《Maliciously Obedient (Obedient #1)》


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    Chapter One


    Getting caught reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot at work wasn''t the best way to meet her boss. A boss she didn''t know she had. A boss who now had the job she had been waiting to apply for (and win) for the past year.Advertisement


    So Lydia Charles was having a very bad day. And it was only 7:32 a.m.


    Tap tap tap. She looked up, startled, to find a pair of bright green eyes, shaded by his hand, peering in her the window of her little red Honda Fit. He caught the book cover and smirked. Oh, screw off, she thought, shoving her car key in the ignition and turning it on so she could roll down the window. As if it weren''t bad enough being caught reading Mommy Porn (and she wasn''t even a mom), her last fifteen minutes of freedom before enslavement as a corporate drone were being bothered by some anonymous guy.


    Light brown hair with a nice wave to it and those crazy-green eyes. A perfect nose. Broad shoulders set off by one hand on his forehead, one on his hip, making his forearms pop a bit, the muscles from neck to shoulder joint stretching like an athlete''s. It was like looking at one of those guys on television, an actor in a show you watch not for the plot, but for the eye candy with a spark of smarts and wit. If he told her he was a firefighter or a detective, she''d believe him. He had the look of a man who takes care of himself because he has to in order to function well at his hands-on job.


    He works out, she surmised as the window scrolled down. Boring business casual uniform of Dockers and a button down shirt. Couldn''t see his shoes but she guessed something from Lands'' End.


    Middle management.


    Which was one step above her. Gritting her teeth, she wondered what this was about.


    ¡°Hi. Could you please move your car?¡± A deep baritone voice with way too much authority gripped her gut, an internal reaction out of proportion to his request. That voice. He sounded like a ship''s captain, or a commander in combat. Or the shift leader at Denny''s from college, the asshole who thought that he was competing in the restaurant Olympics for every shift and expected the moon for $2.63 plus tips.


    And yet she couldn''t help but begin to react, the breathless ¡°Yes¡± nearly popping out involuntarily. Holding back, she wasn''t even breathing for fear she would comply like some sort of skittish puppy, acting in deference to the incredibly unfounded request. Command, Demand? Who orders someone out of their parking spot? He smiled, the tight look of a man evaluating what to say next as seconds ticked by and she did nothing but stare at him.


    Say something, Lydia. Say something. Anything. Don''t let him undermine your confidence. Why does he need your parking spot?


    ¡°Why?¡± she asked, carefully cultivating a neutral tone, one of reasonableness without too much inquiry, as if she didn''t give a fuck what he wanted but would be polite about it. She invoked her midwestern tone, casually acquired from being a Maine girl with parents who were from the midwest, the voice of newscasters and documentary voice overs for sexual harassment and government contract reporting requirements videos. Perfect.


    ¡°Because it''s mine.¡± He threw a thumb toward the top of the skyscraper. ¡°Head office assigned it to me.¡±


    Not the reaction she expected. She could guess his next move, predictable among these middle-management types, like a real-life version of Gary Cole''s character in Office Space. Next, he would lean on the car and do that douchey ¡°Yeah, well, I really need you to...¡± spiel.


    Lydia was having none of it. She might be just an administrative assistant, the corporate equivalent of a dishwasher or a toll taker, but two years of this was enough. A master''s degree in Gender Studies might be useless in the workplace, but here in the parking lot it meant everything. Backing down wasn''t happening. He had no right to order her around and, by God, she wasn''t going to let some stranger waltz into the parking lot before she''d seen had her morning coffee and kick her out of her damn place.


    ¡°Why would the head office give you my parking spot? They''re numbered.¡± She pointed to the sign defiantly. His face remained neutral.


    Instead of leaning on the car, he reached one golden arm in and aimed for her right hand. Of course he was perfectly, evenly tanned. Of course. ¡°I''m Matt Jones. The new Director of Social Media. And this is my numbered spot.¡±


    Director of Social Media? ¡°But, but, what? There is no Director of Social Media job here. Not yet, at least. They''re announcing it soon, and ¨C ¡± A wave of cold horror hit Lydia. Director of Social Media. Director of Social Media? That was the job she was supposed to apply for! Except no one had told her that the job had been created yet, and now here stood the new hire?


    He cut her off with that same commanding tone. ¡°It''s been filled. By me. And parking,¡± he shook his head and looked around with an expression of exasperation, ¡°is a ridiculous problem here, so while I respect your need to stay and, uh, read, I need this spot.¡± Leaning forward, his eyes twinkled as he smiled, trying to charm her, his voice shifting from commanding to smooth.


    It was working. The scent of his aftershave filled the car''s interior. Musk and man and something with spice, an expensive scent that was far too sophisticated for a guy who was one parking spot ahead of her in the food chain at Bournham Industries. He held her gaze for too long, letting silence hang between them.


    He was what her friend Krysta called a ¡°playah.¡±


    And oh, how Lydia wanted to be played. She hated herself for it, but right now Mr. Director of Social Media, a guy who had, apparently, just gotten the job she had spent the better part of two years trying to prepare for, was stealing her parking spot, too.


    All he needed to do next was piss on her skirt and he could achieve the trifecta of humiliation.


    And a part of her liked it.


    ¡°You are telling me that HR gave you the Director''s job and handed off my parking spot?¡± she squeaked. The voice that came out of her sounded foreign. Tame. Rattled. She brushed a stray lock of her dark-brown hair and wished she''d spent more time on her appearance this morning. After a quick yoga session she just showered, threw her hair in a quick up-do, and tossed on her version of administrative business casual: a loose, flowing J. Jill outfit she got off the clearance rack and her ancient Danskins. She looked like a preschool teacher at a posh tot place instead of an ambitious, up-and-coming corporate do-bee vying for the Director of ¨C


    Ah, hell.


    He pulled back and smiled, a look of triumph and mischief on his face. ¡°Now you get it. And I didn''t even have to buy you a coffee.¡±


    ¡°Why would you do that?¡±


    ¡°Because you seemed to be a bit slow there, and I figured it might be caffeine deprivation. It is 7:30 a.m., after all.¡± Half his mouth turned up in a grin as his brow furrowed. ¡°Then again, maybe I interrupted you at the wrong time during your reading.¡± Biting his upper lip, Mr. Asshole Matt Jones had the balls to hide a laugh. As if she were supposed to be embarrassed reading Fifty Shades. As if she cared what he thought. As if she were Anastasia Steele. As if ¨C


    ¡°Let me clear a few things up for you, Matt,¡± she announced. Finally. There she was. The real Lydia, the one who didn''t take shit like this. Attagirl. ¡°First of all, I don''t care what HR did with the parking situation. I won''t take your word for it, because for all I know you''re some creepy guy pulling a scam on me and if I get out of my car you''ll take me to your dug out hole and lower lotion to me in a bucket, and three months from now you''ll mail dehydrated parts of my body to my mother.¡±


    She took a deep breath and continued. ¡°Second, if you really are the Director of Social Media, kicking your direct report out of her parking spot when you haven''t even started your first day of work shows such extraordinarily terrible business instinct that I suspect you won''t be around long enough to qualify for the matching 401k funding through your precious head office.¡±


    Eyebrows arched, now he did lean away. And cross his arms. Staring her down? She stared right back, working too hard to control her breath, trying not to let him see how rattled she was. He looked like a young Anderson Cooper. But straight.


    Oh please let him be straight, she thought, then mentally slapped herself. Where did that come from?


    He leaned in the window and reached for a strand of her hair. ¡°Sorry, babe. Chianti and fava beans aren''t on the menu. And if I were going to turn you into something edible, I wouldn''t choose a dehydrator as my electronic item of choice.¡± His eyes surveyed her body, not with wanton lust or the gaudy need of a complete jerk, but with a practiced eye, taking his time as if he were the king of the world. As if he owned her.


    As if he owned his time. And boy did he take it, seeming to document her full breasts, her nipped waist, the tight skirt that stretched across her knees in her seat, shoes kicked off and hose covering her pedicured toes. She could feel him note the seam of her panties, like a collector of fine wines, or of horses, as if she were a specimen. The V between her breasts pinkened, her lungs filled with the scent of his skin, as if eager to inhale his dust, the lines between his eyes, the light freckles on his cheeks, the intelligence in his irises.


    He was cataloging her. Taking inventory.


    Until her own, defiant gaze caught his and she realized he wasn''t objectifying her. She was letting herself think that, but what this guy, this Matt Jones, this interloper and usurper of jobs, was really doing was appreciating her.


    And that was way, way more threatening than being demeaned.


    ¡°See you at the office ¨C and don''t forget to wash your hands when you''re done with that.¡± He let go of her lock and pointed at the book. Turning on one heel, he sauntered off, his tight ass evoking a swoon in her that nearly made her growl with impotent rage and lust.


    The day was not going well at all as she stewed in her Red Car of Pain. And then she scrambled out as soon as the doors closed on Mr. Job Stealer, because she needed to get upstairs and see what his next move was.


    No one ever came into work as early as Lydia. Her daily 7 a.m.arrival was something that helped preserve her sanity. Just having that extra hour, hour and a half, before people trickled in meant that she could get her work done, could browse the web, take care of her personal issues like bills or ordering things online and generally carve out a tiny little piece of time that was just for her. And that included reading.


    Playing it cool, she stood in front of the fleet of elevators, pressing the button for the one that covered her floor, and wondered where he was. By the time she got to her cubicle she realized he wasn''t there yet, probably in Human Resources torturing one of those women with his arrogance. He carried it like a stick, poking people with it.


    Stockinged feet propped up on her desk, leaning back on her ergonomically-correct chair and using it improperly, with the first volume of Fifty Shades of Grey opened wide in her hands, she let herself sink into the plot. Uh, yeah ¨C the plot. It''s not that the book was particularly compelling, or that it was particularly well-written, it was the hottest trigger in publishing in ages, and she needed to practically memorize it for a huge project she was working on ¨C one that might get her promoted out of admin hell and into, well, this guy''s job.


    Damn it.


    A muffled tap tap tap announced his presence as he pseudo-knocked on the cloth-covered wall of her cubicle. He was the most charming asshole she''d seen in the past two years. And the only reason she knew it had been two years was because two years ago, right after she''d been hired, she had actually met the CEO of the company, Michael Bournham.

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    This guy looked just enough like him to make her recall the encounter she''d had, though the new guy looked much younger. Where Bournham was known as the ¡°silver fox¡± for having gone completely silver sometime in his early thirties, this guy had dark brown hair, green eyes (unlike Bournham''s famous sparkling sapphires) and a look of arrogance that was slightly watered-down compared to the CEO.


    Same gorgeous bod, with that cobra-like back that can only come from hard manual labor or intensive personal training workouts. This guy was probably a laborer. He walked in like he owned the place, and yet the clothing was off the rack. More than off the rack, probably cheap T.J. Maxx or Marshalls cast-offs. Dark-blue dockers fit nicely in all the right places, a cheap white polo shirt. Shoes from Lands'' End. The essence of business casual for the middle managers who worked like interchangeable drones in the corporation where she currently sat, in her own hive, and now was being stared at ¨C no, make that stared down ¨C by someone she''d never met before, but who acted like he was in charge.Advertisement


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± he said, as if she had violated some sort of norm that she was unaware of. She was none-too-happy to be called out as if she had somehow broken a rule. Lydia put the book down, careful to make sure that the cover was facing away from him, and yet also noting the smirk on his face as he followed her movements and stared at the book''s back.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± she replied, hands on hips, standing as tall as she could considering her stockinged feet and her obvious surprise at being interrupted by him again. She squashed the impulse to say ¡°Can I help you?¡± because right now she was not exactly feeling helpful and this guy was glaring her down as if she were the transgressor ¨C and not he.


    ¡°It''s my first day here, so I thought I''d come in early and get the lay of the land. Do you have a key to my office?¡± he asked, as if she had any idea what he was talking about. Parking spot stealer, job stealer, and now he expected her to help him through the first day on the job? Oh, hell no. HR wiped butts. Not her.


    She stiffened, stared him down, working very hard to control the impulse to be friendly, and said, ¡°How do I know you''re the new Director of Social Media and not some guy who randomly tries to steal parking spots?¡±


    He studied her, eyes roving across her face, down to her chest, taking in her curves with a look of possessiveness and a lazy, leisurely approach that made her body flush hot, heart race, and skin tingle in the most unprofessional of ways. Some nerve! Lydia stared at his eyes, willing him to give up and look at her anywhere but, oh, there. And there. And to stop making her think about her own ¨C


    He finally smiled, a grin of exasperation more than of openness or of acknowledgment that he was being evasive or confusing. ¡°I told you. I''m Matt Jones. I''m the new Director of Social Media. Obviously my arrival hasn''t been announced to all the employees. And who are you?¡±


    ¡°Anastasia Steele. Nice to meet you.¡± Her tone said it was anything but.


    Oh, how he wished he were Christian Grey right now. Inside that woman''s head, in her hands, the object of her rapt attention and her breathless sexual fantasies. Inside her head and inside her panties. Of all the times not to be a billionaire. He remembered her, alright. Lydia. Lydia something. He met her ¨C when was it? Almost two years ago.


    It was at some new employee orientation program, and Human Resources had told him it would be good for employee morale if he attended. Nothing more than some boring, corporate moment that endless workers and countless organizations over the years had participated in, at the orientation he had been bored to tears ¨C with one exception. Her. A fresh faced, slightly-exotic-looking, cheerleader type, and Mike had been happy to attend if it meant he got to stare at her from across the room.


    The woman he had been dating at the time made Snooki look like a genius, and he could tell from Lydia¡¯s bored expression that the mindless, numbing procedures carefully outlined by the Human Resources professional who genuinely thought that if she spoke to everyone like Miss Molly from Romper Room they¡¯d understand better, had driven the poor young woman to a point of complete and utter underwhelm.


    Her lidded eyes, her obvious contempt for the presentation and more so for the treatment that she received at the hands of his own employees made him follow up, very briefly, after the session and chat with her. She looked like something out of a cliche, no ¨C a stereotype ¨C of a high school cheerleader combined with a plus-size, dark-haired Barbie. And yet this one was smart, so when he had asked her what her new position was at Bournham Industries, she paled and stammered, ¡°I¡¯m an administrative assistant here.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± he had replied, shocked that someone so intelligent would be in such a low position in his company.


    Wrong question. Her face changed instantly, and now he was the target of her contempt.


    ¡°Well, we can¡¯t all be the CEO, now can we?¡± she¡¯d answered, a tentative smirk on her face fighting with a look of horror at her own smart mouth.


    He was taken aback but not offended. More amused than anything. Lately, he had found himself depressed by being surrounded by ¡®yes men¡¯ who seemed eager to please but also equally desperate to avoid conflict. This one ¨C she had some bite. Why on earth had human resources hired her as some administrative assistant?


    ¡°No, you¡¯re right, we can¡¯t all be the CEO of Bournham Industries. Sorry, that job''s already taken.¡± Big grin. ¡°But what I¡¯m asking is why someone obviously so intelligent, like you, is in an entry-level position.¡±


    Her eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn¡¯t discern. ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask your own HR department that question, Mr. Bournham?¡± And with that she turned on her heel and walked away, her brown locks bouncing behind her against the middle of her back, her pencil skirt flapping at the backs of her knees, her long, thick calves tight in her perfectly professional high heels.


    That ass. Shapely and lush, all curves and softness, he''d been mesmerized as she strode away, temporarily oblivious to the fact that she''d bested him.


    Lydia. Lydia...Carson? Cranston? Chapman? What? What had been her last name? Now he sat here, in his new middle management office after getting a sour look and a set of keys tossed at his head, a job that HR had been trying to create for the corporation for years and that he had stonewalled, because social media didn''t need a dedicated full-time employee.


    Besides, his company was bloated enough. He had already cut half of his executive staff, much to the shock of the financial pages, and to the joy of investors who very much appreciated having profits rise six percent after that measure. Creating new jobs was an important function of Bournham Industries, but right now the director of social media was not an integral position.


    Yet here he was ¡°Matt Jones,¡± the new director of a job he never intended to create and certainly never intended to fill with his own shoes.


    His new office smelt like Pledge and mildew. How was that possible on the thirty-whatever floor? His fingers splayed out on the desk in front of him, he felt the cheap laminate and was transported back twelve years ago, when he took over Bournham Industries from his dad, then located in a tiny little strip mall back in his home town. Who knew that information management and websites would turn into a media conglomerate so big that he rivaled the size of corporation in the Fortune 500 three years ago?


    Ever since then everything had skyrocketed, from his company¡¯s potential IPO, to his love life, to this social media viral push that seemed to dominate everything in his personal life, from tracking what he ate to tweeting who he fucked.


    Even this venture, pretending to be ¡°Matt Jones,¡± was all part of a media strategy. When the producers of ¡°Meet the Hidden Boss¡± came to visit him two months ago he waved them away, telling his own administrative assistant, Joanie, to tell them he was busy. Persistent, the producers called, emailed, somehow got a hold of his personal cell phone number and began calling and texting, tweeting, Facebooking, and pretty much did everything they could to get their hands on him. So he gave them five minutes.


    In those five minutes, he reluctantly had to admit to himself, they convinced him. With one phrase: twenty percent increase in sales.


    ¡°It really is that simple, Mike,¡± Jonah Moore had told him. Jonah was one of those scrabbling young Hollywood filmmaker types, the kind of guy you might apply the word ¡°hipster¡± to if he were fifteen years older, but now he was just someone who had Steven Spielberg ambitions ¨C with infomercial reality. Mike imagined that being a producer for ¡°Meet the Hidden Boss¡± was a step up for Jonah, and the guy spoke with such a rapid fire cadence that Mike found himself thinking the producer was part hummingbird.


    ¡°The premise is simple, Mike,¡± Jonah had explained. ¡°We hide cameras in your company for six weeks, we document every single move you make as the ¡®hidden boss¡¯ in the episode. You¡¯re the real CEO of Bournham Industries and now you¡¯re going to create some middle management job, and disguise yourself, for those six weeks. We film everything, and then we put together solid footage for the forty-three minutes of the television episode that your company is featured in.¡±


    Mike shook his head and already started ignoring them until Jonah said the magic words. ¡°And our analysis shows that companies who participate in ''Meet the Hidden Boss'' see sales increase by twenty percent or more within the month after the episode first airs.¡±


    Ding! That did it. The magic words. Mike had reached forward to press a button on his telephone. ¡°Joanie, please call ahead and tell the pilot to hold the jet for me. This meeting''s going to take longer than I expected.¡± The look on Jonah¡¯s face had been priceless.


    ¡°We''re glad to have you on board, Mike,¡± Jonah had answered, small, dark eyes narrow as his face expanded with a grin that didn''t make its way to those eyes, the calculation cold and obvious. The younger man didn''t care, and Mike knew he didn''t care that it was laid out for him to see. Jonah''s coup was in getting a ¡°yes,¡± and nothing else mattered. Mike knew exactly how that felt, because he had been like Jonah more than a decade ago, and now he was sitting exactly where Jonah wanted to be.


    Atop a fortune. Soon to be $1.1 billion in personal assets, to be specific.


    Specificity was key. He knew Jonah knew everything about his assets, his business moves, his plans. Hell, the man probably knew how much he could dead lift and the exact weight of his morning shit, down to the ounce. Admirable, really ¨C luring him in with that comment about the twenty percent increase in sales. Right now, Bournham Industries needed the revenue, of course, but more than anything Mike wanted to take control of the relentless social media buzz that swirled around him. People tweeted and tumblred and Facebooked and videos about him went viral, the whole world gone mad inside the little boxes, from mobile phones to laptops, that seemed to dominate everything.


    While he couldn''t control whether people talked about him, he could massage the message. Give them something big, like an episode of ¡°Meet the Hidden Boss,¡± and at least he was the one spoon-feeding what he wanted them to have.


    Being a victim wasn''t part of his repertoire.

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    Becoming ¡°Matt Jones,¡± an alter ego he couldn''t have invented any better than Jonah had, was remarkably easy. A group of hair and makeup people had transformed him into a man who resembled a younger nephew, if he''d had one. His silver hair, a hallmark since he was in his late twenties, was gone, replaced by a dye job that returned him to a hair color he hadn''t seen since early college. The bright baby blues he was known for had to go, replaced by green contact lenses that made Ireland''s famous hills look dim. His eyes glowed like something radioactive, like The Green Lantern as a contestant on The Bachelor.


    All of his bespoke suits and carefully-chosen fine clothes were gone. Scratchy polos, coarse button down shirts and Dockers replaced his wardrobe. To fit the part, he had to look like a guy who shopped at the mall. All he needed was a beat-up old Toyota Corolla and he fit the part of a guy ten years out of college, still struggling with student loans, and who had just landed his first decent management job.Advertisement


    ¡°Perfect!¡± Jonah had announced as they convened late last night. ¡°We have cameras in your office, in the outer office where the administrative assistant sits, in all the hallways leading to your office in social media, and in your rental car. If you''re here at work, you''ll be tracked.¡±


    ¡°But once we''re off set, it''s done, right?¡± A confirmation. An affirmation. A bit of a power play, too, as Mike made it clear he wouldn''t be recorded without his permission.


    Jonah had shot him a funny look. ¡°If you''re in the office, cameras are rolling.¡±


    ¡°If I''m on my way home or elsewhere, they''re not.¡± That wasn''t a question. Mike''s blood pressure shot up, his chest tightening with anger. This wasn''t the original deal.


    Jonah had bristled. ¡°No! Of course not. So here''s the first script.¡± He had handed Mike a thick stack of bound pages.


    ¡°Script?¡± Why would a ''reality television show'' need a script? He wasn''t an actor, and had assumed nothing was staged. No time in any day for learning lines, either.


    ¡°You need to manufacture conflict sometimes. So we''ll start by having you steal the administrative assistant''s parking spot.¡±


    Mike had groaned. And now he knew why he had groaned. But not for any of the reasons he''d thought then. Now he groaned because he wanted to groan for Lydia. As he thought of her he leaned back in his chair and took another deep breath.


    Stretching his arms out on the desk, his hands sliding across the fake-wood top, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Not the most auspicious beginning. She looked exactly as he had remembered, but with a maturity that deepened her features over time. What had been fresh faced was now wiser; her guardedness made him want to break through gently ¨C not just bulldoze. Long, dark hair with the loss of nature''s shine that comes from long-term office work, the lack of sunlight turning the dimmer switch down on hair color, skin tone, and ¨C he was learning ¨C morale. Her eyes were still that strange color between brown and topaz, with flecks of green. A long, symmetrical nose and high cheekbones made her look slightly Nordic, as if Finnish genes entered into her family tree a few generations back, along with something spicier.


    He couldn''t put his finger on it. But oh, how he wanted to.


    A few fleeting moments of taking in her sweater, her lap, her legs, had been enough to confirm that her luscious body was, indeed, as remembered: curves where they should be, angles where nature intended, and an ass that was full and sensual, as if carved by Ruben and toned by J. Lo. When her skin flushed his pants had tightened. It didn''t take a genius to know she was attracted to him in spite of her anger.


    And he was a certified genius, complete with MENSA membership and a long file of tests that confirmed it. None of those had mattered, though. Guts mattered. The will to act mattered. Taking risks really mattered.


    He shifted, his erection telling him more than his analysis of her ever could. She clearly had expected a shot at this job, a job he never intended to create. The producers wanted conflict and had made him act out that scene, like something from a very bad Chuck Norris television show, and in the end he had his own raging desire and, now, a very pissed off admin.


    The door to the outer office scraped open and his eyes shifted to his smartphone. 7:59 a.m.


    Time for his first day as Director to begin.


    With a cup of coffee.


    Lydia punched the number of her best friend, Krysta, into her mobile phone, except the punching part wasn''t satisfying any more. You couldn''t really get angry with a glass interface, and her smartphone took the abuse about as well as a stone statue could function as a punching bag. Bruised finger and three mistyped numbers later, she finally heard the ringing and hoped Krysta would pick up.


    She did.


    ¡°''Lo?¡± Sleepy voice.


    ¡°Krysta, they gave the job to someone else!¡± Lydia stared at the main doors to the office building as they shut slowly under the control of the pneumatic system, Matt Jones'' body disappearing as if swallowed. Her final glimpse of him was his ass, too tight and perfectly aligned as he walked into the building and, she assumed, into his office, the empty office right behind hers that she had fantasized about for more than a year.


    ¡°What?¡± Krysta was awake now. She knew how important that job was for Lydia. ¡°How could they do that? You didn''t even get a chance to apply.¡±


    Anger melted into disappointment as Lydia hunched over the steering wheel, willing the tears away. Her eye caught the back cover of Fifty Shades and she rolled her eyes. Like she would ever snag a billionaire. Like she would ever let a billionaire do those...things. What Ana allowed. Then again, if she''d been as naive as Ana and as hooked on some dominating billionaire and hadn''t earned a master''s degree by the age of twenty-three she might have an inner goddess that didn''t have cobwebs growing on it.


    ¡°Lydia?¡±


    ¡°I''m here. Dammit.¡± Tears fought and won, spilling down her cheeks. Good thing she hadn''t put on her makeup yet. Tipping her head up, she carefully milked the teardrops out of the corners of her eyes so they didn''t drop on her top or roll between her breasts.


    ¡°I''m coming over. I was going to come to work late today, but...¡± Krysta worked on a different floor in the same building, but her boss allowed for flex schedules. Not the Director of Communications, her boss. Dave liked to have coverage at the desk. A desk no one every physically came to.


    And that meant Lydia.


    ¡°You can''t! I''m at work.¡± And I have to spend an entire day pretending to be just fine with Mr. Matt Jones the Job Stealer. Her boss just gave the job away like that? Of course he did. It was Dave. Dave the snake...


    All her insecurities came crashing through as she felt her throat tighten. Two years of hard work, student loans overwhelming her and a master''s degree full of ideas pressing down on her, the weight of success so great it made it hard to breathe. Justifying all that energy, so much intellect, so many arguments with herself about the value of getting an M.A. in Gender Studies that distilled down into this moment ¨C a few days before her big project pitch.


    The job was gone. Gone, gone, gone. Another round of tears threatened the edges of her eyes and she reached up her skirt to pinch her inner thigh. No! No more crying.


    ¡°OK, then. I''ll meet you at your house after work. I''m bringing Thai food.¡±


    ¡°Satay, too?¡±


    ¡°You betcha. And Lyd ¨C I''m so sorry. Whoever the new boss is, he''s an ass.¡±


    In the distance, the main doors to Bournham Industries stood apathetic, uncaring and monolithic. Stone and steel didn''t care about a worker do-bee like Lydia. Pullies and fuses and computer boards moved the elevator up, filled with Matt Jones, taking him where she knew he would need her.


    Need her. Ironic that she would be supporting the very person she''d intended to be. Director of Social Media.


    ¡°I''m fine.¡± Even she could hear how pathetic her answer sounded, voice fading and a bit whiny, like a lesson in a book she''d read years ago about the gluttony of delicacy. I''m fine, I just need a morsel to be OK. You go on without me. Her mom called it Eeyore Syndrome and Lydia didn''t indulge in it very often.


    Only when it mattered.


    ¡°See you then,¡± she answered. Click. Squaring her shoulders, she slipped out of her little red car and walked with purpose toward the main entrance. If nothing else, she hadn''t relinquished her parking spot. A petty victory, but one she needed.


    ¡°I see you found the coffee,¡± she said politely, nodding her head toward the cheap foam cup he held in his hand.


    ¡°If you can call it that.¡± He took a sip and grimaced. ¡°Tastes more like death.¡±


    ¡°Death with cremate.¡±


    He sputtered, the joke catching him unaware. ¡°Excuse me? Cremate? As in body ashes?¡±


    Pink cheeks made her look younger, more pleasant, less combative. ¡°Inside joke. I mentioned, once, that we needed more creamer and I called it ''cremate,'' and the joke''s stuck.¡±


    ¡°Can''t we afford half and half?¡± He chuckled as conspiratorially as possible. The kitchen ¨C if you could call it that ¨C had a coffee maker, a can of powdered chemical hell designed to mimic cream, some packets of sugar and artificial sweetener, and a small refrigerator that smelled like something you''d find in a Jeffrey Dahmer''s apartment.


    He stood next to her as she photocopied some report that he¡¯d asked her to distribute, her hands deftly manipulating the papers on the machine, her artful movements as arousing as any intentionally sensual activity another woman had ever engaged in with him.


    Shake it off. Less than an hour into this and he was thinking with his dick already?


    ¡°If you can find room in the budget, I''m all ears,¡± she laughed. ¡°How about a Viking fridge and an omelette chef?¡± She shot him a withering look and said, ¡°You''ve been here an hour. Down, boy.¡±


    The joke just aroused him more, her voice a sarcastic growl that sent rushes of arousal coursing through him. He really was going mad, and this was getting ridiculous. Like some sort of eighth grader with a crush on a classmate, Mike was quickly devolving into a stammering fool. With a giant erection.


    He couldn¡¯t help himself, though, as he took a deep breath inhaling her scent ¨C a mixture of freshly laundered sheets and something spicy, a cinnamon perhaps ¨C he wasn¡¯t sure, but whatever it was, it was intoxicating. Reveling in the inhale, in bringing her inside himself, what he wanted was the reverse, of course ¨C he wanted to be in her.


    Michael Bournham, CEO Bournham Industries, would have found a way to be obvious, direct, and to get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, and how he wanted it. In this scenario, though, he wasn¡¯t Mike. He was Matt. So here he stood, increasingly frustrated on a level he hadn¡¯t felt in nearly twenty years, with one of the most attractive women he¡¯d ever met in his entire life fuming over his very existence.


    Oh my God, how long is that man going to stand there? Lydia wondered, shoving stacks of papers into the copy machine feeder and hoping the damn contraption didn¡¯t jam this time. Every time it jammed she got toner all over her hands, and that stuff didn¡¯t come out of clothing, her skin, the walls ¨C whatever she touched. Matt just stood there, his eyes half closed, taking a deep breath, and she wondered what on Earth was wrong with him.


    Yammering on about coffee and her ancient cremate joke. Gah.

 Page 4

    ¡°How about I bring in creamer next time and I''ll store it in the fridge?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± She was distracted already by the paper jam. ¡°Just label it with a Sharpie.¡±Advertisement


    Then again, it was his first day at a new job. She had a tiny shred of sympathy for him, because she imagined that he was anxious and they hadn¡¯t exactly gotten off to the best start. Having your main support person in a corporate environment hate you before the work day has even begun is not the best way to enter into a new position. It was his fault though, so she only had a shred of sympathy.


    The rest of him could go to hell.


    ¡°Sharpie?¡± He seemed genuinely perplexed and she pulled back, looking into those weird, green eyes. The guy knew how this worked, right?


    ¡°You''ve worked in an office before? Cubicle farm dweller? Had your soul sucked out from living in a beige box for nine hours a day?¡± Exasperated, she brushed her hands on the carpet and got back to work on the toner. ¡°If you don''t mark your food, someone else will take it.¡±


    He crouched down to nearly her level, his scent preceding him, a rush of citrus and musk and spicy soap. ¡°I''ll just consider it my contribution. Anyone can have some. I''ll shoulder the sacrifice.¡± As his mouth formed the word ¡°sacrifice¡± and whispered it with a sensual sarcasm, it was like a whispered prayer that made her clit twitch, her throat close, and her belly go hot.


    For some reason he closed his eyes and took yet another deep breath. Lydia really started to wonder about this guy. It gave her an opportunity to really take a good look at him, though. Boy did she like what she saw. His hair fell in light waves, even though it was closely cropped, and she wondered what he would look like if he grew it longer. His neck had that sinewed look, that of not just a guy who worked out in a gym, but a guy who was an outdoorsman, someone who kayaked and canoed and maybe was a rock climber. A really active, athletic person who integrated it into his life.


    His hands were a little too manicured. They didn¡¯t quite meet her overall framework for understanding this guy. His shirt was open, the top two buttons undone, tucked into a nipped waist that narrowed down from broad shoulders, and then there was that ass. She hadn¡¯t seen something that muscled since watching Olympic wrestling, and as the copier churned away she just stood there right next to him, neck craned down, staring and taking it all in.


    ¡°Like the view?¡± She snapped her head up and found those unnatural green eyes laughing at her, his mouth set firmly in an expression of trying desperately not to chuckle ¨C but those eyes betrayed him.


    ¡°Oh, I was...just...uh, uh, uh reading...the uh, copier, uh, umm...information down at the-.¡± Oh shit, she thought to herself. What in the hell am I doing?


    ¡°After what you were reading in the parking lot this morning, maybe you needed a visual to go along with the words on the printed page.¡± He winked.


    She snorted. ¡°Are you really comparing yourself to Christian Grey?¡± she asked, one eyebrow cocked, a look of incredulity and oh, come on buddy covering her face.


    ¡°Well ¨C ¡± He shrugged, with a self-assurance she normally saw only among the executives. Matt looked like he lucked into this job, and could have been delivering pizzas two weeks ago. What kind of misplaced arrogance made him think he could be compared to Christian Grey?


    Laughter poured out of her even as she struggled to get the copier to stop leaving black streaks on all the left-hand corners of the pages, her mind and hands so busy her professional filter faded a bit. ¡°You don''t exactly look like a billionaire.¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t know a billionaire if he stared you in the face,¡± he said flatly.


    Smirk. ¡°It¡¯s not like you run into billionaires every day at the office. Especially at a company run by a cheapskate like Bournham.¡± Pointing to his coffee, she added, ¡°Bet he doesn''t drink that shit.¡±


    Something in his eyes, the way his nostrils flared and his jaw opened then clenched, made her think she''d crossed a line. Pull it back in. ¡°Even Dave doesn''t drink it.¡±


    ¡°Dave?¡±


    ¡°Our boss,¡± she said slowly, as if talking to a small child. ¡°Dave Crawford. Director of Communications.¡±


    His eyes narrowed, as if calculating something. Glanced at his cup, then peered at her. ¡°What does Dave drink?¡±


    ¡°Starbucks. Double soy latte.¡± She knew the order by heart. And she should ¨C he sent her out for one every day.


    He frowned, the look not unappealing. There was a strength in him, an assumption of power. ¡°You know that one well.¡±


    ¡°I get it for him every day.¡± The burn began, that growing fire inside that was ripshit pissed about being someone''s paid ass wiper. Dave said his time was valuable, but so was hers.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Is there an echo in here?¡± His eyebrows shot up and he stood before her, hands on hips, demanding an answer. If he was trying to be intimidating, he was succeeding. Briefly.


    She found her brain and answered, ¡°This is what the director of communications told me to do.¡± Sickly sweet, syrupy derision filled her voice.


    ¡°Then I need to fire that idiot because that''s really uncalled for.¡±


    ¡°Uhh, Matt? You can¡¯t fire him. He¡¯s your boss. It''s not like you''re Michael Bournham.¡± Her laughter seemed to put him on edge, so she pushed him right over as best she could.


    She looked at Matt and narrowed her eyes, peering at him, studying his features openly. Finally, she felt like she could say what she wanted to say for the past hours. ¡°You know, you actually look like him. Sort of.¡± Good going Lydia ¨C that was really definitive.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he said. ¡°I get that a lot.¡±


    Chapter Two


    A quick shower and she perked up, her smiling face leading Krysta to ask, ¡°Xanax or Daily Show?¡± as she surveyed Lydia''s mood, as if searching for the woman she''d spoken with at the beginning of the work day, the one who needed a BFF rescue. Lydia had invited her over to her apartment in Cambridge, the one she shared with her grandma.


    Yes, her grandma. What a turn on. Dating often came to a screeching halt when guys learned that one. Moving to Boston after graduation, though, had been seamless. Grandma worked in town and had her own boyfriend, Ed; she spent most nights working or at his place, so Lydia lived a comfortable, if awkward, twentysomething life in the city with a roommate who considered Matlock reruns to be the height of entertainment.


    And Pawn Stars. Grandma''s reality television addiction was a bit scary. Murray was her favorite Impractical Joker, she liked Mike more than Evan on Oddities (¡°That Ryan likes pegging, I''ll bet!¡± she''d cackle mercilessly), and Lydia finally shut herself in her bedroom after the third episode of World''s Dumbest...whatever.


    Her share of the rent was $400 and all the cleaning and shoveling. For her own room in Cambridge, a quick walk to the T? She''d listen to Danny Bonaduce make bad butt sex jokes for hours in exchange.


    ¡°Who did they hire?¡± Krysta snorted, settling in to a beautifully-restored Morris chair with a giant tye-died fleece blanket thrown over the back. ¡°Let me guess. Another relative of the Communications Director. His step-sister''s cousin''s mailman''s son?¡±


    Lydia snickered. ¡°You know, this new guy, Matt, does look a little like Mike Bournham. Maybe that''s it.¡± She sighed, a long, thin sound of defeat. ¡°Like a younger version, but with green eyes and wearing Dockers.¡±


    ¡°Mike Bournham wouldn''t be caught dead wearing anything off the rack. Remember that stupid phrase he coined on Oprah?¡±


    ¡°Bespoke or be naked!¡± they said in unison. That made Lydia laugh.


    ¡°Man, what I wouldn''t give to see him naked,¡± Krysta mused. Lydia heard the gurgling of a coffeemaker and jumped up. The kitchen was a brightest room in the apartment, with a huge picture window that looked out onto a park. Grandma''s furniture choices were frozen in the early 1990s, so wallpaper accents were mauve and light blue, with a trail of country-style geese walking across the top of the wall. Curtains matched, too.


    Lydia poured two cups of coffee, added so much real cream the liquid turned the color of light caramel, and walked back to the living room to give Krysta hers. As she turned away to settle in a chair, she heard a yelp.


    ¡°Burn yourself again?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Krysta answered in a sheepish tone. The woman had 543 things she wanted to do in the time it took to do forty-three of them. Krysta rushed. She didn''t live. Holding a cell phone, typing a text, balancing the coffee on her knee ¨C and the end result was a burned web of skin between her thumb and index finger. Ouch.


