Elusive Encounters

By Jacqueline Brown

African-American college teacher and businesswoman, Reigna Clifford, encounters white mystery man Crane in a New York City museum. He immediately invites her to an upcoming exhibition of the creative works of billionaire CEO, Barrington Thornhill. Crane is tall, handsome, and unemotional, triggering Reigna’s caution. Crane presents Reigna with an inviting business proposal to work with him on projects connected with his company which she considers.
Reigna gradually discovers dangerous and shocking secrets as well as observing unexplained behaviors regarding the undemonstrative, aloof Crane leading her to either contemplate running away or facing her own fears and regrets. Will she be able to continue working alongside the charming, detached Crane while fighting her own emotions, or will his shrouded secrets jeopardize their growing passion for each other?

Mature audiences only.
This material is suitable for those over the age of eighteen due to adult themes, adult language and explicit sex scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796047004

Jacqueline Brown

Jacqueline A. Brown is a native New Yorker living in Harlem, former news writer and college professor. She is a screenwriter and filmmaker currently holding five college degrees including film school. Her previously published works discussed the topic of racism in media. Jacqueline has been invited as a guest speaker to various conferences, both national and international, to present her research papers on the aspects of racism in television and films and how interracial relationships are portrayed in the visual media. Love Spelled Sideways is her first collection of erotic BWWM romance novels. She enjoys writing about strong, well-educated corporate African American females as her main characters. When she is not writing novels or screenplays, Jacqueline is shooting films or photography in the city. She has been an avid reader since age three and received her first real camera at age seven. Jacqueline hopes to begin shooting another film in the near future before continuing with her next collection of erotic BWWM novels.

Book preview

ELUSIVE

ENCOUNTERS

Jacqueline Brown

Copyright © 2019 by Jacqueline Brown.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2019909916

ISBN:           Hardcover           978-1-7960-4702-8

                     Softcover             978-1-7960-4701-1

                     eBook                  978-1-7960-4700-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/17/2019

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

796370

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

This material contains adult themes, adult language, and explicit sex scenes not suitable for anyone under the age of eighteen.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to TB, JM, TD, GB, SH, CM, JJ, SC, RM, AC, TH, KM, AP, RS (miss you), and IH. Thank you, guys, for your sexiness, handsomeness, and inspiration. Love you all.

All relationships have guilt, secrets, and regrets.

Mr. Thornhill is in.

All the sky is God’s eyes.

—Jacqueline Brown

CHAPTER ONE

No crowds here now, Reigna Clifford thought as she walked into the quiet lobby of the downtown museum with its newly displayed, advertised exhibits. She sighed in relief as she walked to the farthest enclosure next to a shiny, marblelike wall displaying numerous photographs of city still life. The young black woman stared at the sharp, clear photos as she attempted to discover every detail and story of the historic images.

Just the way I like this place to be, she admitted to herself as she continued to walk slowly along the aisle. The quiet was soothing to her mind in contrast to the understated chaos of her morning meeting with her clients. The calm was welcoming, floating about her head like a cherished daydream.

Reigna Clifford stole a glance at herself in one of the sparkling glass displays. Her brown skin and thick black hair did not evidence the stress she had previously endured at her corporate meeting, and neither did her stylish business suit. Involuntarily, she smoothed the perceived wrinkles in her shirt and jacket and wriggled her toes in her suddenly too tight high heels. Her light brown eyes were still bright and the red lipstick intact in spite of the intensive earlier meetings.

She did not glance at her watch but guessed the time and thought of when she should be leaving the museum to avoid as much of Downtown New York City rush hour as much as possible. Reigna smiled. Who was she kidding? She loved that energy.

