Drift: Silver Strand, #6

By Steph Campbell and Liz Reinhardt

All Lydia wants is her cushy law firm job back...until she meets nineteen-year-old Isaac Ortiz. Wants? All. Bets. Are. Off.

"This duo has done it again! Riptides is the perfect mix of steam and heart. Each book in this series is filled with characters that you can't get enough of. The Silver Strand series is a must read!" -- #1 NYT Bestselling Author, COLLEEN HOOVER on Riptides

There’s no way Lydia--oldest and most responsible of the tight-knit Rodriguez clan--is going to let her nosy family find out about the uncharacteristic work screw-up that landed her a paid suspension.

To keep busy and avoid panic, she enrolls in a life enrichment class. The first guest speaker is a handsome artist with a wicked smile and eyes that melt right through her.

Even the “ice princess” can’t help but feel an immediate spark that lights her blood on fire.

Isaac Ortiz is unquestionably the sexiest man Lydia has ever met. The talented son of a famous Spanish artist, he’s constantly moving from one new glamorous city to another, working if and when the muse visits him.

He also has a stare that makes Lydia’s heart race and hands that look more than capable of making her scream with pleasure. She shouldn’t be attracted to this free-spirit who makes all his own rules--but she is.

There’s just one hiccup....Isaac is nineteen.

Lydia has lived her entire life firmly inside the box, and being with a younger man is definitely outside the safe confines she enjoys.

So why can’t she stay away from him? And why is she seriously considering his proposition to take off to a place she’s never been...just because?

When Lydia is invited back to work with a cleared name, she should be overjoyed.

But the reality is, Lydia doesn’t know what anchors her life anymore...or if she wants to be anchored at all.

Should she travel the world with Isaac? Or continue down the road that she’s worked long and hard to pave for herself? Choosing one means losing the other, and Lydia isn’t sure if she’s ready to drift with the current that’s pulling her by the heart.

Silver Strand Series books in order (though all books can be read as stand alone books in any order!)

1. Lengths
2. Depths
3. Limits
4. Ties
5. Riptides (a Silver Strand novella)
6. Drift

• Language: English
• Publisher: Campbell Reinhardt
• Release date: Nov 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497760608

Book preview

Lydia, Mr. Sandberg would like to see you in his office. Tanya, the tiny-waisted intern who needs to tone down her mascara and perfume regimen stands in my door trembling like a little mouse.

A big-breasted, size two mouse with long, curly hair and a deer-in-the-headlights look my boss seems to favor.

Thank you, Tanya, I say, barely glancing up at her. She’s made a point to tell everyone in the entire office how ‘intimidating’ she finds me with her earnest eyes all big and scared.

Snort. Please.

Tanya loves drama, and she’s always looking for some excuse to stir the shit around here. If I’m at all intimidating to her, it’s only because I value hard work over batting lashes and ass-kissing, which pretty much stomps on her theory that being the queen of gossip and flattery will get her to the top at this office.

"Um, Ms. Rodriguez? I think he wants to see you, um, now." She clutches her file folders tighter to her chest and gives such a stricken, melodramatic look, I check over my shoulder for a reality TV film crew.

This girl is too much.

Fine, Tanya. I save the documents as I close them out on my desktop, but I feel the insistent burn of her gaze on my neck. Do you need something else? I keep my voice level.

She jumps back like I raised my hand to slap her across the face. Um. He said I should escort you.

I freeze, mind reeling, fingers poised over my keyboard. My adrenaline spikes, but I don’t panic. I use it, the way I always do. I keep my head level and comb through the clients I’ve been assigned, trying to figure out what may have been overlooked in the rush of the last few weeks. A case so big and incredibly complicated it could put our little firm on the map just landed in our laps three weeks ago, and things have been crazy since then.

But I’ve been careful. Like I always am. I take pride in doing my job well. I rub my temples and give Tanya a cold smile. You run along. I can walk down to the office all on my own.

But— she squeaks.

"Run. Along, Tanya," I snarl.

She scampers out of my doorway, and I take ten seconds to align myself, relax, open my mind, and prepare. Then I stand and walk down the hall to Mr. Sandberg’s office, ready to make amends for whatever I did or did not do.