    ¡°Need ice?¡± Krysta just shook her head, springy curls bouncing, as she wiped the coffee off on her shirt and put the phone down.


    ¡°That''s Callie. Just having an issue with Isaac.¡± Krysta''s sister''s son was two, and recently diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum, and Krysta often helped out.


    ¡°Is he OK?¡±


    Krysta shook her head. ¡°He''s been nightwaking and crying out, as if he''s in pain. No doctor can figure it out.¡± She frowned, then swallowed hard, sighing. ¡°I''m still not sure about the autism, Lydia. He''s so affectionate and looks like he''s trying to talk.¡±


    ¡°What does he say?¡±


    ¡°Mama, Dada, bye bye. That''s it. But his mouth moves and he has this look of panic and frustration sometimes. Then he starts screaming. Callie doesn''t agree with the diagnosis, either, but she said the only way she could get good help for him with speech and doctor visits is to accept it. So she did.¡±


    Lydia leaned forward and placed a hand on Krysta''s arm. ¡°It doesn''t change who he is. He''s still a sweet, chubby little toddler who loves his aunt!¡±


    That got her a smile, but Krysta''s brown eyes were sad, her face slack with concern. ¡°Yeah. I just wish there were better answers.¡± She gulped the rest of her now-tepid coffee and set the mug down.


    Turning to Lydia, she asked, ¡°So are you going to sleep with this boss?¡±


    Mike pulled out his smart phone and, on auto-pilot, dialed his chauffeur.


    ¡°Mr. Bournham?¡± Dominic''s rough voice, like something from the Jersey shore mixed with gravel, carried a tone of surprise. He could envision the thick man, chomping on a cigar he never lit, fat, calloused hands grasping the wheel of the company limo as some soothing jazz they both hated played mercilessly on the satellite radio.


    ¡°I did it again, didn''t I?'' Mike chuckled. He had forgotten that as part of the reality television ruse, he needed to strip out the trappings of what his friend Jeremy called ¡°The one percent of the one percent of the filthy stinking rich.¡± He wasn''t quite filthy stinking rich, though.


    Two more months and he''d join that club.


    ¡°Yup. No problem, Mr. Bournham.¡± Conversations with Dominic made him feel like he was in an episode of The Soprano''s. ¡°You need anything, you call.¡± Then the sound of breathing, because Dominic lived by the very strict code that you wait until the boss says he''s done with you.


    Unlike Lydia, who had turned on her gorgeous, red heels, calves pumping and skirt swishing, to sashay out of his office and right into his --


    ¡°OK, Dom. Thanks.¡± Pressing ¡°End,¡± Mike sighed and trudged out to the Toyota Corrolla someone had acquired for him, just like they''d helped with his middle-management wardrobe collection, eye color, hair dye and so much more. Being dialed down from the 1 percent -- to the what 25th? 50th percentile? He didn''t even know anymore what a mid-level Director of Social Media earned -- meant making so many changes that weren''t intuitive. When had he made that psycological leap from being part of the masses to being one of the top dogs, a CEO by thirty-four, youngest by far among the industry giants.

 Page 5

    And now everything was hanging by a thin thread. The deal he''d made with the devil, in disguise as Bournham Industries'' Board of Directors, had just about killed him. Increase profits by fifty percent in one year and get the equivalent of one billion in stock options, salary, and other forms of compensation.


    Did that include Lydia? His face felt wolfish as he allowed himself a grin at that thought. The uber-feminist wasn''t exactly spoils of corporate war, any more than he would want her to be. Oh, no -- a woman like Lydia had to be treated with kid gloves. High maintenance women were easy to manage. Give them what they thought they wanted. Like clockwork, they would want more, and more, and more, until their own dissatisfaction was their ruin.Advertisement


    Lydia? A different breed. No playbook existed, no game rules were laid out for pulling her in. This one was a true challenge, one that ¡°Matt Jones¡± found increasingly appealing, like playing chess against a formidable opponent. The thrill of the attempt was worth more than the actual win.


    The win, though, was what drove him to try. And succeed. Mike had learned the hard way never, ever to give something a shot if he didn''t win.


    Not if he didn''t think he could win.


    His world had no place for doubt.


    The Corrolla felt comfortable, a throwback to twenty years ago when he''d been part of the ninety-nine percent, when life was about getting an entry-level job, working on stock investments with a portfolio the size of his current monthly gym bill, and when throwing back beers with buddies on game day was his idea of entertainment. Now he owned box seats at those games.


    How long would it be before he could own the entire team?


    Bzzzz. The display on his phone read Jeremy. He paused at a red light and read the message. You in for lifting tonight?


    Mike typed back: Hell, yes. Need to whip your ass into shape.


    The light changed and he accelerated. Bzzz. Jeremy''s response: C''mon, old man. I''ll take you down.


    Mike was a year older than his best friend, the old man crack an old joke. They''d met college and worked for the same Web 1.0 start-up in the late ''90s. When stock options made them millionaires Jeremy opted out of corporate everything, playing beach bum now for more than ten years. Mike took the opposite path, parlaying millions into tens, then hundreds.


    And now on the verge of his first billion.


    Traffic was too thick to respond, but then Jeremy texted again. Thailand with me next month? You need a break.


    Running a hand through his hair, he stopped cold. Shit. His hair. His eyes. His clothes weren''t a problem; gym threads were always junky looking, but his appearance didn''t even match the ID card for the gym where he and Jeremy lifted.


    Mike grabbed the phone and typed back: Change of plans. Meet me at home instead. Making a U-turn, Mike winced at the groaning turning radius on the car. His Tesla spoiled him.


    Bzzz. The text message was one word: Pussy.


    Chuckling, Mike knew what Jeremy meant, but the word right now made his pants tighten as he thought of Lydia. And that made him want to lift out all his frustration and aggravation and the growing, gnawing thought that no amount of weights, no grueling deadlifts, no crushing squat cage was going to stop what had started deep inside him that very morning.


    ¡°Mid-life crisis? Hair club for men spokesman? Your black soul finally showing itself?¡± Jeremy marched right into Mike''s apartment unannounced; no knock, and there hadn''t been any pretense of formality since that day in college when he''d barged into the dorm room and announced there was no fucking way he was rooming with the redneck, racist gun nut next door, so make room for him. Mike had, with a caveat: he had to beat him at chess. Jeremy''s eyes had lit up at the challenge and, four draws and a fifth of Captain Morgan later, Jeremy passed out in the room and declared squatter''s rights the next morning.


    A friendship was born.


    ¡°I told you about this.¡± Indeed, he''d called Jeremy to announce the scenario, swearing him to secrecy. The only person he''d told, he trusted his friend, and knew he would needle Mike forever but would sooner have his dick cut off and fed to him than reveal the secret.


    Jeremy''s long, surgeon''s fingers touched Mike''s newly-brown locks. ¡°And holy green leprecaun!¡± he nearly screamed, stepping back in horror. ¡°You use those eyes to shoot lasers, or what? Auditioning for the new Green Lantern series?¡± As usually, every word that came out of his mouth was over-the-top, animated, and made his tall, slim figure seem cartoonish, shoulders hunched over and basketball-players legs bent at the knees to inspect Mike''s eyes. At 6''2¡± Mike was no shorty, either, but Jeremy towered over him at 6''6".


    Mike grimaced and grabbed two beers from his fridge. The apartment was less luxurious than it could have been, most of his money tied up in investments or in his beach house on Cape Cod, in Osterville. All he needed was a basic one bedroom in the city, and he got it, with stainless steel that glared back.


    ¡°That bad?¡±


    ¡°I''ve seen calmer greens at a St. Patrick''s Day parade in Boston.¡± Jeremy studied his hair again. ¡°That''s my shade! Clairol Bullshit Brown.¡±


    Cracking open the beer, Mike left it on the counter. ¡°Hey, bullshit brown helps me jump sales by twenty percent. I''ll take it.¡±


    ¡°You and that damn fifty percent increase. You''re already worth triple-digit millions, Mike. Why do you need this?¡±


    ¡°Says the man who is so bored in early retirement that he plays D&D.¡±


    ¡°I balance that out with rock climbing, so I''m officially a hipster geek.¡±


    ¡°That is so much better.¡±


    ¡°I know, right?¡± Big swig of beer. Belch. Jeremy opened both doors of the giant Viking refrigerator, triggering the interior lights. ¡°Beam me up, Scotty! Why do you need such a huge fridge for one guy?¡± Pulling out an assortment of food, Jeremy set up a buffet of sorts across the kitchen''s island. Meat, cheese, and strawberries he didn''t remember buying.


    The fridge did look like a giant, glowing spaceship when both doors were open, he had to admit. ¡°It came with the place.¡±


    ¡°So how''s that look working for you?¡± Jeremy wasn''t exactly a fashion plate himself. ¡°You look like a young Anderson Cooper auditioning for the next X-Men movie.¡±


    Shit. ¡°Are the contacts really that bad?¡± Bending over, he popped one out. ¡°See?¡±


    ¡°You look like you''re wearing a really bad disguise for some cheesy reality TV series. Oh.¡± He took a swig of beer, finishing off the bottle. ¡°Wait. You are.¡±


    ¡°Twenty percent bounce in sales. That''s all I needed to hear.¡± Mike slid the lens back in place, blinking hard. He needed saline solution, but his stomach growled louder than his eyes were dry. A piece of brie called his name and he shoved it and a strawberry. Followed by a slice of salami.


    ¡°You sure they were telling the truth?¡±


    The food turned to lumpy, wet sawdust in his mouth. ¡°Wha'' woo dey eye?¡± He walked to the fridge and pulled out another beer, the liquid making the food easier to get down. For someone who was meticulous in his investment research, he felt like an idiot. It hadn''t occurred to him to double-check that stat.


    ¡°They lie because they''re reality TV producers,¡± Jeremy laughed. ¡°Everything is twisted and manipulated and bent to meet advertising goals, dude. Product placement, consumer pushes, you name it -- you should know that better than anyone. You run a fucking media company!¡±


    ¡°I''m the CEO. I don''t deal with the details.¡±


    ¡°Your dad did.¡± Ouch.


    ¡°The difference between the business my dad built and what I run now is like the difference between a canoe and a cruise ship.¡±


    Jeremy weighed that out by chewing on a salami and cheese sub. Mike wondered where he got the sub roll. Why was he buying food he couldn''t remember? ¡°Your dad sold you the company for a share of your start-up''s stock options. You made him a happy man...¡± His voice faded out. Mike''s dad, Joe Bournham, and founded a white-pages advertising company in the 1960s. Mike helped to bring it to database and mailing list level, and in the late nineties Joe had sold it to him for 1,000 stock options. Stock options that paid out big time, and that had made it easier to fund his dad''s medical bills when the pancreatic cancer made its death march into their otherwise happy life.


    Turning Bournham Industries into a juggernaut had helped ease the pain of his dad''s loss.


    ¡°When did we get so fucking serious?¡± Mike asked, his stomach sour.


    ¡°I''m the one who has threesomes in Bangkok on the beach while you peruse new merger contracts and go over the twenty-seventh mission statement revision.¡±


    Mike just cleared his throat. Silence. Jeremy started twitching a bit, the change in the room''s atmosphere tangible. ¡°If you really want to talk about threesomes, Bangkok isn''t the one I reminisce about...¡± The two men had, on and off, found an affinity for sharing women. Not many ¨C in fact, exactly two. One had been a fluke, in college. Debbie was a cheerleader who decided to experiment, and Mike and Jeremy were the lucky lab rats. She had married a rising-star quarterback her senior year and was now a well-known football wife in the NFL. If they crossed paths at charity events, she acted like she didn''t know Mike.


    Which was just fine. He didn''t need acknowledgment. He knew her.


    Jeremy pitched back another beer and cocked his head. ¡°Dana''s done with us. You know that.¡± After two years of a permanently-casual arrangement that was ill-defined, Dana had decided to go monogamous. Mike got over it in, a few weeks. Jeremy still wasn''t quite over it, a year later.


    ¡°And we should be done with her.¡±


    Nodding, Jeremy stood, dumped the empty in the recycling bin, and grabbed another bottle. ¡°Wild times in Thailand again, Mike. C''mon...¡±


    ¡°So I can get you out of jail after propositioning a gender-bending prostitute?¡±


    ¡°You live for that!¡± Jeremy recoiled in mock horror, as if offended. ¡°Did I ever leave you on a roof in Vegas?¡±


    Snort. ¡°No, but I might throw you off mine if you keep lying to me.¡± Jeremy was about as capable of a Bangkok brothel visit as Mike was of forgetting Lydia.


    Damn it. There she was again, invading his brain.


    ¡°Why''d you make me come here? I''m dressed to lift.¡± And, indeed, he was.


    Mike gestured to his face. ¡°This. I realized I can''t live my regular life for six weeks, because then my cover will be blown.¡±


    ¡°Cover? You sound like a DEA narc.¡±


    ¡°How do you know I''m not?¡±


    Bzzz. Saved by the bell. He read the email that came through. ¡°OK, good. My tech access is set up for Matt Jones. At least she did something right.¡±


    ¡°She?¡± Jeremy cocked on eyebrow. ¡°You got someone new?¡±


    Mike nearly choked again. Except he had nothing in his mouth. ¡°Uh, no.¡± Faltering, he tried to pull it together, but just the thought of her name was making it hard to think clearly. ¡°New admin.¡±


    ¡°Your alter ego has an admin? Is she cute?¡± Jeremy propped his chin in his hand, elbow on the grey granite slab, intrigued.


    ¡°Lydia''s, well...¡±


    ¡°A dog, huh.¡± Smirk.


    Possessive anger welled up in him out of nowhere. ¡°Don''t talk about her like that.¡±


    ¡°Ooooo, Matt Jones has a nerve, and I just hit it.¡±

 Page 6

    ¡°I''ll hit you if you keep going.¡± To his surprise, he feared he really would, as his fists curled involuntarily. Where was this coming from?


    Palms facing Mike, Jeremy took a step back. ¡°Hey, man, I don''t want to fuck her. Just asking what she looks like. You normally date toothpicks with boobs. And fewer brain cells than Lindsay Lohan on a coke bender.¡±Advertisement


    Fair enough. Mike''s anger went from boiling point to simmer. ¡°She''s young ¨C twenties ¨C and has that dark Irish-Welsh look. Like Catherine Zeta-Jones.¡±


    ¡°And...?¡± That was code for fuckability.


    ¡°And an ass like J. Lo''s. Curves and more curves.¡± His mouth watered as one side lifted in a jaunty grin. Damn. ¡°Brown, speckled eyes. Creamy skin. She''s a feminist, though!¡±


    ¡°I''d expect hairy armpits and Birks.¡±


    ¡°No ¨C she actually wears red leather pumps and skirts. And I caught her reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot -- ¡°


    ¡°What?¡± Jeremy slammed his palm on the counter. ¡°Why don''t I ever find these women?¡±


    ¡°Because you generally don''t find these women at chess tournaments, in brothels, or rock climbing.¡± Jeremy''s face went slack. Ooops. Mike didn''t mean to hit that nerve. ¡°Sorry ¨C I know Dana wasn''t like that.¡±


    ¡°She''s off climbing K2 or climbing the guy she left us for ¨C who knows.¡± A dark silence filled the room. The day wasn''t supposed to go like this. They should be talking shit and grunting and arguing over how many 45s to put on the Olympic bar.


    ¡°What about this building''s gym?¡±


    ¡°It looks like Jane Fonda met Tae Bo and had a baby. It''s all Barbie weights,¡± Mike said dismissively.


    ¡°Then let''s go for a run. Get dressed. Too much talk and not enough pain.¡± Spending all day tomorrow on a plane to Detroit wasn''t going to burn calories.


    ¡°How long?¡±


    ¡°Until the beer wears off?¡±


    ¡°Deal.¡±


    Chapter Three


    ¡°I want to explain why I was reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot.¡± Not that I have to, she thought, but this conversation needed to happen, whether she ¨C or Matt ¨C liked it or not. For the past three months, Lydia had been working on a pitch for an advertising and social media campaign that would help boost her department''s profits. She felt like Peggy from Mad Men, trying out her lipstick slogan, swimming against the tide of an impossible current.


    Matt didn''t help. Job stealer.


    Her resentment was understandable, though undeserved. He looked up from the cup of coffee he''d been nursing and those bright green eyes caught her off guard. They seemed surreal. Fake? No, not really. Just a little too good to be true.


    ¡°You don''t have to explain.¡± A sly smile stretched across his face, the angular nose widening, dimples forming where she would never have imagined they could peek out. ¡°I''m sure you are just reading it for...pleasure.¡± He was classically handsome, in a Regency-era kind of way, but with a touch of firefighter. Lumberjack.


    Man.


    ¡°I do, actually.¡± Ignoring that maddening tone, the absolute fury it sparked in her, the intense arousal it also ignited in her ¨C infuriatingly! ¨C Lydia struggled to maintain her sense of professionalism. Now? Really? When she needed it most, her career on the line. Leaving home had been hard. Getting into grad school difficult. Finding a job at Bournham had been damn near impossible. Blowing it all because her new, cocky boss was teasing her about her work research for a project of her own making made the universe seem petty and unfair.


    She spread a series of graphics on his desk, shoving aside a pile of folders, his travel mug, a smart phone with Angry Birds open on the screen, and a paper clip holder. ¡°Angry Birds? Seriously?¡±


    He just shrugged. ¡°It''s my Christian Grey.¡± The way he said it made her blush, and she did not want to blush. Not now. Not today. This was her big chance and if it didn''t go well, she had to reckon with failing on her own. Failure might not be an option as a slogan, but in the real life it was all too common, and she didn''t want to taste one drop of it today.


    ¡°Oh, please,¡± she said in a clipped, no-nonsense voice, though as he leaned closer to her, from the other side of the desk, she caught a whiff of his scent again, a spicy soap and a musk that made her swallow, hard. Her eyes couldn''t stop looking at his hands as she organized her graphics. Strong, tanned, no ring and perfectly buffed fingernails. A little dandified, until he turned one over, retrieving the phone and slipping it in his pocket. Calloused and a bit worn. A man who had used his hands, but who now worked in an office. That spoke to a past quite different from this middle-management life, or a side hobby. Pulling in the reins of her wandering mind, she shook her head a bit, nipples beading as she inhaled and stretched her neck slightly, trying to distract herself.


    She didn''t want to like him. Her body couldn''t seem to help it, though.


    Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Career over clit. Career over clit.


    ¡°Fifty Shades of Grey isn''t just smut. It represents an enormous sea change in the publishing world, and we''re idiots if we don''t do some pitches to reach out and grab market share in advertising and social media pushes.¡± His grin shifted from one of sensual teasing to intrigued business, his hands picking up the first graphic.


    ¡°That''s just a fad.¡±


    ¡°Random House earned more than $70 million from that ''fad,'' enough to give every employee, from top management to mail worker, a $5,000 bonus. You know what I got this year from this place?¡±


    He cringed, which seemed odd. As if he were prepared for some sort of blow. If he was going to work here, though, he might as well know the truth about cheap old Michael Bournham. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°A coffee mug with Bournham Industries'' logo on it. And a thumb drive on a logo key chain. Give me Fifty Shades any day.¡±


    Sputtering, he seemed to defend Bourham. ¡°I''m sure there was a perfectly logical reason for that.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Yep. The logic is that Bournham''s a cheap ass.¡±


    He frowned. ¡°What does this have to do with Fifty Shades?¡±


    ¡°We can target that emerging market and use Fifty Shades to leverage buying patterns and marketing campaigns for existing and new clients. Have you looked at the New York Times'' bestseller lists lately? Sylvia Day. The menage series by Shayla ¨C ¡°


    In the middle of taking a sip of coffee, he did a spit take, turning his head at the last second to avoid hitting her papers. ¡°Did you say ''menage''?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It''s a word. Get over it.¡±


    ¡°Two girls, one cup?¡±


    ¡°Two guys, one well-loved woman.¡±


    ¡°You''ve researched this?¡± His eyes lit up with mischief and her body began to tingle. What did he consider fun in bed? Ah, how she needed to know. As he held her gaze a little too long, with a ferocious heat that made her simultaneously hunger for his touch and recoil in horror at her own pliability, she broke the look and gave her head a quick shake, resuming her professional stance.


    The twitch of his lips, a seductive look on his face that he respectfully turned away from her, told her the feeling was mutual.


    Damn it. She didn''t need actual romance to interfere with the business of romance.


    ¡°Depends on who your target demographic is. For women 26-44, with bachelor''s degrees, earning $70,000 or more per year and buying the majority of romance novels, MFM is where it''s at.¡±


    ¡°MFM? Is that like LOLcats?¡±


    She closed her eyes in frustration, taking a deep breath to center herself. ¡°If you have to ask, then never mind.¡±


    ¡°BDSM as the wave of the future?¡± His voice was skeptical. Winning him over was her goal, and if she could convince him, then maybe ¨C just maybe ¨C she could convince their boss, Dave. The Director of Communications. The gateway to promotions.


    ¡°BDSM as a paradigm shift in popular culture, especially among the 26-44 crowd.¡± Confident now, she used her extensive research and market analysis to push aside the attraction that keep slithering back in and undermining her goal: to win his respect and to be an ally in what she knew would be a battle later.


    ¡°They''re not the big spenders ¨C go down an age group.¡± The words ¡°go down¡± nearly made her gasp, heat pouring into her belly, her clit beginning to tickle and throb. Even he looked a little uncomfortable at the hint of a double entendre, but quickly covered it up. ¡°Eighteen to twenty-five is where the big money is in social media and pop culture.¡±


    She nodded, knowing that already after countless hours of research. ¡°Yes ¨C and that''s precisely why Fifty Shades is such an enormous shift. Because the buying dynamics for everything from eBooks to print to magazines to personal aids ¨C ¡°


    ¡°You mean sex toys. Don''t sugar coat it.¡± The command in his voice sent a thrilling tingle up her spine.


    ¡°Fine.¡± Reaching across the desk for her fourth graphic, she came a little too close to him, brushing against his arm. It was intentional. He pulled back, as if burned. ¡°Here''s a fact: sales of vibrators shot up 414 percent when suggested to readers of the Fifty Shades trilogy.¡± Locking eyes with his, she held steady, waiting for him to flinch. When he didn''t, she felt her cheeks burning, the implication prickling her skin, a thin sheen of sweat popping up between her breasts. Her throat clicked as she swallowed, the air crackling with sex.


    The look he gave her made her toes curl, a combination of smoke and smolder and amusement and questions. Then his eyes went neutral, as if he flipped a switch and pulled himself back. Whatever edge he had just been standing on, she wanted to join him, grab his hand, and jump together.


    The effort it took not to look down her shirt, not to touch the silk collar and just keep moving down, not to stand and lean forward and kiss her, not to roam through her hair with hands that were hungry for those soft breasts, those luscious hips, and that creamy skin ¨C that effort told him how strong he really was.


    Atlas, really.


    A disciplined man, he wasn''t accustomed to fighting urges like this. Something about those almond eyes, that rich, chocolate voice, those flared hips and the delicate, yet confident way she carried herself, made him wild and untamed inside. Rational thought normally was enough to tuck away whatever irrational feelings might drive an impulsive response. If it didn''t make sense, he didn''t do it.


    Lydia, though, made perfect sense. in his lap, on him, his tongue in her mouth, his hands burning through her skin, tantalizing and taking and claiming.


    Deep sigh. Fight for control. His hands nearly shook as he reached for one of the graphics, desire wildly coursing through veins as his mind tried to tame it. Say something.


    So he said, ¡°Retail algorithms don''t readily predict consumer behavior, though.¡± Cleared his throat. Tried to shift imperceptibly. Anything to reduce the tightness in his pants. And, he remembered ¨C to make nice with the cameras. They were rolling, of course, and he could imagine the producers'' glee. Fifty Shades? Sex toys? It''s as if Lydia were in on the stunt and planned the most targeted, trending topics she could for this discussion.


    His erection, thankfully, wasn''t on stage, buried beneath his desk. Right where it needed to stay.


    ¡°Since when?¡± With an expression that said what the fuck?, she gave him a condescending look and a professional tongue-lashing. ¡°You call yourself a social media expert? I can deconstruct a mailing list and extrapolate plenty of behaviors ¨C and be nearly dead on ¨C from the right data. Social media''s no different.¡±

 Page 7

    She sounded like him, more than ten years ago, trying to persuade his dad to let him try the data mining route. Crossing his arms, he heard her out. ¡°You can?¡± The look on her face told him he''d chosen the dead-wrong response, as she collapsed all emotion into a pin prick of indignation. What had he said? Why the sudden change?


    ¡°I may be just an administrative assistant,¡± she began, cheeks bright red and eyes narrowed in anger. Ah. That''s what he''d said.Advertisement


    ¡°I wasn''t implying ¨C ¡°


    ¡°Yes. You were,¡± she retorted, establishing control once again. Accustomed to having the upper hand in every business situation as Michael, he found himself unsure as Matt. Should he let her win this one? With cameras rolling, maybe that made better television? He frowned. Thinking like that wouldn''t get him anywhere with Lydia.


    Yet thinking about Lydia right now wouldn''t help him raise profits.


    Her idea, though, might.


    ¡°Don''t tell me what I''m thinking,¡± he said, voice low and rough. He waved his hand, knowing it would piss her off, wanting to see how much fire she had in her belly.


    It worked.


    ¡°Don''t snow me and claim I''m wrong,¡± she answered back, voice steady, jaw clenched, standing ramrod straight now. The business suit she wore was more formal than her normal dress, which tended toward tasteful V-neck sweaters, dressy skirts and leather heels. Why the heathered grey wool suit and silk shirt? Lilac suited her, the blouse''s shimmer bringing attention to her rich hair, those dark eyes, and adding a femininity to her carefully-cultivated professionalism. Quite different from her frumpier, casual look on his first day at the job. He liked both.


    What he''d prefer most, though, was if she wore nothing at all. Those curves, that ass, the ample body that seemed poised for so much more, all soft and swelling. The outer packaging of a mind he was coming to respect. A body that he wanted to savor.


    The resemblance to Catherine Zeta-Jones was uncanny. Did she ever do any nudes scenes in her films? He''d have to check. No, he''d have to ask Jeremy ¨C he would know.


    His khakis and cheap oxford seemed out of place, suddenly. Pausing, he told himself that this was one for Mike ¨C not Matt ¨C to handle. It was safe to stand now, so he did, taking a few steps around his desk and facing her, two feet feeling like five miles. A faint odor of something sweet, like vanilla, tickled his nose.


    ¡°You''re projecting your insecurities onto me, Lydia.¡± Wide eyes met his. Aha! He was right. ¡°Just because some part of you doesn''t feel like being an administrative assistant is ''good enough'' and that people downgrade your intelligence doesn''t mean I''m one of those people.¡± He huffed, a bit incensed on her part, for no reason he understood. ¡°That''s the lazy way.¡±


    The slope of her mouth changed, jaw jutting less, tension easing in the muscles. Her brow furrowed and breathing slowed. A little flag of victory waved inside until she said, ¡°I hadn''t thought any of those thoughts, Dr. Phil, but apparently you have projected them onto me. Gender politics at work.¡±


    That flag was suddenly white. Shit. Not the reaction he expected. Lydia began scooping up her files, muttering to herself.


    He stopped her with a hand on her forearm. Frozen, she didn''t move. Didn''t breathe. Didn''t blink. ¡°How is that gender politics?¡±


    Sputter. Smirk. Eyeroll. ¡°How isn''t it? Dave''s known for more than a year ¨C no, two years ¨C that I wanted a chance at the social media job. You come in here strutting like the CEO''s nephew and bam ¨C instant boss. You''re going to tell me my ovaries have nothing to do with that?¡±


    He frowned. ¡°You''re conflating two issues. Am I here because of perceived favoritism or because I''m a man?¡±


    ¡°Both, apparently. So you are his nephew!¡±


    ¡°Whose?¡±


    ¡°Michael Bournham.¡± She raised her eyebrows in a look of contempt. ¡°You know. The owner of this company?¡±


    At the mention of his real name, it was his turn to freeze, the sound of it rolling off her tongue and lips like some sort of answered prayer. He wanted to hear her hiss it in his ear, riding him, sweat pouring onto ¨C


    Shake it off, Mike. ¡°I''m no one''s nephew.¡± Fake laugh. ¡°All my parents'' siblings are girls who didn''t marry or have kids.¡±


    ¡°There you go. Girls. Unless they''re all prepubescent females, you sound like Don Draper from Mad Men.¡±


    ¡°I''ve been called worse.¡±


    ¡°You know what? Forget it. I came in here to explain my new proposal, which I''m presenting to Dave tomorrow, but you aren''t any different from the rest of them.¡±


    Gender politics? He had women as vice presidents, on the board, and in high management positions. What was she nattering on about?


    She continued, her voice shifting to a sarcastic, sultry tone, the incongruity charging the air. ¡°Shall I get you some coffee? Email the email you ask me to email to some work group? Schedule your lunch reservation? Bring you slippers and the newspaper? Meet your,¡± she paused, her lips shifting into a pout, her face softening, eyes hard and cold as she whispered in a Marilyn Monroe, breathy voice, ¡°every need?¡±


    With that, she marched out, papers jutting here and there in her hastily-layered stack, hips swaying out of sight as, once more, he cursed his too-tight pants.


    Slam!


    Nearly hyperventilating, Lydia couldn''t believe how quickly that whole scene had fallen apart. She went in there with her professional heart on her sleeve, showing him the results of months of work. Him! The guy who stole her job. And he didn''t deny that he might be Bournham''s nephew. Damn it!


    Hot tears threatened to flood her eyes. Being an angry crier sucked.


    No matter how hard she had tried over the years to find a way to rein it in, to not cry when she was angry, or pissed or overwhelmed, Lydia still turned on the waterworks. Involuntary, the prickly sensation of indignation, of fury preceding the tears in her eyes, the swelling of her throat, always meant she would break down. She hated that salty taste that meant she would be incapable of logical thought or speech until she could reign in whatever chemicals coursed through her bloodstream to make her turn into the stereotype of the crying little woman. She despised it. She absolutely despised it.


    And there was nothing she could do. She had tried hypnosis. She had tried therapy. She had tried cognitive behavioral techniques. It just was part of her emotional landscape, some sort of coping mechanism built into her psychological DNA.


    The complication it caused for her, though, was that she wasn¡¯t taken seriously in a corporate setting. She knew, from her graduate studies, that this was incredibly common. She knew that she wasn¡¯t anything special, that her situation wasn¡¯t unique, but the politics of gender in a corporate setting meant that crying was viewed as a weakness, that she was viewed as weak, as less serious, as someone who would end up on the ¡®mommy track¡¯.


    As much as she fought that hegemony, the reality was that here she was, sitting in the closet, pretending to get supplies and trying to get the tears out before anyone saw her. It wasn¡¯t the fact that her idea had been dismissed so out of hand, before she could really delve down into the details, could really peel back the deep layers that explained why the kernel underneath this large project was so critical for Bournham Industries. She could accept that. She could (she hated the phrase) man up and deal with that kind of rejection.


    It was that she hadn¡¯t even gotten started. Going to Matt with her idea was a test of sorts because she knew that going to Dave was going to be the ultimate battle in trying to prove that she was a serious contender for a job that Matt now had.


    Argh! She slammed her fist against the wall, shaking one of the shelves filled with paper clips. Everything fell apart in one decision, in one morning. Ten seconds before Matt Jones tapped on the window of her car and caught her reading mommy porn she was in line for a promotion, or at least a shot at it, and to prove that moving away from home had been the right choice, that she could make her way in the big city. That she was strong, and vibrant, and intelligent, and grounded. And that gender had nothing to do with success.


    Yet, here she sat, crying in the supply closet. Her idea was good. The youth market was already oversaturated with advertising. Putting together a network of about fifty different romance novel sites hadn''t been easy, but she''d done it. From bloggers like Smart Bitches, Trashy Books and Dear Author to The Romance Man, a really offbeat, unique blog written by a guy with a sense of humor and a penchant for getting to the heart of a story, no matter how ridiculous, to novel sites, eBook retailers like All Romance eBooks or Book Strand.


    Lydia had gone through and very carefully cultivated allies in this approach, talking to bloggers, talking to eBook site owners and getting a sense of what drives women in the 26-44 market to buy. It wasn¡¯t just about Fifty Shades. Fifty Shades was a trigger but it wasn¡¯t everything, and she thought there was so much untapped potential for that market, for driving products to them, for speaking to them on their level, not condescending, and not over-sexualizing. It was time to treat those women like they were the intelligent, well read, analytical, and fun loving women that they were.


    It didn¡¯t hurt that their demographic had money. Money that could fuel profits for potential clients in her division in Bournham Industries. That was going to be the problem. Dave would view this as some sort of threat to his job and he was going to shoot it down in about three seconds. Matt, being brand new, was going to shoot it down in two seconds. The threat to his job not as strong, though, because how often are you threatened in the first week of employment? Matt didn¡¯t seem to be the type to be threatened by anyone. He had somehow walked in the door and just acted like he owned the place and she was mystified by it, intrigued. Jealous.


    Aroused.


    She slammed her fist against the wall again and this time a box of binder clips fell off a top shelf and hit her on the head. Why did Matt have to muddy the waters too? Her tears were gone, thankfully replaced by an internal sense of repulsion as she rubbed the crown of her head, putting the box back in place. Not at Matt, not at Dave, but at herself ¨C that someone who called herself a radical feminist would be falling apart, crying in the closet at work and aroused by her new boss. There was a word for that, too. Gender traitor. No, an even better word.


    Sucker.


    ¡°Mike that was damn near perfect. We loved the scene in the parking lot, with you and Linda ¨C ¡°


    ¡°Lydia.¡±


    ¡°Whatever ¨C it was pitch perfect. We have some great clips we can use from that for teasers and promo. It''s like she''s writing her own script.¡±


    Mike sized hm up. The excitement seemed over the top for a simple little show. Did they really invest themselves so much in this reality series? Were viewing audiences that easily manipulated? He only had twenty minutes for this meeting; a charity event he couldn''t avoid was scheduled for the evening, and he''d removed the contact lenses, washed out the temporary hair dye, and gone back to being Mike Bournham, 100 percent.


    With an underfed stick on his arm, to boot. When you have to look like a playah, you have to date the type. Diane was about his age, but looked ten years younger ¨C from twenty paces. Up close, though, the signs of heavy cosmetic surgery intervention were evident. With eyebrows that never moved, lip lines that stayed in place through tight smiles, and a neck that was stretched tighter than a Jackson Pollack canvas, she had the same coloring as Lydia ¨C rich, chestnut hair with perfect waves, and brown eyes that were more the color of manure than Lydia''s multi-colored jewels ¨C yet somehow looked washed out. Too manufactured.

 Page 8

    Perfect, in other words, for Mike Bournham, rising Fortune 500 CEO and soon-to-be billionaire.


    ¡°I can give you fifteen more, Jonah, so get to the point.¡±Advertisement


    ¡°OK, then.¡± Calm, slow sip of his iced coffee. A simmer built in Mike, who knew a power play when he saw it. Jonah needed him. Not the other way around. Not quite true ¨C twenty percent spike in sales! ¨C but Mike reminded himself anyhow, because the dynamics right now were slipping out of his favor.


    He had quite enough of that already in his life, with Lydia.


    ¡°We''d like for you to work on poking her,¡± Jonah paused imperceptibly, a small grin at the corner of his lips, eyes on Mike, weighing out whether to let the joke be acknowledged. Whatever he saw in Mike''s face told him not to. ¡°Like a feminist dealing with a Don Draper-type boss.¡±


    Second reference to Don Draper in one week. And he looked nothing like Jon Hamm.


    ¡°Liberated feminist meets ''50s throwback?¡±


    Jonah grabbed his smart phone, eyes wide. ¡°I''m totally stealing that! Mike, you''re a natch at this.¡±


    ¡°That''s why I''m the CEO.¡± Jonah mistook the sarcastic comment for bonding and grinned as he typed. Oh, brother.


    ¡°Here.¡± Jonah produced a sheath of papers. ¡°New script.¡±


    ¡°Can''t you just send me a PDF? My admin can do the printing, and this way I can read it on the road.¡±


    Tap tap tap. The man turned away and buried his face in the glowing screen, then shouted, ¡°Done!¡± with a flourish, his finger smacking the ¡°Send¡± button as if achieving orgasm.


    ¡°Anything else?¡±


    Jonah grinned slyly. ¡°Any chance you and Linda might ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Lydia.¡± The slow simmer turned to a low boil. Jesus Christ, man, get her name right. She was part of the series, like it or not. A light bulb went off. ¡°Hold on. How do you secure permission to run these shows if the people who I interact with don''t know abut the cameras?¡±


    The grin turned smug. ¡°We ask after the fact. Blur out their faces if they refuse. Most people though, man,¡± he shook his head slowly, contemplative suddenly. ¡°They don''t say no.¡±


    ¡°Their fifteen minutes of fame?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡± He clapped Mike on the shoulder as they stood, the familiarity a bit too unctuous. ¡°I''m sure she''ll consider it a privilege when she finds out.¡±


    A privilege.


    Right.


    Chapter Four


    Three hours of yoga. Two hours of careful breathing meditation. One pint of Ben and Jerry¡¯s and she thought that she was calm enough to handle the presentation. She had done the research. She knew how to assemble the various components of social media and, by God, she was having a great hair day to boot.


    So, as she smoothed out the skirt and pulled her shirt over it, her curves covered by nicely tailored clothes, she stared herself in the eye in the mirror and said, ¡°Your inner goddess can do this.¡± Then she grinned maniacally.