As she moved along the somewhat narrow aisles, a slight movement several feet to her right briefly caught her attention as she maneuvered around the massive room displaying photography, paintings, and sculptures. A young man who was tall, slightly tanned, and alone stood with his back to the door and Reigna outside a special museum alcove. He stared intensely at a particular artifact near the far wall, his face as still as a photograph himself, as emotionless as the impressive exhibits in the cool, quiet room. The man was completely engrossed in his contemplation, gazing intensely at the photographic art piece in front of him. He was obviously deep in thought and pensive observations as he focused on the still photographic image that appeared to totally capture his attention and blind him of his immediate surroundings.

Reigna refocused her attention on the stunning displays in front of her as she slowly continued her walk, carefully examining the exhibits with curiosity and debating with herself about whether to take notes. As a photographer herself, the most interesting exhibits to her were the early photographs of New York City taken with an obviously ancient and historical camera. Reigna continued to stare at the photos intensely as if to immerse herself into their stories and secrets.

There was no sound, no warning as the young man, who was previously examining an artifact alone, was suddenly standing unsmiling and serious next to Reigna. She was not startled at his sudden appearance or his over-six-foot height. She stood silently gazing initially at his right shoulder, her five-foot-four-inch height only allowing her that privilege.

The man appeared to be about thirty-two years old, yet his face seemed to be slightly younger. His clear light blue eyes sparkled with a serious curiosity as he gazed down at Reigna, his icy eyes sharp and focused on the young black woman standing in front of him. Reigna could almost feel an unintentional chill from the directness of his unblinking gaze. Are you enjoying this? he suddenly asked, his eyes trained on Reigna’s face, his cool, sharp look keeping her immobile in her place. He still did not smile but instead maintained an appraising gaze on Reigna as if confident she would respond to his question. His voice was deep, resonant—a smooth baritone that could effectively introduce classical music on FM radio.

Yes, I do. It’s beautiful, Reigna replied, surprised with her own calm demeanor in the presence of this new person. She was not always comfortable with strangers suddenly speaking to her, and her warning antennas focused and trained immediately on the tall unknown person in front of her. His hair was dark, thick, and neatly in place, the intense blue eyes framed with dark lashes.

This is someone who is used to maintaining authority and command when they appear and speak, Reigna thought, not intimidating but firmly demanding attention and respect. Reigna’s eyes stole a glance at the young man’s left hand as what had become par for the course for her—no ring, no ring tan line.

It’s time to leave, Crane. The voice came from another person, another white man, who walked up behind the young man to draw his attention to another appointment. The other man was older with thick salt-and-pepper hair and dark gray eyes, not quite the same over-six-foot height as the man named Crane but with a similar athletic build. The older man was dressed in a dark suit, shirt, and tie, whereas the man Crane was without a tie. Instead, he wore a dark sports jacket, dark jeans, and a white shirt opened at the neck to reveal a hint of chest hair. His shoes were an expensive-looking dark leather, highly polished, and softly shiny.

Crane now turned his attention back to Reigna, who had moved away a few steps, sensing an end to their conversation. She stole glances at the young man, careful he did not catch her smooth, appraising eye movements. I’m Crane, he said in introduction. And you are, Miss … ? He did not extend his hand in greeting. There was still no smile, just the continued look of businesslike seriousness.

Reigna’s senses remained on caution and high alert as she found her voice to speak. I’m Reigna, she replied, trying determinedly not to look away from the engaging eyes of this new person despite her apprehensions.

Crane’s eyes remained fixed on Reigna’s face. It has been very nice to meet you, Miss Reigna, he suddenly said with cool formality. His well-manicured hand reached into the breast pocket of his sports coat and retrieved a business card. His lips remained in a serious straight line the entire time he addressed Reigna. One somber sculptured eyebrow arched slightly as he spoke again. This museum is having a showing of the photography and short films of Barrington Thornhill on Thursday. He handed her the card. Maybe you will be interested in attending. RSVP. Then he was suddenly gone, abruptly taken away by his assistant or staffer or whoever who rushed him out of the door of the museum.