Only it’s not just Mr. Sandberg. All the partners are sitting in the office. Leslie is perched on a low bookcase, John is leaned against the desk where Mr. Sandberg sits, lording over everything, and Richard is tucked into the far corner, staring at his hands.

Which is fine. If you want to keep an office romance quiet, you don’t go making sheep eyes whenever you’re in the room together.

Not that Richard ever looks at me in a way that would suggest we’re more than business partners. Even when he’s sitting across from me at the most romantic restaurant in town. Even when he’s watching me let my black silk robe slip off my shoulders before I climb into the big king bed and on top of him.

Tanya, shut the door on your way out, Mr. Sandberg barks. And order lunch. I want pastrami today.

Yes sir, she murmurs, dropping the scared mouse look and reverting to a demure but sexy servant act that Mr. Sandberg eats up.

What’s this all about? I ask as Tanya practically skips down the hall to get lunch for the boss man. One of the things I love about being a lawyer is that I can be direct and no one calls me brusque or rude or bitch. Not to my face anyway.

But today something is off. Instead of answering directly like they usually would, my partners glance away, contemplate the weather out the big gleaming windows of Mr. Sandberg’s corner office, examine the books on the shelves, do anything but look me in the eye and tell me what’s going on.

Finally Leslie clears her throat.

Shit.

They’re doing the whole woman-to-woman tactic, which means something really bad is up. One thing I absolutely hate is not knowing what’s going on in any situation. It makes my skin crawl, and, right now, I want to claw someone’s eyes out.

What the hell is up?

Mrs. Gutzman’s paperwork was improperly notarized.

What? The word clanks out of my mouth. My stomach ices over.

The notary used expired stamps, Mr. Gutzman noticed, and it may have tanked Mrs. Gutzman’s case. We don’t have time to get it all remedied. We had to fly the former roommate in from Chicago to make sure we got his signature in time. Leslie clears her throat, which is a sound that echoes from some distant corner of my brain. Then the other shoe drops. And it’s a steel-toed stiletto. "Mrs. Gutzman claims to have seen you the day the paperwork was filed. You were, ahem, embracing a dark haired man in a suit outside the Andaz. She saw you kiss him before he left in a blue Corvette."

I ball my hand into a fist and press it into my mouth. No. We were so careful.

Thank God Richard was driving a rental that week, so she didn’t realize it was both of you. As it is, she’s contending that you were having an affair on the clock and that you were paying more attention to your date than her paperwork.

I glare at Richard. Right now, Medusa herself would be scared of the face I’m making. But Richard still looks at his hands like a handsome, chisel-jawed lump of fucking shit I’m going to murder with my bare hands.

Because he’s slaughtered my career and he knows it. And he doesn’t give a shit. The only thing I can read on his face is the appropriate amount of shame that comes from getting caught with his pants down, and a huge amount of concealed relief because he knows me inside out. Which means he knows his secret is safe with me.

He knows I’m not about to tell them that it was Richard who forgot the papers in the hotel. That he was already across town, and I was closer, so he asked me to grab them and sign for the drop off. That I’d caught the notary—his alcoholic aunt—blundering paperwork twice before and saved his ass before I warned him not to use her again. Because I usually notice those things, but he doesn’t always, so I was willing to share my observation skills with him and never mention it to Mr. Sandberg.

But I was so love-stupid after our lunchtime fuck-a-thon, so happy he actually held me and looked into my eyes and told me how much he cared and—maybe, just maybe—was on the cusp of telling me he loved me after a year of sneaking around. I was so busy panting after that bone (that never came, by the way) that I didn’t double check the paperwork. I trusted Richard to do his goddamn job like a professional. I just signed off, visions of Richard finally showing some passion dancing in my stupid head.

And here we are.

Correction: here I am. Richard is across the room doing just fine, thank you very much.

So, how do we do this? I swallow hard and smooth the skirt of the Gucci suit I splurged on after our first of the year bonus checks. I’m willing to grovel, of course. Or lay low. Or pull extra hours. As many as needed. I’m not going to waste time apologizing. You all have to know how devastated I am, and I’m ashamed to have reflected poorly on Sandberg & Conway. But I know we need to bring all our big guns to this case, and if Mrs. Gutzman doesn’t want me front running, I’ll go ahead and gopher in the back.

Utter silence meets my speech, leaving me gasping for air.