    Matt Jones had changed everything, that¡¯s for sure. Everything. She had tried to talk to Dave about why the job got filled and he claimed to know even less than she did. That ¡°somebody at corporate had just sent Matt down¡± bullshit ¨C without a word of warning ¨C left her about 50/50 on whether she was going to believe him or not. Dave could be cagey. He''d lied to her on both personal and professional levels, so as far as she was concerned Dave was an obstacle.


    A powerful one, unfortunately.


    Dave was the epitome of the corporate ladder climber, an early-30s guy with a Harvard MBA and an ego the size of the tuition price tag. She was taking a huge risk by doing this presentation because if Dave liked it he would co-opt it. In that sense, she was glad to have Matt there because if Matt were a decent guy ¨C where to put him on the continuum from hero to asshole? ¨C as long as he lived somewhere in the middle third, she figured he¡¯d back her up if Dave decided to run with the credit. If Dave didn¡¯t like it, the idea was dead in the water. Although, she supposed if she wanted to go job hunting she could use it as an example of the quality of her work. But really, who was she? She was a twenty-five year old with a Master''s degree in a subject that corporate America considered to be hippieland, or worse ¨C threatening.


    Men in middle management took her gender studies graduate degree as some sort of threat, depending on age. Anybody under thirty seemed to just find it interesting or novel, or maybe patronizingly cute. Anybody over fifty suddenly got nervous ¨C and sweaty ¨C because what did ¡°gender studies¡± mean? Then there was that ¡®in the middle¡¯ where Matt and Dave lived. Reactions seemed to depend on upbringing, temperament, where they were in the corporate structure and where they were on that continuum from hero to asshole. Dave leaned more towards the asshole end.


    If she could get Dave to agree that her project was valid then she had a chance at the director of ¨C oh, shit.


    And that was the problem. That¡¯s where Matt Jones had gummed up the works. When she was honest with herself she had to acknowledge a parallel gumming of the works where he made her heart stand still and beat out of her chest at the same time. Where he made her cheeks flush, not with embarrassment, not with condescension, but with arousal. Where he made her hands twitch, not eager for more work, but needing the feel of his skin.


    Matt Jones had taken what was supposed to be a simple presentation today at two o¡¯clock and turned it into a very, very complicated issue. In Lydia¡¯s world, everything was typically quite simple. She knew what she wanted, she worked hard, she put her nose to the grindstone and she just did what she needed to do. She didn¡¯t have Ivy League degrees, she didn¡¯t have well-connected parents, she wasn¡¯t some great beauty. In fact, her weight was a disadvantage.


    She wasn¡¯t quite fat and she definitely wasn¡¯t close to thin. Stuck in between what people would call zaftig or voluptuous, she wore a medium/large at J. Jill and had a body type that could fit in sizes anywhere from a twelve to a sixteen (OK, eighteen). She didn¡¯t have enormous breasts; they were quite fine and proportionate to her rib cage and to her nipped-in waist. But she had an hourglass figure that was the epitome of a pear with a ¡°great big booty¡± as Krysta called it, and hips that screamed peasant.


    Her mother had always said, ¡°You¡¯ve got hips for birthing, so you need to have four children or more.¡±


    Lydia had looked at her in horror and said, ¡°Four children! Who''s crazy enough to have four children?¡±


    The mother of six had replied,¡°I guess I¡¯m fifty percent crazier than that.¡±


    For all of her flaws, for all of her insecurities that popped up here and there about her body, she really was firmly centered within herself. At peace with her issues, at peace with her bountiful self, and through her studies, research, and analysis she had come to distinguish between what society said about a woman¡¯s body and what a woman herself could believe. With deep, conscious effort Lydia had worked to carve out a space within that no one else could touch. That no one else could judge. That no one else could frame for her and impose on her and make her feel bad about anything.


    Smoothing that blouse against the pooch of skin between her hips, she squared her shoulders, tightened her bra straps, and finger-combed her long, brown silky hair, observing the almond-shaped eyes that stared back at her, the slight pink on her cheekbones, the well-placed lipstick that made her face bright.


    All of it said Lydia. And that was good enough.


    As he watched Lydia set up her Powerpoint, checking the screen to make sure that the controllers all worked, lining up her notes, he realized just how nervous she was underneath it all. He was rooting for her, both as Matt Jones and as Michael Bournham because, although she had been touchy the other day when she came to him with this project and he hadn¡¯t heard the entire story, he was pretty sure that whatever she was about to dump on his and Dave¡¯s heads right now was smart, well thought out, carefully planned, and ready to be executed in a way that would help the bottom line here at the company.


    It didn''t hurt that she was so fine to watch, her shapely body bending and twisting, silk and wool and cloth clinging to the parts he loved most, her movements professional, skin so soft and approachable he could barely stand it, a hunger welling up in him that he needed to tame. Dating ¡°toothpicks with boobs¡± ¨C Jeremy''s catch phrase ¨C had become too much of a trend for him. The lush appeal of her body, with a bright mind and sharp tongue to match, was making it harder to control his runaway lust.


    And that was something no Botoxed, surgically-enhanced, cantaloupes-under-chest-skinned women had provoked in him in a very long time.


    If ever.


    She looked at him as if he were a nemesis, sidelong glances from those topaz-speckled eyes, looks he wished were driven by a sultrier appeal and not by worry or competition. Each look came not with a guarded focus, but with a righteous anger, a chip on her shoulder the size, he imagined, of her student loan debt. The size of all the guys before him who had come and gone and taken the jobs that she wanted. Or of the grad school colleagues who had snatched up classes, plum assignments as research assistants, and well ¨C he knew the drill. He had a sister. He had seen her struggle and knew that as much as he wanted to think that gender politics weren¡¯t an issue in the workplace the past few days here ¨C my God, had it really been a week? ¨C had shown him just how out of touch he had become.


    Being at the top of the building, literally and metaphorically, with the executive suite flying high over the city meant that he had his fingers in nothing that resembled average American daily life. He was driven wherever he needed to go. He ate food prepared by other people and generally of the finest quality. He wore bespoke suits tailored specifically to his body, to his tastes, to his needs. Women molded themselves to what they thought he wanted in an effort to please him, to snag him, to carry bragging rights. Mike wasn¡¯t sure anymore. Real love hadn¡¯t entered into the picture in years. He couldn''t quite count his friend Jeremy''s steadfast presence.


    Not quite.


    Daily life was all a churn. He met with other CEOs, with high-level investors, with fund managers and with federal regulators in an endless spiral of more of the same, all with the singular goal of generating more money for someone.


    Preferably that someone was him.


    Here sat ¨C no, stood ¨C no, sat ¨C Lydia the fruitfly, hyped up on the meth of anxiety and possibility. The metaphor was apt; from his point of view she looked so nervous, impossibly anxious. Her hair down and flowing, her makeup perfectly applied, her face fresh and alert and closed off, the stakes were so high in her world that she couldn¡¯t bear to let one sliver of her authentic self escape.


    In his world this was nothing. He viewed it as an exercise in understanding more about Dave, about how his upper middle managers handled daily life at work. Was workplace mobility really that constricted? Had Lydia been right, that there really was a gender issue? He didn¡¯t know, but he was about to find out.


    With cameras rolling. Jonah¡¯s script be damned. He had actually looked through it before, briefly, when the email Jonah sent popped up. Mike had laughed, rolled his eyes, and snorted with disgust because Jonah had wanted him to ¡°accidentally¡± spill a cup of coffee on Lydia¡¯s front and then take a napkin and start to wipe it up.

 Page 9

    Really? Not only was that one of the lamest ¨C and oldest ¨C tricks in the book, but it violated about seventeen sexual harassment policies, it humiliated her for the rest of the day with filthy clothes, and it was so tone deaf that it stretched Mike¡¯s credulity. Were television tropes that well-worn? Is that what the public wants? he wondered. Do they really want to see a woman debased by having coffee poured on her and then being patted down by a man who seems predatory? Was he feeding that by even participating in this show?


    Lydia cleared her throat and he shook himself out of these deeper thoughts, realizing he hadn¡¯t considered any of this in years, thoughts that connected to larger social concepts. Perhaps the strident feminist standing before him now, her knees practically knocking with nerves, had planted them there.Advertisement


    Dave looked bored. It unnerved her. As if he were just tolerating this as some sort of masturbatory exercise ¨C in a way, though, that was true. As her eyes floated across Matt Jones¡¯ face, trying very intently not to make eye contact, she realized that this was just bread and circus, Dave tolerating what she wanted to do. That¡¯s not what she wanted.


    The whole point of this was to prove herself. Resilient Lydia, the one who had been raised by Sandy and Pete, knew that this would be a success ¨C but if it failed, she would just pick herself up, dust herself off, and move on to the next thing. That resilient self would be fine in the end.


    She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, kept her head down and pretended to read her notes, but lowered her lids. The other part of her, the part that had broken so many rules that Pete and Sandy had instilled in her: like family came first, like the family business was her future, like stay here and marry a Mainer ¨C that Lydia was the one perched on a precipice, a giant abyss rising up from the ground to suck her in.


    And that Lydia needed this to work.


    Apathetic Dave and attentive, friendly Matt were her audience. She had to make a choice. What kind of woman was she going to be? Was she going to be resilient Lydia or fragile Lydia?


    Not even a question. She knew the answer already. She always did. She just let the insecurities creep in a little too much, right at the edge.


    Resilient Lydia took one more deep breath, looked Dave right in the eye with a nice professional smile, held it for two seconds longer than was comfortable, and then did the same with Matt.


    And began.


    ¡°Romance novels represent more than forty percent of all books sold in the United States,¡± she started, eliciting the first eyeroll from Dave. She knew there would be more, but continued. ¡°In 2008, according to the Romance Writers of America, the largest romance writing organization in the United States, seventy five million people read at least one romance novel in 2008.¡±


    ¡°And all of them women,¡± Dave muttered. Matt frowned.


    She kept going. ¡°That¡¯s not true Dave. Actually, nine percent of all readers are men.¡±


    Matt chuckled. ¡°Men secretly pining to read bodice rippers?¡± he asked. It was a friendly question, more a shared joke than a taunt. Not at all as closed off or derisive as Dave.


    Lydia turned to him and smiled, a conspirator''s grin, and told him, ¡°No one knows exactly, but it seems that a lot of husbands grab their wives'' romance novels and check them out. Although, there¡¯s a whole other component of gay male readers reading romance novels that I¡¯ll get into later.¡± She shot Dave a wink. Casting a sidelong look at Matt, Dave showed his first sign of emotion by cocking one eyebrow and making sure Matt knew he wasn''t gay. Which he demonstrated by twirling one finger around his ear and pointing at Lydia, as if she''d been insinuating that.


    Matt showed no emotion, instead ignoring Dave.


    Thank you.


    She forged on, undeterred. ¡°The trend''s on the rise and most of my statistics end in 2009, although the social media statistics are much more up to date. But, anywhere from twenty-four to twenty-nine percent of Americans regularly read at least one romance novel per year. And that trend is increasing.¡±


    Matt leaned forward, his attention lasered in on her. Now she had him ¨C she could tell, and it felt empowering, gaining his interest with her idea. Her vision. Hers and hers alone; she had carved out a niche for herself and damn if it wasn''t finally being noticed.


    Wait until she showed him where she could take them both. Umm...rather, the company''s advertising division. Oh, dear. She could feel herself slipping, his face open and nurturing in a professional way. He wanted her to succeed; she could tell. It threw her off, because why should he want this? They were rivals, right?


    Not really. He had the job already. She didn''t. Was he patronizing her?


    She didn¡¯t think so, actually. There was something about the way that he was attuned, those bright green eyes taking inventory of her, of her words. The way that he leaned forward on his elbows, his forearms dotted with sandy hair, relaxed and composed all at once as if what she had to say really mattered. And she was glad.


    Because it did.


    ¡°The distribution of people who read romance novels across the country is about what you¡¯d expect. The majority, about fifty-three percent, are clustered in the midwest and the south. Although New Yorkers and Bostonians get their fill too. Older readers are spiking, too. In 2012, a survey done by Bowker Market Research shows that readers over the age of fifty are on the rise. The bulge of readers ¨C ¡±


    Dave snickered. Matt shot him a withering look, which carried more authority than it should have, leading Dave to glare back. She was watching a very real alpha match and knew who to lay odds on.


    Her attention returned to Matt, as if he were the one she needed to woo.


    Professionally, that is.


    Lydia continued, ¡° ¨C come in the 40-49 age range with the second largest group in the 26-39 range. Historically, romance novels were purchased in paper, and mass market paperbacks are by far the most popular format ¨C but not for long. Nowadays those tend to priced at about $7.99 each. Trade book size is close behind, in terms of popularity, but with trade paperbacks floating anywhere from $12 to $20 each, it¡¯s no surprise that people are rapidly adopting the eBook model.¡±


    Matt smirked. She turned and clicked her Powerpoint, displaying the statistics as she popped through them, all of them reinforcing the point she was getting to. Dave looked at his watch and stopped any pretense of not being bored.


    ¡°What does this,¡± he waved dismissively at the screen, ¡°have to do with advertising and social media, Lydia?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Good question, Dave.¡± She maintained her poise, working on trying very hard not to kill him. God knows how many run-throughs she had tolerated for him, letting him practice and drone on and on for pitches that he gave to higher levels of corporate or for going out and trying to snag new clients. Ungrateful ass. Here she was with an idea that could boost division profits and he acted like she was a little girl at a talent show.


    Maybe she should stuff some marshmallows up her nose and start shooting.


    This is how his director of communications treated an innovator. Mike took a good, hard look at Dave out of the corner of his eye as Lydia continued her presentation, breaking down demographics and talking about the impact of Fifty Shades of Grey, Bared to You, and The Virgin Menage series currently dominating the New York Times Bestseller List. As she went layer by layer deconstructing audiences, talking about market share, delving into numbers and specific profit levels, he watched as Dave systematically undermined everything she was trying to do, dismissed all of it out of hand, and wouldn¡¯t even bother.


    He knew what Dave earned; one of his assistants had researched it, when he made the decision to take the Director of Social Media job as Matt Jones, and from what he was seeing the guy was massively overpaid. He should have given Lydia the position ¨C and by the time this presentation was done, he very well might.


    Dave dressed well ¨C a little too well. His look was crisp and clean, a bit overdone, with hands that spoke to never having touched a rake or a shovel or, Mike suspected, a keyboard, until he had no choice. He probably was a double thumber, proficient with a Blackberry, and the type who sent emails to his assistant so she could email them to others.


    Corporate America was filled with Daves. What it needed was more Lydias. If he really were Matt Jones he¡¯d be sitting here, probably adopting Dave¡¯s crossed-arm blas¨¦ attitude in an attempt to fit in, trying to secure his place in the rat race, in the ladder climbing, in the petty world of one ups ¨C of cut downs ¨C of these social signals that permeated business life and took on meanings of their own.


    But he wasn¡¯t Matt Jones. He was Mike Bournham and he owned this company, which meant he owned Dave. Not really, but metaphorically speaking. He sized him up. Dave probably held no student loan debt. Those smooth hands told him he came from a pampered background. Mike guessed he probably had plenty of consumer debt. An overpriced car in his parking spot with a hefty lease fee ¨C because these guys always leased up, flashing a car far more expensive than they should drive, but it projected status ¨C right?


    Was that a ring on his finger? Yup. Okay, married. Probably owned a house with a heavy, four figure monthly mortgage and at least another car for the wife. Maybe they had kids. If so, daycare costs. Undoubtedly the biggest cable package you could imagine, hundreds and hundreds a month. And of course they had to go to Disney every year and hmm... Guys like Dave radically underpaid their housekeeper and nanny and gardener and considered themselves great guys for giving ¡®that type¡¯ a job at all.


    Dave was the kind of guy who left skid marks on his underwear for someone else to clean up. For Mike, that was a form of sacrilege as he sunk deeper and deeper into realizing how far he¡¯d come from who he¡¯d thought he would be by now. There were times when he skittered waaaaay too close to being a Dave, skidmarks notwithstanding.


    Right now, though, wasn''t one of them.


    ¡°And so, now that I¡¯ve shown you the background, the demographics, the profit issues and where I think we can fit in, let me lay out the exact plan for how we can create a plug-n-play product, a set of services that will allow us to capture as much market share for these writers, bloggers, publishing houses, all of the people who are intimately connected with the romance industry. And how Bournham Industries and our advertising sector can reap the benefit financially.¡± Lydia''s confidence was evident in the lilt in her voice, triggering a smile Mike couldn''t contain.


    This could really help Bournham Industries. He doubted the project could get underway fast enough to meet his needs, which were about eight weeks away ¨C before the final board decision when he found out whether he was a billionaire or not.


    On that he was confident, as long as everything unfolded according to plan. And why shouldn''t it? So far, so good.


    In the long run, for a fiscally healthy company and for more ¨C for corporate responsibility, for feeding innovation, for growing internal employees like Lydia who cared, who were clever, who saw opportunities and went for them without any direct incentive ¨C that? That was worth so much more than the money that they would see.


    Dave held one hand up, palm facing her, ¡°Hold on, hold on. I just...you know, Lydia.¡± He looked at his watch and shook his head, displaying a condescending smile. ¡°I think that you''ve done a spectacular job putting together all this market data.¡±

 Page 10

    Mike watched as Lydia¡¯s cheeks flushed, her back straightened, knowing exactly where this was going but still staring Dave down. ¡°And I think,¡± Dave continued, ¡°in more sophisticated hands, you might have a great idea here. It just don''t think it will fly. You¡¯ve micro sliced too much. A smaller boutique firm that wants to take on something like this, a good mid-six figures kind of an account that you could create by going out, doing cold calls, working the network...alright,¡± Dave mugged, an expression as if he was considering the pros and cons of something.


    ¡°But, you know, we¡¯re not one of those. We¡¯re Bournham Industries and I just can¡¯t imagine that Michael Bournham, the ultimate corporate alpha male,¡± he chuckled, ¡°the kind of guy who would be a hero in one of these cute little romance novels, would go for it.¡±Advertisement


    A preternatural calmness seeped into Mike¡¯s lungs, over his chest, up his neck, down his biceps and into his forearms, tingling his fingers as he looked at Dave and said, ¡°How do you know what Mike Bournham might be thinking?¡±


    Whatever tone of voice he used, Lydia and Dave snapped to attention and stared at him. Lydia narrowed her eyes, the flush gone from her cheeks, the shake gone from her fingers, her body more composed, turning to face him with her shoulders straight. Mike¡¯s jaw felt about as tight as a reconstructed virgin on her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary ¨C a trend he¡¯d been alarmed to learn from one of his last dates was gaining popularity in his city.


    A pinched smile from Dave. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t claim to speak for him, but why don¡¯t you go ask him, Matt?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t do that, Dave,¡± Mike said. Lydia¡¯s hand flew to her mouth, suppressing a chuckle. Ahh, so she got the cultural reference. Dave clearly didn¡¯t, eyes flashing in anger at her laughter, at Mike¡¯s face. Whatever anger he was transmitting, he realized it wasn¡¯t enough. He had to be...no. Dammit.


    He couldn''t be Michael Bournham right now.


    Role play for the cameras. He had to be Matt Jones; he had to be this asshole¡¯s subordinate. This was the part he was playing. This hidden boss for the sake of the cameras, for the sake of the drama, for the sake of those profits. And even if Dave was wrong, Matt had to back down. Even if Mike wanted to roar up.


    Quickly, he calculated the best next step.


    Meanwhile, Dave answered, ¡°That¡¯s right. You can¡¯t do that because you don¡¯t have a direct line or even an indirect line to Michael Bournham. I do. I¡¯m the Director of Communications.¡± He used his hand to gesture for importance, for emphasis, as if somehow that hand using an ¡°okay¡± sign spun about, the palm being used to emphasize boundaries, as if it made a difference.


    As if it made him more important.


    Mike wanted to crush this guy like the bug that he was, yet Matt had to defer. That didn¡¯t mean that Mike wouldn¡¯t act later. It just meant that it was time for Matt to be the good guy in a different way.


    ¡°This has been a great meeting,¡± Mike said, speaking with as much sincerity as he could muster. ¡°And Lydia, I would love to watch the rest of the presentation. You¡¯ve got some innovative ideas there but I,¡± he choked out, ¡°have to defer to the boss ¨C because he¡¯s the boss, right?¡±


    Her eyes sparkled with panic. Mike knew what she was feeling. This was going down, down, down the drain and he flashed back to his own presentation upon which his entire career had hinged. Except that he had been eighteen, nervous, geeky, a code jockey, and telling his dad about the importance of data mining and using these new technology techniques in the mid 90¡¯s to help raise the business profile, to help gain customers and market share and new clients. He hadn¡¯t been taken seriously at first either.


    His father''s reaction had been the opposite of Dave¡¯s. He¡¯d simply told him go for it. ¡°Do whatever you wanna do kid, just have fun doing it.¡± Oh, how Mike had ¨C helping his father quintuple the size of the company in a handful of years.


    Lydia didn¡¯t have that luxury. He didn¡¯t have the authority as Matt Jones of saying, ¡°Go for it, Lydia. Here¡¯s a budget ¨C run with it and show me what you can do.¡±


    As Mike Bournham he could. Just not yet.


    She began stuffing papers and pulling thumb drives out of the company laptop, head down, clearly too upset to speak but remaining professional. She gave Dave a very tight, wide-eyed, overwrought, but restrained look and said, ¡°Thank you for giving me an opportunity to show you what I¡¯m capable of.¡±


    Mike jumped in and said, ¡°Seriously, I¡¯d like to see the rest of that,¡± gesturing to the thumb drive.


    She tossed it to him and he caught it with a practiced hand. ¡°It¡¯s all yours,¡± she said.


    Yeah it is, he thought. It is all mine. But she didn¡¯t know that.


    Dave stood, looked at his watch again, pulled out his Blackberry and started thumbing a text. Without even looking at either of them he said, ¡°See you guys later. And by the way, Lydia, I sent you an email and I need you to email that out for me to the Borden account.¡±


    Lydia bit her lip, clenched her fists behind her back, closed her eyes and said in a fake, cheery voice, ¡°Will do Dave. Don¡¯t worry about it. I got it covered.¡±


    ¡°You always do,¡± he called back, then quietly closed the door.


    She was about to break down. The way that her fingers snapped quickly to grab at the papers, how her wrists flicked with the ever-efficient motions that her body used to control what he imagined to be a chaotic mind right now, furious, fuming and indignant. Most of all, hurt.


    He reached out and put a gentle hand on top of hers, staring at her face. She paused, then looked up. Oh, man, she was barely holding it together but he had to say something, had to do something ¨C because right now it was either comfort her or kill Dave.


    ¡°Lydia, he¡¯s an ass,¡± he said quietly. Her eyes widened and she looked at him, roaming up and down his face. He could feel her not just surveying him, not just sizing him up, not just figuring out his level of sincerity and whether this was a ploy to get her in bed, but really taking him in.


    ¡°You figured that out in your first week, huh, Matt?¡± she said, a veil floating swiftly down her face, covering everything. She snatched her hand away as if he¡¯d burned her. ¡°You''re a real go-getter.¡±


    He held out the thumb drive. ¡°I mean it. I¡¯m going to take a look at this.¡±


    Sweeping all the rest of her papers into her arms, she marched toward the door. ¡°You do that, Matt. Thanks. Appreciate it. Bye.¡±


    A shaky tone in her voice told him that she was trying, desperately, to get somewhere before she broke down in tears. Unctuous Dave, cutting her down so quickly, without a thought, brought her to this. How many times had he done that to people, male or female? As if his brain worked faster than everyone else''s, calibrating, measuring, weighing and making a snap decision on the spot, thumbs up or thumbs down, and then not caring about any of the other details that had gone into this distilled moment where he was apparently the master of someone else¡¯s fate. Who lets someone like that thrive in a company?


    He did. Mike sighed, the sound more of disgust than relief.


    And that...that just went along with being the CEO of a major corporation. Being Matt Jones meant that he got to see how the sausage was made. The inner workings of his company, each worker, each office, all the way down to expensing a travel request. He¡¯d noticed that the people who cleaned the bathrooms were no longer Bournham Industries employees. They were subcontractors, contracted out from a company that Bournham paid.


    He had noticed that the bathrooms were clean on the surface, but not really clean if you looked behind the toilets or under the sinks. You saw dirt built up in the corners. Cheap, scratchy paper towels and toilet paper, filth gunked up around the nuts and bolts that anchored the toilets to the ground, and a general sense of a rush job prevailed. It made him wonder what else he was missing.


    Funny how he wasn¡¯t a detail kind of guy. Not anymore. The programmer who used to fret over a misplaced comma now found himself noticing all sorts of specifics, from the weird scent in his office to the nonsensical supply ordering system that his procurement office had where, in order to have a corporate account to buy supplies, you had to go to the procurement website, download a form, print it, sign it, have your supervisor sign it, and then fax or scan or email it and send it back to procurement for them to open an online account for you.


    These were just details, but they were important details, things he should have been paying attention to long ago. He wondered how many Daves were there, really, in his company. And how many Lydias? Because what he needed were more Lydias. More people with spirit. More people with verve, with that go-to-it, can-do attitude ¨C and he needed to weed out the Daves.


    Jonah came to mind and he found himself appreciating this entire, bizarre scenario because it meant that he really did have more insight. Not just into Bournham Industries and not just as the CEO, but as Mike Bournham. Not the media darling, the silver-haired playboy, known by his signature phrase that had popped into his mind and out of his mouth (¡°bespoke or be naked¡±? Ugh), unfortunately, on Oprah. As he looked down at his wingtips paired with cheap dockers, a business shirt and a jacket of undetermined fiber, what he really wanted to be wearing was a pair of shorts, some Merrills, and an old t-shirt, and be hiking in the woods.


    He hadn¡¯t been on a hike in years unless it was to do a business deal. His idea of outdoor exercise these days was golf. It wasn¡¯t fun, it wasn¡¯t eighteen holes of tapping the ball around and following up with drinks. It was cold, hard, calculated figures in his head, discussions with clients and with competitors in many cases, all to get the upper hand. Maybe Dave wasn¡¯t so different from Mike Bournham then, doing all the same things and stepping on all the little people who were in his path.


    Watching it happen, though, in slow motion second by second, in real-time, and seeing what it did to someone he was coming to care for meant only one thing. He needed to go find Lydia.


    No, it meant two things.


    He needed to fire Dave.


    Way back in eighth grade, Lydia had asked Joe Stillman to go to the Valentine¡¯s Day dance with her. She was thirteen and had a mouth full of silver and a little bit of pudge around her waist that later became more pudge, and a bright smile, with an eager attitude of optimism. It was a Sadie Hawkins dance, so girls had to ask guys and Sandy and Pete had spent the better part of two weeks helping to shore up her confidence because of course Joey Stillman would say ¡°yes¡±.


    Of course he would.


    Walking down the hallway to her office, holding it together so she could go find some quiet little dark cave burrowed out in the middle of steel and carpet corporate land, this moment reminded her of how it felt after Joey had pointed at her and laughed in front of all his friends and said, ¡°Why would I want to go to a dance with you, Lydia chlamydia?¡± How she¡¯d had to run past all the other kids at recess, lined up and laughing at her, sprinting as fast as she could for the safety of the girls room.


    Hold it together Lydia, hold it together, she told herself and overall, she was. She was breathing in, she was breathing out, left foot forward, right foot forward. Body was in check, her emotions were held at bay, she was carrying her professional supplies and had the countenance of someone who was composed, who was calm, who had had a meeting that went poorly, right?

 Page 11

    It happens all the time.


    No big deal.Advertisement


    Brush it off, move on, next project.


    Except Dave hadn¡¯t even listened ¨C that was clear. Matt surprised her, turning into quite an ally. A healthy dose of poor me and she could feel Eeyore Syndrome infecting her, the sob building in her chest, behind her very professional white shirt under her very professional Jones New York navy blue suit jacket and it rose up past her throat, past the pearls that Sandy had given her when she graduated high school, past the flush rising up her neck behind her ears, making her inner ears itch and her eyes about to start pouring tears out of a choked eyelid. If she didn¡¯t find someplace safe soon, she was going to blow ¨C and it was going to be bad.


    Setting her paperwork down at her desk, she looked around. One of the big disadvantages of working in a cubicle farm was that there was absolutely no privacy. If you were going to break down you needed to find a bathroom stall or a supply closet or borrow someone¡¯s empty office to do it. She knew, though, that there was no time. And then, she noticed the note, a post-it, Dave¡¯s horrible scrawl:


    I need my travel arrangements printed on blue copy paper, not white, so that I can color code everything for my trip.


    The sigh that emerged from her felt like a roar. You have got to be fucking kidding me! she thought. This was how he was. He would make her take two hours to change the color schematics on a PowerPoint presentation. Dave had asked her, once, to fetch her coffee and she had shot him down, citing gender dynamics and the fact that it wasn¡¯t in her job description. At the time, he''d respected that, but immediately had her work on changing the colors for his deck of slides. Wasting two hours of company time choosing between magenta and fuschia was an absolutely critical aspect in raising the quality of his presentations.


    And she had seen his presentations ¨C he was right. They were so bad that the color scheme was pretty much the only thing that was remotely attractive or appealing or insightful. This kind of treatment was mind numbing and it turned her into a petulant, territorial office worker, the kind of woman she never wanted to become. Rising up the ranks ¨C well, that¡¯s what this presentation had been about and he didn¡¯t even give her a chance, dismissing it out of hand.


    He''d won on the damn coffee issue, too, about a year ago. Getting that double soy latte most days was so petty, but she turned it to her advantage, taking a half hour or more to just go for a walk and get away from it all. Dave only cared that he got what he wanted. He didn''t notice her prolonged absence. She was just a tool.


    Matt had taken the flash drive, but for what reason? Probably to steal her idea, right? No. No. Her mouth filled with salty saliva, the first warning that she was about to cry. No, because the presentation wasn¡¯t even good enough for Dave to let her finish. So how could Matt use that against her? Why did he ask for the thumb drive?


    Could it be that he actually cared? That he really thought there was merit to what she had poured herself into?


    Damn it! If they had just listened she could have told them about the coalition of bloggers and independent bookstores and how she was close to getting a chance with the big booksellers online. Of small blogs, and big blogs, of writer co-ops and online forums where romance and erotic romance writers all joined together and worked to help each other. Of grabbing ad buys on those sites. Of planning Google words campaigns.


    Of all of the different ways that Bournham Industries could help big business and could help to grab part of the sales that these women ¨C that these voracious readers ¨C produced.


    But no. She had been given a pat on the head and a ¡°that¡¯s nice¡± and had been dismissed back to the kid¡¯s table. The reality of that started to sink in and she could feel her ribcage shake, the hollowed out, gnawing pain in her gut, her hipbones pressing against the tightness of her tailored skirt, the despair seeping out ¨C and could hear Sandy¡¯s voice saying, ¡°Oh, honey, just come home. We love you. We know you¡¯re good, come work for us. Come back and be where you belong.¡±


    That thought tipped her over.


    Sprinting wasn¡¯t an option in high heels and it would make a scene, just like sprinting had, in fact, made a scene back in eighth grade. Lydia chlamydia had stuck with her for a year and a half even though Joey Stillman had no idea what chlamydia was. He later owned up to the fact that he thought it just meant that she was fat.


    ¡°Fat?¡± she threw back at Joey their senior year in high school when they were all drinking out in his dad¡¯s field and she had let the resentment (well, most of it) fade for the purposes of hanging out in the same group, of companionship, of having a clique of her own in high school that she couldn¡¯t get kicked out of.


    ¡°Well, yeah you know, dude, I was thirteen. Don¡¯t over analyze this Lyd.¡±


    Walking on unsteady feet to get the damn blue copier paper to put in her printer to reproduce work that she had already done successfully for Dave, to meet his micro-managing, petty, delicate standards, she was never so grateful for the click of a door closing and for the deathly darkness of the supply closet.


    The tears came fast, furious, and she pulled out a tissue that she had had stuffed in a breast pocket just in case. Lydia would leave here with red eyes and puffy circles above her cheekbones but she didn¡¯t care, because right now she needed to get out months and months of hope. Exorcise it from her system. Kill it, burn it, destroy it, drive it out ¨C because it was her biggest enemy right now.


    Not Matt. Not Dave. Not her mother. Not Joey Stillman.


    Hope.


    If he hadn¡¯t seen her make a break for the supply room, he would have left it alone. If he hadn¡¯t heard the tiniest of hitches in her breath as that door closed, he would have left it alone. If he hadn¡¯t seen how her shoulders were slumped, how she carried the weight of the burden of her own expectations ¨C a weight he understood all too well and that had grooved itself deep into his own shoulders and neck ¨C he would have left it alone.


    But he had seen all that, and so he couldn¡¯t leave her alone.


    He didn¡¯t bother to knock when he approached the door, just opening it carefully, surprised to find the room pitch black. Fumbling for where he imagined the light switch would be, he heard her breath hitch in surprise. Fingers found the switch and he flipped it.


    Funny ¨C his own building and he didn¡¯t know such a simple detail. One that allowed him to see her and allowed him to offer whatever comfort, as feeble as it might be, he could give. What he saw made his blood boil, made him rise up, made every animal instinct in him swell, his chest and shoulders squaring and spreading ¨C because this was a woman wronged. A woman hurting, and in emotional pain because of a guy he employed. Because of a system that he led, that he was in charge of, that fed into this machinery of shame, preserving people who could play the game.


    Rewarding them. Promoting them.


    Instead, here she sat, curled up into a tiny little kitten ball, crying into a ream of paper.


    ¡°Oh God, not you,¡± she said, her voice shaky and dripping with contempt. ¡°Really, as if my day hadn¡¯t gone bad enough!¡± Lydia stumbled over her words, grasping to find whatever it was that she was searching for, eyes red-rimmed and teary, mascara that had been so meticulously set earlier now smeared. Her lips were raw from rubbing.


    How he wished to make them raw from his own.


    ¡°I, Lydia, I just ¨C I saw you ¨C I didn¡¯t...¡± His turn to stumble. He wasn¡¯t a fumbler for words, not a hesitant man, and yet this new identity had him reeling. It dawned on him that there were no cameras rolling in this closet, no Jonah to worry about, no posturing. He could be himself ¨C but not really. That was the problem with the game that he was playing. Maybe he and Dave weren¡¯t so different after all. Both were poseurs.


    None of that mattered, though, because what was important was that a woman he had an undeniable attraction to, who he couldn¡¯t get out of his mind, who intrigued him more than half a dozen ¨C as Jeremy put it ¨C ¡°toothpicks with boobs¡± had ever, ever done.


    Mike knelt down and she flinched ¨C flinched! ¨C at the touch of his fingertips on her elbow. Reaching down, he offered his hand. ¡°No!¡± She snatched her elbow back. ¡°Leave me alone. If I want to sit on the floor and cry like a wimp, I¡¯m going to and you can just...well, you can¡¯t do anything about it!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re smearing mascara all over the binder clips.¡±


    ¡°I ordered those binder clips. At a discount by the way. Forty-three percent off. Saved Michael Bournham some money.¡± The cackling laugh was one of over the top outrage, a tone that said is this really happening to me? and that made him cringe.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think Michael Bournham cares how much you spent on alligator clips,¡± he said. ¡°I think he cares more that his employees feel comfortable presenting new ideas to their bosses, that they value initiative, and that no one is left cowering in a dark supply closet after giving a professional presentation that would blow the socks off of people two levels above you, Lydia. Dave is an idiot.¡±


    ¡°Tell me something I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°I think I just did.¡±


    ¡°What? You think I don¡¯t know that Dave is an idiot?¡±


    ¡°No, I think you don¡¯t know just how incredible the presentation is.¡± He pulled the thumb drive out of his pants pocket and dangled it over her, now crouching down, his knees inches from her body. His hand itched to touch her but he held back, knowing that she was the human equivalent of an injured animal and that he could either bond with her by gaining her trust right now ¨C or threaten her and watch her shut down.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that when I look at your presentation, the full presentation that Dave didn¡¯t let you give, that what I said a moment ago will be truer than ever. You¡¯ve got great ideas. It¡¯s a shame that no one at this company values them.¡±


    ¡°I could have told you that a long time ago,¡± she said, running her hands through her hair, the effect so sensual that he felt himself get rock hard instantly ¨C and realized just how vulnerable she was.


    She tilted her face up to him, eyes wide, body relaxed, the weeping gone, the pity party over, her face softening and asked, ¡°Was it really that good, Matt?¡±


    Her honest yearning broke that thin thread of restraint, that hand-tailored, bespoke, homespun thread and he leaned forward and answered her with a kiss.


    Eyes wide open, Lydia reveled in the smooth, soft, warm lips that covered hers, the touch of his hands in her hair, cradling her jaw with a caress so welcoming she could feel herself melt. Warmth coursed through her, heart catching up to her racing mind, his fingers wiping away a stray tear on her cheek. Tongue dancing, he parted her closed lips and deepened the kiss as her hands wrapped around his waist, her body beneath his, still curled in a ball but unfurling as he made her blossom.


    Matt sighed, pulled back a few inches, and rested his forehead against hers. ¡°I didn''t want to do that.¡±


    A smile twitched on her lips. Reluctantly, she let it, the zing of arousal and desire so great she was already wet and wanting. ¡°So don''t do it again.¡±


    His eyes turned smoky, still green but darker somehow, her own need mirrored in his look. ¡°This is me not wanting to do that again,¡± he murmured as his mouth claimed hers, strong hands shifting down her neck, one sliding under her arm and caressing her breast and ribcage, the other still buried in her hair. His lips were so inviting and her own tongue matched his in intensity and fervor, her breath coming in little gasps as she struggled not to come right then, right there.

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    In the supply closet at work. With her boss. Who stole her job.


    Ah, hell, what was she doing?Advertisement


    No stray thought, not even one as strong as job stealer, made her break away. Instead, she slid her body around so that her breasts pushed against his muscled chest, her hands sliding down his waist, feeling the taut skin under clothes she wanted to rip off. Her own clothes were a bother, too, as her breasts swelled over the cups of her bra, her nipples in agony as they brushed against the silk, her body wanting to be naked and licked and laved and touched and driven into.