Reigna stared at the card in her tense fingers. The name simply read Barrington Thornhill Photography Exhibit with a date, a time, and a website to RSVP. She did not watch the handsome man Crane and his assistant as they left the building but turned her attention briefly back to the enclosed exhibitions. She tucked the card carelessly in a pocket of her purse and moved to the front door of the museum.

She walked to the corner bus stop, choosing to lean against the street sign rather than sit down on the metal bench. She contemplated whether to hail a cab to get home or finally sit down on the available bench to change her shoes from the stilettos to her ever-present ballet flats. Reigna decided to remain where she was as she rewound the brief verbal events in the museum. She fought the idea of glancing again at the business card given to her by Crane, deciding to leave it ignored in her purse.

Reigna was familiar with the creative work of Barrington Thornhill, CEO of Thornhill Enterprises Corporation here in New York and billionaire philanthropist. He was an elusive and private businessman who seemed to prefer to remain out of the spotlight and the media. She had even studied some of his work in photography and film as well as in media technology and telecommunications through online seminars. Reigna had participated in one or two of his filmmaking and photography workshops online, which Mr. Thornhill never taught in person. Billionaire idiosyncrasies, Reigna always thought, always a secret life.

She returned to her apartment, walking in slowly and tiredly, closing and locking the door quickly behind her. Her mind involuntarily snapped back to her brief encounter in the museum—the man named Crane, the invite to the exhibition. She sighed and dragged herself to her bedroom, shedding her suit jacket and tossing her purse on the queen-size bed. She glanced at her purse lying in the middle of the bed while trying to discard the curiosity piercing her thoughts regarding the business card given to her by the mysterious young man.

She did not have such time or interest right now. There were other priorities. Her new job and directorship adventure at Branston-Ellis University was exhausting, and sometimes Reigna playfully questioned her decision to participate in the continuing university women’s business program or to just remain as a full-time faculty at the school. She once joked with friends that she was busier now in the new business program and working at home than she was when she was full-time teaching and advising.

Reigna walked barefoot to her home office and sat at her desk to thumb absentmindedly through the folders and binders stacked neatly and categorically in front of her laptop. Occasionally, Reigna’s mind would again drift to the events of that afternoon, and her eyes would stray to the invitation card from Museum Man Crane, which she currently taped to a prominent place on her desk. She was still contemplating whether to attend the apparently elegant event in a few days, and her thoughts were leaning toward ignoring it and remaining at home. After all, it was on a Wednesday night. Who goes to a party on a Wednesday night?

Though she loved events of that kind, there was something very different about this particular situation, and she weighed the pros and cons for a correct decision. Right now, she thought, the answer is no thanks. She was not in the mood to attend the event of a nonentity multibillionaire who was never seen in photographs or in the flesh for that matter. He probably didn’t even exist.

Mr. Barrington Thornhill, a fabricated advertising corporate entity consisting of and developed by a team of creative business minds, Reigna thought annoyingly.

Reigna’s notepad in front of her on her desk remained unused and ignored like the visual images on her computer screen, which were beginning to blur together like hot, melting crayons. Her mind continued to drift to other distinctive and overdemanding thoughts as she sat, trying to concentrate on the business tasks in front of her. She glanced again at and retrieved the taped business card from the corner of her desk, sighed, and aggressively grabbed her phone. She punched in the specific number on the card and followed the instructions to RSVP for the upcoming Barrington Thornhill film/photography exhibition.

Suddenly panicking, Reigna ended the call quickly, an unexplained nervousness gripping her chest. She placed the phone on her desk, almost dropping it with her spontaneous actions. Reigna knew exactly why she felt such apprehension regarding the upcoming event. She wanted to remain positive, but that simple decision and action had the potential to bring her resurfaced grief and unwanted thoughts. She still did not feel the need to restart being socially involved right then. Feelings were still raw.

Exasperated, Reigna seized her phone again and punched in the RSVP number. Waste of time, she muttered out loud. What the hell am I doing? I’m not going to this—whatever. Her sudden curiosity may be actually seeing in person the mysterious Mr. Barrington Thornhill, and his creativity was causing Reigna to think and rethink, consider and reconsider.

