Shore’s for just over a year, and, in that time, she had become a favorite of several of Mr. Parker’s clients, including a well-known Hollywood producer, an Oscar-winning actor, and a famous country singer, all of whom had become regulars and insisted that she cater to their needs. In return, they showered her with expensive gifts—jewelry, tickets to gala movie premieres, passes to concerts. She had felt guilty at first, accepting such costly gifts, but Mr. Parker had laughed at her reluctance.
“Honey, to guys like these, a hundred bucks, heck, even a thousand, doesn’t mean a thing.”
Looking at it like that soothed her conscience. Mr. Parker was right. To an actor making fifteen or twenty million a picture, a few hundred dollars was just chump change.
A handful of her regular customers wanted more from her than her fashion expertise, but she refused to mix business with pleasure. One of her customers, an up-and-coming rock star, proposed to her every time he came into the store. He was cute and rich and very appealing, and she might have at least dated him except for one thing—Drexel was only nineteen years old.
Of course, there were nights like tonight when the store was empty. Hopefully, Mr. Parker would decide to close early since his last appointment had left an hour ago and her midnight appointment had called earlier to say he had missed his flight from New York and wouldn’t be able to make it.
Megan was rearranging a display of imported French silk ties when a young man entered the store, bringing a blast of wind and a rush of cold air in with him. One look, and she knew he had never been in the store before, just as she knew she would never forget him.
A quick glance showed that his tan slacks were Armani, his boots were Gucci, and his dark brown leather jacket was top of the line Hugo Boss. It was said that clothes made the man, but this man didn’t need any help. He looked young, in his early twenties, but he exuded the confidence and authority of a much older man. His dark blond hair was short, though it had a slightly shaggy look, as if he were letting it grow out.
He moved toward her on silent feet, every movement somehow sensual yet dangerous, as if he was a predator and she was his prey.
Where on earth had that thought come from?
Thrusting the foolish notion from her mind, she forced a smile. “May I help you?”
As he drew closer, Megan saw that his eyes were a deep dark brown, world-weary eyes that should have belonged to a much older man. She shivered when he turned the full force of his gaze on her.
“I was just passing by.” His voice, low and innately sensual, seemed to resonate within every fiber of her being.
She couldn’t stop staring at him. He was incredibly handsome, but it was more than that. She was used to being in the company of handsome men, but there was something about this man that had every nerve and cell in her body tingling and on edge. A part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to beg him to stay with her forever, while another part of her wanted to run away and hide while she still had the chance.
“It’s kind of late for an evening stroll, isn’t it?” she asked, somewhat flippantly.
“Not if one enjoys the quiet of a cool winter night.”
Something in his tone had her shivering again. “I prefer warm summer days myself.” She made a broad gesture with her hand. “Please, look around. Let me know if I can be of any help.”
She was keenly aware of his gaze on her back as she walked toward the rear of the store. Suddenly nervous without knowing why, she began to set up a new display of cologne and aftershave. Even with her back to him, she sensed his presence as he moved up and down the aisles. There was something almost otherworldly about him, she thought, though she had no idea where that thought came from. He dressed as well, if not better, than most of her clients. He exuded an aura of power, but so did most of the men who frequented Shore’s. After all, money was power. But it was more than that.
“Miss?”
Megan’s hand flew to her throat at the sound of his voice so close behind her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Yes?”
“I’ll take these.”
Pasting a smile on her face, Megan turned and found herself gazing up into his eyes. He was close. Too close. She couldn’t think, could scarcely breathe. She glanced around the store, relieved to see Mr. Parker emerge from the back room.
“Miss?” The stranger was watching her, a faint smile curving his lips, as if he knew just how much his nearness flustered her.
He liked Armani, she mused, as he held out a pair of black slacks and a black silk shirt, along with a black coat that cost more than she made in three months.
“Will this be all?” she asked, striving to keep her voice steady.
“For now.”
She quickly rang up the sale, noting, as she swiped his credit card, that his name was Rhys Costain. His signature was a bold scrawl across the bottom of the receipt.