    His response wasn''t measured, either, the heat building so fast she was close to stripping off her panties and hoping he would lift her up, thrust into her and fuck her against the back wall, their pounding muffled by cinder block, her screams mitigated by biting his shoulder.


    Alas, it was Matt who had to come to his senses first, because her mind was cotton candy and she was ready to be stuffed in his mouth one handful at a time, turned to liquid sugar by his tongue.


    ¡°Oh, Lydia, I can''t,¡± he groaned. ¡°We can''t.¡± Spitting out the word, he was obviously torn, and she struggled against her devilish ability to make him kiss her again. How earnest he sounded, how conflicted, a command to his voice even as he struggled within.


    Trusting him wouldn''t be hard, if she just let herself tip over from guarded and worried and territorial to, well...free. Free to feel what she felt, touch what she wanted, invite what she needed, and protect what needed to be saved. Inhaling his scent, she found that same, steady mixture of musk and soap and now an aroma of danger, but not the kind that hurts.


    Quite the opposite.


    ¡°I know,¡± she answered, daring to brush one hand against his tight package, the simplest of surveys to see if what she wanted was what she expected. Bigger and thicker than what her hand sought, deliciously hard and ready. Even the quick touch made him groan, his eyes going unfocused and his arms tightening about her, one hand loosening to grab her wrist as she turned bold, ready to stroke.


    ¡°If you do that again, it won''t be your hand touching me. It will be me taking you, legs wide open, panties ripped off and dangling from the light fixture, watching you as I make you come through gritted teeth, the only regret that you couldn''t scream my name openly and with abandon,¡± he growled. Growled! Voice low and graveling, turning her insides to red wetness. Take me, take me! she thought.


    ¡°Will this be in my performance review?¡± she whispered.


    His mouth ripped into hers, tongue driven to claim and own, hands hot and rough against her breasts, searching to wrap and encompass and clinch as much of her as possible. Her hands were up to the challenge, pulling at his tucked-in shirt, desperate for the touch of his hot skin, fingers fascinated by the grooves in his abs, the muscles scalloped and hand-carved, her hand traveling down to something much more demanding ¨C


    Beep! Beep! Beep! A piercing sound throbbed the air. What the hell?


    ¡°What is that?¡± he shouted, standing suddenly, his stance one of defense and protectiveness. The supply closet wasn''t much bigger than a dorm room or a tiny bedroom, and there weren''t any electronics in here.


    Lydia stood, smoothing her hair, wondering if her lips looked as raw and swollen as they felt. ¡°Fire alarm.¡±


    ¡°Fire?¡± His eyes went wild, stepping closer to her, protective and worried.


    ¡°What day is it?¡±


    ¡°Friday.¡±


    ¡°Then it must be 4 p.m. The building does a test on the first Friday of the month, and today is August 1.¡±


    Without a word, she looked at him, a bit woozy and so shocked by her own easy move into that singular kiss that she felt like she wasn''t really Lydia.


    And then she opened the door, took a deep breath, and left.


    Her words were so programmed, so automatic, so administrative that he wanted to snatch her out of here, carry her somewhere so they could recapture what they''d had seconds ago, his hands about to explore her most intimate places, his tongue done with her mouth and ready to seek other pleasures, other tastes.


    Swallowed by the crowd of office workers all flocking to the staircases, she disappeared into nothingness, leaving him throbbing and craven. He had instituted the monthly fire tests, years ago, shortly after the 9/11 attacks. Required by law a few years after he''d added them, the first monthly test took place in the old headquarters, four buildings ago, when he''d had what ¨C 400? ¨C employees, an earlier incarnation of Bournham Industries that bridged his dad''s tiny company and the giant behemoth Mike had created in dizzying time.


    Some part of his brain needed this reflection to calm down, move away from the scent of her, her soft body, how she took those little gasps as his hands had brushed against her ¨C


    ¡°Mmmmmm - att! You probably didn''t know what to do, huh? First time.¡± Jerry, one of the custodians, pointed him toward the staircase that hugged the building''s west corner. ¡°Fire alarm virgin!¡± he barked, then winked, laughing. In his fifties, stooped, bald, but with a friendly smile that made it easier to ignore his missing eye, Jerry had been with the company since his father owned it, and Mike understood the stutter in calling out his name.


    He''d nearly outed him. A handful of employees were in on the joke, mostly the core guys from his dad''s company, people who had been with Bournham Industries for the past thirty-odd years. Loyalty trumped all ¨C even in Mike, when making high-level business deals ¨C and for as reluctant as he''d been to tell his dad''s old pros what he was doing, it had been for the best.


    Jerry''s words felt like fingernails on a chalkboard right now, though, because ¡°virgin¡± was to Mike as ¡°intelligent¡± was to Snooki.


    Lydia had turned him into a raging hormone wearing dyed hair and green contacts.


    As he joined the crowd and made his slow descent to the street level, he was grateful for the flights of steps, for his erection faded in time, replaced with a hollow, gnawing need for something he couldn''t have.


    Chapter Five


    ¡°You kissed him? You kissed your boss the first week he''s there? In a supply closet?¡± Krysta grabbed Lydia''s shoulder, nearly tipping the spoon out of her hand and splattering Rocky Road ice cream all over Lydia''s pants. ¡°Who are you and what have you done with the real Lydia?¡±


    ¡°I know!¡± Lydia wailed, shoving a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth to cut off her own sound. The cold blast of thick, creamy chocolate made her close her eyes and groan as her lips met over the spoon, her tongue laving the sweet, luscious treat, her mind floating to hot, warm, delicious treats on Matt''s body that she might ¨C


    ¡°You don''t kiss guys on the first date! In fact, you have ranted since our freshman year of college about male hegemony, sexual politics, and how gender discrimination is a worse evil than, than ¨C than even not composting!¡°


    Lydia laughed silently, her mouth busy with the flavor and slow melt of the pool of chocolate delight. Ice cream was no substitute for his mouth. Given that his lips weren''t an option right now, she swallowed and shoveled another spoonful in, trying to figure out what to say as Krysta ranted on.


    ¡°Lydia, you''re going to lose your job if you keep this up. Someone at Bournham already gave away the job you wanted ¨C now you''re clinging to the one you have.¡± That made Lydia stop short. Krysta wasn''t the practical one. Lydia was. The role reversal made a small pain form behind her right eye. Oh, great. She needed a migraine like she needed to be fired.


    ¡°I won''t lose my job. It was just a harmless, casual,¡± she inhaled deeply, nearly swooning with the tactile memory of his hands on her waist, how they roamed down to her hips and then brushed up against the bottoms of her breasts, the exploration a ¨C


    She looked up to find Krysta tapping her foot. ¡°You can''t even finish sentences, now. This from the woman who wrote a 115-page master''s thesis on gender politics in the Information Age.¡±


    Ouch.


    This is different, she nearly said, her internal editor scrambling to stop her. Every woman said that. Every single one, always at the beginning of an affair. Matt wasn''t married ¨C at least, he didn''t wear a ring ¨C so it wasn''t really an affair. It was one kiss. Just one.


    ¡°It was just a kiss!¡± Lydia retorted, her face flushing furiously.


    ¡°Is he married, Lyd?¡± Krysta asked softly, alarm coloring her features, her expression so prudish Lydia would have laughed if she weren''t the potential transgressor and home wrecker in this conversation.


    ¡°He doesn''t wear a ring.¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t mean jackall, and you know it.¡±


    ¡°You''re right.¡± Lydia threw the now-empty pint container in the trash and tossed the spoon in the sink. She threw up her hands. ¡°I don''t know anything. Here''s what I do know: I came to work today like any other day. I sat in the parking lot reading Fifty Shades of Grey to kill time because the commute was faster than usual. Some guy I had never met insisted I give up my parking spot and oh, yeah, by the way, he''s my new boss ¨C hired into a job Bournham Industries never advertised, and one I''ve been pushing to get for nearly two years.¡±


    She huffed with indignation as she felt Krysta''s attention shift from judgment and skepticism to deeper empathy. ¡°Once the shock of that wore off, I got to make a fool of myself in front of Dave ¨C again ¨C and went and had myself a good cry in the closet, where Matt found me. Nice guy. He comforts me, and then puts the moves on me, kissing me.¡± Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, willing away the memory of his hands on her, how his fingers dipped under her shirt to find flesh, his caress burned into her.


    ¡°He took advantage of you!¡± Krysta shifted her hands to her hips, chin jutted out, back on Lydia''s side. She didn''t correct her; there was no taking advantage. Lydia was an all-too-willing partner in that kiss, a fact she had to acknowledge as she felt herself get wet just from thinking about how his mouth had simply taken her, hands under her skirt, shifting aside her panties and exploring in the ¨C


    ¡°Uh, no!¡± she choked out, shaking her head. God, would these images ever go away? ¡°It was just one kiss!¡± she bleated, her mind on some sputtering loop. Krysta eyed her warily and reached for the coffee pot.


    ¡°We need one more cup. Decaf?¡±


    ¡°I''ll stop drinking coffee the day I have to have decaf. We''re not that old!¡± Both women laughed as Lydia tamped down the full-blown arousal that just this conversation had recharged. A quick look at the stove clock told her that in eleven hours and thirteen minutes she would see Matt again.


    ¡°Seriously, Lyd. What are you going to do about this? Student loans don''t pay themselves. You have so many.¡± As she shook three level scoops of grounds into the basket, Krysta rolled her eyes. ¡°That $800 a month loan doesn''t pay for itself.¡±


    A thin thread of dread began to tug at her inside, unraveling stitch by stitch as the whole cloth of her life stretched out, tight and unwinding. Oh. My. God. Krysta was right. Not just right ¨C dead right. What in the everloving hell had she been thinking? Throwing away six years of college and grad school, slogging for two years as a corporate zombie for a chance to be Director of Social Media and work her way up ¨C and she impulsively, impetuously nearly threw it away for one good tussle in the supply closet with her boss?

 Page 13

    Her breath hitched and went shallow, her neck tightened, and she flushed all through, but not in a good way. Not aroused as she had been with Matt just hours ago, their bodies pressed together, flesh intertwined, his fingers seeking the heart of her and entering ¨C


    ¡°Lydia? You need to sit down.¡± Krysta''s hands were on her elbows now, leading her to a chair at the kitchen table. ¡°Breathe,¡± Krysta intoned. Lydia tried, but couldn''t. Pant pant pant. Pinpoints of white and dark filled her vision line.Advertisement


    What had she done? Her entire life was at stake. She was twenty-five and had a graduate degree and needed to work to pay her bills. Matt stoked something in her, exposing embers that had smoldered away, hot and bothered but thoroughly buried, for years. Ah, those hands on her, hungry and claiming, owning her flesh as his mouth had dominated her, practically ordered her to kiss him back and ¨C


    ¡°BREATHE!¡± Krysta suddenly blew a puff of air in her face, the way lifeguards tried to revive a swimmer before performing CPR or how mothers would stop a toddler''s tantrum. Some reflex kicked in and Lydia''s air drained out of her lungs in one slow, steady hiss, then whoop! she inhaled deeply, so swift a ragged edge of air dried out her throat, starting a coughing spasm.


    ¡°Oh, thank God,¡± Krysta muttered, rubbing the base of Lydia''s neck. ¡°You were gonna pass out.¡±


    Hot tears filled Lydia''s eyes and throat, salty and wet and demoralized as Krysta added, ¡°Lydia, I...I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t mean to ¨C oh, shit.¡±


    All Lydia could think about was how stupid she¡¯d been today and that whatever she felt for Matt made absolutely no sense. Wave after wave of something ¨C sorrow? fear? disgust? ¨C washed over her as she cried big, ugly tears that only a best friend like Krysta could watch without judgment.


    ¡°I can¡¯t explain it,¡± she sobbed. ¡°There¡¯s just this, this, attraction. I know, I know,¡± she said, holding up her hands in protest. ¡°I sound like every other woman in the world. And yet, I really, truly cannot explain it, Krysta.¡±


    She wiped the tears from her eyes, the skin under her bottom lids feeling like hot, wet tissue paper. ¡°I¡¯m a cliche. I own it. But man, let me tell you, I kind of get it now. The rush, the boldness, the need, Krysta. Damn! The need to touch him. To kiss him. To let my mind go to places that they haven¡¯t gone before. To want those hands on me. I just ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Oh, gross, Lydia!¡± Krysta shook her head in mock outrage.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You know I haven¡¯t had sex in over a year! This is torture. It¡¯s bad enough to listen to you talk about practically throwing away your entire career for some desperate kiss in a supply closet, but to have to listen to you talk about it like that ¨C ¡±


    Krysta¡¯s shoulders relaxed, and she slumped forward. ¡°I¡¯ve never felt that way. No guy has ever triggered anything like that in me.¡± She sighed, and looked at Lydia with a beseeching look. ¡°If that¡¯s what you felt in those few hours of knowing this guy, then I can¡¯t judge you. In fact, I think I¡¯m a little envious.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Lydia sat there, stunned, staring at her best friend. Was Krysta validating her feelings? Telling her it was OK to be attracted to Matt, to give in to this strange chemistry that made no sense? Compelled by some force she didn''t know existed, she wanted him ferociously, the need primal and severe, almost violent. How could that be safe? Acceptable? Proper?


    Professional?


    ¡°Normally, you¡¯re the one I¡¯m counseling on these issues,¡± Lydia smirked. Tears dried, she cocked her head and shot her friend a withering look. ¡°Do you have any idea how many walks of shame I have talked you through when it comes to guys?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know. Not lately, though. Betty White gets more than I do, these days.¡±


    ¡°Betty White probably gets more than both of us combined.¡±


    ¡°Like your grandma,¡± Krysta said.


    ¡°Don''t talk about Grandma''s sex life! Ewwww.¡± Her grandmother was in her eighties and had a steady boyfriend. Probably did get more than either of the twentysomething women.


    ¡°But none of those walks of shame ever involved something or a feeling like what you¡¯re talkin¡¯ about, Lydia,¡± Krysta confessed.


    Fuck! She was right, but the last thing Lydia wanted to do right now was reckon with reality, with the tension between how she should act and how she did feel. To an outsider, the whole mess must seem chaotic and banal, trite and achingly stereotypical. Who would have guessed that Lydia Charles, third-wave feminist with a second-wave kick, would end up doing something so cloyingly clich¨¦ as falling for her boss?


    Her very hot, alpha-male boss who acted like he not only owned the place, but he also owned her.


    ¡°You need to call your mother ¨C ¡±


    ¡°I need to call my mother ¨C ¡±


    In unison, Lydia and Krysta spoke the same thought, the words effortless and resignedly true. Damn it! Calling home meant getting tons of advice from her mom, all of it warm and helpful.


    With a dose of begging to come home that would knock out a horse, because Lydia''s mom didn''t do subtle when it came to trying to get the one stray from her flock to come home. She was a one-woman army, gone to battle with the world that Lydia so desperately wished to conquer ¨C one Director of Social Media position at a time.


    Lydia the Black Sheep.


    Sandy and Pete Charles had created their own little world on the coast in Maine, a world Lydia had fought tooth and nail to escape as soon as she''d graduated high school. Owners of the Escape Shores Campground, her parents had poured their life savings into the only place Lydia could remember from the time she could talk, having been raised there with her five brothers. Leaving home for Boston had been a betrayal.


    Going home meant admitting defeat. Sandy would view it as a victory, wanting desperately for all her kids to take part in what she and Pete viewed as a family venture. Managing 140 acres of prime oceanfront property, a data center, a heated in-ground pool (in Maine!), 230 campsites and RV pull-ins and all the entertainment, retail, and environmental issues that went with what Lydia called ¡°home¡± meant that her brothers kept pretty damn busy helping to run the largest campground on the northeastern shoreline. And the most tech savvy, but they could thank Lydia for that.


    Sandy wouldn''t let her forget it. Lydia knew that reaching out to home meant being love bombed. That seemed to be exactly what she needed. She knew it and Krysta knew it. Groaning, she reached for the phone. Krysta smirked and had the decency to fake needing to check her own phone. At the top of her ¡°Favorites,¡± Sandy''s number was one tap away.


    ¡°Hello? Lydia?¡± That flat midwestern voice, melodic and friendly, eager to hear her speak. Ah, Mom. Thirty years in New England hadn''t changed her, the ¡°r¡± intact in her words. Mainers thought her odd but warmed to her generosity and general can-do attitude. That she and Pete had created more than fifty much-needed jobs in their tiny community helped, too.


    Knowing she needed to just get it out, Lydia sighed. ¡°I didn''t get the job.¡±


    ¡°The one you''ve been waiting to apply for now for over a year?¡± Control your glee, Mom, she almost said, Sandy''s voice a mixture of fake commiseration and little-kid joy at the news. Here comes the onslaught.


    ¡°Yes. I came into work one day to find I had a new boss. Matt Jones.¡± Tears filled her eyes, and blood rushed to her cheeks. Elsewhere, too, making her squirm. Not now! Not now! Damn it, if Matt could have this kind of impact on her while just saying his name, what would ¨C


    ¡°You didn''t even get a chance to apply?¡± Sandy''s voice changed to outrage. Relief flooded Lydia. Anger she could handle. Righteous indignation she could feast on. A riled-up Sandy would give her the ego boost she needed. What she could not, would not handle right now was being begged mercilessly to come home and manage public relations and social media for the campground.


    Sniff. ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Bastards. Hey, Pete!¡± Lydia could imagine her mom, talking on her cell phone while manning the register in the little store on site, calling out to her dad, who was probably helping some guest with an RV question, or teaching a child how to play pool in the table in the hall behind the main store, or riding past in one of his blue golf carts that roamed at an ever-safe five mph that had bedeviled her and her brothers (we can run faster than those things, Daddy!).


    Ruddy cheeks and a straw hat with a draw string under his chin, Pete Charles was a tower of a man, but a gentle soul who derived so much pleasure from growing a business with his children. Except Lydia.


    And he, like Sandy, wanted her back in the fold, though his methods were a bit less obvious.


    ¡°Why won''t they give her a chance? She''s smarter than all of ''em!¡± she heard him shout. He was probably wearing paint-splattered Dickies that hadn''t been washed in months, a nice, crisp button down, and that old hat. He was careful not to be too disheveled these days, though he refused to change his work pants. Always said it made it clear that while the campground was a place for travel and fun and frolic, he had work to do, too. The serious work of moving and maintaining and keeping an enormous ¡°small¡± business functioning properly. Like biochemistry, if one enzyme went missing, one chemical went astray, the body would dissemble.


    Pete used that against Lydia, for they were losing the battle in an increasingly-online world, and while her brother Dan was great at business software, he was lousy at online PR and advertising. Lydia would provide a key service if she were home.


    She just didn''t want that. A standoff of epic proportions, and calling home right now meant giving her parents some heavy-duty ammo for working every guilt button she possessed.


    Her Matt Jones button, though, was big as well. Red, right now. Absolutely throbbing. Leaning forward to shift some of the renegade flesh in her nether regions, the wiggling only made her all the more aware of how helpless she''d become. One week with a guy who stole her job (not intentionally, but her emotional truth was as important as facts, right?) and she was turning into a puddle of sensual goo. Not fair. Not fair at all.


    Home was starting to look pretty good, and that is what made her hair stand on end and turned the freak-out dial up a notch.


    ¡°Tell Dad he''s more transparent by the day.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± her mother asked, all innocent and disingenuous. Sandy knew exactly what she wanted and wasn''t going to give a millimeter.


    ¡°You, on the other hand, are a giant piece of Saran Wrap, Mom. I''m not moving back.¡± Her voice turned to a growl on the last sentence. ¡°What I need now is an ego boost.¡±


    ¡°You''re so amazing that Escape Shores needs your expertise! We pay a living wage and you get free muffins and espresso, hand-crafted by these brilliant men who live here.¡±


    ¡°I''ve washed their socks, Mom, and seen them hungover. One of them barfed in my car and I helped another one unglue himself from his own bike. My brothers aren''t brilliant; they just stayed, so you love them more.¡± This was an ongoing joke in the family, ever since Lucas was IQ tested in third grade and declared a genius. To spare the others'' feelings Sandy had announced that all of her children were brilliant.

 Page 14

    Even the dogs were declared above-average, and for a while they called the campground Lake Wobegon Shores.


    ¡°I love all my children equally!¡± Sandy huffed. Lydia heard her dad laughing maniacally in the background. Whomp. Mom must have hit him. Then footsteps fading away.Advertisement


    ¡°You''re the Karl Marx of motherhood.¡±


    ¡°Did you call me to berate me, or is there a real reason? The lobsters don''t cook themselves.¡± Ah. Thursday. The big steak ''n lobsterfest was starting in an hour. Lydia could smell the mesquite, taste the drawn butter, feel the steam from the pots as Dad and Adam boiled them in beer (the exact brand a family secret), her tongue imagining the juicy, sweet crunch of grilled corn on the cob.


    ¡°Beach bake night,¡± she groaned, mouth watering. Krysta''s eyes widened and she smacked her lips.


    ¡°Come on up for next week,¡± Sandy said, her voice a taunting, teasing tendril of evil temptation. ¡°You know we miss you something fierce.¡±


    Tempting. Really, really tempting. She could taste the ocean water in the lobster, imagine that first bite of perfect, medium rare tenderloin, the night chill in the air tempered by one of her brothers'' old college sweatshirts and a roaring campfire, people playing random instruments and everyone ¨C octogenarians to three year olds ¨C roasting marshmallows on a stick.


    So different from the city, where people not only didn''t make eye contact, they lived in little spheres of air influence, as if a bubble surrounded them. Chatting on cell phones like the Borg, ear pieces attached to nothing, they conducted business ¨C personal and professional ¨C with ruthless efficiency, from speed dating to minute clinics to in-cab web access.


    Lydia needed both to balance her. Running home would be the easy way out.


    Her mama didn''t raise no wimps, and Lydia took this moment to remind her of that fact. ¡°If I come home, it''s for a visit. Not for good.¡±


    Warmth spread through the phone as Sandy''s smile could be heard ¨C no, felt ¨C through the thin, black, shiny phone. ¡°Are you bringing anyone special?¡± Up the ante, why don''t you, Mom?


    ¡°I''m bringing me.¡± So why did her mind flash to Matt? Already? C''mon, Lydia, she chided herself. You''re not in eighth grade.


    Sandy got it. ¡°That is more than enough! We''ll make sure to have Caleb make your special tarragon butter sauce.¡±


    The word ¡°tarragon¡± tickled some inner gourmet as Lydia''s mouth watered again, and this time not at the thought of Matt. ¡°Is he still making that?¡±


    ¡°With Stan Michaelson''s special cream.¡± Michaelson''s Dairy still delivered, and not the kind of delivery you get in Boston, with an impatient bike messenger or a shy, dour restaurant dude. Glass bottles, happy cows and free sugar cookies for kids who caught Mr. Michaelson as he filled the milk box. You couldn''t get any more ''50s.


    Then why did it make her smile?


    Groan. ¡°Is she plying you with promises of hookers and blow?¡± Krysta stage whispered.


    ¡°Tarragon butter!¡± Sandy shouted through the phone.


    ¡°Even better!¡± Krysta shouted back.


    ¡°Traitor,¡± Lydia hissed.


    ¡°I''m a realist. You''re insane for giving up a weekend back home.¡± Krysta had been to the campground countless times and had a mild crush on Caleb. Or on his chocolate mint mousse. It was hard to tease out which she preferred more.


    ¡°I can''t, Mom. I have to figure out where I''m going at work, and find another job there to set my sights on.¡± Disappointment practically took solid form and reached through the phone.


    Deep sigh. ¡°Fine. I understand. Your career is important to you.¡± Another deep sigh. ¡°We''re just your family.¡± Cough cough.


    ¡°The cough is a nice touch. You trying out for the role of Fantine?¡±


    Gut-busting laughter. ¡°You got me there, Hon. I just want to see you.¡±


    ¡°Cars and planes and trains work both ways, Mom. I''m only four hours away.¡±


    ¡°During high season?¡± Late July and early August was crazy, she knew. Her mom barely had time for this conversation, but if Lydia had asked for eight hours of silent weeping into the phone, Sandy would give it to her.


    ¡°Yeah. I know.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± Sandy said, her voice suspicious. ¡°Is there a new guy? Is that why you don''t want to take a weekend off?¡±


    How to answer that? ¡°Mmmm, nope.¡±


    She could hear Sandy''s eyebrows shoot up. ¡°That''s a weak ''no.''¡±


    ¡°But it''s a no.¡± Please don''t question it.


    Random words, then shuffling, the her dad''s voice shouting mild obscenities. ¡°Hon, I have to go. Someone just pumped gasoline in their septic tank.¡± Saved by a new RV owner.


    ¡°Your dad''s fit to be tied,¡± Sandy added. Lydia could imagine the mess.


    ¡°OK.¡± Whew. ¡°Love you, Mom.¡±


    ¡°Save the date! August 22. Talent Show.¡± Click.


    That she wouldn''t miss for anything.


    ¡°Did she say ''talent show''?¡± Krysta asked, saying the last two words as if she were talking about feces.


    ¡°Oh, yes she did. She said talent show. The talent show at the Escape Shores Campground in Verily, Maine is the absolute, hands down, most exciting, thrilling professional talent show you¡¯ve ever been to. Didn''t I take you?¡± She and Krysta had been friends for years.


    Krysta shook her head. ¡°Nope. If it''s in late August, I''m at my mom''s for a family reunion.¡±


    ¡°Then that explains it.¡± Lydia shook her head in mock sadness. ¡°You''re missing the greatest show on earth. My brothers, Dan and Adam, are famous for their nose marshmallow trick.¡±


    Krysta made a sound of disgust. ¡°Do I want to ask?¡±


    ¡°Of course you want to ask!¡± said Lydia. ¡°You take a mini marshmallow and stick it up one nostril, and then your partner ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Partner? You have a partner in this?¡± Krysta grew more disgusted by the minute. Lydia reveled in it.


    ¡°And then your partner,¡± she continued, ignoring the interruption, ¡°stands about twenty feet away, maybe ten if you¡¯re just starting, and you close the nostril that doesn¡¯t have the marshmallow in it.¡± Lydia¡¯s voice developed a nasal tone as she demonstrated the motion. ¡°And you take a deep breath...¡±


    ¡°Oh, God!¡± Krysta grabbed her stomach.


    ¡°...and you blow as hard as you can, shoot the marshmallow in an arc, across the air, and the other person stands there with their mouth open ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!¡± shouted Krysta, waving her hands wildly as if fanning herself. ¡°OK, OK, I get the point. So that¡¯s what passes for talent in the middle of nowhere Maine.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s pretty much the...claim to fame for a...well, yeah.¡± Lydia stumbled over that one.


    Krysta sat up on her elbows, leaned across the table, looked Lydia dead in the eye and said, ¡°How in the hell did someone like you from someplace like that end up in Boston?¡±


    Lydia leaned in as if to tell her a secret, waving her closer, cupping her palm over her mouth, and whispered, ¡°That¡¯s exactly why I ended up in Boston.¡±


    A zing of thrill shot through her as she waited for her elevator and watched the doors open slowly, finding Matt already on board. That zing shouldn''t have thrilled her. Horror at her own inappropriate feelings for her boss should have been her response, but instead it was her clit that dominated, heating with a fire of excitement that turned into a deeper throb, making her pulse race and her heart slam against her ribs, every bit of her throat feeling her hot breath as it escaped.


    ¡°Morning,¡± he said, his mouth stretching into a big grin. Lydia had avoided him since that closet kiss, hoping she could just ¨C what? Forget it? He had come to her, once, and seemed like he wanted to say something, but she had been so flustered she had jumped up and found some files to scan, scurrying off, too uncomfortable to talk.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± she replied. What she wanted to say was Kiss me. Or, worse, Take me.


    How about: Fuck me silly.


    Good morning would have to do.


    Everything about this man turned her on, from the hint of aftershave he wore, to the way his biceps pressed against his oxford shirt. Those arms had been around her just days ago, and his body rested in a relaxed, but aware state, knees slightly bent, hand holding a briefcase, eyes perceptive and watching her. As she stepped into the elevator she hoped no one would join them, the pneumatic hiss of the doors closing like an answered prayer.


    Out of habit, she reached over and pressed the floor button, feeling his eyes crawl over her, like a hot laser she could feel in every pore. A flush covered her cheeks and she felt a climax rising, just from this. Being in an enclosed space with him, the air electric with the tension of touches not yet completed.


    She wasn''t imagining the tension, either. He gave it right back, his eyes intent on her, body tight now, shifting his weight toward her, surveying every inch of her skin with his eyes.


    And then ¨C a jolt. Black. Disoriented, a little scream escaped from her throat, hands gesticulating wildly, searching to grab onto a wall, or something to steady herself, to find herself in space. Reaching the side of the elevator, she spread her hands out against the side, now attuned to her surroundings.


    Lydia stood bathed in pure darkness, the only light in the elevator shining from the tiny red emergency light on the panel of buttons. A flicker of movement as Matt reached over and pushed the emergency button, setting off an alarm, a loud bell that filled the tiny elevator''s interior with enough noise to drive her mad, but not enough noise ¨C unfortunately ¨C to drown out the pounding of arousal and overwhelm in her body, in her veins, in her ¨C


    ¡°You okay, Lydia?¡± Matt asked, his rich baritone like a caress in the dark, making him seem everywhere and nowhere all at once. She heard scuffling sounds, and realized he was trying to find her in the dark. Well, fuck me, she thought. Racing thoughts filled her mind ¨C images, touches, hopes, fantasies. Who didn¡¯t want to have sex in an elevator at least once in her life? And here she was, with opportunity screaming, the alarm filling her ears, the darkness blocking her senses, and then she felt Matt''s hand on her breast, soft and searching, as she stifled a moan.


    ¡°Oh, there you are.¡± He seemed not to understand what he was touching ¨C or, she hoped, he knew exactly what he was doing ¨C and Lydia shifted just slightly, out of instinct. Not that she didn¡¯t want his hand on her there, and in fact she most desperately did, but she was so unused to being touched in such a manner like this, by a stranger who was her boss, her boss in the job that she had so wanted for the last two years, and now she began to feel something more than the primal fear of being trapped in a completely dark elevator with a stranger.


    Boldness. The word bold was the last word anyone would ever use to describe Lydia. Fierce? Sure. Intelligent? Of course. Determined? Absolutely.


    Bold? Overt? Sensual? She wasn¡¯t a risk taker. Not by nature and not by volition. Yet here she stood with chance screaming at her in the form of an emergency alarm, and something inside her tipped. She reached for Matt and found the top button of his shirt, a sprinkling of chest hair under her fingertips. Feeling her way up over his throat to the slight roughness of his clean shaven face, up to his nose, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed him.

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    Pulling apart, their lips warm and wet, he silently reached for the emergency button and pulled it out, ending the alarm.


    They needed as much time as they could steal.Advertisement


    Their breath sounded like tortured gasps in the elevator. Bold. Deciding that she was going to be the Lydia that she had never been before, she took. Took his lips, his tongue ¨C she took control.


    Until he rose up, standing taller, his arms around her as if he stretched every muscle in his body, all of them toward her, all of them toward this kiss, everything and every part of him concentrated instantly on her. Tortured gasps for air and him made her breath ragged, his mouth on her neck, hands hungry for skin as he reached under her skirt and slid up, raking her thighs, claiming her body for his own.


    ¡°Lydia,¡± he murmured in her ear as he pressed his hips into hers, giving her a full-on sense of his arousal, pushing against her and making her want him in her. Rough kisses turned deeper, his hands sliding her panties down, her mouth and body afire.


    ¡°What are you ¨C ¡± she asked, alarmed that something so intimate would be so public, yet dripping wet with need and wanting every second of this.


    ¡°Shhhhh,¡± he commanded, shoving her panties in his pocket and then, oh, his fingers were in her, on her, as he turned her around, hot breath in her ear, his erection pressing against the cleft of her ass, his hands on her clit, fingers in her, making her practically lick the elevator wall.


    ¡°I wish it were my mouth, Lydia,¡± he whispered, her breath shifting, hips bucking against his hand, rushing to find the climax she wanted him to give her. ¡°And if we weren''t about to get caught, it would be.¡±


    ¡°Caught?¡± She panicked, grabbing his hands, which he held firmly in place, immutable, like steel.


    ¡°Not yet, my sweet,¡± he insisted. ¡°Not until I''ve given you this pleasure, and you''ve given me your abandon.¡± His fingers stroked her, the faint hint of stubble rising up her neck and cheek, lips and tongue tasting her as he drove two fingers inside her aching pussy, clit on fire from his tongue. ¡°Let go, Lydia,¡± he whispered, grinding into her from behind, his words an urging she didn''t need to hear twice.


    Mouth open, neck straining, she mewled a scream of unleashing, her body thrusting against his fingers, her thighs shaking as she lost control. Without missing a beat, Matt turned her around, thumb steady as it circled her hot, red nub, and he took her mouth with his, her lips tense with climax, mind on fire and body overcome with surges of heat, then chill, of riding his hand to wring every drop of ecstasy.


    ¡°Next time, I''ll see your face,¡± he said in the dark, voice deep and low, the intensity so much she nearly came again from the sound. ¡°Next time,¡± he hissed, lips taking hers, pinning her lower lip between his teeth, sucking, then using his tongue to explore her teeth, her palate, her mouth being loved by his.


    Skirt around her hips, he used both hands to pin her ass to him, the weight of her release resting in his palms as she swallowed, breathing labored and sensual, his own breath.


    ¡°You can''t see me now,¡± she answered, voice shockingly strong and bold compared to the jellied feel of her body, ¡°but we can have our ''next time'' right here.¡± Reaching for the front of his pants, her skirt dropped down, thighs sticky with her own juices and quivering from what Matt had just done. Lydia undid the top button of his pants, slipping the zipper down, finding him hard and aching (and commando), his control slipping as she reached down to stroke him, ready to straddle him and be fucked wild in a dark, stranded elevator.


    And then the lights went on.


    In her. He needed to be in her, to have his cock be the reason she bit her lip, to make those little gasps and hitches come from her mouth into his and to share in her climax, drive home through her hot, lush body, use his hands to pull those luscious curves into him. Handfuls of flesh weren''t enough, soft skin and heat making him crazy in the dark, stalled elevator.


    Shoving her panties in his pocket, he held her in place, forcing her to accept the pleasure of his fingers, her twitches and moans confirmation that he''d given what he had boldly intended. More, more, more his body screamed, and with swift hands he slid his palms around her waist, the faint scent of vanilla triggering something primal in him as her hand reached into his unbuttoned pants and began to stroke him.


    As she unbuttoned him, released him, he reached down for her skirt to pull it back up, but then ¨C


    Lights. Hum. Buzz. Sound. Lydia''s face was beneath him, though she stood, leaning against his torso, her hand suddenly stopping, head shaking slightly, eyes now wide. Seeing her touching him made his solar plexus clench, his cock jump, and she pulled back slightly, back straightening, hands carefully redoing his button and gently ¨C achingly, tenderly ¨C tucking him back in and zipping him carefully.


    The expertise in her motions made him pause. Had she done this bef ¨C


    ¡°Hello?¡± a mechanical voice said, booming into the tiny, blindingly-light elevator. Lydia pulled back and smoothed her hair, a dazed expression attesting to her condition. ¡°The elevator malfunctioned and we''re just getting systems back in order. Give us a minute and you''ll be out of there.¡±


    Fuck! Blinking furiously, Mike felt electricity shooting through him, arms needing to hold her, erection needing to drive into her, his body barely holding back what he''d been seconds from having with her. She swallowed, not making eye contact, and kept looking at the ceiling.


    Puzzled, he shot her a curious look, and she looked pointedly at the ceiling while splaying her hands in a questioning gesture. Ah. Now he got it.


    Cameras. She was worried about cameras. Bournham Industries didn''t have security video in the elevators.


    But Jonah Moore damn well might.


    With a jolt, the elevator began its ascent, Lydia keeping her head down and not saying a single word, refusing to look at him when he moved closer. A quick nudge elicited nothing. Shut down, she wasn''t going to give an inch.


    As the elevator slowed upon arriving at their floor, Lydia stepped forward the second the doors cracked open. Without a sound she walked off, headed to the restroom. Fine. He let a much-needed grin cover his face, his fingers branded with her scent. Patting his pocket, he realized he had her panties.


    A trophy. Oh, how she had responded to him, body grinding under his caresses, her need open and wanton, her willingness so evident and ripe. Those few minutes were more sensual, more sultry and arousing than all of the sex he''d had for the past year ¨C combined.


    The idea that he could have that ¨C and so much more ¨C with her, day in and day out, made him hard again.


    Back at his desk, he pulled the thin strip of silk from his pocket. Lilac silk with a cotton center that was absolutely soaked, the aroma of her wafting up to make him smile. He slid them in a desk drawer.


    Next time, he would return them to her.


    Next time.


    ¡°So you gave your panties to a geek. Who are you, Molly Ringwald? Jesus Christ, Lydia, you''re twenty-five years old. This isn''t Sixteen Candles.¡± Krysta sprinkled some sweetener in her latte. Lydia had called a ¡°Code Java¡± and they''d met at Starbucks downstairs.


    ¡°If I wanted a lecture, I''d call home.¡± Scalding coffee burned her tongue, the same flesh that had been in Matt''s mouth minutes ago. Coffee drove away his taste, but it couldn''t diffuse her current state of teeming, fever-pitch arousal. Even after coming ¨C twice! ¨C in the elevator, she wanted more.


    More, more, more.


    Krysta started humming, ignoring Lydia. Then the tune was clear: Aerosmith''s Love in an Elevator. Lydia shot her a withering look.


    ¡°Took you long enough,¡± Krysta laughed. ¡°Going down?¡±


    ¡°He was close,¡± Lydia sighed.