The registration instructions responded again, and Reigna followed them carefully and quickly before she changed her mind. She exhaled almost in relief and leaned back in her office chair, attempting to return her breathing to normal. Reigna cleared her throat and sat upright, resettling herself in the chair again. Shit, I’ll just go. I’ll stay for ten minutes and then leave, she thought. Maybe fifteen.

# # # #

Why did I agree to do this? To be here? What the hell am I thinking? Reigna thought as she climbed the wide, short flight of steps to the door of the museum. Her knees faltered slightly as she walked in her high heels, and she refrained from fleeing down the steps and hailing a cab for home. She paused for a moment, allowing people to pass her on the stairs. She reached the heavy ornate museum door to stand in a line with other people waiting to enter the museum’s elegant surroundings.

Reigna wore a short black cocktail dress that showed off her shapely legs and just enough cleavage to attract second looks. The dress had been hibernating in her closet for a couple of months now along with the high-heeled strappy new stilettos. She had debated continuously with herself all day, even en route to the museum, about whether she should bother to attend the event or just blow it off and remain home for the evening. That idea continuously bounced about in her head like a ball falling down the stairs. The lobby of the museum was crowded and buzzing with the muted voices of the affluent and influential attending the middle-of-the-week event. Throngs of wealthy-looking people in cocktail dresses and designer suits flowed into the building to be greeted by soft jazz music and mood lighting displaying the works of the CEO/photographer/filmmaker Barrington Thornhill, beginning at the lobby and extending to an area at the back of the building.

Reigna stood just inside the door of the museum, taking a brief moment to survey her surroundings. Just as she imagined, not very many black people were in attendance. She made her way through the fashionably dressed crowd to the registration desk to check in. The new shoes pinched slightly as she stood in line, and she wiggled her toes for added comfort and relief. The young blond woman behind the registration desk smiled brightly after locating Reigna’s badge, which was curiously a different color and shape from the majority of the attendees for some unexplained reason.

As she turned to leave the table, a familiar face was approaching her. The older gray-haired man who hurried the man Crane away that day in the museum was approaching her quickly. His face was serious and efficient as he kept his focused gaze on her surprised face. Ms. Clifford, he said quickly, not even glancing at her name badge. Reigna had the impression he already knew her name before he even saw the badge. Thank you for attending. Come with me, please.

He walked briskly in front of Reigna, still without introducing himself, as they brushed past large crowds of more wealthy-looking conversation groups to a smaller room with a seemingly more select group. The room was furnished tastefully with white-clothed tables and cushioned chairs and had well-dressed servers rushing about to attend to the needs of guests. It was resplendent with various photographs of varying sizes by the creatively talented Mr. Barrington Thornhill. A video with additional images of his works flashed brightly on a large-screen TV accompanied by soft rock music. Mr. Thornhill’s spectacular pieces of photography were mounted along the walls and placed on tables and brightly painted ladders, saturating the room with his creative presence. Some of the photographs were nearly seven feet tall. A corner of the room was partially closed off for a small film screening, which was currently empty of people.

The man, Crane’s assistant or whoever, directed Reigna to a slightly isolated corner of small square tables with carefully printed Reserved signs. Reigna felt her confidence beginning to slide away like melting snow when she suddenly heard the man’s voice again almost out of nowhere. My name is Nigel, the directing and busy man announced finally, coolly, and formally. He did not extend his hand. If you need anything, please tell the server, and he will contact me. Nigel’s slight smile and gray-eyed gaze were practiced and efficient as well as his cool formal manner of addressing everyone, causing Reigna to consider leaving immediately.

Such coolness in this place, she thought. Must be ten degrees colder in here. Her stomach was churning slightly, and a tightness was suddenly forming in her chest. Due to what?