Finally Mr. Sandberg talks to me. He talks for a long time. He brings up all my achievements, all the good things I’ve done for the firm. I swear he went back to my resume so he could recite every accolade I’ve racked up since college.

Then comes the but.

And I realize why he’s being so nice. He’s reading the eulogy of my law career.

No one can look me in the eye when the final verdict is delivered, and I, Lydia Rodriguez, magna cum laude graduate of UCLA school of law, youngest junior partner in the firm’s history, with my notable score on the Bar Mr. Sandberg  never failed to mention at any business party, am suspended.

Not from the case.

From my position at the firm.

They’re going to investigate. Richard doesn’t even break a sweat. He knows I’m bleeding out like a sacrificial lamb, and he’s fine with it.

My own stupidity washes over me in crushing waves. What the hell was I thinking, risking everything for him?

I guess I was thinking that an older guy would have his feet on the ground. That an older lawyer specifically would understand my crazy work hours, my obsessive drive straight for the top, my need to run, unfettered, at full speed. So what if he couldn’t last long enough to get me to orgasm? So what if he’d rather watch CNN and fall asleep than cuff me to the bed and peel my naughtiest lingerie off of me? You can’t have it all.

I always knew I couldn’t have it all.

I just never expected to wind up with nothing.

Fuck.

I say the right things to my co-workers; I take deep breaths, smile and reassure them it will be fine, I will be fine.

Don’t worry, I tell them all, even though no one looks worried. Because they know I can rebound from anything? Or because these people I’ve worked side by side with for years who don’t actually give a shit about me after all? As long as it isn’t them, it’s not something they’re going to lose sleep over.

I walk to my office and am extremely proud of myself for not punching Tanya in the face when she gives me a stricken look of mock sympathy. Then I grab my coat and briefcase, walk down to my car—a Mercedes I’m not going to be able to afford if this suspension isn’t temporary—and bawl my eyes out, beating on the steering wheel and screaming in the parking lot of the building that has owned me, body and soul, for the last five years. No one comes down to check on me, because no one would have expected this.

I’m Lydia Rodriguez.

Stone Cold Lydia Pitbull Rodriguez.

I can handle anything.

Betrayal, disloyalty, condescension...whatever.

I wipe my eyes with shaking fingers and feel the biggest, strongest swell of fuck this I’ve felt since I was a ball of raging hormones and frustration in high school. I gun the engine and peel out, racing away from the office.

I’ll get my damn job back. I’ll repair my bruised ego. I’ll make Richard beg me for forgiveness on his weaselly knees. But first, I’ll take my damn suspension.

I’ll take it and use it to recharge. And I’ll recharge by doing every goddamn bad thing I’ve ever wanted to do. Twice.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I’m about to become a goddess of vengeance. 

I’ve dodged two calls from my mother, three from an ex, and seven from a maybe-not-ex.

I have too many women in my life, I mutter to myself as I drop my leather bag on the desk in the corner office I’ll be sharing with some guy from the science wing.

There was some kind of chemical explosion in one of the labs and they’ve quarantined a few of the offices and classrooms, so the science people are scattered all over the campus like forlorn refugees, clutching their Tardis mugs and beakers to their chests like exposure to too much art or poetry will chisel at their brains and leave them drooling, sheep-eyed romantics.

A voice coming from the opposite corner scares the crap out of me.

That, my friend, is not a complaint I’m remotely interested in listening to. Especially in that accent. I mean, I can hypothetically grasp how tiring it must be to beat gorgeous women away with a stick, but the image honestly isn’t helping me work up any sympathy for you. He’s actually drinking out of a Tardis mug, but he grips it like a man in command of his time-bending destiny. He holds a hand out and smiles at me like we’re already friends. Cody Kasakowski. Thanks for being cool about the whole office sharing thing.

I shake his hand and can’t help but warm to him and his good humor immediately. I’m well aware that I’ve probably won the science-nerd office-mate jackpot with this guy. Isaac Ortiz. It’s no problem at all. And I promise to tone down my personal complaints in the future.

No worries, Cody says, sipping coffee so strong, its aroma fills our tiny cubicle. The smell of it makes my mouth water. I’m just being an asshole because my former office buddy married this gorgeous girl he was tutoring and now they’re in Belgium together, probably having marathon overseas sex, and I’m here. Alone but for my many, many uncooperative yeast trays. he sighs. "Meanwhile I’m left to tutor Samuel McKenna, who spends most sessions telling me about his allergies and trying to convince me Star Trek trumps Dr. Who. Right. In what universe?" He shakes his head, disgusted.