    ¡°Eww, eww, eww. I have to interact with him, Lydia! Don''t tell me this.¡± Fingers in her ears, Krysta mouthed lalalalala.


    Ears perked up around them. It was only 8:15 a.m. And she''d called Krysta to meet here. Loads of coworkers wove their way in and out of the brightly-lit, overly-sanitized store, ordering and walking out with white cups with green logos, drinking their morning happiness.


    Her sex life didn''t need to perk them up, too.


    What sex life? You got fingered in an elevator by your boss, Lydia, a voice whispered in her ear.


    Yeah, she replied. And it was good. Go away. She hated that voice ¨C the Joey Stillman voice, the one that taunted and undermined and destroyed. Getting rid of it wasn''t easy. She just had to be more centered than whatever creepy part of her worked to destabilize.


    Sometimes that was harder. Right now? Nope. Exhilaration from her unexpected encounter fueled a very nice confidence boost. Matt found her attractive enough to respond. Respond. And give back as much as she gave.


    More, actually. Lips twitching with a sly smile, she ran a slow hand through her hair, swinging her brown waves over her shoulder. A pair of green eyes locked with hers and her pulse went thready, her breath halted, the room spinning with expectation and unresolved lust.


    Dave walked up behind Matt and clapped his shoulder. Krysta followed Lydia''s gaze, snorting.


    ¡°Saved by the asshole,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Saved?¡±


    ¡°Lydia, you look like you''re going to fuck him on the floor right here. With a shot of mocha syrup and whipped cream.¡± Reaching for Lydia''s face, she used her hands to force eye contact. ¡°You are about as nakedly vulnerable as anyone can be. Just...protect yourself. Shut down a little,¡± she pleaded. Krysta''s brown eyes showed concern and alarm.


    Nodding furiously, Lydia forced herself to gulp more of her hot coffee, turning away from Matt and Dave, who were now engaged in some sort of intense conversation, Matt''s eyes shifting to her twice in the few seconds she looked at him.


    A sharp yank and she was on her feet. ¡°Let''s go for a walk, my dear,¡± Krysta crooned, an affect of hopelessness in her voice at Lydia''s besottedness. She glanced at Lydia''s ass. ¡°You gave your panties to him. You''re hopeless.¡±


    ¡°My life is more 9 to 5 than Sixteen Candles.¡±


    ¡°You''re careening more toward The Secretary, Lyd.¡±


    Then, in unison, they both hissed, ¡°Anything He Wants.¡± A common groan.


    Shit! Krysta was right. Time to walk it off.


    Commando.


    Chapter Six


    The most difficult part about this dual identity wasn¡¯t being Matt Jones. It wasn¡¯t being forced to wear clothing that he wouldn¡¯t dress a scarecrow in. It wasn¡¯t that he struggled to find a way to connect with Lydia.


    It was that he still had to be Michael Bournham behind the scenes. There was still a company to run, investors to appease, a board of directors he had to crush in the race to prove them wrong.


    While he was Matt Jones by day, he was burning the candle at both ends being Michael Bournham at night.


    Tonight was one of those nights when he needed thirty-nine hours in a twenty-four hour period. He was in the middle of receiving a haircut and dye rinse, his hair needing to return to its original color, his contact lenses removed, so that he could attend a charity ball. He sat on the board of directors for this particular charity, one that contributed large volumes of money to autism for research in the field and he called Joanie, his assistant, to ask her to make sure that Dom had the car ready for him to pick up.


    ¡°Joanie, who am I going with to the ball tonight?¡±

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    ¡°You¡¯re going with Diane Powell, sir.¡± Joanie was new, having replaced his former assistant, Gloria, who had been more grandmotherly than his own grandmother, but who had finally decided that coddling and nurturing her own seventeen grandchildren was her life¡¯s work. Gloria had worked for his dad and she rose up the ranks with Mike. Truth be told, he was ready for a change, and Joanie was green but smart. Tech savvy. Enough training and she''d do fine.


    Joanie wouldn¡¯t stop calling him ¡°sir¡±. At twenty, she was fresh out of secretarial school but came well connected, with great references and, because she was so new and eager, she was cheap. Mike needed cheap if he was going to make the cut with the quarterly profit numbers.Advertisement


    ¡°You can stop calling me ¡®sir¡¯,¡± he insisted.


    ¡°Oh. Um, OK, Michael.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Mike.¡±


    ¡°OK, Mike. You¡¯re going with Diane Powell. Dom is already lined up. He will pick you up at seven, he will pick Miss Powell up at 7:30 and deliver both of you to the Elysium at eight.¡± The sound of keys on a keyboard, rapid-fire and efficient, dotted her words.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said. ¡°So, how are the mergers and acquisitions documents?¡± he asked, launching a tight formation of clipped statements that were essentially a shorthand between the two of them that she had picked up amazingly quickly. Where Gloria had seemed to be telepathic, knowing what he was going to say before the sentences even came out, Joanie still struggled. She would be there soon, and at that point he would give her a big, fat raise.


    Right now, though, he was living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, metaphorically speaking, when it came to the corporation. He had restricted his own jet use. They didn¡¯t actually own their own private jet ¨C he just rented one. Other cutbacks had been necessary to get him to this point. He was starting to question those now that he was in the trenches. The impact of what looked good on paper but didn''t work in the real world hit him as he worked on the lower floors of his building. None of it was major, though. Employees could suffer scratchier toilet paper or lower quality pencils.


    But he was starting to have a conscience. A corporate conscience ¨C the two words contradictory ¨C about how he had handled bonus structures and promotions, his failure to fill empty positions and the blended workload on a number of people who had taken over for empty spots without compensation. The amount of complaining that took place around the water cooler, literally, was a revelation. It was also jarring because it made him wonder, back in his salad days, was he a complainer? Did he talk about the things he didn¡¯t like and bitch about his financial problems the way that all of these people seemed to?


    In his world now, if he had a conversation with someone it was either pleasant small talk designed to kill time at a non-business event or business ¨C or heavy breathing and moans in bed. Conversation had fallen into those three basic camps and, aside from the occasional phone call with his mom (which didn¡¯t fall into any of those categories, thank God), he couldn¡¯t fathom standing around and talking for twenty to thirty minutes about nothing but things he didn¡¯t like about his life. If he didn¡¯t like something, he changed it.


    It really was that simple.


    As Matt Jones, he had made the mistake on day two of saying exactly that. The cold, perplexed stares aimed at him in the coffee room forced him to add, with a jocularity he didn¡¯t feel, ¡°Then again, that¡¯s easier said than done.¡±


    Folks had loosened up.


    His disconnect made him question whether it was him or them. Numbers weren¡¯t in his favor. There were so many more of them, who seemed so helpless in their own lives, so powerless, so willing to concede that what they didn¡¯t like was a reality they couldn¡¯t change and so the only empowerment they possessed was to complain about it. A language of its own, with linguistic twists and turns that were so foreign to him and yet, these people seemed to be native speakers.


    Not Lydia. He¡¯d noticed that she would gripe here and there and then retreat, off to work. Something inside her was self-feeding, and his respect for that almost ¨C almost ¨C matched his attraction for her.


    Almost.


    ¡°So, Gloria, is my ¨C uhh. Sorry, Joanie.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, sir, you can call me Gloria. I understand. You worked with her for years.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t work with her for that long, Joanie. I worked with her for four years. She was my father¡¯s secretary before that.¡±


    ¡°Oh...oh. Umm, OK. That¡¯s fine,¡± Joanie said, the pitch of her voice changing. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, gooseflesh spreading over his shoulders and upper arms. That was a turn on a dime. Why had sweet Joanie just ¨C oh. Now he got it. ¡°Not that you¡¯re a secretary by any stretch, Joanie. You have far more widespread administrative skills than ¨C and I would never...¡± He fumbled. ¡°You¡¯re an executive assistant and so was Gloria. She evolved with the job and so will you.¡±


    He heard a whoosh of a held in breath. ¡°Thank you, sir. Uh...Mike. Thank you, Mike.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Joanie. Is my tux ready?¡± On to safer territory.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Is there anything else that I need to know about this charity event?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And what is that?¡±


    ¡°Your friend Jeremy called and said that he would be attending.¡±


    ¡°Jeremy?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Jeremy.¡±


    ¡°Jeremy is attending?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Sir. Yes, Mike. Yes.¡±


    ¡°Is he taking a date?¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t say.¡± Finding an assistant who could really meet whatever business, personal, professional needs he had ¨C of course, keeping it within ethical and decency bounds ¨C was something that his father had always warned him would be harder than he ever imagined. He thought of Lydia and her feeling of underutilization and underappreciation and it led his mind to Dave.


    ¡°Joanie, could you pull the HR file for a guy named David Crawford? He¡¯s my director of communications. I¡¯d like to check out everything that might be in his personnel file. Just have it delivered to my office, or, uh...¡±


    ¡°If it doesn¡¯t violate confidentiality, I can scan it for you and send it to you as a PDF and you can read it on your smart phone. I added the PDF reader app for you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I noticed that earlier looking at a different PDF. Thank you.¡± And that¡¯s why Joanie was something more than a secretary; she took the initiative. Gloria had been fabulous about taking care of whatever was put in front of her and taking care of him emotionally, especially ushering him through his father''s death. Yet Joanie had promise and initiative and so did Lydia. He wanted to make sure he didn¡¯t crush either.


    ¡°I will get that to you, Sir...Mike. Is that something you need before the charity ball?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Anything else?¡±


    ¡°No. Go home, Joanie.¡±


    ¡°I will, uh ¨C Mike.¡± Click.


    Why would Jeremy go to an autism fundraiser ball? It¡¯s not that Jeremy wasn¡¯t involved in philanthropic institutions ¨C they both had been since they made their money, but Jeremy wasn¡¯t the type. This would be a room filled with over-Botoxed women and portly men who made more money than God but had no one to spend it with. To spend it on, certainly ¨C but not to spend it with.


    He expected this to be a three drink, rubbery steak, polite golf clapping two hours and Diane...she would be arm dressing. Tux candy, just someone he would take because she was ¡°high society¡± and his face would get in the newspaper and ¨C who knew? Maybe it would bolster Bournham Industries.


    Whatever appeal dating women like Diane had held for him had died. Matt Jones had seen to it that ¨C that part of his life held no appeal and Lydia had hammered the nails in that coffin.


    Ironically, what he really wanted to do was what Jeremy did. He suddenly had a vision of himself hiking the Appalachian Trail, hanging out on a hammock on a beach in Thailand, going on a three month sailboat cruise through the Fiji Islands and the South Pacific.


    Living.


    None of that had ever mattered to him, even when Jeremy had begged and pleaded for him to join in the pleasure of roaming, itinerant and free. Tasting the local flavor ¨C literally, when it came to Jeremy ¨C wasn''t on his bucket list. At best, he had spent a few summers camping and hiking and having fun, and those now held greater appeal than they had even a week ago. It must just be the stress talking, the craziness of having so few weeks left to meet the target goals for profit expansion, to get his stock orders and to walk away from Bournham Industries as a billionaire. That was the clincher.


    In order to win, he had to lose. This would be a battle with the board of directors. If he lost, he retained control of his company. If he won, he sold it in a private sale to...well, he wasn¡¯t sure to whom, but he ceded control. Or the IPO went through and Bournham became public.


    Control wasn''t his for this event ¨C the next three hours would be spent in blinding, blistering, boring, blustering social pain. He dulled his ears and dulled his eyes and thanked his hairdresser for making him look like Mike again. Michael Bournham would be on the press stage, blinded by flashes and video cameras and more, and he had to pretend to like it.


    Fake it to make it became increasingly, outrageously difficult when he could touch something so authentic, so real, in Lydia.


    Later, in the quiet of his apartment as he slipped into his tuxedo ¨C which had indeed been freshly pressed and dry cleaned and ready to go ¨C he had expected to feel more in his own skin with his hair and his eyes back. What he found was that he was searching for Matt Jones in the mirror.


    Buzz! ¡°Sir, are you there?¡± It was Dom using the intercom system.


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°Ready to roll, sir?¡±


    ¡°Ready to roll, Dom. Let¡¯s go.¡± As the elevator descended, he stared at the buffed, stainless steel backs of the doors and thought of his body pressed against hers in that elevator, the scent of arousal inches away, pulling him anywhere but here.


    J. K. Rowling must have been at a high society charity ball when she came up with the idea for dementors. A silent scream pounded through Mike¡¯s head as he felt the life force of all goodness, happiness, flow, excitement, and exhilaration being sucked out of every pore. Diane clung to him as if he were her substitute for caloric intake.


    She preened, scanned, surveyed, and critically analyzed the room to determine the exact number of people to make eye contact with, where they ranked in the room in terms of power, prestige, and impact, and ignored anyone who didn¡¯t compute.


    It made his balls ache. Mind muddled, as the speakers droned on and on, he reminded himself that it was a good cause, an important cause. The research money would help children, would help families, would help society and that these stuffed shirts were the very people whose wallets needed to be cracked open. If nothing else, these over-exfoliated, over-polished, over-entitled, under-conscienced, pompous, hollow beings were the ones who needed most to contribute to humanity. Even if it was just through a checkbook.

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    Diane quickly ignored him. He was a tool, a device. Once people had seen her with him, that was it. Clinched. Her reputation secured by a check box that said viewed arriving with Michael Bournham. He wouldn¡¯t have sex with her tonight. Just about every other time they¡¯d gone out ¨C and they¡¯d only gone out five or six times now ¨C she¡¯d bowed out sick or invented an early morning deadline and frankly, Jeremy was dead on. It was like fucking a toothpick with boobs.


    Her enthusiasm for securing her spot at the top of the heap of humanity did not spread to the bedroom. If there were anyone less sexually engaged, he didn¡¯t know where to find them. He had used sex toys with more presence and personality.Advertisement


    Biding his time, this would be mercifully quick as long as he survived it. As long as he could slog through the ever-deadening process of watching people do good. Of watching people pat themselves on the back for doing good and of watching people who were at the top of the capitalism ladder redistribute tiny increments of their wealth for the sake of a named wing, a plaque, a bench, a gene.


    And then he saw her.


    Lydia.


    Callie had begged Krysta to come and help with registration and the live auction for the autism charity ball. None of the offerings really appealed to Lydia. Borrowing someone''s private jet for five hours wasn''t high on her list of priorities.


    ¡°That''ll go for $25,000,¡± Callie explained. She was Krysta''s identical twin, though people didn''t seem to notice. Where Krysta was soft and big, with long ringlets framingher face, Callie was a half inch taller, with a marathoner''s long, lean look. Her hair was cropped short in a no-nonsense style. The two had the same coloring, but that''s where the similarity ended.


    Callie''s son, Kyle, was an adorable, if anxious, toddler. Throwing herself into every part of project-managing his condition, Callie had assembled a team of speech therapists, occupational therapists, behavioralists, Early Intervention specialists, and had become involved in the autism charity ¨C all in the four months since Kyle''s diagnosis.


    ¡°$25,000!¡± Lydia shouted, shocked.


    ¡°Too bad a date with Michael Bournham isn''t on there this year,¡± Callie said, nudging her. They all knew she found him hot, hot, hot, the pictures in People Magazine and Entertainment Weekly always drawing a double-take from Lydia.


    ¡°How much does that go for?¡±


    ¡°Someone told me a night with him in Paris sold for $55,000 last year.¡±


    Lydia whistled low, a sound of amazement. ¡°Damn. So selling my car wouldn''t get me anywhere close?¡±


    They all laughed. By the evening''s end, Callie predicted, nearly half a million would go into a special research fund to understand more about the genetics of autism. Her eyes teared up as she talked about all of the ways that research was helping already. Words like ¡°mitochondrial disorders¡± and ¡°methylation¡± and ¡°PET scans¡± and ¡°cerebellum activity differences¡± went in and out of her head as Callie rattled off a near-encyclopedic understanding of the intricacies of the condition.


    ¡°Kyle''s really lucky to have you,¡± she said, reaching out to hold Callie''s hand. The act seemed to make Callie freeze, then melt.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she rasped, wiping tears carefully from the corner of her eyes. ¡°It''s a lot to take in.¡± She fanned her face. ¡°Can''t cry! Can''t cry,¡± she repeated, and Lydia instantly understood.


    ¡°Sorry!¡± Squeezing her hand once, she let go and got back to business. Registrants came in and, if bidding, were assigned a number. She and Krysta were only here for an hour or so, and she hoped she wasn''t underdressed. Callie had said ¡°ball gown,¡± so she and Krysta had hit a bunch of vintage thrift shops in Cambridge last week, Krysta settling on a long, black, flowing chiffon number paired with a loose silk coat, while Lydia went for red.


    China red, in fact, with a scalloped neck, three-quarter sleeves, and a red pashmina for her arms and waist. Paired with red leather pumps and some fake diamonds, the dress worked just enough to pass here. No way would she ever really fit in; some of these women wore jewelry worth more than the cost of her parents'' house.


    Costume jewelry from the Central Square Salvation Army would have to do for Lydia.


    ¡°Lydia,¡± Krysta said through her lips, trying not to move her mouth. She sounded like a drunk ventriloquist. ¡°Your boyfriend is here.¡±


    ¡°Matt?¡±


    Choking on a laugh, Krysta nearly shrieked. ¡°So now he''s your boyfriend? You are hopeless.¡± She waved her hand toward the ballroom. ¡°No. Bournham. He''s here,¡± she said nodding in the same direction.


    Silver, short hair. Shoulders that his jacket embraced perfectly, the cloth lining his muscles as if poured on his body. His back was stiff, and he held a praying mantis on his arm. Oh ¨C no, just an underfed socialite. They all had arms like eleven year old girls.


    If he turned around, she would melt into a wet, pussy-goo puddle right here, right now. Any part of her skin not covered by the sily fabric of her dress turned pink, hot from just beinging within hearing distance of the man. If he pivoted, even gave her a glimpse of his profile, she would surely orgasm on the spot, go blind from shame, and live out the rest of her life with a sly smile on her face as she told the story.


    And then he did.


    Without question, the very last person he ever thought he would see at this event was Lydia, who stared him dead in the face right now from just far enough a distance as to make it safe to stare back as Michael Bournham. Heart racing, hands flexing and itching to touch her, he took a deep, slow breath in through his nose, steadying himself. Diane''s hand on his arm suddenly felt like an insect''s dead appendage compared to the vision before him.


    Luscious. Radiant. Sexy.


    Fuckable. And oh, how. The red dress, lush, painted lips, her hair pinned up and off her neck. When she bent over to pick up a piece of paper, then tipped her head up to smile at a registrant for the auction he wanted to pummel the man she beamed at, for that smile should be his. That mouth should be for him.


    And him alone.


    He could practically smell her, throbbed with need to taste her, and all he could do was to maintain his face in a mask of neutrality, not daring even to twitch lest he reveal his animal nature underneath.


    Ravaging her on the marble floor was not an auction item.


    If it were, he would donate millions for the privilege.


    Out of the office, she seemed more alive, softer and feminine in a way that work life didn''t allow. His gut tightened, back going ram-rod straight as he fought to maintain control, to be a slab of granite, to show no emotion. Stealing glances at him, she lifted her hand to tuck an imaginary tendril of hair behind one ear, the gesture one of flirting, testing the waters to see which eyes would alight on her.


    Rock-hard and throbbing, he needed to release himself in her, to grind and drive this insane sense of arousal and ownership deep into her pink warmth, to hear her cry out his name ¨C his real name ¨C as if he were the only man alive.


    But he couldn''t. Walking across that room and taking her mouth, hand snaking up her dress to feel her fire would reveal who he was. Would ruin his plan.


    Would end ten years of ambition.


    With a single kiss.


    Elevator memories plagued him, intrusive thoughts that pinged in his head, behind his eyes, looping until he was half mad. The feel of ripping her panties down her legs. Sinking his fingers into her soft curls, then her warm, wet pussy. How she''d responded, so alive and writhing, that he ¨C


    ¡°Michael,¡± Diane said, dragging over some state senator he vaguely remembered, shaking him coldly out of his reverie, the interruption like being slapped with a dead trout. ¡°I won¡¯t need a ride after all. It turns out that Joe lives in my building.¡±


    Her affect was one that he had seen before. It was a tone that said I¡¯m doing you a favor.


    Oh, Diane, you really were.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine, Diane. You go have fun.¡± He leaned in and whispered in Joe¡¯s ear, ¡°Toothpick with boobs.¡±


    Eyebrows shooting up, daggers coming out of her eyes, she snapped, ¡°Did you just say something about my boobs?¡± Faux offended and searching for the drama, her voice ticked up just enough to capture the turned ears of Diane¡¯s true class, the class of desperate socialites.


    He turned on the charm. ¡°What I said, Diane, is meant to stay between two gentleman.¡± Nudging Joe, he shot him a fake wink. Joe was a swarthy Italian guy, late 20¡¯s, looked like a model and had a name that generations of Bostonians knew.


    Looking at Mike uncertainly but played along, not sure what the real game was here, Joe laughed and said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, Diane.¡± And then he looked at Mike. ¡°We¡¯ll figure it out later.¡± Fake wink.


    Mike didn¡¯t need to win this one. Let Diane have her petty victory. Losing was better than winning sometimes, he''d learned ¨C and this was one of those moments.


    He nodded, turned around, and by the time he texted Dom and made it outside into the smog-filled street, he felt the weight of the ballroom''s abyss crammed with unending, unyielding, soul sucking entities peel off, disappear, fade away, and leave him breathless.


    Until he turned around for one last look at Lydia.


    And found her in conversation with Jeremy.


    ¡°Hello, there,¡± a voice said, his openness and jocularity a stark contrast from the tight-jawed people Lydia had encountered thus far. Looking up from her papers, she felt a rush of surrealism, as it appeared her brother Miles stood before her.


    He didn''t ¨C it''s just that she didn''t see too many six-and-a-half-foot tall men roaming around Boston dressed like something out of a bad 80s movie.


    ¡°welcome,¡± she answered. ¡°Would you like an auction number?¡± He looked like one of the band. No ¨C scratch that. The band wore double-breasted tuxedos.


    He wore the kind of tux her dad had worn in high school, in his prom pictures. And the pants were something from Old Navy, topped off with loafers. She took a flying guess and assumed he wasn''t a ball guest, but she treated him as if ¨C just in case.


    ¡°Jeremy!¡± Callie said, coming around to give him a big hug. ¡°You never comes to these things!¡± Her face wore an expression of deep curiosity. ¡°Why are you here, you natty dresser?¡±


    His coloring was close to Miles'', with the dark hair and brown eyes, but this guy was so relaxed. Slothlike. He cared not one whit what anyone here thought, and it dawned on her that his outfit was a form of fashion protest. Not nerd-dom. Intrigued, she watched his conversation with Callie.


    ¡°I''m here to get the corporate jet for five hours and fly 200 chickens to Zimbabwe for little chicken massages and maybe a nice safari. Is that worth $55,000 or what?¡±


    ¡°You won''t do that. You''re too chickenshit.¡±


    A rumbling of deep laughter from him filled the marbled, arched-ceiling hall, turning heads and garnering disapproving looks. Callie winced and raised her shoulders, shushing him. He just rolled his eyes, but complied.


    Then focused on Lydia.


    ¡°Jeremy Forster,¡± he said, extending his hand and introducing himself. ¡°And you are?¡±


    ¡°Lydia Charles,¡± she replied, careful to grasp his hand with equal fullness and pressure. Thankfully, he gave her a complete handshake, and not the limp-wristed, half-shake some men gave her, squeezing three fingers as if she were too delicate to touch palms.

 Page 18

    ¡°You having fun?¡± he asked. Before she could answer he added, ¡°Gorgeous dress. It really shows off your skin tone.¡±


    ¡°Uh, thanks.¡± This one set all her sensors off, but she couldn''t figure out which sensors. Weird? Adorable? Hot? Perverted? Genuine? Exuding some sort of mish-mosh of signals, Jeremy wasn''t easy to read.Advertisement


    Craning around him, she struggled to catch another look at Michael Bournham, but he was gone. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment.


    ¡°I''m that bad?¡± He leaned in, face softening, brown eyes fringed with impossibly-long lashes. He had a rumpled look that reminded her of David Duchovny in Californication, of some of the intensely funky sex scenes where he was just so damn appealingly real. Game for anything.


    No holds barred.


    ¡°You''re good,¡± she grinned. ¡°Just lost sight of someone.¡±


    He studied her face. Really studied it, not worried about too much time passing, prolonged eye contact, or making her uncomfortable. Which he was.


    Finally, he said, ¡°Michael Bournham, right? You want to meet him?¡±


    ¡°I''ve met him,¡± she answered, cool and composed, hiding the heart that tried to salsa dance in her chest. ¡°I work for him.¡±


    ¡°You do? Are you his personal assistant?¡±


    No, just his dominatrix in my fantasies, she thought. Her face rushed to warmth at the thought, and Jeremy''s eyes traveled down, taking in her chest, her dress, then returned to home base at her face.


    ¡°No. Just an admin.¡± Learning to say that without gritting her teeth was a victory.


    ¡°I''m sure you''re not just anything, Lydia, in Michael Bournham''s world,¡± he responded, starting to walk toward the exit. With a little wave, he rounded the threshold.


    Out of sight.


    ¡°What was that about?¡± Krysta asked, returning from a missing pen crisis, new box in hand.


    ¡°I do not know,¡± Lydia answered honestly. As a new attendee approached the table, she returned her attention to the task at hand.


    ¡°Jeremy donates $50,000 every year,¡± Callie whispered to them both.


    Jaw on the floor, Lydia gasped. ¡°And he dresses like that?¡±


    ¡°Never judge a book by the cover. Even if it''s Fifty Shades,¡± she hissed, nudging Lydia, who groaned as Krysta and her sister snickered.


    ¡°Jeremy, what the hell are you doing here?¡± Just as Mike was about to step outside to get into the car he saw his friend wearing a comical version of a tuxedo with a powder blue jacket, a ruffle that looked like something out of a bad Awkward Family Photos entry. And was he wearing cargo pants ? With scuffed Merrills? He knew that Jeremy¡¯s net worth had to be in the couple of millions, so this was not about a lack of money.


    This was Jeremy.


    ¡°Picking up a hot rich chick,¡± Jeremy said, nodding. ¡°So far, all I see are Botox Barbies.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t work that way, dude. The hot chicks come here to pick up the ugly rich dudes.¡±


    ¡°Oh. So who bagged you?¡±


    Mike paused, a bit perplexed and not sure how to explain it. Instead, he let frustration seep into him. ¡°It¡¯s complicated.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always complicated, Mike.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about me. Why are you here? And,¡± he cringed, taking in Jeremy''s outfit, ¡°why do you look like Tim Gunn''s worst nightmare?¡±


    ¡°I am here because I think the cause of autism and research is important,¡± Jeremy said in a loud voice meant to carry. Mike stared at him, hard. He didn¡¯t doubt that; he knew that Jeremy had a nephew with autism. In fact, Jeremy had been the one to get him involved in this particular non-profit organization, but he had always been an anonymous donor behind the scenes.


    Finally, it hit him. ¡°You thought I might bring Lydia here and you wanted a chance to see her.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°If you wanted to meet her, why don¡¯t you just swing by the office?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t do that, Mike, because you¡¯re not Mike at the office.¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡± Which was precisely why he hadn''t approached her tonight. ¡°So, you came all the way here looking like Weird Al Yankovic playing a homeless dude just so you could catch a look at Lydia?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t have anything better to do.¡±


    ¡°You never have anything better to do, Jeremy.¡±


    ¡°Life of the idle rich.¡±


    ¡°Must be nice,¡± Mike sighed.


    ¡°It is nice, Mike, and you can do it too.¡± Jeremy thumbed his fist at the doorway. ¡°And that Lydia is one fine lady in red.¡±


    ¡°No, I can¡¯t.¡± He frowned. ¡°And if you''re thinking what I think about Lydia, I don''t think she''s...you know.¡± How she spoke so freely about MFM and menage ran through his head at rapid-fire pace. Tuck the thought away for later, he told himself.


    ¡°Yes, you can.¡±


    This was a well-worn argument between the two and Mike was having none of it. ¡°Fine. I can, meaning I am able to, but I categorically reject the premise.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Jeremy had made it no secret that he wished that Mike would be his traveling buddy, his companion on world adventures. And that he wanted to find another Dana for them to share. Mike knew that he would just end up being his caretaker and vomit wiper, and would essentially get him out of whatever messes he got himself into. On three different occasions he had had to take a plane across thirteen time zones in order to rescue Jeremy from some mess.


    Only once had it involved law enforcement, but that one had been a doozy, when Jeremy had attempted to procure the services of three different prostitutes at once, two of whom were underage and one of whom was an Interpol agent. He suspected that mess had been less intricate and had fewer implications, though, than what he was facing right now.


    ¡°Let me be really clear here, Jeremy,¡± Mike said, going cold. ¡°She¡¯s off limits.¡±


    The last response Mike expected was for Jeremy to peer, intently, at the pocket of his tux jacket. ¡°Nice pocket silk.¡± Poke. ¡°What is that? You don''t normally have silk there.¡±


    Caught! ¡°It''s just some standard piece of ¨C ¡± Jeremy''s fingers deftly pinched the top corner and pulled, Lydia''s panties unfolding out of the pocket, lace and frills dangling from his friend''s enormous hand.


    ¡°Give me that,¡± Mike growled, snatching it back. Laughter poured out of Jeremy in great whoops. What Mike had thought would be a fun secret for himself had just turned into a humiliation he didn''t need. Fuck.


    Jeremy recoiled slightly, his face slack with concentration. Mike hadn¡¯t seen that look in nearly a decade. ¡°Are those Diane''s or Lydia''s.¡±


    Mike refused to answer, trying to stare him down.


    ¡°You¡¯re really falling for her, aren¡¯t you?¡± Hating that he had to look up to answer, his eyes burned into Jeremy''s, which exuded a humanity, an approval, that Mike didn''t expect. Competition? Sure. Acceptance? Wha ¨C ?


    ¡°I¡¯m not falling for anyone. I have a television show that needs to be successful so that I can get the bump in profits that I need to get the payoff that I want. I don¡¯t want you, or anyone else, to jeopardize that.¡±


    Jeremy golf clapped politely. ¡°Nice speech. How long did it take you to memorize that?¡± He hadn¡¯t had this kind of conversation with Jeremy since intense arguments over code reviews years ago. With no more words, he simply broke the gaze, and walked to the car where he knew Dom waited for him.


    Chapter Seven


    The nightclub was absolutely packed. Part of a three story entertainment complex with a huge dance club and bar on the top floor, a bowling alley and arcade on the second floor, and an enormous restaurant on the bottom. A group of friends from work, which thankfully did not include Dave, had decided to convene for drinks, discussion, and of course ¨C office gossip.


    Lydia needed this so much. She didn¡¯t hang out often with her co-workers and Krysta, though technically one, worked five stories down in purchasing and receiving, processing paperwork and like Lydia, a Bachelor¡¯s-degreed woman who was vastly underutilized. Lydia was more vastly underutilized, possessing a Master¡¯s degree, but she didn¡¯t like to think about that. Especially with a few drinks in her.


    In that crazy, territorial way that corporations had, the fact that Lydia invited Krysta meant that she had included someone from another tribe. Too bad. Over the past two years, people had just accepted it. Both she and Krysta noticed that very few of Lydia¡¯s co-workers ever spoke to Krysta beyond the requisite ¡°Hi.¡± By the time the dancing started, though, no one cared. It was all bacchanalian, alcohol-infused fun and for a few hours she could pound, stomp, wiggle, shimmy and shake her worries away.


    She was on her third Cosmo (and by the looks of it these were three or four ounces of alcohol per) when a familiar face walked in the nightclub. Even in the dark, those green eyes practically glowed. She ducked her head, leaning in toward Krysta, who was sitting with her, trapped in the giant, semi-circular booth with what felt like a hundred people on either side of them.


    ¡°He¡¯s here!¡± she told Krysta.


    ¡°Who?¡± Krysta¡¯s head twisted wildly around the packed nightclub. ¡°There are lots of ¡®he¡¯ types here.¡±


    ¡°Him. Matt Jones,¡± Lydia whispered and then realized she didn¡¯t need to. In fact, she could have screamed his name and he wouldn¡¯t have heard.


    A throng of dancers, arms up in the air, breasts bouncing, chests pumping, hips gyrating, separated him from their group at work. Until Krysta turned traitor, raised her arm in the air, stood up and let out a wolf whistle, the kind you hear at baseball games, except this one was a come hither.


    She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ¡°Hey, Matt! We¡¯re over here!¡±


    Lydia had two choices. She could die on the spot or she could kill Krysta. Instead, she froze, then grabbed the fresh Cosmo and drank it all down in one big slurp.


    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to sip those.¡± Krysta¡¯s eyes were wide, calculating what Lydia had just done and the aftereffects of it.


    ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to invite the enemy,¡± she retorted, feeling angry and empty and most of all, indignant that her brain couldn¡¯t assemble the right burning response right now.


    ¡°What?¡± Krysta played innocent. ¡°Just including a guy from the office in our ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Yeah, right.¡±


    ¡°So one minute you let him slip your panties off you, the next he''s the enemy?¡±


    ¡°My logic needs no explanation.¡±


    ¡°''Logic'' isn''t the word for it. ''Bullshit,'' on the other hand...¡± Krysta just shook her head and took another sip of her magarita.


    Matt¡¯s eyes locked on Lydia¡¯s. Suddenly, no one else existed in the room. Just him, with those bright green eyes, that sandy brown hair, those broad shoulders that, even in business casual clothes, made him look sensual. She knew that he was muscular, strong, tight ¨C that those biceps underneath could lift her easily if they wanted to. She knew that his ribs tapered down to a narrow waist and that beneath that ¨C


    ¡°Hey, how''s it going?¡± he asked, smiling. How in the hell did he manage to make it here so fast? she wondered. Time blinked. One of her favorite songs popped up and she jumped at the chance to get away from what was turning out to be a very, very uncomfortable situation.

 Page 19

    A million people ¨C no, actually, six on one side and eight on the other ¨C blocked her from getting out of the giant booth. Some matched up as couples in various states of intimacy, tongues in throats, hands on thighs. Frustrated that she and Matt were not one of those couples, and nearly in tears that he hadn''t talked about their latest encounter with her, she decided to get away from him.


    And so, in a stroke of brilliance, she just climbed under the table, finding herself at Matt¡¯s feet as she crawled out through the other end. Lydia looked up, head pointed directly at his belt buckle. She tipped her face up to see him smiling down, a wolfish grin on his face.Advertisement


    ¡°Well, hello there. That¡¯s some table service.¡±


    Mike had groaned inwardly when Jeanie from accounting had invited to go out with ¡°the gang,¡± as she called them, a group of about ten or fifteen folks from work who occasionally went to a giant entertainment complex to unwind, hang out, have fun. It sounded very mid-twenties to him and while he had had his share of those nights, he wasn¡¯t sure that getting that close to his employees was a good idea.


    When Jonah had caught the invitation on camera after Jeanie left, a perfectly timed phone call made Mike realize just how watched he was.


    ¡°So, hey, Mike,¡± Jonah said, that voice still filled with oil and, Mike knew, vinegar. ¡°Mike, we saw that whole clip with Jeanie inviting you to the bar and we think that¡¯s a great idea. You should go and we can follow with the cameras and, you know...¡±


    ¡°Cameras? How are you going to do that, Jonah, without tipping everyone off?¡±


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯ll be great. You can wear a hidden ca ¨C ¡±


    ¡°No. No. Nope. No way.¡± His voice was cold steel. There were lines that he needed to draw in this reality television mess. ¡°I don¡¯t wear a wire. I don¡¯t wear a hidden camera. I don¡¯t play ¡®Mike cam¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Ooooo, ¡®Mike cam¡¯ I like that. You have a way with words.¡±


    ¡°Jonah,¡± Mike said menacingly.


    ¡°I understand. I really do,¡± Jonah told him in a fake tone that made Mike''s teeth ache. ¡°But you gotta show some kind of spirit here. The clips we¡¯re getting are pretty dry.¡±


    ¡°Really? The meeting with Dave? That wasn¡¯t intense enough for you?¡±


    ¡°No. That was good. The way you stood up for Linda ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Lydia.¡±


    ¡°Lydia. Yeah. The way you stood up for her and the way Dave was just, you know that ¨C well...¡± Jonah faltered, then came back with a stronger voice, ¡°It was a good clip but frankly Dave played the Don Draper character there and that¡¯s what we wanted from you.¡±


    Mike let silence say everything for him, holding out for thirty seconds, one minute, and after a minute and a half he realized that Jonah was matching him. He knew, though, that he would win, because he could walk away from this whole thing and lose the profit opportunity at worst. Jonah? Jonah had somebody else¡¯s money sunk into this project and he had more to lose.


    When you¡¯re in a showdown you always want to be the one who has the least to lose.


    He gave Jonah credit. Two minutes and thirty eight seconds went by before he cracked. ¡°Yeah, so, we think we can work with that thought because for one show we can shape you as the feminist throwback, the whole Get me my coffee, woman! kind of guy. Later, we can show how Lydia redeems you and turns you into a more modern, touchy-feely kind of dude.¡±


    No one had ever used the phrase touchy-feely in relation to him. ¡°Let me tell you something, Jonah. I¡¯m about one step away from being done with this, so you better start working on convincing me why I should stay.¡± Click.


    Three seconds later the phone rang. Jonah. Mike had rolled his eyes and answered it grudgingly. ¡°So does this mean you won¡¯t wear a hidden cam ¨C ¡±


    Click.


    Maybe a night of drinks wasn¡¯t such a bad idea after all.


    Lydia was at his feet, her face in the most intimate of positions, one that had him fighting for control as his body ran through the implications of her location in a rather rapid manner, blood pumping to places that were about to be made public if he didn¡¯t say or do something. Submissive and below him, ready for whatever he wanted to take, desire and power stirred within to make a chaotic blend of heat and need.