No server approached Reigna yet as she sat alone at the small table, beginning to feel slightly neglected and insulted. Reigna was tempted to get up to finally examine the photographs more closely and then quietly leave the room, but her curiosity regarding the celebrated work of the photographer and CEO Barrington Thornhill engulfed her thoughts. Was he even alive? Did he even exist? No photos of the actual billionaire artist himself ever materialized anywhere in the exhibition.

Reigna shifted in her chair, still contemplating whether to remain in her special spot. She kept her eyes on as much of the room as possible as she seriously considered an escape from the controlled, minimalist environment and less-than-warm atmosphere. From what she could see from her vantage point, the photography of Barrington Thornhill was stunning with vivid images and colors and had clear, bold lines in the black-and-white prints. Reigna felt she could eventually produce her own showing of her photography and short films together quite easily now with the right help. It was worth a consideration, and the thought was intriguing.

This is bullshit, Reigna muttered to herself. No server, no Nigel, no Barrington Thornhill or whatever facsimile of him thereof. She began to slowly rise from her chair to leave when a familiar voice was suddenly at her side—a voice that, she admitted to herself, caused her to tense and relax at the same time.

You aren’t leaving already, are you, Ms. Clifford? Crane asked, suddenly appearing at her side. He called her Ms. Clifford, yet his eyes did not seem to glance at her elegant badge. Reigna’s brown eyes fixed on Crane’s icy blue eyes, causing her to sink slowly back onto the cushioned chair. He was holding two glasses of wine, which he placed on the white-clothed table.

They are about to begin, the man Crane continued.

Reigna found herself shifting in her chair at his unexpected appearance. Crane was dressed in a well-fitting black suit and white shirt, no tie. The white shirt contrasted against the slight tan of his skin and brought bright highlights to his intense blue eyes. His formal and serious demeanor kept Reigna stunned and quiet, abruptly changing her mind about her idea of escaping.

A hint of his expensive cologne teased her nostrils like a fragrant feather as she struggled to maintain a cool demeanor at the event. Crane settled himself beside Reigna, making her fully aware of his masculine presence. His well-groomed thick dark hair lay in soft waves about his enticing face, and his piercing eyes, almost burning blue, gleamed with purpose and command. His deep gaze clung to Reigna’s face with an intense curiosity hinting at an interest Reigna dared not fantasize. A faint five o’clock shadow framed his well-shaped still unsmiling lips.

Reigna’s hands remained still and motionless on her lap like sleeping birds, and the rest of her body gently quaked as a chill floated on her skin. Her fingers curved gently around one another, almost clutching together for support. She was still and cautious as if a sudden move would cause her to take flight or react with an impatient remark. Reigna’s suddenly cold fingers reached up and touched the wineglass Crane placed in front of her, but she did not pick it up. The man Crane did not touch his glass either but rather kept his intense attention on Reigna’s face.

A silence settled over the room like a white cloth as Crane was surrounded by the admiring glances and subtle stares of the attending guests. He was seemingly oblivious to the attention he was receiving from strangers, both male and female but mostly female. Something he is probably used to, Reigna thought.

She finally answered his question. No, I wasn’t leaving immediately, Mr. Crane. I was just going to examine the amazing photos, Reigna admitted, slightly embarrassed. Her caution continued to remain on high alert.

Just Crane, he responded softly. His strong fingers now curved around the wineglass. He still did not taste the wine.

So you are staying, Ms, Clifford? Crane attempted to confirm, still no smile from him as if he was cautious about giving anything so precious of his away. He watched her smooth brown face as if trying to locate an answer in her light brown eyes and hear it from her own lips.

I’ll see what I can do, Reigna finally replied vaguely. Her fingers were tightening slightly around the stem of the wineglass. Crane’s direct gaze remained centered on her face as Reigna waited for his next question.