I laugh and throw a few books on my desk. I should have prepped my lecture last night. I should be worried enough to prep for it now, but I definitely prefer talking to Cody. "I have the number of a very lovely Brazilian woman who would be happy to watch Dr. Who with you."

He raises his eyebrows. She’s a fan of the Doctor? Really?

Not quite. I shake my head grimly at the memory of Iara’s lack of interest in anything—well, anything other than sex and fun. Which is hot, definitely hot. For a little while. Eventually the lack of conversation got to be too much to handle, no matter how awesome her blow jobs were. She’s the kind of girl who can pretend really well though.

Ah. I would guess that’s why you’re passing her number along? Cody takes a long sip and watches me over the mug. Well, thank you, but I’m afraid we both have similar standards. I like a nice brain on a girl. I mean, trust me, I like for all the other stuff to be nice, too. Love the whole package. But brains are definitely not up for compromise. He points to the corner, and I turn my head and see the coffee pot on the shelf by the window. Help yourself, by the way.

I do. Thank you. I drink and it tastes better than the coffee my mother makes. She’d kill me if I said it, but this guy has worked magic. Damn. That’s good coffee.

He raises his mug and I tap mine to it. I like your mug, he says.

I turn it and study the black and white photo of a gorgeous nude woman looking over her shoulder, her bare ass perfectly rounded, a very sexy smirk on her face. My father has a thing for erotic Victorian art. It’s a very rare photo.

So he had it made into a coffee mug for you? Cody laughs and raises one eyebrow. Maybe you get the salt and pepper shakers next year? He picks up his bag and heads to the door, raising his mug to me as he goes. Sorry to run, but I gotta get to lecture. Nice meeting you, Isaac.

I hope a gorgeous co-ed wanders into your class with a ‘Keep Calm and Don’t Blink’ shirt on, Cody. I flop back in my chair and he nods.

That may be the nicest hope anyone’s ever held out for me. I can hear his laugh all the way down the hall.

I drink some more coffee, check my phone and consider giving Mia a call back. What we had wasn’t bad—she wasn’t vacant like Iara. Mia had her own interests. She was sweet. And really nice. And...

Boring.

Sweet Jesus, so goddamn boring! It makes me feel like a complete tool to even think it, because she is also so absolutely kind-hearted. My mother would say that I was just looking for a reason to dump Mia, and, since I couldn’t find a real one, I made one up.

I glower at the dark liquid in my cup, annoyed that, no matter how far or fast I run, my parents still manage to complicate my life from wherever they are.

The fact that I’m here has everything to do with my father’s insistence that I not ‘squander my talents.’ He started his life as an ‘artist’ doing graffiti art in Seville every night after he clocked out of his job at a factory. He spent most of his time getting chased by the police, thrown in and out of jail. Then the son of a rich businessman visiting from Barcelona befriended my father and encouraged him to transfer what he did on the street to canvas.

The businessman saw what my dad could do and agreed to be his patron. People loved his gritty backstory as much as they loved the way he insisted on always working with spray paint, even when he was creating pieces that would hang in parlors surrounded by Spanish antiquities.

My father has little respect for the fact that I actually studied art. That I went to school and trained hard. As far as he’s concerned, all that I have in technical skill I lack in passion. He’s sure my success is netted firmly with the Ortiz name.

In other words, he’s positive I’m coasting, riding his coattails and pretending I work hard when really good fortune just falls in my lap.

Isaac! I’ve been looking for you. Nina Swanson is the five-foot-three, overweight, grinning reason I’m on this campus right now, and I owe it to her to quit scowling and get my act together.

Nina, it’s wonderful to see you. I hold her closer than I need to and kiss both of her cheeks, taking note of how she blushes and feeling like a gigolo the whole time. I just settled in and met my office-mate. A really great guy. I look forward to this afternoon’s lecture, I lie.

I didn’t prepare enough, and it isn’t because I don’t care.

I know what a huge deal this is. After I graduated with my MA in fine art, I needed some direction. Spain felt too small for my father and I, and an ocean plus most of a continent seemed almost far enough away. I had already had two very strong shows, one in Madrid and one in Barcelona, but my father’s name buzzed in the background when anyone talked about them. I considered doing some prep toward my PhD, but wanted something more tangible.