    It was when she reached over and rested her cheek on his calf, looked back up with wide, unfocused eyes and screamed, ¡°Oh my God! It¡¯s the Green Lantern!¡± that he realized just how drunk she was. He offered her a hand and the one she gave him was a limp noodle. Pulling her up was harder than he thought it would be, not so much because she was a full-figured woman, but more because she was about as coordinated as a sloth on Xanax.


    A commotion at the table made him look up. Lydia, half standing, knees bending like a Gumby doll, snickered. It was another woman, with similar coloring to Lydia¡¯s but wild curly hair, a little younger looking, scrambling to get out, climbing over the laps and hips and asses of various people whose faces he dimly recognized from work.


    ¡°Lydia! Lydia!¡± she called out.


    ¡°Oh...thas¡¯ my best friend Kristin...Krysta...Kristie,¡± she slurred, pulling herself up. Mike had to strain his right arm to find a balance point for her very relaxed and very luscious body. She leaned against him and his hands, as if drawn by an involuntary force, wrapped around her, her arms loose and free, palms splayed and exploring his back. ¡°You''re as muscular as I remembered,¡± she declared, squeezing one of his biceps publicly, nodding with approval.


    And he laughed, great rumbling, stomach-aching chuckles. This was definitely how he remember most of his work outings from his mid-twenties. Kristin...Krysta...Kristie...whatever her name was, managed to squeeze her way through and to peel Lydia off of Mike.


    ¡°You must be Matt,¡± she said, the look on her face one of amusement and horror at Lydia¡¯s condition. Something else, too: a curiosity, a best friend¡¯s protectiveness that he knew all too well because he had rescued Jeremy from quite a few bad scenes himself.


    ¡°Yes. Matt Jones. I would shake your hand but it¡¯s otherwise occupied.¡± Lydia was now meticulously cataloging his fingers, touching the knuckles and commenting on how soft his hands were, mumbling under her breath.


    ¡°Would you please excuse us? We¡¯re going to go to the ladies room,¡± Krysta said, dragging Lydia off, who shouted, ¡°But wait! I haven¡¯t seen his lifeline yet!¡±


    They faded into the crowd, leaving Matt standing in front of about fifteen co-workers who now viewed him as not a boss, though he was the boss of some of them ¨C well, technically all of them ¨C not as a peer, but as the guy Lydia threw herself at.


    Better him than someone else.


    ¡°Oh, my God, Lydia, what are you doing?¡± Krysta dragged her into the cold, beige, marble-tiled women''s room where the cool air and a splash of water on the back of her neck didn¡¯t really make a difference. It just made her feel like getting back to Matt where she could touch that soft skin, where she could look at him with happy, smiling eyes. Oh, how she loved Cosmos. Cosmos were the best.


    ¡°How much have you had to eat?¡± Krysta asked.


    ¡°Why are you asking, Mom?¡± Peals of laughter came out of her mouth. Man, she was on a roll and Matt was waiting for her so why was she in this bathroom with Krysta and what happened to her face? It changed somehow when she looked into the mirror. It was sweeter, it was more sultry, it was the real Lydia. Right? That¡¯s who she was. She was Lydia, the woman who was successful at going out and having fun and being a party girl and right now, that¡¯s what she wanted.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to regret this, Lydia. I have never seen you drink that much before when we go out.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never needed to drink that much before when we go out. Plus, Cosmos are my new best friend. You''re off the list now. You don''t treat me as well as that little drink does.¡±


    ¡°Is this about the presentation with Dave?¡±


    ¡°This is about everything, Krysta. this is about how I follow all the rules and I do everything by the book while holding up this unfailing moral standard and all that does is make me a fucking idiot because this is what I should be doing.¡± Her words were sloppy and she knew it, and she wanted more control over them because she wanted Krysta to take her seriously. This was her truth finally coming out. ¡°If all that hard work just means that nobody takes me seriously then maybe it¡¯s time I stopped taking myself seriously and have a little fun.¡±


    Krysta swallowed hard and eyed her warily. ¡°You can go out and have your fun, but sleeping with your boss is the kind of thing where I think you¡¯re breaking a few too many rules, Lyd.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to sleep with him!¡± she shouted just as two women from work walked in. They mugged at each other and then quickly found stalls. ¡°I¡¯m just having fun.¡±


    ¡°Have your fun with me as a companion.¡±


    ¡°You want to sleep with him, too? A threesome? Oooo.¡± Titters from the stalls.


    ¡°No, Lyd, I don¡¯t. What I want,¡± Krysta crossed her arms and looked at Lydia in the mirror, ¡°is my level-headed friend back.¡± They really could be sisters if Krysta weren''t part poodle. The super-curly brown hair was the exact same shade as Lydia¡¯s and she marveled at that right now, wondering how nature could give two completely different women the exact same color hair. Their faces, though, were about as different as you could get. Krysta¡¯s was plump and friendly, a well-fed farm girl face with chubby cheeks and eyes that disappeared just a little when she smiled. Lydia, on the other hand, had a leaner face with high cheekbones and a broad plane under the eyes and across the nose, a higher forehead and perfectly symmetrical features.


    The look on Krysta¡¯s face made Lydia want to escape and go dance. Grind against Matt until he exploded. No ¨C not quite. Until he almost exploded, with a need so visceral he took her out to his car and fucked her silly, her hand slapping the fogged-up window like a scene from Titanic.


    ¡°You know what we¡¯re going to do, Lyd?¡± Krysta said, looping her arm through Lydia¡¯s. ¡°Let¡¯s go bowling.¡±


    ¡°Bowling? You want to go bowling?¡± Bowling was about as far from the fogged-up car fucking as you could get.


    ¡°Yes, I do. They have really cool shoes.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Cool shoes? Yeah, ¡®cuz my high heels really hurt right now.¡± Suddenly Lydia thought that bowling sounded like the greatest idea ever. They were on the way to the elevators that took them downstairs when Lydia remembered.


    ¡°Hey. What about Matt?¡± The elevator doors opened. Krysta grabbed Lydia¡¯s arm and yanked hard, pulling her in.


    ¡°Ow!¡± Lydia shouted as Krysta pushed the close button furiously.


    As if conjured from thin air, Matt appeared, sticking his foot in the almost closed elevator doors.


    ¡°Going down?¡±


    ¡°I am if you are,¡± Lydia replied.


    An exasperated sigh from Krysta made him hold up his palms in surrender. ¡°Is this a women-only elevator?¡±


    ¡°We''re going bowling. You like big balls, Matt? I do,¡± Lydia giggled.

 Page 20

    Matt laughed and took a step closer before spoilsport Krysta said, ¡°Lydia needs some air. We''re going...somewhere. Can you give us some space?¡±


    ¡°Space. The final frontier,¡± Lydia mocked.Advertisement


    Those fucking green eyes tore into her soul as he looked at her, then Krysta, and took a step back. Damn it ¨C he was a good guy, too! The one night she needed an alpha male to take her home and drain every drop of frustration and need from her body, climax by climax, and she gets Mr. Decent.


    As the doors closed she turned to Krysta and said, ¡°I''m not even wearing any panties, so don''t think you''re going home with any elevator trophies.¡±


    Mike already knew how the night was going to go and it wasn¡¯t going to go his way. Lydia was the kind of drunk he felt protective about, not attracted to. It¡¯s not that she wasn¡¯t sensual, and lovely, and delicious, and certainly wanting right now ¨C which made his own willingness difficult to tamp down ¨C but he wasn¡¯t that guy. He didn¡¯t take advantage of drunk women, no matter how incredibly luscious they were.


    While he understood her friend¡¯s protectiveness (which he shared), he wished he could reassure her that he wasn¡¯t going to take her home and fuck her when she could barely stand without help. He was long past any of that and, frankly, he had never been into any of that. The walk back to the booth gave him a chance to breathe and relax.


    Barely.


    ¡°Next round''s on me,¡± he said to the booth, and all eyes fixed on him, peering at him in confusion. This wasn¡¯t the reception he¡¯d expected.


    Finally, someone said, ¡°They must be paying you a hell of a lot more than they¡¯re paying the rest of us if you can afford that!¡± A few derisive laughs, a few genuine laughs, and a couple of shouts of ¡°Thank you!¡± and ¡°Awesome!¡± and a few of women talking about the overpriced fruity drinks that they would get.


    Joe, one of the mail clerks said, ¡°So, Matt, you putting this on the company tab? Bournham is gonna love that!¡±


    The tone of the laughter that came from the crowd told him that Mike Bournham was not a well-loved figure. Ouch. He took this as a chance to find out just how not-well-loved Mike Bournham was. ¡°We¡¯ll see. I mean, you think I can get away with it?¡±


    More full-throated laughter, the women whispering to each other and glancing at him. ¡°No way, man. Do you know what Bournham did to me ¨C to our whole department?¡± asked Joe. He looked like he was about nineteen with an Adam¡¯s apple the size of a baseball. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes that seemed a little too small for his face. He had that thick Southie accent that still made Mike want to grin with how stereotypical that was ¨C and yet everyone he knew from Southie had it. Stereotypes are true sometimes, right?


    ¡°Yup. Bournham. I was told that this is a ¡®culture where bonuses go out for merit.¡¯ Know what my bonus was, Matt? 0.17% of my pay.¡±


    ¡°Did it fill your gas tank?¡± said some guy.


    ¡°I think I was able to buy a couple cups of coffee. So, that¡¯s my ¡®merit bonus.¡¯¡±


    Matt frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Joe...¡±


    ¡°Those stupid rankings HR does, where they evaluate you and tell you which quartile you fit into? Exceeds expectations, meets expectations, that shit?¡± Joe shook his head ruefully and opened his mouth to say more.


    ¡°Where were you, Joe?¡± A slow simmer started in Mike as he looked at each person, really looked at their faces, their features, engaged in the conversation.


    ¡°Yeah, I fell into the top quartile in the company ¨C and that¡¯s how my work''s rewarded?¡± More laughter, but this time not as infused with energy, more of a cynical, sickly sound from the group.


    Someone else said, ¡°I heard Bournham made $42 million last year. And then another $17 million in bonuses.¡±


    ¡°I get 0.17% and he gets ¨C what¡¯s that? Thirty-eight percent? Something like that. I don¡¯t know, I¡¯m too drunk to do math,¡± Joe said. ¡°But that¡¯s some fucked up math, Matt. Anything you can do to screw that guy and screw the corporation, I¡¯m there. I¡¯m there, man.¡±


    Mike nodded, not so much in agreement but in acknowledgment. Boy, was he glad that Jonah¡¯s cameras weren¡¯t rolling right now. ¡®Mike cam¡¯ would have been a disaster. But even without ¡®Mike cam,'' this was a bloodbath. When he¡¯d told HR to set up that bonus structure it had never occurred to him that managers would do that. ¡°Joe, who is your boss?¡±


    ¡°Dave.¡±


    ¡°Dave? Dave, as in communications director Dave Crawford?¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    The gears started turning in Mike¡¯s head. ¡°And when he told you you were in the top quartile ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, man, Dave didn¡¯t decide that.¡± The music picked up, a new song beating a thrumming that made it very hard to talk and listen. Slowly, the rest of the group stopped paying attention to them, a few women straggling out onto the dance floor, most guys ordering another drink.


    ¡°No, HR decides which quartile you fall into. It¡¯s your boss who decides how much the bonus is worth.¡±


    The final tooth in the final gear wheel clicked into place. ¡°Gotcha. Drinks are on me this round, no matter what. I¡¯m the new guy and I¡¯m trying to suck up to all of you, so have fun and don¡¯t be too mean to me.¡±


    ¡°Just don¡¯t go into the supply closet with him.¡± Lydia¡¯s voice cut through the crowd, but Mike could tell the rest of them couldn¡¯t hear her. Joe was already walking away, so it was just him. Her sloppy voice in his ear made him rock hard instantly as she leaned against his shoulder. ¡°Because he might kiss you,¡± she whispered, her voice low and quiet now, her hands reaching down to his hips, one sliding into his pocket, searching for ¨C she found it, the play of her fingertips on his cock making him groan. ¡°And you might like it,¡± she hissed.


    ¡°There you are!¡± Krysta shouted, ruddy-faced and out of breath. ¡°She slipped away from me when we were trying to find the bowling alley.¡±


    ¡°Mike Bournham can suck my left tit,¡± she added. Oh, if only she knew how much he wanted that right now. Lydia had sobered up on her little walk, but not nearly enough, and apparently could finally stand on her own two feet, no longer in need of leaning on Mike or Kristin...Krysta...Kristie.


    ¡°What is your name, by the way?¡± he said to Lydia¡¯s friend.


    ¡°Krysta.¡±


    ¡°Krysta, thank you.¡±


    ¡°I already said that,¡± said Lydia.


    ¡°Sure you did, hon,¡± Krysta said, patting her shoulder, looking at Mike and rolling her eyes. ¡°We need to get her some water.¡±


    ¡°No problem,¡± he said, grateful for the break from all the eyes on him from the office. Weaving his way through the pounding throng of dancers, he was surprised to get groped twice on the hundred-foot walk to the bar. It was three people deep at every inch of the surface and twenty minutes later he was able to weave his way back, head throbbing, the techno beat permeating every cell in his mind, heart, soul, and unfortunately, cock.


    ¡°Here,¡± he said, shoving a glass of sparkling water at Lydia. She gulped it down gratefully and then screamed, ¡°I want to dance!¡±


    And so she did. He decided to sit as the booth emptied out, four people remaining, all of them paired off into couples, their mouths so intertwined and hands so deeply into each other that they might as well have been conducting a medical exam.


    Mike ignored them and searched the crowd for Lydia. Her body stretched out to the beat with complete abandon, her ass rubbing against the front of some male dancer who had cozied up to her and Krysta. A small smile spread across his face as Krysta intervened, shoving the guy away. He liked Krysta already.


    The scent of rancid beer and old, sticky drinks, of sweat, of nineteen kinds of cologne and forty-seven perfumes all swirling together with contraband cigarette and pot smoke made him nostalgic and a little sick. The bar reminded him of college, of his first year out, of time spent in groups having fun, of social activity that involved nothing more than investing time and a little bit of one¡¯s paycheck, and spending that time with other people. Of laughter, jokes, talks, sharing hopes and dreams and plans. Of having few responsibilities other than showing up ¨C and just paying attention.


    As he let his mind drift he could think of fifty-three things that needed to be done: of phone calls that he needed to make to his assistant, to members of the board. If he let his mind drift even further, he could think of more than a hundred things in his personal life ¨C from needing to get the trash compactor fixed, to the tremendous guilt that came from not talking to his mother for six weeks for no other reason than just not thinking about it. Drifting just a tad further, there was a part of Mike that wanted to join Jeremy, that wanted to do nothing more than sit on a beach for three weeks, who would love to experience the challenge of being a nobody again so that he could find his somebody.


    Of complete abandon with Jeremy and Dana.


    His eyes drifted back into the crowd to catch Lydia¡¯s fevered exuberance, how her hips swayed, how her legs powered her body up and to the side and down, how her bosom heaved, how her lips spread into a grin. How she could be wild and free. He stood, needing to touch that. Needing to connect with that somebody.


    The music faded just as he made his way through three or four layers of people in the crowd, and most of the dancers peeled off one by one to go and sit, grab a drink, run to the restroom, or ¨C who knew? Pair off and go home and do what people did after they found inspiration in a bottle at a bar.


    Mike wasn¡¯t sure what he was doing at this point. He was in full Matt Jones mode and, although he knew he had seven hours of work sitting at home for him, and probably ten times that in messages, emails, texts, and whatever from Joanie, with major decisions that needed to be made now, all he knew was that he had one decision that needed to be made and that was in his face.


    She was cheerful, glowing, and out of breath. Lydia''s hands were on him ¨C and it was time to make a completely different call.


    ¡°Come here,¡± she whispered in his ear, her fingers floating along his neckline and touching his collar. ¡°I have a question to ask you,¡± she said, grabbing his hand, tugging him away from the handful of work people who were staggering back to the semi-circular booth. Krysta shot him a look of warning and he reached up with his hand, a gesture of don¡¯t worry. She arched one eyebrow and mouthed the words, ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it.¡±


    Too late, he thought. He signed okay with his thumb and his index finger, three fingers shooting up to the sky, the best signal he could think of. Lydia yanked hard, practically pulling his shoulder out, surprising him with her strength, and with her energy ¨C and with her insistence.


    He took charge as she pulled him back into a small hallway where, to his surprise, a payphone sat. A relic that really took him back fifteen years ago to his college days. All they needed now was a cigarette machine and he would feel like he¡¯d been transported back in time.


    Her hand in his felt like an electric wire. As she pulled him closer to whisper something in his ear, he lost all restraint and pushed her against the wall, leaning down, hands hot, her face tipped up to receive him. The kiss in the supply closet, their moment in the elevator, all of it flooded his head, his nerve endings, his overpowering sense of need.

 Page 21

    Everything coalesced into a pinprick of a second, of now.


    Her body fired up against his, every inch of flesh seeking out his own, her hands multiplying and seeming to be everywhere at once, stroking his cock through his trousers, his back muscles, trailing fingers down his biceps, one hand pressed against the bare skin at the neckline of his shirt. Soft curves met his own hands as he took in her hips, running up her waist and ribcage to find a handful of breast, his thumb tweaking a nipple that responded with a beaded hush, her breath hitching in her throat, a low purr like a gift as he kissed her, catching her lip between his teeth and breathing hard against her cheek. One hand slid down her leg to slither back up her thigh, seeking ¨CAdvertisement


    ¡°Ahem,¡± a voice said, not even bothering to pretend to be discreet. Breaking away from Lydia, he turned to the left to find Krysta standing there, her hand in an ¡°OK¡± gesture. ¡°This is how you don''t take advantage of her?¡±


    ¡°Then I want him not to have sex with me. Not to go down on me, not ¨C ¡±


    ¡°I get it, I get it,¡± Krysta said, annoyed as she stepped between the two of them.


    ¡°You''re not getting any,¡± Lydia snickered.


    Mike stepped in. ¡°Why don''t we get something to eat? Lydia looks like she could use it.¡±


    Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, ¡°I know something I''d love to have in my mouth.¡± A rush of blood to his face ¨C and cock ¨C made the nightclub''s heat unbearable.


    ¡°Let''s go to Jeddy''s,¡± Krysta suggested. Except it was an order; Mike could tell she was just about done with the two of them.


    ¡°Jeddy''s? God, I haven''t been there in...forever,¡± he said. Jeddy''s was a Boston icon, a hangout where everyone practically lived after bar crawling. More a college-crowd place this time of night, it was a ratty old diner that had recently changed chefs, giving the menu a new lift that he liked. As he recalled, their Boston Cream Pie was magnificent. Jeddy''s was absolutely, positively not the kind of dive Mike Bournham went to.


    Which made it perfect for Matt Jones.


    ¡°Jeddy''s!¡± Lydia cried, sprinting for the stairs.


    He guessed they were all going down.


    ¡°Touch the balls, Lydia. Touch the balls,¡± the old waitress at Jeddy''s croaked as he, Krysta and Lydia entered. The place smelled like maple and stale feet. Lydia did as instructed, cradling them in her hand and grinning like a fool.


    ¡°Grandma!¡± Lydia screamed, lunging at the woman, who looked like a raisin impersonating a human being. Mike did a double take. Hold on, Madge was Lydia¡¯s grandmother? Years of popping in to Jeddy''s in college and beyond meant he knew exactly who Madge was ¨C who didn''t? She''d probably served him enough bacon waffles to last a lifetime.


    As the old woman tenderly hugged her limp granddaughter, she pulled Lydia back, hands on her shoulders, and took two sniffs. ¡°Ah, God, Lydia you smell like you¡¯re pickled.¡± She glared at Mike. ¡°What the hell have you done to my granddaughter?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± he protested, hands up.


    ¡°She did it to herself, Madge,¡± Krysta said. This was obviously a relationship that Mike didn¡¯t quite understand, but he was quickly putting two and two together.


    ¡°This,¡± Lydia said, her hand slipping about his waist, making him hard instantly for the nineteenth time that night, ¡°this is Matt. Matt Jones. He¡¯s my new boss.¡±


    Madge eyed him with suspicion, looking him up and down, surveying him in a way that women often did with his body. Sometimes he liked it, but right now it felt a bit like being looked over by Voldemort himself. She pursed her lips and cocked them to one side, talking out the other side of her mouth. ¡°I know you,¡± she said.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve been in here a million times. It¡¯s kind of a Boston institution, you know?¡± he answered, hoping to God she didn¡¯t realize who he really was. Of all the times to have his cover blown, this sure wasn¡¯t it, and this sure wasn¡¯t the place.


    ¡°Touch the balls,¡± she said and reflexively he reached over and fondled the warlock''s balls. ¡°There you go. Now come in and have some pie.¡±


    Krysta laughed and she, too, reached over and fondled the most over-touched piece of plastic on the planet other than, perhaps, the letters on Perez Hilton¡¯s keyboard.


    His mouth started to water as he inhaled. ¡°Pie night?¡±he asked. Madge nodded curtly. She didn¡¯t even bother to grab menus and threw three glasses of water down on the chipped, Formica table top. The glasses were pebbly, beige plastic contraptions that somehow managed to persist well into the twenty-first century but that looked like something out of 1960.


    Then again, so did Madge.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got six kinds of pie. And all of it can come out nice and warm, with a big scoop of ice cream or a hunk of cheese, depending on what you want.¡±


    ¡°I want both,¡± Lydia demanded, chugging down her glass of water, banging the empty on the table, and moving on to steal Mike''s. He didn''t argue. She needed the hydration. Tomorrow morning she would have one hell of a headache. Too bad he couldn''t wake up next to her to make it all better.


    And now he was hard again, imagining her between fine, cotton sheets, her nude body pressed against his, hands ¨C


    ¡°You can have both, Lydia,¡± Madge said, patting her on the head as if she were nine. It made Mike laugh; the easy familiarity between the two was cute to watch. He was still reeling from the fact that Madge ¨C cranky old, bitter, dried-up Madge ¨C was tender and sweet with Lydia, of all people.


    ¡°So...you guys ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Hold on there. I¡¯m taking your order. Order first, chit chat later. We¡¯ve got Peanut Butter Toffee Coffee Crunch Pie.¡± Mike groaned. ¡°We¡¯ve got Coconut Cream Banana Lime Fennel Pie.¡±


    ¡°Ooh,¡± said Krysta.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got boring, old Apple Pie with Cranberries and Lemon Glaze on top. Boston Cream Pie, of course. And then finally, we have a Key Lime Pie made with a crushed, flaked coconut crust.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s five, Grandma,¡± Lydia said, chugging back Krysta''s glass of water.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I can¡¯t do math at two in the morning, so there you go. Five kinds of pie.¡±


    She took their orders, Mike opting for boring old Boston Cream, Lydia going for the Key Lime, and Krysta indulging in two pieces, one of the Chocolate Toffee Coffee thing and one Key Lime Pie.


    As they waited, Krysta began to pepper him with questions. ¡°Why are your eyes so green?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah, why are your eyes so green?¡± When Lydia said it still sounded a little boozy, but when Krysta said it it sounded like an accusation from an NSA agent.


    ¡°They just...are,¡± he fumbled. This was a question he wasn¡¯t prepared to answer. ¡°Why are yours so brown?¡± he asked Krysta.


    ¡°That¡¯s a stupid question.¡± He just stared at her, silent, his own volley obvious. She made a sour face and turned away. Having her like him wasn¡¯t top on his list of priorities ¨C getting Lydia home safe was, and this detour through Jeddy¡¯s was really unexpected.


    Madge brought the pie, covered in more ice cream than he could eat in three days; he found himself unloading the scoops off to the side so he could tackle it. Besides, ice cream with Boston Cream Pie? That was an odd one.


    When he took a bite he understood. This was no regular ice cream. This was a Toffee Salted Caramel ice cream, and the flavor matched perfectly with some element in the pie. Was it a special kind of vanilla? Something exotic and spicy and just strangely unique enough to set his taste buds alight.


    Madge flew past in a flurry of legs and arms and apron, and her little electronic ordering thing that was half iPhone, half magic wand. ¡°Pie any good?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Lydia answered through a mouthful. ¡°You ¡®ave a oo-ah a ee?¡±


    ¡°Lydia, chew your cud, swallow and then say it again.¡± Madge stood, tapping her toe. Mike¡¯s stomach clenched. This was not good pie eating karma.


    Lydia swallowed hard, wiped her mouth and said, ¡°Grandma, I forgot my keys. Do you have yours?¡±


    ¡°Oh...oh, yeah.¡± The older woman handed the younger one a set of keys, which puzzled Mike.


    ¡°Keys?¡±


    Krysta gave him a withering look. ¡°They live together. Lydia and her grandma are roommates.¡±


    His eyebrows shot up. That¡¯s a combo he¡¯d never seen in all of his dating years. Plenty of women he saw had roommates, some of them even men he didn¡¯t know about, but a grandma?


    Krysta leaned forward and cupped her hand to cover her mouth and said with a conspirator¡¯s smile, ¡°Madge isn¡¯t around that much. She actually spends most nights with her boyfriend.¡±


    ¡°She has a boyfriend?¡± he said loudly in surprise.


    Another glare from Madge. ¡°What? I probably get more than you do. When''s the last time you had a threesome?¡± Whatever desire he''d had a moment ago vanished, the pie turning to garbage in his mouth.


    A year ago, he wanted to say. But not to her.


    Lydia erupted into peals of laughter. ¡°Matt¡¯s a really good kisser, but I don¡¯t know about him in bed.¡± And then her hand made its way up his thigh and he realized how drunk she still was. ¡°Yet,¡± she added.¡±


    He stifled a growl.


    Krysta¡¯s phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her pocket, read the text, and alarm splashed across her face. ¡°Excuse me,¡± she said and stepped out of the booth, going over to the back of the busy restaurant, covering one ear and smashing the phone against the other. Mike watched, curious, as she spoke in hushed tones, clearly agitated. Within a minute she was off the phone, came back and said, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, guys. I¡¯ve gotta go.¡±


    ¡°At two in the morning?¡± he asked, appalled. Booty calls were one thing, but this took the cake.


    ¡°Well, yeah. Pretty much. Madge!¡± Krysta seemed incredibly distracted. She scratched her head, running one hand through her curly hair. ¡°Madge, can you take Lydia home?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not off shift until 7 a.m. Krysta, I can¡¯t. Sally called off, so we''re already short a waitress. You hit me at busy time ¨C the bars all just closed.¡±


    ¡°Oh, man.¡± Krysta was on the verge of tears, panic brewing.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take her home,¡± Mike interrupted, aware that something deeper than a drunk dial was going on, but respectful enough not to pry.


    ¡°Right.¡± Krysta rolled her eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll take her home and I know exactly what you¡¯ll do, Matt.¡± She formed an ¡°OK¡± sign that converted to a middle finger salute.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take her home, I¡¯ll put her to bed, I¡¯ll take her shoes off so she¡¯s comfortable and I¡¯ll leave her safe and sound,¡± he promised.


    ¡°Right,¡± Madge said. ¡°I know your type.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s my type?¡±


    She just stared him down. Oh, he knew her type alright, and he met her eyes, staring back. It went on for over a minute until, finally, Krysta broke it all off and said, ¡°I gotta go. You guys figure it out. No matter what, I want Lydia home safe ¨C but I don¡¯t have a choice on this.¡± She pointed to the text on her phone, and off she ran.

 Page 22

    ¡°What was that about?¡± Mike asked. Madge left to grab an order and Lydia slid her hand up higher along his thigh. High enough for her to feel exactly what it was doing to him.


    ¡°That was probably Krysta¡¯s sister,¡± Lydia said, her speech a little clearer, her demeanor a little calmer. Hopefully she was sobering up. He noticed Madge had surreptitiously delivered a cup of coffee and a small pitcher of cream and he motioned to it. Lydia''s face lit up. She poured in about half the pitcher of cream and started to sip it, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.Advertisement


    ¡°Her sister?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, her sister has a son who''s autistic and sometimes he has a really rough time at night and she needs help. So Krysta goes and helps her.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Mike said, unable to think of the right words. And really, what could he say? It made him flashback on the ball he¡¯d taken Diane to. The money for autism research. Lydia at the registration table. Jeremy''s strange appearance. And for some reason the circle, the full circle, of all that gave him pause.


    ¡°So, it¡¯s you and me,¡± she said, starting to rub her hand slowly and firmly up his leg. ¡°How ¡®bout it, Matt? You want to take me home? Be the decent guy. Make sure,¡± she leaned in, put her hot mouth right up against his earlobe, ¡°I¡¯m safe and warm in bed.¡±


    He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, tightened his solar plexus and suppressed a groan, grabbing his fork and shoving half the pie in his mouth so that it would be occupied with something other than what he wanted to do with it. Which, he was pretty sure, was illegal in all 50 states in public.


    Lydia made her way through her pie, quickly, and her cup of coffee. Madge seamlessly delivering yet another refill and he motioned for one himself. This would be a very long night, and he''d need every drop of liquid alertness he could drink. She finally came back and just left a pot and a giant pitcher of cream, which Lydia devoured within three cups.


    Krysta had abandoned her two pieces of pie so they made their way slowly through them until he was so full he wished he could pop open the top button on his jeans and just sit there in a sugar coma of bliss. Instead, though, he had to fight to hold himself back from being the indecent guy, from being the not-so-gentlemanly man, from taking her home and having his way with her and having his fun with her. And giving her as much as he would get, of course.


    He knew that he would regret it in the morning. She would, too. He¡¯d always wonder whether it was the alcohol or Lydia talking. So, it was better to wait. To wait until he knew that whatever response he got, whatever sighs and moans and touches and tickles, caresses and twitches and groans and releases ¨C they were all from Lydia and only Lydia. Not a Cosmo or three.


    For now, any desires he had needed to be quenched with five kinds of pie and a cup of coffee.


    It turned out Madge and Lydia lived less than a block away. No surprise there; Madge practically lived at the joint. As he walked her home in the wee hours between three and four, he found her yammering on, something about how Grandma didn¡¯t just work there, she owned it and he stopped cold in the street. ¡°Madge owns Jeddy¡¯s?¡±


    She covered her mouth, eyes wide. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s a secret. I¡¯m not supposed to tell.¡± And then laughter. ¡°But ¨C yeah. Promise me you¡¯ll keep the secret?¡±


    ¡°I promise,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m really good at keeping secrets.¡±


    ¡°You are. I¡¯ll bet you¡¯re Batman, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said, suddenly serious. ¡°I''m Batman.¡±


    Aglow from the streetlight, cute and innocent and loose but no longer unfocused, Lydia''s face beckoned. While he could be good and respectful and decent, there was nothing wrong with letting off a little bit of steam and so he reached out and pressed his lips against hers to steal a kiss. They had reached her building, and she responded with such passion that he regretted his promise to Madge and Krysta, their tongues exploring and yearning for more.


    Pulling away, she fumbled for the key, led him up two flights of stairs, and soon they were in the apartment, her body rushed, dragging him to the couch. Hot hands untucked his shirt, moaning at the touch of her fingers on his warm flesh, the moan his or hers or both; it was getting hard to tell, and he didn''t much care as her hands caressed his neck, running through his hair, mouth hungry and demanding.


    Leaning her back on the couch, her breasts pushed up and his hand found it, groaning as her nipples responded instantly, her hands reaching for his pants button. Their breath mingled in the silent room, the sound of her gasps like happy laughter, joyful and enjoying this in a way that he fell into so easily.


    As one hand played with her full, voluptuous breasts, the other sought out her hot core, finding uncovered thighs leading to ¨C


    Ah.


    No panties.


    Throwing her head back, she laughed loosely. ¡°You can''t get another pair from me tonight,¡± she teased. ¡°I''m not wearing any.¡± Searching fingers slipped below his waistband, and when she found what she sought, she sighed, pushing her hips into his hand. ¡°And you''re not, either.¡±


    ¡°I don''t wear panties,¡± he murmured in her ear, her hand closing over his thick rod.


    ¡°Oh,¡± she pouted, playacting. ¡°That''s too bad.¡± Her mouth took his with a boldness that made him need her so achingly, then pulled back, leaving cold air to torture his lips. ¡°We could have fun with that.¡±


    Bzzzz.


    Why was he pulling away? And did he have a vibrator in his pocket? Something was buzzing like crazy and her sex toys were in a completely different room.


    ¡°Phone,¡± he said, scrambling off her and standing. Brow furrowed, he read a text.


    Then he closed his eyes, took two deep breaths, and began tucking in his shirt.


    Huh? This was not the direction this moment should be going in. Migrating to her bedroom was next. Not this. Her loose, happy feeling turned into sudden thirst. As if he read her mind, he walked out of the room and toward the kitchen. A rush of water, then he re-appeared, glass in hand.


    ¡°Drink this,¡± he said kindly, not sitting next to her as she''d hoped. What had gone wrong? What had she said?


    ¡°Who texted you?¡± she asked after gulping down the water. Exhaustion began to seep in, but she fought it. Not now!


    ¡°Krysta.¡±


    Oh, she was going to kill that woman.


    ¡°What did she say?¡± Lydia''s voice came out like a menacing growl, and Matt flinched. Good. If Krysta had just cockblocked them, she was ¨C


    He slid his phone out of his pocket and flashed it at her.


    Madge will make you eat the balls if you take advantage the text read.


    ¡°Oh, God!¡± Lydia groaned in anguish. ¡°Way to kill off every single sexual drop in me, Grandma.¡±


    ¡°I think that was the point.¡±


    The room spun ¨C not too much, but just enough. Lydia stood and swayed a bit, Matt rushing to help her. ¡°I''m really tired,¡± she said, reluctant to admit it but comfortable enough to do so. The twin feelings surprised her, and he smiled kindly, helping her walk to her bedroom.


    A very different walk than the one she''d envisioned moments ago.


    In her room, he pointed to her dresser. ¡°Get dressed in your pajamas and I''ll make sure you have a glass of water for the morning.¡± As he stepped out, he kissed the top of her head. ¡°You''ll need it,¡± he chuckled.


    Pulling off her skirt, she rooted around her top drawer for granny panties and put those on, plus her favorite penguin-covered flannel Pjs, her feet grateful to be released from the agony of her purple-leather dancing heels. The night was shot, and some part of her had slipped out of desire to an acceptance that, oh, something. Her mind didn''t work quite right as she slid between the cool sheets, her cheek loving the pillow''s downy luxury.


    Barely noticing Matt when he came back in, her last memory was of a kiss on her cheek and a light caress of fingertips on her forehead.


    On his way out, she heard him mumble, ¡°Mr. Decent sucks.¡±


    Chapter Eight


    Who was performing the macarena in the apartment above hers? Wait ¨C there was no apartment above her. She and Grandma lived on the top floor. So, the jackhammer, the bum bum bum bum bumpa-bumpa-bumpa bump in her brain was in her brain and not really outside. Someone appeared to have sneaked into her home in the middle of the night and sprayed her mouth with cotton balls. As she peeled her eyelids open, her fingers prying the flesh apart, the sun attacked her with all the violence of a provoked porcupine and she realized that she was just waking up in the morning.


    In bed, in her favorite jammies, shoes off and placed neatly under her bed. She could see the little pieces of purple leather from under there as she leaned over and just let her head hang down. One of her grandma¡¯s afghans was thrown over her ¨C quite neatly, in fact ¨C squared perfectly with the bed. She must have slept without moving, and from the way that her head throbbed she guessed she hadn¡¯t gotten up to have any water or to do anything to mitigate those three Cosmos.


    How had she gotten home? She didn¡¯t remem ¨C oh. It all came flooding back. The bar, the dancing, her hands on Matt, the way ¨C oh, God! Maybe the Earth would swallow her whole and suck her in. Would that take away the blinding pain? Even more important, would it mean that she didn¡¯t have to go to work this morning?


    Had she really done all of that last night? She felt under the afghan quickly and located her panties. They were on. Whew! It hadn¡¯t been that bad. Lydia relaxed her shoulders, her body sinking into the soft mattress. It relieved the pain for about three seconds and then it came rushing back. What she needed, right now, were three Advil, a giant glass of water, and a cup of coffee.


    Water was right there, next to the bed. Drunk off her ass and she remembered to do that? Not her style. Greedy for the liquid, she sucked it down, and then remembered.


    Matt. He must have done that, thinking ahead to her hangover. A small, shy smile covered her lips.


    No one else was here. Grandma was at Ed''s house. She was completely alone, which meant that if anyone was going to help her, it had to be her. The downside of being single.


    As she slid her legs over the side of the bed and rolled her head back on the bed, she lay prone, feet flat on the floor, arms above her, waiting for the energy to trigger her solar plexus and abs to curl her body up, to change blood pressure, to recover physically enough to even begin to plan out how she would make it to work. She engaged her brain to fire the signal to her belly to encourage her arms to move up and whoosh!


    The room swam. Why did she chug that last Cosmo? What the hell was she thinking? And at $9 each, she wasn¡¯t exactly rolling in it now. $27 for a headache. Not a bargain. Worst deal ever ¨C because she felt as if she had made a deal with the Devil himself: Matt Jones. A deal that took away her respect, her professionalism, and a little chink of her heart because as she felt for her panties again in a panic ¨C oh good, they were there ¨C the next thought was, why are they still there? Why wasn¡¯t she good enough to sleep with last night?


    She propped herself up on her hands, palms flat against the mattress, wrists aching within seconds from the weight of her shoulders pushing down. She had very little head control but she needed to acquire it. And so, determined as ever, she sat to wait this one out. Sandy had taught her a long time ago that no matter how difficult something is, if you wait long enough, it will go away. If she waited long enough perhaps Matt Jones would go away. But oh, how she didn¡¯t him to.