Reigna looked up suddenly over Crane’s shoulder to see Nigel quickly approaching them. Crane seemed aware of his approach also and rose from his chair without turning around. The wineglasses still remained ignored and untouched as Crane prepared to leave with Nigel, who stood silent and stoic behind him. No obvious questions came to Reigna’s mind regarding his second sudden departure from her. She was breathing easier now with Crane’s leaving.

Until later, Ms. Clifford, Crane announced unemotionally, his lips a straight dusky pink line. Nigel and Crane abruptly disappeared into the growing crowd now gathering in the larger room near the lobby.

Reigna rose from her chair and slowly followed the growing crowd of people as they flowed into the massive next-door room for the main event. She stood alone near the back of the room with a plan in her mind for a quick escape once everything was over. Her feet were again beginning to become sensitive in the new stilettos, and she shifted slowly on her feet, trying to find a comfortable stance.

In the larger room, a middle-aged man in a tuxedo walked on the stage to the podium to quiet the important-looking wealthy crowd and ask for their attention as his elaborate two-minute speech introduced Mr. Barrington Thornhill to the stage. So he is alive, Reigna thought playfully as she kept her eyes on the front of the room. She moved slightly closer to the stage, her curiosity propelling her forward slowly through the perceived money-and-influence crowd to allow herself a better view.

The applause escalated to an excited, almost rock-star roar as Barrington Thornhill—billionaire, CEO, philanthropist, and photographer—was introduced. The artist everyone was waiting for stepped confidently to the podium. Reigna’s hand suddenly went to her mouth in shock, and the room suddenly went white as it spun around her. Why did she already see this shit coming in her mind’s eye?

CHAPTER TWO

Reigna was up early the next morning after sleeping fitfully all night with nightmares of being lost in crowds of hostile people who were berating her for attending an influential social event in her nightshirt and bare feet. Her annoyance followed her into the morning of the next day as she recalled the events of last night. So why didn’t this Crane just tell her he was Barrington Thornhill, and why was he calling himself Crane? She fumed. Did he enjoy making her look ridiculous and expect her to be in awe of him? She should have known it was just too good. Jackass.

Reigna, in her surprise and embarrassment, regained control of the situation last night by easing out of the event toward the end of Barrington Thornhill or Crane’s speech without her saying anything to anyone. Her head reeled with puzzling thoughts and angry questions regarding the awkward situation of the night before that continued to plague her brain that morning. Why was she so annoyed?

The morning was moving slowly, only to fuel Reigna’s aggravation at her perception of being set up last night by the wealthy, arrogant Mr. Barrington Thornhill or Crane. Whatever the fuck his name is. She entertained the idea of sending a scalding e-mail to the Thornhill Corporation and the rich Mr. Thornhill himself disguised as a thank-you note, and she went so far as to draft the note in her black notebook.

Reigna did not know why she was still annoyed by Crane’s lack of transparency, but she felt irritable and dissatisfied with their brief encounter and the embarrassing reveal last night. He only did that because of his position of privilege and control, and this was probably fun for him. Probably not the first time he has done this to women, Reigna thought.

She posed her fingers over the keyboard to compose the terse words she would send to Mr. Thornhill in retaliation for his bad joke. She paused and then slowly lowered her hands. She knew it would be best not to put such evidence on her computer. She had heard rumors of serious disasters resulting from that kind of impulsive action. She did not need that. Never will I attend any more events by his rich ass, she vowed aloud.

Reigna was only vaguely aware of her phone humming in her purse. She glanced at the time on her computer—ten thirty. Must be Mandy on her coffee break, Reigna thought. Mandy Martinez, Reigna’s friend and office assistant from the Women’s Business and Entrepreneur Studies Department at Branston-Ellis University downtown, usually called about this time in the morning, sometimes with Reigna’s other friend Crystal Sellers from human resources. They were excellent, fun colleagues to Reigna during her time as an associate professor at the college, and the three of them remained close friends even after Reigna took special leave.

She retrieved the phone in anticipation and checked the screen. Shit! Reigna shouted in irritation and surprise, not caring if she was heard. She used her coolest, most professional voice when she answered after arguing with herself about whether to even bother. She decided to answer. Rudeness was not part of her nature.