After a few months of inquiring, I managed to arrange this semester-long spot at the university, as a resident artist and long term guest speaker. I found an apartment and spent the summer working on my pieces for this fall’s showing and wandering campus, smiling at the pretty girls in the library and catching up on reading next to the pond full of gliding ducks behind the art studios. Now that class is back in, I’ll be spending part of my time preparing lectures for my twice-a-month guest lecturer spot.

The best part about it is I did everything without having to reference my father at all.

Outside Spain, I seriously doubt anyone realizes he and I are related, so I can be fairly confident it was my professors’ recommendations and my portfolio that got me my spot here.

You know I’ll be front and center, she gushes, her thousands of tiny blonde curls shaking, her blue eyes wide behind thick glasses. She giggles through a hand over her mouth. "Well, not front and center. That’s where the students will be. And this class is really a fine group. We pulled from every department on campus to get a real renaissance feel. I’m so glad we could count on you for the art portion. Your portfolio is tremendous already."

You’re too kind, I say, pressing her hands in mine. If you’ll excuse me, I have some last minute things to prepare.

Of course. She practically flutters as she walks out the door.

I slump into my chair, flipping through the folder I have filled with a dozen false starts. What I don’t need Nina or anyone on this campus knowing is that the second I got my acceptance letter for my semester here, it occurred to me what a huge phony I really am.

My father’s voice rings through my brain a thousand times a day.

Of course you have success. You’ve lived under success all your life. My father was a barber and an alcoholic. He never gave me anything but bruises and shitty haircuts.

I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes and try to reign in the massive migraine I feel coming on. I glance down at the paper filled with too many half-baked scribbles and decide to just go ahead and do what I need to, my father and his doubts be damned.

There is a chance I’ll run into Cece somewhere, but the chance is too small for me to have given it any serious worry. For the first few days after my suspension, I woke up and put on my suit, did my hair and makeup, read the paper, wolfed down breakfast, and hurried to my car.

For what?

I couldn’t give a shit less what my neighbors think. My family was all safely tucked across town, none the wiser about my current state of unemployment. Who the hell was I trying to kid?

Then a very sad thought rose to the surface amid my bubbling, boiling thoughts and worries.

Me.

I was kidding myself, and for all my declarations of revenge and self-indulgence, the craziest thing I did was walk the Getty and eat three crème brûlées, washed down by five or so of those little bottles of crisp, cheap white wines with the twist-off caps.

Before I turned into some kind of art-admiring, obese wino, I snapped myself out of my stupid routine.

I slept in. I started doing yoga. I dug my sexy jeans and sandals and soft cottony clothes out of the bowels of my closet and left my suits at the drycleaners. It was nice to relax, but I’m not particularly good at taking things slow. So I decided to sign up for some classes at the local college.

There was one that caught my eye: a life development class that reeked just a little too much of modern feel-good hocus pocus. But it promised a nice array of speakers on topics ranging from philosophy to art to literature—and it occurred to me that I might actually get to learn enough to do more than gawk at the paintings and sculptures at the Getty from the professor who handled the art portion.

The first two sessions focused on romantic poetry and philosophy, which were way better than I expected and had me reading Coleridge and Avicenna before bed instead of watching vapid reality shows. I guess that counts as personal growth. Anyway, I drive to the art session with this mixed feeling of dread and anticipation.

Dread because, what the hell am I doing? Every day that passes that I’m not working my tail off climbing the law ladder leaves me wondering if I’m insane for accepting the suspension without even mentioning Richard’s part in the whole thing. He’s under review, too, but, because no client identified him, he’s still allowed full access to the case work. It’s not fair, and it makes the rage well up in me.

Along with the fear.

One fact sledgehammers into me every single morning when I open my eyes: I have worked for years, given up on pleasure and accepted sleep-deprivation, exhaustion, and unholy amounts of stress to make it where I stand at the firm, which isn’t nearly far enough along in my career to call it quits. How can I consider turning my back on it all? I can’t.

The anticipation is more a feeling I’ve been trying to cultivate to combat the dread that would weigh me down otherwise. I try to enjoy the moments that are good when they come and let go of the