 Page 23

    Lydia was not a drinker. Which made the fact that she had gone out and had this much all the more telling that something was off in her world. She hadn¡¯t felt a compulsion to drink and it had been fun, but tossing back that last Cosmo as if she were steeling herself against some great travesty that she had to fight seemed so barbaric and beastly of her. The steady, painful thrumming in her neck and head was an all too visceral reminder that, for whatever reason, Matt Jones made her act like a completely different person.


    It was like she was two different people.Advertisement


    Why hadn¡¯t he slept with her? He could have. She was willing. Even through the haze of alcohol it wasn¡¯t a desire driven solely from a bottle. Inhibitions were down, her libido was up, she could feel ¨C literally ¨C his matched desire. Why had he brought her home, tucked her into bed, and left? Lydia remembered the feel of his soft lips on her temple as she had faded off to sleep, the comfort of being cared for by someone who wasn¡¯t biologically obligated to do so. Nobody had tucked her in like that since she had mono when she was in high school, her mom slaving away over her.


    It felt good. It felt tender and nuanced. Matt wasn¡¯t just some guy that she could play with or learn from and move on. There was something more here, and the fact that he had the decency not to take advantage of her made her want him all the more.


    The problem, though, was that she actually had to get to work in order to see him again. And that meant standing up. Any other day, that would be no problem, the action involuntary, so quick and simple she didn¡¯t think of it or pause or hesitate. Right now, what normally was a nanosecond of effort had 921 separate and distinct steps involved in moving her a total of two to three feet vertically.


    She reached for her phone, which she noted had been neatly placed on her bedside table, and took the easy way out. Autodialing Krysta¡¯s number, she waited three rings and ¨C


    ¡°¡®Lo?¡±


    ¡°Did I catch you asleep again?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s 6:30 in the morning, Lydia.¡±


    ¡°Can you come over and help me?¡±


    ¡°Ahh. Feeling a little unwell?¡± The teasing tone of Krysta¡¯s voice told Lydia that yep ¨C it really had been that bad last night. She had to ask, though.


    ¡°That bad?¡±


    ¡°After you serviced three guys on the bar all at once ¨C don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m sure the video will go viral, or has already. One girl, two bartenders.¡±


    ¡°Ha ha.¡± Lydia''s head started to explode as she actually spoke the words aloud, pushing aside the cotton balls with a tongue that felt like it had last been kissed by Jabba the Hut.


    ¡°You were fine, but I assume Matt was the gentleman he promised me he would be.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still wearing my panties.¡±


    ¡°Good. Because really he should only have one pair, not two.¡±


    Lydia was really regretting telling Krysta the elevator story. ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s right,¡± was all she could think to say.


    ¡°You want me to come over there and make coffee and take care of you, don''t you?¡± Krysta¡¯s voice was flat, not rude, not disappointed. Just stating the obvious.


    ¡°Mhmm.¡± Lydia was quickly realizing that when she actually spoke, pain gained momentum. Humming might do better.


    ¡°You can¡¯t even talk, can you?¡±


    ¡°Mmn mmn.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be over in fifteen minutes but you¡¯d better have some decent shampoo over there because I¡¯m gonna have to shower.¡±


    ¡°Mmm.¡± The sound she made was one that connoted ¡®not sure¡¯.


    ¡°Oh, Christ, Lydia. I¡¯ll be there soon.¡± Click.


    Luckily Krysta hadn¡¯t said the one thing that Lydia feared hearing the most. You need to call your mother.


    ¡°What would Sandy do?¡± she muttered to herself, closing her mouth and reminding herself to stop doing this. What would Sandy do? Well Sandy, she guessed, would never have left Maine in the first place. She didn¡¯t understand it. Grandma stayed in Boston ¨C loved it in fact ¨C and was just as stubborn as mom when it came to making life decisions. Lydia sure understood that.


    Sandy had been devastated that Lydia didn¡¯t stay in Maine with her brothers but she had no real future there. Not quite. That wasn¡¯t really true. It wasn''t that she had no future there, it was that she had Sandy and Pete¡¯s future there. What they wanted. How they envisioned life for their kids. And her brothers all loved it, except for one.


    She pushed the thought away. She couldn¡¯t think about Luke right now. But she was the one who got away, and the only one not living there now. She was only four hours from home and Grandma lived in the same city. So, what was their problem? Why couldn''t Sandy just be happy for her?


    If she called Mom and said, ¡°Hey, Mom, I went out last night and got drunk and made out with my boss, and by the way, it¡¯s the third time and he has my panties from this elevator scene that...¡±


    Words rolling off her tongue, Lydia tried to fathom the look on Sandy¡¯s face, tried to imagine what her mother would think and do if she were Lydia. It didn''t compute. She couldn''t ask herself what would Sandy do? because Sandy would never have done any of this. A smile cracked the cotton balls in Lydia¡¯s mouth.


    That¡¯s why she was here. Because, when she asked herself that question, what would Sandy do? the answer was Sandy would never find herself in this position. Lydia did, and this was Lydia¡¯s life to live. But if Krysta didn¡¯t hurry up, Lydia was going to die from caffeine deprivation.


    Fortunately, a sharp knock on the door followed by the sound of a key in the lock and a holler told her her savior was here.


    ¡°You¡¯re still in bed?¡± Krysta¡¯s voice cut through the room like a sharp knife.


    ¡°Yeah, I''m still in bed. You¡¯re my savior.¡± Clenched in Krysta¡¯s hand was a telltale paper cup with a green logo on it. ¡°Please tell me that¡¯s a double.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a triple.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Marry me.¡±


    ¡°No. It may be legal in this state, but no. I don¡¯t marry people who give their panties to their boss in an elevator.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re never ever going to let me forget that are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to hold it over your head until the day you die.¡±


    ¡°Well, if you don¡¯t give me that coffee right now, it¡¯s going to be today.¡± The hot liquid, just the perfect temperature for taking small swallows, for infusing her brain with a much needed jolt, helped everything recede; her confusion, her thoughts about her mother, her feelings for Matt. She was one with the coffee and then she looked at Krysta and said, ¡°Advil?¡±


    Reaching into her purse, Krysta pulled out a bottle, shook out three orange pills and handed them to Lydia, who gulped them down in one big swallow. Now she could relax. Now she could give herself the time she needed to start this day because work ¨C work was going to be really interesting today.


    And it all started with coffee.


    ¡°Somebody got outed,¡± Lydia¡¯s singsong voice made his blood run cold as he stepped off the elevator and looked at her in horror. His hair was dyed back to brown, he knew he was wearing the contact lenses because he¡¯d seen himself in the mirror of the Toyota he rented as he drove to work this morning. So, what was she talking about?


    ¡°What are you talking about, Lydia?¡± he asked, on guard, standing close to the elevator and ready to jump back on it if need be.


    ¡°Dave,¡± she said slowly. ¡°Dave.¡± Her face was radiant. She looked like a college student, a high school girl, a fresh faced ingenue who had just been handed the best news of her life. It didn''t square with the half-drunk woman he''d left in bed last night. ¡°Dave was fired. He is gone, completely gone.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Mike had to act surprised. He knew Dave was gone, because after digging through his HR file he discovered that Dave had falsified his resume. A few quick Google searches that Human Resources hadn¡¯t bothered to do when they hired him seven years ago told him that Dave had a rather active life as an online liar. One phone call to Harvard told him that he certainly hadn¡¯t eared his MBA there. With very little effort, he¡¯d had him completely canned and offered a very neutral reference should Dave attempt to work elsewhere ¨C in exchange for his speedy exit. He was beginning to dig this reality television show bit. It was helping him to find all sorts of information about his company.


    And then there was Lydia. ¡°So he¡¯s gone.¡± He leaned in, face neutral, but voice intimate. ¡°I want to talk about you, though. Not Dave.¡±


    She blushed. ¡°I, uh, don''t know what to say. Um, thanks?¡± Her voice squeaked on the last word.


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For taking care of me.¡±


    He coughed. ¡°That''s not quite how I remember it. You, my dear, were close to taking care of me.¡± He pointed to the office and as they walked, he realized this could be caught on camera if he wasn''t very, very careful.


    A crinkle in her nose as she winced made a part of him yearn to reach over and kiss her, though. Logic brain kicked in, though, and he changed the subject.


    ¡°I guess that means his job is open.¡±


    His eyes lit on hers and she went completely ice queen on him. ¡°Yes,¡± her jaw set a little crooked, as if tension had tightened her a little too quickly. ¡°You¡¯re right, Dave¡¯s job is open.¡±


    Her nearly instant turn on her heel and march back to her cubicle gave him a mouth watering view of her retreat. Of her ass in all its glory. Of the curves that he wished to touch once more. And then, he smiled, because he had an idea that might help everyone. Matt Jones was about to give Lydia her big break.


    He followed her. As he walked around the wall of her cubicle he found her sitting at her desk, mumbling to herself and caught a few words. ¡°Pompous...who does he think...acts like he owns...¡±


    He suppressed a grin and cleared his throat so he didn¡¯t scare her. She whipped around, her hair flying through the air and then floating over her left shoulder as she tipped her face toward him. ¡°Oh.¡± She went from the vulnerability of her true emotions to the mask of professionalism. ¡°Yes, Matt? What can I do for you?¡±


    Oh, what can you do for me? he thought. ¡°Uh, so...Lydia, with Dave gone, who is technically in charge?¡±


    She bristled. ¡°That would be you, Matt, until we have a new director. And above the Director of Communications we have Senior Vice President for Communications and Marketing.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Mike knew that that woman was perfectly capable but also out in San Francisco doing a multi-million dollar pitch for a new client. ¡°Well, then, if I¡¯m technically filling the position, I would like to ask you to continue your work on the romance project.¡±


    The look on her face told him that this was the last thing she expected. ¡°You...do?¡± she asked, her voice filled with incredulity. ¡°But...why?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a good idea and it deserves to be tried out.¡±


    She recovered quickly. ¡°How far do you want me to take it?¡±


    They stared at each other, their breathing labored as he felt his skin prickle, his hands tighten, holding back from doing what he wanted to do which was take things very, very far with her. But in terms of the project...

 Page 24

    ¡°Uh, that¡¯s a good question. I would have to look at the budget to see what we can approve but I think we''re definitely looking at having you spend considerable work time on creating a full pitch, on contacting some of these bloggers, and video bloggers, and small eBook outlets, and the larger authors and smaller publishing houses you were talking about. Get them together to talk about some package advertising deals.¡±


    She stood and smoothed her sweater over the swell of her hips, and where her hands were ¨C all he wanted to do was replace them with his. When she swallowed, he wanted his lips on the pulse at her neck and when she smiled he wanted to taste the way that her lips felt right now.Advertisement


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said. Her body leaned forward and then she halted herself, as if she were going to touch him. ¡°Thank you. I appreciate the confidence.¡± Eyes narrowed as if she had a question she was about to ask, but then thought better of it. Instead, she added, ¡°Can I email you some questions to bang out the specifics?¡±


    That¡¯s not what I want to bang out, he thought. ¡°Absolutely,¡± he said, his mind warring with his solar plexus, with his thrumming heart, and with hands that were a little too untamed for his needs right now. ¡°Absolutely. We¡¯ll talk.¡± The words came out choked. He felt a cognitive and emotional dissonance that made it difficult to continue and so he didn¡¯t, instead cutting the conversation off in mid word and walking away to find a stairwell to pound this out.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Lydia hissed into her phone, curled up in the supply closet. This was the last place that she wanted to be but it was the only quiet, dark little cubbyhole that she could find anywhere. Her office was teeming with too many people and the bathroom ¨C lord! ¨C the bathroom was gossip central. If somebody heard her in a stall whispering into her phone they¡¯d assume she was pregnant or being cheated on or had some sort of a disease.


    So, supply closet it was. The problem was that the room seemed infused with Matt¡¯s scent. The darkness was reminiscent of his hands on her, his mouth claiming her, and the room seemed to get smaller and smaller, shrinking to envelop her and take her over even as Krysta screeched, ¡°What do you think is happening, Lyd? Do you think he¡¯s trying to screw you over?¡±


    I think he¡¯s trying to screw me, she thought, then took a deep, careful breath before answering with her actual mouth. ¡°Umm...I don¡¯t know. The idealist in me wants to think that he recognized a good idea, that he respects my intelligence, and that he wants me to explore this option to see if we can get the higher ups to sign off on it, and this is my ticket to becoming a director.¡±


    ¡°And the pessimist in you,¡± Krysta answered for her, ¡°says that he just wants to get into your pants, steal your idea, take credit, and run away.¡±


    ¡°Pretty much,¡± Lydia said.


    And then Krysta said the words that no one really wanted to hear, including Krysta. ¡°Just like Dave did.¡±


    Ouch. What Matt didn¡¯t know was that Dave had come to the company years ago as a fresh- faced, just as unctuous and oily, upstart. In a position that was then called Communications Coordinator, and that he quickly got renamed and reclassified to Director of Communications.


    Dave hadn¡¯t worn his wedding ring when he had first started at Bounrham Industries. It wasn¡¯t until after he and Lydia had gone out a few times, always to quiet, dark little places that were twenty blocks away from work, that he just had to share with her ¨C these little gems deep in the city, far from prying eyes.


    It wasn¡¯t until she had come perilously close to giving herself to him, not so much emotionally but physically, that she had found out he was married.


    That had ended it immediately. She wouldn¡¯t aid anyone in cheating on their spouse, and even though she wasn¡¯t in a committed relationship that didn¡¯t mean that he was not. He seemed to have no problem, however, with violating his vows. When she¡¯d called him on it he had simply smiled, looked at his fingernails, paused, bought himself a little bit of time and then said, ¡°You¡¯re really not my type anyhow.¡±


    Lydia had spent the last year working under his thumb, fetching his damn lattes and trying to find a way to get a transfer out of there. The romance project had been a big part of that. With Dave gone, though, she had more options. Having Krysta bring up the past with Dave, though, made her cringe. Suddenly Matt¡¯s scent flew out from under the small crack in the door, the tiny closet becoming a great, cold, white light abyss and all traces of intimacy in memory or in real life faded at her sense of outrage and shame.


    Shame driven only by her own naivete. How she had let herself fall for so many different lines and for such a jerk like Dave was something that she just couldn¡¯t understand and really couldn¡¯t forgive herself for. But, she wasn¡¯t going to focus on that right now and Krysta wasn¡¯t going to make her.


    ¡°So,¡± she whispered, ¡°the good news is that I¡¯ve got another opportunity.¡±


    ¡°But Lyd, Matt has your job.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but you know what? I bet Matt is gunning for Dave¡¯s job and then I can have Matt¡¯s job.¡±


    ¡°Matt¡¯s been here a week Lydia ¨C a week. You¡¯ve been here for over two years. Why can¡¯t you have Dave¡¯s job?¡±


    She went silent. How could she have ¨C and then slowly Lydia began to bang her head against the metal shelving in front of her. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could she have missed it? Some part of her had become submissive, schoolgirl-like, giddy at scraps. And Matt Jones had been some sort of integral part of that.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she told Krysta.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re modest.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that too.¡±


    ¡°I need to go for the director¡¯s job, which means Matt is no longer an ally. He¡¯s the competition.¡±


    ¡°Mike, it¡¯s Diane just calling to check in and see how you¡¯re doing. You¡¯ve been on my mind lately and I¡¯ve been thinking a lot about you. Call me. You know where to find me.¡± Click.


    He¡¯d ignored the last three text messages from her and now she had resorted to voice mail. She must have some enormous event where she needed him on her arm. Why had he ever played this game?


    Joanie had delivered about twenty-seven hours worth of work to his apartment and here he sat, on a Sunday, when most of his co-workers ¨C no, Matt Jones¡¯ co-workers ¨C were catching up on errands or playing, going to the movies, hanging out with family.


    Bleary eyed, already on his fourth cup of coffee and it was, he looked at the clock, 10:11 a.m. ¨C he faced a day of dull work.


    Diane. Just what he needed. Diane was a Kardashian wannabe, which Mike had found charming when he first met her. Not charming in a cute or an appealing sort of way, but charming in a ¡®pat the woman''s head in a condescending manner¡¯ kind of way because if being a Kardashian were the height of Diane¡¯s dreams then he¡¯d hate to know what her nightmares were. As tux candy, she''d been fine, but just as she used him for status, he had used her for public relations.


    As he stared at all of the work and all of the decisions that other people were afraid to make, choices that he was pushed against a wall to execute, he faced a growing sense that profits were not going to meet what he had hoped in order to achieve his coup. He felt himself simultaneously tightening and loosening, the drive to win so great, so overwhelming inside of him that he could not let go of the goal.


    Something new, a release within him, was a counterweight to that burden of success.


    It teased him like a Siren on the seas, calling out to him, offering a different view, another life. One with swells and soft curves and flesh that went on and invited his hands, his mouth, his heart. And that, right there, was the problem.


    She was derailing him.


    From that frantic kiss in the supply closet to a very unprofessional but succulent moment in the dark, in the elevator, Lydia invaded his thoughts, his fantasies ¨C and his business.


    To that night in the bar, taking her home, tucking her in, his decency the only protection from tipping over and going full on, full blood, full wild with her.


    A less respectful man would have gone for it. A man with a killer instinct would have gone for it and, until a couple of weeks ago, Mike would have called himself the ultimate alpha male with a killer instinct that put would put him into the Fortune 500 and would eventually make him the CEO of a top-ten company.


    Her panties were now tucked away in his glove compartment, never failing to bring a smile to his face whenever he saw them. Damn it.


    Decency threatened everything. The decency that said Bournham Industries bonuses weren¡¯t good enough. The decency that saw the impact of cheap paper towels and horrible coffee on the workers. The decency that kept his body from hers, from taking advantage of someone who was so dependent on him but didn¡¯t realize it ¨C her career, her self esteem, her emotional state so wrapped up in what she did at Bournham Industries and her personal state so wrapped up in this fictional character Matt Jones, that he had created. So much of Lydia intertwined with him.


    And she was completely oblivious to it all and certainly had been with more alcohol coursing through her than ought to have been the case. It was her vulnerability that made him realize he had to withdraw. Yet he had to get back in touch with that killer instinct, because that killer instinct ¨C that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.


    He¡¯d agreed to do Meet the Hidden Boss with Jonah because his killer instinct drove him to find ways to make new profits. His killer instinct drove him to date women like Diane because it got him on the socialite pages, into the newspapers, on social media sites, on TMZ and Perez and all the crazy places with his face here, there, and everywhere. Branding was something that guys with a killer instinct knew.


    Decency? Decency had no place when it came to branding.


    What he needed to do was go back to being that guy who tapped on her glass, who met her that first day, that guy she joked ¨C or didn¡¯t joke ¨C was trying to be Christian Grey. Mike might not have been a billionaire yet, but he was going to be.


    Lydia was the only thing standing in the way.


    The script was already sitting on his desk before he¡¯d had a chance to take off his coat. The smack of the thick packet of papers hitting the surface as he whirled around to find Jonah standing there, back against the wall, trying hard not to be noticed filled the air.


    In a twelve-by-fifteen office, it wasn¡¯t easy to hide.


    ¡°Hey there, Mike. Good morning. I thought I¡¯d catch you kind of early.¡± His hands out in a gesture of supplication, Jonah clearly had an agenda but was trying to act like he didn¡¯t.


    ¡°What do you want Jonah? I don¡¯t have a lot of time and you really shouldn¡¯t be coming in here.¡±


    Jonah looked at his watch. ¡°It¡¯s 7:30, none of the other doo-bies are going to be in and they don¡¯t know who I am. I¡¯ll just leave out the staircase and avoid the..¡± he paused for drama, or so it seemed to Mike. ¡°...elevators.¡± A hard, wry look that made Mike stand on alert.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have to worry. The elevators don¡¯t have cameras. Isn¡¯t that right, Jonah?¡± Hard look back.

 Page 25

    ¡°Nope. No, no cameras in the elevators, Mike. That¡¯s part of the agreement, right?¡± There was a subtext here that made Mike very, very uncomfortable. He didn¡¯t like being uncomfortable. It was a state he¡¯d been in too much, too often lately and so he cut Jonah off at the knees.


    ¡°Get to the point or get out.¡±Advertisement


    All pretense of friendliness smeared off of Jonah¡¯s face within seconds. ¡°You need to follow the script more. You need to become a hardass with Lydia and crack the Don Draper look. That is the only thing that is going to get ratings up. Right now you look like mister new-agey funky shit and that, let me tell you ¨C I¡¯ve been doing enough of these shows to know ¨C that doesn¡¯t sell. Not among the core female audience.¡±


    ¡°And who is that?¡±


    ¡°Women 26 to 44.¡±


    Lydia¡¯s target. Hmm. ¡°What do you want, specifically? Give me detailed behaviors that you¡¯re looking for that you think will ping the audience, that you think will drive ratings up through the roof ,because that¡¯s what I want. You said that production on this thing will be wrapped up in a total of six weeks and that the first episodes would be two weeks later. I am a man with very little time, so make this worth my while. We¡¯re in week two now. Where is this going?¡±


    The evil grin that spread across Jonah¡¯s face soothed Mike on some level because it meant that they were getting back to business. This wasn¡¯t about Lydia. This wasn¡¯t about Matt Jones. This wasn¡¯t about finding true love, or even, true sex. This was about money and they both wanted to make it, Jonah even more so than Mike.


    He tabled that thought, for it troubled him. Jonah sat down, flipped through the script and pointed to a few key sections. Mike handed him a pen. ¡°Just star the points that you want me to focus on.¡±


    Furiously scribbling, Jonah did as instructed and then stood. ¡°I¡¯m glad we¡¯re on the same page.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I was always on the same page,¡± Mike insisted. ¡°You¡¯re the one who was confused.¡±


    A dark look passed over Jonah¡¯s face, his brow furrowed. ¡°I¡¯m in this to have a show skyrocket to the top, to be carried by some of the shows that have become iconic crap, like American Idol, or The Voice, or The Bachelor.¡±


    ¡°If that crap,¡± Mike said, ¡°can get me the boost in sales that you stressed, then bring on the crap.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯ll get that boost. Ten percent is nothing to ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Ten! Ten percent?¡± he interrupted Jonah. ¡°You told me twenty.¡±


    The weasley look on Jonah¡¯s face made Mike groan inside. ¡°Twenty ¨C of course! That¡¯s what I said. Twenty.¡±


    ¡°Jonah, you showed me demographic proof. You showed me statements from previous participants.¡±


    ¡°Of course I did. Whatever. It¡¯s...you know.. ten, twenty ¨C let¡¯s not quibble over details.¡±


    ¡°Get out.¡±


    Jonah looked as if he¡¯d been slapped. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Get out. Get out of my office. One day. You have one fucking day to prove to me that I need to waste the next four and a half weeks on this crap. One day. Show me today that it¡¯s worth it. Go do a promo spot, go. ¨C I don¡¯t care what you do. Do something that¡¯s going to get Bournham Industries out into the chattering masses. Make us hot on Twitter, make us hot on Facebook, get us on all of the gossip sites. I don¡¯t care what you do. Just do it because right now I don¡¯t have any reason to stay in this at all. Give me a reason.¡±


    ¡°Why should I give you a reason?¡± Jonah¡¯s voice went up an octave. ¡°You need us as much as I need you.¡±


    ¡°Because fuck you. Because. Fuck. You,¡± Mike repeated. ¡°If you fudged those numbers and this is all a sham and you¡¯ve been trying to pull one over on me, I will have your career so far in the shitter that you will be lucky if you can get a job changing VCR tapes at some ancient storage facility in the middle of buttfuck Indiana. And that¡¯ll be the closest to a video camera that you ever get.¡±


    Jonah cut his eyes away. Mike could still see the gears turning, the manipulative sociopath in the man trying to turn this around to his advantage. ¡°Get out,¡± he repeated.


    He was about three seconds away from standing up and shoving the guy out when Jonah did it on his own, quietly, without another word. He slammed the door shut and Mike gave him that. He needed to feel like he had a shred of a testicle left.


    Mike¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, not out of fear, but out of anger, and he took a few deep breaths to calm down. He grabbed the phone and texted Joanie:


    Joanie, verify data on Meet the Hidden Boss profits for companies involved.


    He knew she had done this in the beginning; he¡¯d requested that information a long time ago. He never would have gotten involved in this mess without quantifiable evidence. And yet, now, here he stood, tongue rolling between his cheek and teeth as his body worked to release all that tension. Decent guy, huh? His decency kept getting in the way of his life¡¯s goals. Being a hardass with Jonah hadn¡¯t been difficult ¨C in fact, it hadn¡¯t even been a blip. The real test would come when Lydia walked in that door.


    ¡°Bring me a cup of coffee,¡± Matt ordered, not even bothering to gesture, as if he were so accustomed to ordering women around that he accepted it as second nature that she would be his little errand girl. Whatever happened to Mr. Decency? This guy blew hot and cold like a diva.


    ¡°Please,¡± he added, shooting her a glance that was as close to sheepish as he seemed capable, but that looked more like a man closing the deal than anything else. A perfunctory social nicety intended to secure his getting what he wanted.


    Get your own damn coffee, she thought, and then she stopped and grinned, a tight flicker of a smile as she realized how she would interpret this to her own satisfaction. Week two and I''m coffee girl already? FML.


    ¡°I will be right back,¡± she said, as formally as she could stomach. Where was the guy so incensed that Dave made her get his precious lattes for him? Oh. That''s right. Probably with her panties. Giving up so much of herself was turning out to be one of the biggest mistakes of her fucking life. Worse than dating Dave, even ¨C because she actually cared about Matt. And that''s why this hurt so much.


    Clearly, he''d come to the same realization ¨C they were competitors now. Career over clit, right? For him it would be career over cock. Ah, how she wanted to have her clit over his cock. No! Wait! That''s not what she was supposed to be thinking. Down, girl.


    Going down, girl.


    Augh!


    Coffee? You want coffee? I''ll give you exactly what you asked for.


    At the coffee counter in the tiny office kitchen she bent down, careful not to split her too-tight pantyhose as she bent down to the bottom of three shelves, dug and a bit and...ah. Yes. There it was. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and proceeded to open the jar, pouring half a coffee cup''s worth of instant coffee into a paper cup.


    He asked for a cup of coffee. And that is exactly what she would deliver.


    The walk back to his office felt so light, like a giddy moment of fluff and air and freedom. What could he do? Fire her for delivering exactly what he asked for, with no creativity, no initiative, no extra ideas or inferences?


    Here''s your fucking cup of coffee, you smug asshole, she thought as she put the cup down in front of him and turned around to walk back out the door.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he muttered, and she heard the cup scrape against the desk, the muffled sound of his lips closing over the cup, and then ¨C


    Gagging and sputtering. His shout of ¡°What the hell?¡± came through the door, more a roar of indignation than a phrase of surprise. She smirked, glad to be turned away from him, and started to close the door.


    ¡°Lydia!¡± he thundered. She halted. Too slow. Might as well accept her punishment. Heh. Spinning on one heel, she faced him with a neutral expression.


    ¡°Yes, Matt?¡± he seemed piqued my her calling him by his name. She refused ¨C adamantly refused ¨C ever to call him Mr. Jones. Not that he had asked, but his unease whenever she called him Matt seemed to compound by the day. Something was not quite right, but she couldn''t put a name to it.


    Smirk. ¡°I see. Coffee. I asked for a cup. Cute. A little beneath you, but cute.¡±


    Beneath her? ¡°Is that all? I have work to do.¡± She wasn''t going to play this game by any rules but her own.


    ¡°No ¨C that''s not all.¡± Typing furiously, he hit the ¡°Enter¡± key on his keyboard and looked up. Why, oh why, did he have to be so attractive? Intense and bold, his shoulders spread nice and wide as he stretched, the button-down oxford looking slightly out of place. He should be in runner''s clothes, in soccer shorts, wearing something lightweight and form-fitting. Underneath his business casual attire she knew he had hot, sculpted abs, a washboard she wanted so desperately to scrub herself on.


    He was staring at her as if he''d said something and was waiting for a response. ¡°Lydia?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± Shit. Had he said something? Those green eyes peered at her, evaluating her, sizing her up.


    ¡°My trip? You''ll book the travel arrangements.¡± A command. Reaching to the left, he plucked a piece of paper out of the printer. ¡°Here.¡±


    The words danced on the page, her heart thumping so hard it bounced her eyeballs. The guy was a middle management nobody, but he acted with the precision of a four-star general. In his mind, evidently, she would do exactly as he asked.


    Right?


    ¡°Detroit?¡±


    ¡°Yes, one of our suppli ¨C ¡± For the first time, he faltered. ¡°Uh, there''s a...¡± Slowing his speech, as if crafting the thought in real time, millisecond by millisecond, Matt seemed to spin in thin air, right before her eyes. He was clearly disturbed by his own behavior, a mix of ten different emotions ¨C all of them some version of of cunning, frustration, or piquance ¨C crossing his face.


    ¡°There''s a company that is really strong with data mining,¡± he declared, the words coming faster, his voice deepening with confidence. ¡°I need to meet with their owner to talk about some list buys.¡±


    Blinking hard, she struggled to cover up her skepticism. ¡°Don''t we normally buy lists online, or just use calls and web conferencing for ¨C ¡±


    Rolling his tongue between his cheek and teeth, Matt barely concealed his annoyance at her question and interrupted her mid-sentence. ¡°Just make the travel arrangements and remember we''re trying to economize.¡±


    Cold air slapped her lungs as she gasped from the sting of his manner. What a jackass. Narrowing her eyes, she forced herself to take two slow, deep breaths. He stared back, the look between them deepening uncomfortably, electricity crackling as it spread and strengthened.


    ¡°I''ll go make the reservations right away, Matt.¡± Add a patronizing pat on the head, why doncha, Boss?


    He scratched his cheek and averted his eyes, ignoring her in a way that made it clear she was dismissed. ¡°Good.¡± As she turned, she swore his eyes looked up, surveying her body, but when she glanced back he looked away. The door was twelve football fields away, her legs tree trunks filled with lead as she left the room, feeling diminutive and pissed, needing to lash out.

 Page 26

    Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and let the hot, angry breath evacuate her lungs.


    WhatAdvertisement


    ¡°Remember we''re trying to economize,¡± she mimicked, using a fake, mocking voice. As if she didn''t know that. As if she weren''t single-handedly responsible for cutting overhead for the advertising department by thirty percent last year. Something Dave had praised but that hadn''t helped her get the job she''d been so focused on.


    Matt''s words morphed in her head, blending with his lush lips, those strong hands she imagined on her, that washboard ¨C


    ¡°And get me a real cup of coffee.¡± Out of nowhere, as if conjured by bad magic, his voice was in her ear, startling her, the door opening as she leaned against it. As her upper body tilted backwards her feet flew out from under her, Matt saving her with one arm snaking around her ribs, the other behind her knee, his quads working overtime to keep them both in balance, palm splayed against her breast, a fingertip landing squarely on her nipple.


    Seeking her center of gravity, her body pressed into his chest, face just under his chin as he stabilized them. Ah, he smelled even better than she remembered, her earlier whiffs of musk and cologne now full aromas that filled her with a cloud of pure man. Inhaling, she took in his scent, her mind forgetting why she was in his arms. Not caring why, actually.


    Wanting more.


    ¡°Ahem,¡± he said, half-word, half a throat clearing. Their eyes locked and again she was drawn to the verdant green, how brown his hair was, a glint of silver at the temples today. Pushed against his body, her shoulder and ass could feel how rock-hard his abs really were, body a wall of muscle that began to move to right her. He wasn''t in a hurry, though, and was she imagining that he was drinking in her scent, too? The way he tilted his head at her neck and took a deep breath made her wonder.


    Not wonder ¨C hope. Were those arm muscles so taut not because he was supporting her as he put her back on her feet but because he was working hard to restrain himself? Could the heat emanating from his chest as she twisted, pushing one hand against him to stand, come from desire? As her face flushed and her stomach fluttered, their eyes connected.


    Intense and serious, Matt''s chest expanded and contracted, their breathing in sync, unrushed but at a near-pant, attraction asserting itself ¨C like it or not.


    Oh, how her body liked it, her hand reluctant to pull back, to stop feeling the heat of him, to end the flesh connection.


    What was she doing?


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Matt echoed her thoughts, a quizzical frown on his face.


    ¡°I was just, uh,¡± she stammered. Think, Lydia. Think! ¡°I was leaning against the door to fix my shoe, and you opened it, and then...abs.¡± And then abs? AND THEN ABS? Did she really just say that?


    ¡°Abs.¡± A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth, the outer edge of his eyes, little folds making him suddenly look younger, tousled, casual and free. An extraordinary shift from his uptight, alpha-male self, the effect was disconcerting. Intoxicating, even. More like she remembered him in her apartment, casual and kind.


    ¡°Abs....olutely! I absolutely fell over.¡± Lame, lame, lame, and they both knew it, but Lydia would take lame over aroused and mortified any day.


    He just nodded, backed out the door, and whispered, ¡°Black.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I like my coffee black. And, preferably, with water in it.¡± As he closed the door and she swore she heard him chuckle, the sound a rich baritone of genuine emotion that made her just find him more appealing.


    Oooooo! That man.


    Two minutes later she set a cup of coffee on the ground in front of his closed door. Two tablespoons of coffee grounds with cold water mixed in. She returned to her desk and sent him an email:


    Dear Matt,


    Your coffee is outside your door.


    Best,


    Lydia


    Seething, she opened a new window on her computer screen. Economize? A trip to Detroit, huh?


    Oh, she''d show him how well she could economize.


    ¡°Jeremy?¡± Fingers flying fast on her keyboard, she looked up to see a familiar face. He grinned, and she smiled back, instantly comfortable and casual. Some quality in him did that; it was hypnotic.


    ¡°Lydia! You remember me?¡± He seemed simultaneously surprised and nonchalant, dressed today in a nice tan polo, jeans, and Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.


    Way better that the Beetlejuice getup from the ball.


    ¡°You''re kind of hard to forget.¡± She held her hand up to indicate his height.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± he asked, his face animated and ¨C was she imagining it? ¨C a bit overly-fake. His hair was a mess of waves and those soft, brown eyes invited her to smile.


    ¡°I work here!¡± she answered, smiling. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    That stopped him cold in his tracks. ¡°My friend M ¨C uh, Matt works here.¡± Gazing at her, he added, ¡°Your eyes really are speckled ¨C the colors are intoxicating.¡±


    Pulse racing, she held his look. Familiar warmth flooded her belly, clit beginning its light cha-cha-cha of arousal. No! You''re attracted to Matt, her mind chided. No! You''re attracted to no one, the feminist in her roared. Career over clit.


    ¡°You know Matt?¡± she whispered, finally breaking a growing tension she couldn''t name, but that felt a hell of a lot like extreme attraction. What was a high roller like Jeremy doing hanging out with Matt, of all people? Maybe there was more to her knew boss than she''d suspected. The resemblance to Michael Bournham was uncanny. Her earlier suspicions that he was related roared back.


    Lydia stood and beckoned Jeremy to come closer, which he did, a lascivious grin on his face. This guy didn''t hide his attraction, and it was quite pleasant, oddly enough. Nothing condescending or creepy. He struck her as one of those rare guys who simply enjoyed women.


    Which just made her panties hot and wet, damn it.


    ¡°Is Matt related to Michael Bournham?¡± she blurted, desperate to stop being one big, sensual nerve.


    Choking, he pulled back, a strangled laugh braying out of him. Just then, Matt walked over to her desk, a look of utter outrage and consternation twisting his features. ¡°Jeremy? What the hell are you doing here?¡± A quick look at Lydia, then at Jeremy, his eyes wider as he looked at the man, transmitting some kind of message she didn''t understand.


    ¡°Oh, just in the neighborhood and thought I''d pop in to visit my old friend,¡± he replied, his words fading with the Doppler effect as Matt grabbed his forearm and marched him rapidly into his office, the door nearly slamming.


    What the hell was that all about?


    ¡°What the hell was that all about?¡± Mike demanded.


    Jeremy shrugged. ¡°You''ve been ignoring my texts for days, and I wasn''t going to resort to,¡± he shuddered, ¡°voice mail, so here I am.¡± For a guy who lived in thrift shop clothes, his friend was remarkably well-put-together today. His jeans were actually unstained and was he wearing socks? Unreal.


    Furious, Mike lowered his tone, nearly hissing. ¡°If you blow my cover, Jeremy, so help me ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Or what? You won''t take me to prom?¡± Jeremy laughed. ¡°I evaded her question about how I knew Matt Jones.¡± Smirk. ¡°I figured Matt''s a smart guy. He can come up with an answer.¡±


    Sigh. ¡°You''re here to make trouble?¡±


    ¡°I''m here to give you one last chance to go with me to Thailand. I''m booking the plane tickets for two weeks from now.¡±


    Mike made a sound of disgust. ¡°You know I can''t go. This reality television show is still filming.¡± Why did Jeremy do this to him constantly? Luring him away from responsibility, dangling fun in front of him like some toy he could see but never play with. There was a strange sort of cruelty to it, even if Mike were fully aware that it was his own decision not to participate in the revelry and antics that was most destructive.


    Live a little?


    Not until he''d conquered the world. Or, at least, the Board of Directors.


    ¡°We could invite Lydia,¡± Jeremy ventured, his voice carrying a slightly lilt, as if throwing out a light-hearted suggestion instead of positing an international tour of hedonistic threesome bliss.


    Mike''s jaw ached from stress. This was worse than Jonah''s crap, largely because this sounded like something he wanted.


    ¡°So you did come here to scout her out. Again.¡± Mike''s nostrils flared and he kept his breathing steady with great effort. He''d decided he was done with her, so why did this bother him so much?


    Narrowing his eyes, Jeremy studied him with those brown orbs that could read people like a CIA operative sniffing out a double agent. ¡°You''re falling for her!¡± he said loudly, slapping his thigh. ¡°Holy shit, Mike.¡±


    ¡°Matt!¡±


    ¡°Matt,¡± Jeremy repeated, lowering his voice.