Good morning, Mr. Thornhill, she greeted, keeping her voice cool and devoid of emotion as a renewed feeling of control permeated her brain.

The man Crane got right to the point of his call. Reigna appreciated that gesture. She was slightly eager for the call to end as her annoyance surfaced again. She was not sure what kinds of decent, polite responses she could offer to him right then.

I did not get a chance to speak with you after the event, Ms. Clifford. You left so quickly. Crane’s voice was again cool and professional on the phone as if he was confirming a business appointment. The voice was as smooth as flowing liquid. Reigna was sure he used that to his advantage in business. He spoke as if he was completely unaware of the mild irritation and insulted emotions Reigna was displaying at the time.

"You didn’t tell me you were Barrington Thornhill," Reigna began, her voice firm and emotionless, straining to keep herself and her demeanor calm.

I told you my name in all honesty, Crane offered quietly, unperturbed by Reigna’s attitude.

"And what exactly is your name?" Reigna asked, her annoyance rising and surfacing.

Crane seemed unfazed and unaffected by the slight impatience creeping into Reigna’s voice. He paused, made a soft sound to clear his throat, and then spoke again politely and formally. Hello, this is Barrington Crane Ryden Thornhill calling to ask Ms. Reigna Clifford to have coffee, her convenience. We met at an event last night, if she will please speak with me.

Reigna’s mouth was open to speak, but no sound immediately came out in response to his words. A squeak formed in her throat, which used to be her voice, and she coughed a little to dispel her surprise. Reigna answered slowly, now embarrassed by her own reaction. She hesitated before responding, trying to weigh the wisdom of her decision. That is very nice of you, Mr. Thornhill, but no thank you. I don’t think that is a good idea, and I do appreciate your asking, Reigna responded calmly, the edge easing away from her tone of voice. Her conflicted mind raced at her decision to decline Crane’s invitation, and she held her breath, awaiting Crane’s next words.

There was a seemingly long silence, and Reigna felt her heart beginning to thunder in her chest, the sound traveling up to her head and her eyes like an overflowing bottle. Is he still there? she wondered.

Does that idea appall you, Ms. Clifford, because of last night? Crane persisted coolly.

Reigna could only imagine Crane in his impressive office downtown or in his rumored palatial penthouse as he spoke on the phone, wondering how she—Reigna Clifford, an unimportant, common person to him—would dare to boldly turn down his invitation. Please, Reigna thought. Impressed with yourself, Your Royal Wealthiness?

Just what do I call you now anyway? she asked suddenly and calmly, changing the subject.

Crane remained formal as he responded. His voice was businesslike as if he was conducting one of his important executive meetings in his massive office building. He did not appear to be insulted by the abrupt change in topic. My name is Crane. My friends call me Crane, sometimes Ryden but mostly Crane. Barrington Crane Ryden Thornhill at your service, madam. He repeated it formally as if the sound of his own name was pleasurable to himself, which Reigna guessed it probably was.

Reigna wondered why she should even be bothered. She pondered briefly as she held the phone, listening to what Crane would say next. She smiled and sighed to herself and then spoke in response. I do want to thank you for the invitation, Mr. Thornhill. She kept her voice firm and professional. But I do not feel that is a good idea, Reigna responded.

Crane was silent for a few seconds, and a small pinprick of fear nicked at Reigna’s heart. He still continued to be unflustered at Reigna’s response. Very well, Ms. Clifford, he began. Thank you for speaking with me. And thank you for attending the exhibition. Goodbye, Ms. Clifford. He ended the call and was gone, leaving Reigna openmouthed and surprised. She held her dead phone in her now sweaty fingers for a few minutes before she put it away, almost dropping the device.

