Now, he would use his deity to discover where Miss Diana Bluth was spending her off-time. Hopefully, knowing would tell him what plan she was concocting to get at him or his money.
Greg Astor, picked up on the second ring.
“Brenner,” he drawled. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to you do what you do best,” David directed, leaning back against the counter to peer out the floor to ceiling (a 30-foot-high ceiling) windows facing the Hudson.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then, “Who?”
“Diana Bluth. She’s a paralegal at Kilgore, Ayers, Beecham.” And a goddamn nuisance to his peace of mind. The sooner he knew everything there was to know about Diana and her intentions, the sooner he could be done with her and his frustrating obsession with her.
Breathing in slowly, he focused on the view before him. Like most skyscraper dwellers, he’d paid a premium for the view, so he spent as much time as he could staring out the windows, over the city he practically owned, and wondered what the little people were doing. Damn, but his arrogance scared him sometimes.
“I will call you when I have something,” Astor remarked before ending the call. With him, David never needed to worry about needless conversations. He was a professional and David paid him well to just do his job.
Running his fingers through his hair, he pushed away from the counter and headed toward the master bedroom. Just like the rest of the penthouse, it was decorated in dark woods, sleek chrome accents, and plush carpets. Modern design encouraged the use of exotic wood flooring, but he much preferred soft, warm carpet beneath his feet. Growing up, he spent too much time in his parent’s VW camper van, where the corrugated rubber floors were often sticky from whatever beverage had spilled during their journey. Now that he could afford whatever the hell he wanted, he made sure each room in his house, save the kitchen, bathroom, and laundry, were carpeted.
Once he reached the master, he disrobed, tossing his clothes on the bed on his way through to the master bath. A long, hot shower was just the thing to help alleviate some of the rising tension making his neck and shoulders ache.
But the moment he stepped into the shower, he realized his mistake. The hot water would do nothing to rid him of the semi he’d been sporting for the last week. Every time he thought of Diana, his cock would respond, like a clarion call for a good, hard shagging.
Biting back a curse, he finished showering then returned to the kitchen where he poured himself another two fingers of Glenlivet. If he was going to keep his body in check, he’d need a damn more than a quick jacking off and alcohol.
He needed to find a tight cunt, eager for his cock, where he could work off the sexual frustration that had been strangling him. Not since that night with Diana had he been with another woman. Though he’d been tempted. Perhaps he’d held off, believing that vexing voice in his head, telling him that none of them would feel like Diana, but now that he’d seen her again, had recognized she was scheming, he was determined to get her out of his system.
A one-night stand was just the way of it.
It was Sunday, that meant the Bella Notte would be brimming with ladies seeking one last wild fling before the start of the weekly drudge.
He quickly dressed in black jeans, white Henley that showed more than the proper amount of his well-hewn muscles, and black Converse. His look was the perfect mix of money and casual.
Hell, yes. He would be balls deep in a hot pussy before the night was over. Perhaps two, if he really wanted the challenge.
With a grin on his face, he left his penthouse, a skip in his step.
He rolled over and groaned, the light pouring through the windows making the pounding in his head all the more percussive. Like a tympani drum lodged in his skull.
“Fuck,” he said, moaning. He blinked, attempted to sit up, and immediately fell back against his pillows. Yes. His pillows. Despite his eagerness to spend the night at the hotel with a willing bed partner, he’d crashed and burned. Well…he had to have been flying to have crashed and burned. And the truth was, the moment he stepped into the bar, he lost all interest in taking one of those women to his hotel room—not that he didn’t try to resurrect his earlier determination to work Diana Bluth out of his blood. But he’d failed. Because every time he looked at one of the lithe, richly dressed, perfectly coiffed and made up women, he compared them to a frustratingly familiar template.
None of them were what he wanted—who he wanted.
So, he drank himself into a stupor, stumbled into a cab, left the hotel despite having a room there for the night, and then buried himself in cold, empty sheets in his own bed.
Turning his head, he glanced at the time on the bedside clock.
It was Monday morning. Eight-thirty.
He wasn’t expected at the Brexcel offices until a meeting at eleven-thirty, which meant he had time to burn the alcohol from his blood in his home gym, shower, and force down a couple of egg whites, avocado slices, and cherry tomatoes.
Throwing off his sheets, he noticed that he’d crawled into bed fully dressed. Shaking his head at his