She stared blankly at her blank computer screen and then at the scrambled, suddenly blurred words on the page of her black binder. She stirred uneasily in her office chair and then sighed loudly, attempting to release the tension caused by her decline of Crane’s invitation. Reigna remained in her home office, staring at the computer screen and massaging her now cold fingers. Her conscience was now sending her annoying thoughts regarding her decision and Mr. Thornhill’s invitation. Her head was throbbing slightly, and she pressed her fingers gently against her hot eyelids.

The phone was suddenly humming, vibrating, unusually loud, and Reigna sat upright in her office hair, her heart racing again in expectation. She grabbed the device, and her eyes immediately focused on the screen—Mandy. Hey, her friend greeted cheerily. How the hell are you? What have you been doing?

# # # #

Reigna continued to work on her new business tasks and projects for her new video services business throughout the afternoon, and she was thankful for the volume of work, which kept her brain alert and occupied. She had deadlines with her clients as well as the university regarding her special leave, and for some reason, time seemed to be continually collapsing away like a sudden landslide.

She moved from her home office to her living room just for a change of scenery. Other issues and concerns now invaded her mind besides a certain arrogant billionaire. Branston-Ellis University was teetering on disaster. People were on alert, waiting for the ax to finally fall and to discover who was staying and who was going to be fired.

Reigna was preparing and hoping against odds that the minority businesswomen’s program with the university would be spared from the threatened cuts. She was the one who presented the initial proposal and helped launch the program two years ago. She knew every action plan that went into the launch as well as all the participants. Now it was in jeopardy of being the subject of major cuts. Reigna was delighted as usual to hear from Mandy despite their less-than-three-minute conversation. It was welcome and distracting her from the annoying brief encounter she had with Mr. Thornhill and the crap going on at her place of employment.

Impulsively, Reigna switched on her other laptop, resting on a corner of her living room table, and searched for the Thornhill Enterprises Corporation of Acquisitions, Enterprises, and Holdings. There was a beautiful website with photos of the office building downtown and articles regarding the corporation’s purposes and missions but no photos of the man Barrington Crane Ryden Thornhill. Absently, she reached for her phone, which she had placed on the coffee table the night before and nearly forgotten—no missed calls, no messages. Usually, Reigna would be delighted at the quietness of her phone; but now with her budding new business, that was no longer a feeling of relief. Sighing, she replaced the device on the table beside the laptop and settled herself back into the soft cushions of the sofa, wrapping herself in the thick throw. Reigna closed her eyes and tried to relax, willing herself into a short nap.

Someone was knocking at her door. Reigna sat up slowly, slightly groggy and unsure about what was happening. The firm sound came again. Who the hell? Reigna thought. Shit, it’s Mandy. But why is she here so early in the afternoon?

Reigna rose from the sofa, nearly stumbling over the throw as she almost staggered sleepily to her door. Smoothing her hair with her hand and wiping her face, Reigna unlocked her door, prepared to give Mandy a teasing scolding about showing up unannounced in the middle of the day. Reigna opened the door quickly to observe a serious-faced Barrington Crane Ryden Thornhill standing tall and filling her doorway with his athletic form. He was dressed in a dark suit like the one he wore at the exhibition, only this time with a dark T-shirt under his jacket. Reigna heard a slight whimper escape from her now tight and shocked throat as she stared openmouthed and embarrassed at the mysterious unsmiling man at her door.

Ms. Clifford, Crane began, his face calm and businesslike, his blue eyes direct and serious, did you forget we had a meeting?

Then she woke up.

# # # #

Reigna took a shower later that afternoon and dressed in shorts and an oversized men’s T-shirt, which unfortunately reminded her of her dream about Crane. She shivered a bit as the image of the strange dream cracked and scattered in her mind like shattered glass. A feeling of nervousness and curiosity constantly pricked sharply at her chest as she conducted phone meetings with clients and set up appointments for face-to-face meetings. Yet as busy as she was or tried to be, the disturbing dream about Crane showing up unannounced at her door continued to intrude on her brain.

Reigna did not Skype with clients calling