    ¡°She''s no Dana,¡± he growled, his body hot with need and anger.


    Jeremy stood, frowning, and help up his palms. ¡°I can see that. And I can see you won''t be joining me, Mike.¡±


    ¡°Matt!¡± they said in unison.


    Knock knock. ¡°You guys OK in there?¡± Lydia''s curious voice made Mike glare, hard, at Jeremy, who just bit his lips to suppress a laugh.


    ¡°We''re fine,¡± Mike shouted back. Pausing, he waited for more.


    Nothing.


    ¡°You''re living in some dream world, Jeremy. Give it up.¡±


    ¡°Give up what, exactly? The idea that you''ll actually let yourself live? Stop driving yourself crazy acquiring more and more and more? How many magazine covers? And Dianes? And Lydias are enough before ¨C ¡±


    Grabbing Jeremy''s bicep, he squeezed hard enough to make the taller man flinch. ¡°Don''t talk about her like that!¡±


    ¡°I didn''t know you were so protective of Diane.¡±


    Mike laughed in spite of himself, releasing his friend. ¡°We''re never going to agree on this one, Jeremy.¡±


    ¡°I agree she ¨C ¡± he pointed to the door ¡° ¨C is something special.¡±


    In silence they both stared at the back of the door, like watching a well-formed, curvy ass that wasn''t there until Jeremy said, ¡°If you won''t go to Thailand, how about Pad Thai for lunch right now?¡±


    ¡°Deal.¡±


    ¡°Was that Jeremy going into Matt''s office?¡± Krysta asked, her voice heavy with surprise. Today she wore a bright red, form-fitting silk sweater and black pants that made her body look better than Lydia had seen in years.


    ¡°Are you losing weight?¡± she asked, genuinely curious.


    Krysta blushed, completely distracted now. Lydia didn''t want to answer her question just yet ¨C she was still trying to figure out where to put her reaction to Jeremy in her emotional shelving system. ¡°If I am, I don''t know how much. I started swimming and biking a few weeks ago.¡±


    Krysta was about as athletic as Honey Boo Boo''s mother. ¡°You what?¡±


    An eyeroll greeted her. ¡°I know, I know.¡±


    ¡°Some cute guy you met has you doing this?¡± Impossible. Krysta would have mentioned it.


    Shaking her head, Krysta sighed. ¡°No. I just decided I needed to get out more and just move. Plus,¡± she whispered, leaning in to Lydia''s face, ¡°it reduces my anxiety.¡±


    Hand over her heart, Lydia smiled. ¡°Oh, I''m so glad. I know how hard it is for you.¡±


    Before Krysta could reply, they heard both men shout ¡°Matt!¡± from his office. Exchanging a startled look, they both walked over to the door.

 Page 27

    Knock knock. ¡°You guys OK in there?¡±


    ¡°We''re fine,¡± Mike shouted back.Advertisement


    ¡°Well, excuuuuse me for caring,¡± Lydia muttered.


    A quick glare at the door, then a look at her watch, and Krysta said, ¡°Let''s go get a coffee. Fuck him.¡±


    ¡°I almost did.¡±


    ¡°Coffee will take your mind off him.¡±


    If she got two lattes, would it take her mind off Jeremy as well? The only way to know was to follow Krysta to Starbucks and hope.


    Chapter Nine


    Flying coach? He did a double-take reading his ticket. He hadn''t flown coach in thirteen years. Lydia should have known better; Matt Jones couldn''t fly on the corporate jet, so he''d accepted the cattle call of mass travel, but coach was its own form of hell. Business class, at the very least, was what he expected.


    Snob. That was his dad''s voice in his head, and he had to laugh at himself. Fair enough. For a twenty percent spike in sales he''d fly coach.


    Being seated in front of the only toddler on the plane meant he got a free vibrating massage, to boot. Whee! Frequent flyer perk. He''d have to thank Lydia later. As he sank down into his seat, shoulders pinned in and muscles aching already in anticipation of the cramped quarters, he buckled his seatbelt, one of the last to do so on the overbooked plane.


    And then...warmth. Wetness. A distinct sense of something seeping into his ass. Fumbling for the seatbelt, he unlocked it as fast as he could and stood, whacking his head on the luggage rack, right on the eye socket.


    ¡°God damn it!¡± he shouted. The flight attended eyed him warily. Great. Just what he needed. A good old visit with Homeland Security courtesy of TSA. He heard their coffee sucked, but the strip search would make any Bangkok prostitute blush.


    ¡°Sir, is there a problem? A male flight attendant appeared as if conjured from thin air. Brow furrowed, the guy was burly and concerned. Not concerned for Mike''s welfare, but rather concerned for the other passengers.


    The bouncer of the plane, basically.


    Mike pointed to his seat. ¡°It''s soaked! There''s some sort of liquid...on ¨C ¡± If he were a woman, he''d have shuddered. Instead, he clenched his fists and spoke through gritted teeth. ¡°I just sat in something wet, something I didn''t put there, and now my ass is soaked.¡±


    Eyebrows shot up, the flight attendant clearly trying to fight laughter. He reminded Mike of younger version of Dominic, but with a more metrosexual look. Like a sleek, stylish gangster. The name tag read Anthony.


    ¡°Sir, I don''t know what to tell you, but we''re taxiing and federal aviation regulations require you to sit.¡±


    Private jets never had wet seats. Private jets never made him bang his head, or twist his thigh muscles into pretzels, or make him have conversations like this. Playing the role of Matt Jones was tedious enough, but now? Now he was getting angry. No cameras were rolling; the producers had simply told him Matt Jones needed to act like any other middle manager. And then Lydia booked him on this piece of shit plane.


    With a wet ass.


    ¡°You''re telling me,¡± he said in an increasingly angry voice, ¡°that you expect a consumer to sit in a puddle of undetermined liquid, liquid that could be someone else''s body fluids, body fluids that could transmit disease?¡± A few women sitting next to small children turned and gawked, eyes wide with alarm. The word disease did the trick.


    He crossed his arms and locked his jaw. No way he was sitting down again in that spot.


    Anthony picked up a small walkie-talkie attached to the wall and pushed a button. Mumbled a few words. Turned his attention back to Mike. ¡°We have no other options, sir, unless you want to go on a later flight.¡±


    No time. ¡°So your clean-up crew dropped the ball and you expect me to completely rearrange my connecting flights, my meetings, and for my business to lose money because your business couldn''t do the most basic of tasks?¡± A man and a woman in suits, obviously air warriors who flew frequently, did a polite clap.


    All passenger eyes were on him and Anthony now. A small child pointed to Mike''s ass and said, ¡°Mommy, did he have a problem going potty?¡± Titters made Mike close his eyes and breathe carefully before he turned into a raging bull.


    ¡°Give the guy a better seat!¡± a man called out.


    Mike cheered on the inside. He knew he had the goodwill of the passengers on his side and the scales had tipped in his favor. They had to find him a new seat. Absolutely, or they¡¯d look like assholes. This was a PR nightmare.


    Anthony tried to stare him down. Mike just looked back, unwavering, with as neutral but commanding a look as he could. Narrowing his eyes, nostrils flaring, Anthony pursed his lips, cocked his head, and seemed to be thinking. He then slowly turned back to the walkie-talkie, picked it up, and put it on intercom.


    ¡°Attention please, passengers! We have a gentleman here who claims that his seat is wet, not by his own doing. We are a packed plane, there are absolutely no spare seats on the plane whatsoever, so any passenger willing to trade seats with this man in the back row, by the bathroom, please come forward. We cannot offer any compensation at this time other than our undying gratitude for your assistance.¡±


    The titters turned to snorts, derisive sounds that all said the same thing. Yeah, right, Bud! You¡¯re on your own! Mike¡¯s jaw tightened, Anthony was smarter than he thought.


    ¡°Here, Sir!¡± A female flight attendant conjured up a trash bag; a plastic hefty that was still flat and unopened.


    ¡°What am I supposed to do with this?¡± Mike asked angrily.


    ¡°You can put it under your... self when you sit down to protect you from whatever you... they.. someone left.¡± She was flustered, young, and obviously had no idea how to handle the situation.


    ¡°I would like to speak to the pilot,¡± Mike said.


    ¡°That would be a violation of FAA regulations, Sir. We are taxiing. You absolutely must sit down and fasten your seatbelt. If you don¡¯t we will have to stop the plane, call an air marshal, and have you personally escorted off the plane for a discussion with TSA agents.¡±


    Now Anthony¡¯s voice was hard. This was more like Dom when he was pissed and protective and defensive, except Anthony wasn¡¯t protecting or defending Mike. The other passengers suddenly turned away when Anthony said TSA.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to escort myself off.¡± Mike grabbed his bags. He knew he could get a private jet within an hour and this really wasn¡¯t worth it for the reality TV sham. Acting like Matt Jones at work was one thing, but acting like Matt Jones in real life, if it meant this? No way. He grabbed his bags and stormed down the center of the aisle.


    ¡°You can¡¯t do that, sir! The plane is moving.¡±


    ¡°Then tell the pilot to stop it.¡± He wasn¡¯t going to be bossed around by some flight attendant with a God complex.


    A young mother looked at him, her eyes pleading. ¡°Sir, please, I have to get on the connecting flight. My husband is coming home from Afghanistan and there¡¯s just...please...please. Please don¡¯t make them stop the plane.¡±


    Mike stopped. He hadn¡¯t anticipated this. She held a toddler in her lap, a child of eighteen months or so. A little girl with blonde curls and big blue eyes. She probably didn¡¯t remember her dad, didn¡¯t have any sense of the meaning of what she was doing, just knew that she was on a plane. And Mike¡¯s heart melted. Dammit.


    Gritting his teeth, he turned around, stalked back, snatched the hefty bag from the flight attendant, settled it down on the seat and plunked himself down, fuming. Tomorrow he¡¯d buy as much stock as possible in this fucking airline and exhibit some control. But right now, he was just a piece of cattle. And damn Lydia for doing this to him.


    The hotel clerk''s desk was behind bulletproof glass. The last time Mike had faced a clerk behind bulletproof glass had been at an embassy. But this wasn¡¯t a foreign embassy. Lydia had apparently booked him in the seediest hotel in Detroit, in a place called Highland Park, one teeming, (and he did not use that word lightly) ¨C teeming with filth.


    ¡°Ooowee! Honey, I must be in heaven ¡®cuz you¡¯re an angel.¡± The words came out slurred, unfocused, and a little sloppy and Mike was uncertain because ¨C was that spittle that someone had just splattered all over the back of his neck?


    He turned, tensed, senses on alert, to find himself face to face ¨C and at 6¡¯2 there were not many people who were face to face with him ¨C with, well... The polite term was lady of the night and the impolite term would be nasty old crackwhore. The stench was what hit him hardest, a mixture of mold, Boone''s strawberry wine and Ben Gay.


    As she opened her mouth to smile he realized why the stench was so disturbing. About half her teeth were gone and her smile looked like a grin from the Gollum from the Lord of The Rings Trilogy. The fact that she may have put her saliva on his skin made a thin tingle of dread form in the small of his back, trickling up into his shoulders, making him stand taller, his muscles ready for a fight he knew he could win physically but that he didn¡¯t think was going to happen. And yet, why was his body so tense?


    Tap tap tap! The hotel clerk was trying to get his attention. Mike turned, still in combat mode. ¡°Yes,¡± he said tersely. ¡°I am here,¡± he pulled out the printed reservations that Lydia had handed him. ¡°I am here for my room.¡±


    The clerk was an odd looking man, about Mike¡¯s age, mid-thirties but looked easily to be fifty. Most of his hair was gone, skin ravaged by odd little sores that Mike didn¡¯t quite understand and fingernails that were literally half gone and ¨C was that a fungal infection? Mike pulled his hand back to make sure there was no contact.


    ¡°You¡¯re stayin¡¯ here?¡± the clerk asked, squinting, peering at Mike and then looking at the ¨C well, he didn¡¯t want to call her a woman, but the being standing next to Mike grinning madly, eyes loopy and half out of it.


    ¡°Hey, hey! Jess, go away. Leave the customers alone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tryna make him into a customer,¡± the old prostitute said. Now that Mike glanced at her again he realized that ¡°old¡± wasn¡¯t quite the right word because she probably, biologically, was about his age even though she looked to be at least seventy. Her wig traveled halfway down her back, long curls matted and ¨C was that a cigarette butt in there somewhere? Her pale skin had a yellowish tone to it that spoke of a liver that had raised its white flag of surrender a decade or two ago. The whites of her eyes had long ago given up the battle with her liver, now the color of cigarette smoke residue on old white walls.


    The clerk slid a key, an actual metal key, through the small hole in the plexiglass. It was attached to an oval made of orange plastic with the room number burned into it. Mike hadn¡¯t touched a hotel key, a physical, pressed metal key, in a good fifteen years. Where was the coded plastic card? Where exactly was he?


    ¡°So you go, you got room 237, so,¡± the clerk explained, pointing. ¡°You go past the ice machine ¨C it don¡¯t work ''cuz it¡¯s been out for a long time, but there¡¯s a pop machine next to it. It works, but no Canadian coins. We don¡¯t take that stuff here. Then you go up the stairs, but watch out for Bernie. Sometimes he pisses in there and you just have to walk around it.¡±

 Page 28

    Mike¡¯s eyebrows shot up. He¡¯d had quite enough of someone else¡¯s body fluids for the day.


    ¡°Then you¡¯re gonna go around the corner and then you¡¯re in 237. Just let us know if you find any mouse droppings. We haven¡¯t had a problem with em for-¡±Advertisement


    ¡°What? Say that again?¡± Mike stopped, interrupting him. ¡°Mouse what?¡±


    ¡°Mouse droppings, you know, mouse turds.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me that you¡¯re renting me a room that may be infested with mice and that your establishment''s hallway has bums in it that urinate and that I may end up stepping in this urine?¡±


    ¡°Well, not if you¡¯re careful.¡± The clerk looked at him as if he was the stupidest human being on the planet. A hand on his forearm made him flinch, the feeling like cold lizard.


    ¡°Hey, baby, I got a better room. I can take you to a place where there ain¡¯t no mouse turds, I can take you to some places you ain¡¯t neva seen,¡± the woman crooned. ¡°You got fifty bucks? I got heaven for you.¡±


    Mike snatched the key, plucked the paper back, and stormed upstairs. Indeed, Bernie the bum sat in a pool of his own urine and, although Mike tried not to actually examine it too carefully, probably his own vomit. The screams of some woman in the distance behind a door pierced his ears. He heard a smack and then a scream, a smack then a scream and realized that what he was hearing was not a fight between domestic partners ¨C the smacks were not abuse ¨C but were some sort of sexual game. Cringing, he worked to ignore every bit of sensory input from this place, breathing now through his mouth and approaching room 237.


    His key slid in the lock and he turned and found that he had to jiggle the doorknob, pulling the door slightly toward him to get the bolt to turn out of place so that he could enter. He almost wished that the lock hadn¡¯t worked and that he hadn¡¯t succeeded because the bolus of odor that hit him upon opening the door made him understand the phrase knocked flat on his back. Lysol combined with vomit and urine and ¨C his eyes lit on one of the outlets ¨C some sort of Glade product of undetermined floral origin. No petroleum product was going to overcome the biological permeation of whatever cloth fibers or polyester imitations filled the room, absorbing an olfactory history of very human deeds.


    Mike took a step back, crossing the threshold, his brain mildly aware of the sound of a gunshot, of squealing tires, and of a new scent. He turned and looked and there was the man he presumed to be Bernie, standing over the balcony railing facing the parking lot and urinating. When Mike looked down over the railing, following the trail of liquid, he realized that Bernie was peeing directly on the hood of his rental car, which Lydia had so kindly rented for him. It was a sprite can, quite literally.


    Somehow General Motors had managed to convert a sprite can into a car.


    Tongue twisting inside his cheek, jaw flexing, body tensed, he took note of everything around him. Bad flight. Bad car. Bad hotel. Bad travel arrangements.


    Lydia.


    What kind of game was this? He looked at his watch: 11:49 pm. Pulling out his cell phone, livid beyond belief, he punched in the number for work and then stopped. What good would calling her at work do when she wasn''t even there? And what good, frankly, would calling her at home do ¨C even if he had her number?


    He had no reason to have it no matter how much he wanted to have it. Goddammit. That woman. What was she doing? Why would she punish him like ¨C oh. Oh shit.


    Following his request, she was economizing. He had told her to make the business arrangements for Detroit and to save money. Somehow, she managed to turn everything around so that whatever he told her to do, she did to the letter of the law.


    Ah, so this was how she wanted to play? She was capable of more ¨C he knew that. Social graces weren¡¯t something she lacked. He¡¯d been in the corporate world long enough to know that there were plenty of people who were competent at doing the actual work of the job but who had the social skills of a stuffed monkey draped with Mardi Gras beads.


    Not her. So what was this game? Why on earth would she book him in the seediest, nastiest possible set of arrangements you could ever expect a billionaire to ¨C hold on there.


    Not a billionaire yet, and she doesn¡¯t know you. Matt Jones, yes ¨C but not Michael Bournham.


    Mike leaned back against the railing, his hand sinking into something hard and wet, and then he heard a cracking sound, pulling back from the railing just in time before one of the rods ¨C cheap wood faded by weather, sun, and time ¨C popped off and fell to the ground with a rattle. A clacking sound as it made its slow, crooked path down to settle by the tire of his car pierced the night air, joining in the muted chaos of traffic, sirens, and machinery.


    He had had enough. Enough of this game, enough of this place, and just plain enough. No matter what Jonah told him, he didn¡¯t need to play the part of Matt Jones 24/7. And this? This entire situation made him think that being Matt Jones wasn¡¯t worth it. The only thing that made it worth it was Lydia.


    Who had booked him in a hotel with more germs than a bird flu research lab.


    Grabbing his overnight bag, he stalked past Bernie, whispering, ¡°Make sure you give it a good shake.¡± As he descended the stairs with more athleticism than he¡¯d exhibited outside of a gym with a personal trainer in months, his legs practically running as he sprinted for the car, he stopped cold.


    Fuck this shit. He wasn¡¯t driving that thing. Grabbing the phone, he called Dom, who seemed to know everyone, everywhere in every major city. This wouldn¡¯t be the first time that Dom got him out of a mess.


    The phone was pressed up to his ear, Dom¡¯s number ringing, when the prostitute seemed to materialize out of nowhere. His only tip off was her odor, which made him gag. A look to the left and he discovered her leering in his face, only inches away.


    ¡°Hey, babe.¡± She looked like she had a hit of something in the five minutes between seeing her last. Oh, God, he thought, Lydia must hate my fucking guts.


    ¡°Hang on, Dom,¡± he said into the phone, putting his hand at his side.


    ¡°Hey babe, you got some money? I need some money. I don¡¯t.. you don¡¯t have to do nothin¡¯ with me,¡± she said, her nose covered in pimples, forehead shiny, eyes a faded, muted blue. He wasn¡¯t quite sure if those were dimples when she smiled ¨C or scars. She was rode hard, put back wet and about as appealing and fuckable as a dead zombie with lice.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want no nothing, Ma¡¯am,¡± he said, the last word a form charity.


    ¡°I¡¯m just hungry, man. You got five bucks? Ten bucks? Something?¡±


    Mike groaned on the inside. Some part of him relented, the good part that remembered his dad giving buskers money on the street. Or telling him that you never know what another person''s lived and that we all walk through life with some level of trouble. If you could afford to be generous, be generous. Mike certainly could afford to be generous, especially if this deal went through at work.


    Wallet in his back pocket, he reached back and pulled it out, opened it up, and handed her a twenty. Surveying the parking lot to make sure there was no threat, no one hiding in the shadows and about to mug him, he was about to climb in his rental car when a voice startled them both.


    ¡°Freeze!¡± The shout was aggressive, clear, and he heard it before his brain registered the light, the bright searchlight shining on him and the streetwalker. Mike looked around, frantic and confused, sliding his wallet back in his pants, wondering if this was some sort of mugging. Had the prostitute set him up? Was he about to get rolled? Hell, for all he knew Lydia did this. She was responsible for everything else that had gone wrong tonight.


    ¡°Freeze! Detroit police! Hands up, hands up in the air now!¡±


    Aw, shit. ¡°No, Sir, you misunderstand, mister...officer...I¡¯m not...I haven¡¯t done anything wrong...¡±


    Slam! His face smashed into the glass of his car. He was shoved over the top of the hood, the remnants of Bernie''s piss now burning into the side of his face, leaking into his eye.


    Rough hands, strong, muscled and very accustomed to the movements that they were executing on him, frisked him. Plastic handcuffs tightened around his wrists and he heard the prostitute crooning, ¡°Hey, baby it¡¯s okay. We gon¡¯ be fine. They¡¯ll treat you right at the jail, just don¡¯t clench up too much when they do that strip search and you¡¯ll be good.¡±


    Strip search? Mike fought to come up with the right words to explain. ¡°No, no, no, no, no. Sir, sir, sir,¡± he argued. ¡°I¡¯m the CEO of company, I¡¯m a...I...I am not here for-.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, right, bud, we¡¯re all CEOs of a company.¡± He could feel a sharp elbow in his ribcage. He needed to go silent.


    ¡°Hello? Hello? Mr. Bournham? Mr. Bournham?¡± Dominick¡¯s voice came from the cell phone that had clattered onto the ground.


    ¡°Dominick! Dom! Dom, I need your help. I¡¯m in Detroit ¨C ¡± Smash! A thick black boot sole crashed down on the glass surface of his smart phone, destroying it with one very carefully aimed grind.


    ¡°Oh,¡± said a man¡¯s voice, presumably one of cops. Mike couldn¡¯t see him as his face was currently more intimate with Bernie¡¯s urine and the hood of the car than it had been with anything in months. ¡°Oh, did I step on it? I¡¯m such a klutz. I really gotta watch where I¡¯m stepping. You know what, though, Mr. CEO? You ain¡¯t gonna need that cell phone where you¡¯re going tonight.¡±


    And with that, Mike found himself hauled up by his tightly bound wrists, his head shoved down as he was pushed into the back of a police car, a police car that was a hell of a lot nicer than his rented sprite can.


    Dom''s alarming speed made Mike do a double-take, the thick, burly man appearing in the flesh at the local jail within hours. While Mike had expected a swift resolution to his arrest, and that freedom would be around the corner, he was nonetheless deeply impressed with Dom''s efficiency.


    Impressed and grateful. Give the man a huge bonus, he thought, his hand grazing something sticky on the bench he sat on in the holding cell.


    For a guy who used to be part of the throng of the middle class, being in jail ¨C however unfairly ¨C triggered a sense of shame and outrage. The CEO in him knew this could be taken care of with a few bribes and a well-placed threat, if needed.


    Mike Bournham, the geeky kid from Easthampton, Mass., the one who always followed the rules and who had paid the price for doing so, though, couldn''t believe he was behind bars, with an open metal toilet that was currently occupied by the head of a drunk. Bugs crawled down the visible skin on the back of the man''s head.


    Note to self: get some RID. And a steel brush. And take a five-hour shower.


    ¡°Jones? You''re free to go.¡± Three men stood up, none of them Mike.


    ¡°You forget your own name, man? Maybe Sunshine made you lose your fucking marbles?¡± the cop cracked, pointing at Mike. Jones ¨C shit, that''s right. His fake last name. Secret identities might be great for superheroes, but right now he was sick of it. Leave that shit to the movie makers.


    Movie makers. Jonah. Fuck. Were they getting this on camera? For all he knew, they had someone tailing him. Or maybe Lydia was in on this somehow? If Jonah could give him a script with drama he needed to provoke, were they doing the same with her?

 Page 29

    Walking out of the holding cell and catching another glimpse of Dom made him want to hug the man on the spot. Instead, he grunted, ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°No prob, Mr. Bournham. Glad to help.¡± Like gravel rolling through molasses, Dom''s voice seemed eerily impossible to push through vocal chords, yet the effect was mesmerizing. Even the cops froze in place, just staring. ¡°When your phone cut out with a crunch, I knew something was wrong.¡± His glare could peel paint, and he aimed it at the officer processing Mike''s paperwork. Goosebumps appeared on the cop''s forearm, though he didn''t look up.Advertisement


    ¡°Here you go. You''re free, Mr. Jones.¡± The tiniest of eyebrow twitches from Dom told Mike he would be asked the rarest of questions from his chauffeur. One of the many privileges of wealth ¨C and power ¨C he had learned was that of privacy. Enough money, enough connections, and you could make anything go away.


    Add in a touch of illegal activity, and someone like Dominic could make a person go away. Never one to touch that, Mike simply took the guy at face value. He was a good bodyguard/chauffeur, and this mess ¨C the one time Mike had found himself in trouble with the law, ever ¨C proved Dom was a loyal, good guy.


    Mike would pay, though. Somehow, some day.


    All thanks to Lydia.


    ¡°Hey, Dom,¡± he asked as they climbed into a rented Suburban. ¡°Can you find someone''s personal phone number?¡±


    ¡°Can Tom Brady throw a pass?¡±


    Mike chuckled. ¡°Lydia Charles. I need her cell number. She works for me, so it should be in company records.¡±


    ¡°Consider it done, Mr. Jones.¡± The closest muscle movement Dom had to a smirk flittered across his thick, wrinkled lips.


    Ha ha,¡± Mike mumbled. ¡°Touch¨¦.¡±


    Mike leaned back against the tan leather and took a deep breath. Urine. Bernie''s masterpiece was still dried into his hair. Dom''s nostrils began to twitch, and Mike opened his mouth to explain.


    Nope. He was done managing and explaining and protesting and adjusting.


    Time to get back to being in charge.


    And that would start with one phone call.


    Chapter Ten


    Mike put his hands under Lydia''s shirt as they kissed, fingers and palms gently caressing her back. ¡°Your skin is so soft,¡± he whispered into her mouth and she helped him to slide the blouse up over her head and toss it onto a nearby chair. She could see the waiting bed over his shoulder, but there was no rush. Dreaming of this moment for too long meant that it was better to let it unfold slowly, his hot hands burning her breasts, beading her nipples, sending a trail of fire to her soaked pussy.


    She followed his example, her fingers deftly undoing each of his buttons in turn, working her way down, the backs of her hands brushing against his tight chest and muscled abdomen. When the shirt fell off him and landed at her feet, she couldn''t resist stealing a glance down at his magnificent upper body, lithe and tanned, muscles rippling as he slid his hands back up to her bra clasp and the white softness of her breasts burst forth onto his chest like heavy cream splashing onto a bronze platter.


    And then she stared brazenly, as if it were all hers. Mine, she thought. Mine for now. Perhaps ¨C she hoped, mine forever.


    She didn''t stop there. As his fingers pebbled her nipples and his tongue explored hers, her hands continued on, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, sliding across tight flesh and finding his even-tighter cock, ready and throbbing, needing to be in her. Soon enough, yes. For now, she wanted to hold him in her hand and to exert control over his deep pleasure. He groaned and kissed her urgently, his hands practically tearing off her remaining clothes and also his own, realizing she had struck a nerve.


    So much for the slow unfolding.


    Mike''s strong arms picked her up almost effortlessly and laid her down on the warm bed, pouring himself next to her and looking into her eyes with a little smile. He inventoried her curves with eyes and hands that seemed to make a map of her body in his mind, cock leaping as she sighed when he brushed her mons. So open, so free ¨C so bold, his willingness to look and explore made her momentarily self-conscious, but the desire in his eyes wiped all that away. He kissed her ear, jaw, neck and breasts, lingering there for some time, the feeling almost unbearably good and triggering a clenched build-up in her clit that screamed for release, until he seemed to remember himself and his mouth and tongue resumed their progress down her stomach and straight into her womanhood.


    Where she needed him most.


    She moaned with pleasure and gratitude, her hands finding his shoulders and neck and hair as he roamed her body, caressing her hips, thighs, stomach and the space between her breasts, a valley of goodness and passion. He sighed deeply, the sound telling her that he was not just giving pleasure to her body, but also receiving almost as much pleasure from it. If such a thing were possible.


    Until this moment it had always only been her body. But now it was also his, and she wanted him to do with it¡ª


    Wait, what was that sound? The doorknob turned and slowly opened, revealing Jeremy, who stood there openly looking at them, a broad grin on his face. Tousled brown waves and intense brown eyes lasered in on the two nude bodies, entwined in each other and the bed clothes, a vulnerable, private sight. He removed his shirt and pants, rushing to join their naked state, tall and lean and ready for anything. She caught a glimpse of his dimpled ass and practically swooned, her juices flowing into the mouth of Mike, who was not objecting and had simply resumed going down on her as if his friend''s presence were the norm.


    Words and action escaped her as she melted into Mike''s mouth and Jeremy''s hands started stroking her from behind. She imagined both of them making love to her at the same time and she almost came right on the spot, nearly pushed over the edge by the lush precision and timing of Mike''s tongue flicking back and forth over her nub as Jeremy''s mouth covered her breast and his hand stroked her ass.


    Mike continued loving her clit, driving her crazy, tongue lightly playing against her now and bringing her ever closer to the edge. She could smell them both and also herself, one hand in Jeremy''s hair as he licked her breast, the other in Mike''s hair as he savored her pussy. There were two beautiful men loving her body and it was too much, way more than one woman could withstand, but still she wanted more and more.


    And more.


    Now Mike moved up to kiss her and she could taste herself again. Jeremy''s hand slid down to her clit and she thrust her hips hungrily forward to meet it. He started licking her ear, Mike pinching her nipple with his fingers and Jeremy''s hand stroking her hair. Both men were reaching down to her pussy with their long arms and she could no longer tell whose fingers were inside her and whose were teasing her clit. ¡°Oh, my God, don''t stop,¡± she moaned.


    Jeremy looked down at her. ¡°You''re so beautiful,¡± he said.


    Mike stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes. ¡°I''ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you.¡±


    ¡°We both have.¡±


    Lydia could feel tears streaming down her face. ¡°How can this be?¡±


    The two men exchanged a puzzled glance, and Mike said, ¡°How could it not be?¡±


    It seemed to Lydia that she was smiling with her entire body. She reached down and took one of their cocks in each of her hands, pulling Jeremy''s close to her mouth so that she could taste him. Mike was rock-hard in her other hand and she stroked him slowly and gently until a slippery drop of pre-cum oozed out onto the palm of her hand. She could really taste Jeremy''s cock now as the head seemed to be swelling even larger inside her mouth. He gasped and she could tell he was about to...


    Suddenly he pulled out. ¡°No, not yet, I want to be in you.¡±


    Sweet, perfect words of anguished need ¨C because she very much wanted Jeremy inside her. She wanted both of them inside her. Lydia put her hands on Mike''s shoulders and pushed him down on his back, straddling him ¨C


    Beep beep beep! What the fuck? Hazy and stoked, Lydia pawed her nightstand in search of the damn phone. Clit on fire and twitching ¨C twitching! ¨C she awoke to find herself in a small patch of wetness.


    What


    the


    fuck?


    A dream had made her come in her sleep? The wetness wasn''t pee ¨C she knew that. Only once, in college, had this happened, after an intense night of partying and her first (and only) one-night stand with a guy who loved pussy so much he ate her out for half an hour, bringing orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. The next night, her fantasies had spread into her unconscious, apparently, because she had awoken exactly like this, hips thrusting against a ghost lover and bed slightly wet from her juices.


    But this? A threesome dream with Matt''s friend Jeremy?


    And Michael Bournham, of all people?


    Slamming her head back against the pillow, she shifted her legs to take the stinging, tickling pressure off her poor, maligned clit, which popped like a Mexican jumping bean, nerves on autopilot.


    If she were going to have a sex dream about anyone, it should be Matt ¨C right? Between the supply closet, the elevator, and the nightclub she was about as frustrated and needy as anyone could get, confused and struggling with her feelings for him.


    How on earth did that come out in her subconscious as a threesome with Michael Bournham and Jeremy?


    Grabbing her pillow, she screamed into it, the muffled vibrations not enough release to get out how weird this all was.


    Coffee and a shower would have to do.


    At least she could check masturbate off her list of things to do today.


    Overachiever.


    By the time she''d sucked down a cup of coffee and finished with a quick rinse, she knew the day would be fine. Absent-mindedly drying her hair, she thought through the day''s events. Facing Matt wouldn''t be that horrible ¨C at least she hadn''t dreamed about him between her legs.


    Every other man she''d met for ten minutes or less ¨C but not Matt.


    Bzzzz.


    ¡°Who calls at 6:20 a.m.?¡± Lydia wondered, turning the hair dryer off as she watched her mobile phone vibrate across the bathroom counter, lighting up. Every night as she brushed her teeth she plugged it in here, the easiest, most reliable location in her apartment. Every other flat surface was covered with books or a computer, so the bathroom it was.


    The number wasn''t one she recognized, so she ignored it. Turning the hair dryer back on, she closed her eyes and combed through her damp hair with her fingers, willing it to dry faster. She had to hop on the train today and couldn''t miss the 7:07.


    She was putting on her makeup a few minutes later when it rang again. Same number. Hmm. Might as well pick it up, she thought. Maybe one of her brothers changed their cell number and something was wrong with her mom or dad.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Hi. So about those travel arrangements.¡± Oh, that voice. Oh, how that voice triggered so many involuntary physical reactions that she absolutely, utterly did not want to have at this moment at 6:20 in the morning when she was on her way to work and would face him within the next two hours. It wasn¡¯t that she was afraid to face him and it wasn¡¯t that she dreaded the consequences of what she¡¯d done with his travel, it was that she increasingly couldn¡¯t trust herself when she was anywhere near him.


    Dreams notwithstanding.


    Being on the phone didn¡¯t involve physical proximity but dammit, from the way her throat tightened, how blood flooded inappropriate places that had nothing to do with professionalism in the workplace, and how she could feel herself needing to control her breath ¨C his damn voice just drove her lustfully mad.

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    Those handful of words already had her off her game and set the tone for something she knew would shift her entire relationship to her job and to herself.


    ¡°How¡¯s, uh...lovely Detroit there? You having fun in Motown?¡± She kept her voice as light as possible because if she didn¡¯t she¡¯d end up talking to him in a sultry, sexy tone that would systematically destroy every shred of feminist belief that she had held for most of her life.Advertisement


    ¡°Detroit was...interesting,¡± his voice dropped to a low, threatening tone. and she felt her abs curl in, her body go on alert, the steady warmth that had begun to spread turning into a sudden, shattering tingle.


    ¡°Interesting. Glad to hear it. You¡¯re there for a couple days, right?¡±


    ¡°No, actually I¡¯m back in Boston.¡±


    ¡°That was fast. How did you manage that?¡±


    ¡°I have my ways.¡± Oh, this conversation was not going well. What had she done? She thought it would be funny, really, to pick the seediest part of Detroit, the cheapest possible ways of booking his trip, and had done so with great gusto, from declining to add car insurance to his rental car to picking the tiniest, cheapest option available, to choosing some motel that ¨C who knew why ¨C only cost $39.95 a night. What had he experienced? She knew that this was going to be something she would pay for, but hey ¨C Matt was the one who said that they needed to economize so if anybody was going to pay for anything, it needed to be as cheap as possible, right?


    His teeth were gritted; she could hear it in his voice as he said, ¡°I saw some lovely sights in Detroit. Let¡¯s just say I got the insider''s tour and was able to spend a not inconsiderable amount of time among real Detroit-ers. I gained a healthy appreciation for government in the Motor City.¡±


    What the hell did that mean? ¡°Matt,¡± she said, clearing her throat, trying to work the nervousness out of her voice. Keep it professional Lydia, she told herself. ¡°I was very careful in booking your travel. I looked up the rental car company, the airline, and the hotel on major social media sites and found that they met the criteria you laid out for me.¡±


    ¡°I can hear what you¡¯re stepping in there, Lydia,¡± he responded.


    Silence. ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked, not just playing dumb on purpose at this point. She was genuinely perplexed and wondered why he seemed so angry, and yet cagey. He wasn¡¯t telling her what had happened or why he was calling her at 6:20 in the morning at home. Dave never called her at home, ever. There¡¯s no such thing as an emergency for an administrative assistant. That kind of crap might happen at the executive level, but this? This was invading her personal life on a level that wasn¡¯t fair.


    A call at home should have come with an invitation for a date attached.


    Not a reprimand.


    ¡°You booked me in coach, first of all.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the tickets were only $217. Isn¡¯t that fabulous for our budget?¡±


    ¡°I flew Boston to Minneapolis to Dallas to Detroit, for fuck''s sake.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Too many legs?¡± She bit her cheek to stop from laughing.


    ¡°I sat in someone else¡¯s body fluids for the entire first leg of the trip. They nearly threw me off of the plane when I put up a fuss.¡±


    ¡°Why would you sit in someone else¡¯s body fluids?¡± Silence.


    ¡°Why would you book me on a plane that would involve my sitting in body fluids?¡±


    The man was impossible. ¡°We could go around in circles on this one but I don¡¯t see how it¡¯s my fault that someone might have bled, peed, uh...something more intimate on your seat. Why didn''t you didn¡¯t just change seats or catch another flight?¡±


    A ragged sigh was his response. A simmer started to bubble over in her. Bournham Industries had a very tight policy about how much money could be allocated to each section of the trip itself, from a per diem for your breakfast right down to the amount of a taxicab they would cover. She didn¡¯t feel like going into all the specifics with him, but if he pushed her, she certainly would. She could administrate him to death verbally if that¡¯s what this was going to take, but none of this was her fault.


    The glee she felt, though, was all hers to enjoy. Following the rules had paid off in its own sneaky little way.


    ¡°And then there¡¯s the car.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I got a great deal on a nice, local place.¡±


    ¡°It was the size of a coffin on wheels,¡± he barked.


    ¡°Really? You¡¯ve been in a coffin before?¡± Keeping her voice chipper was the hardest part.


    ¡°Lydia.¡± That voice, again, as if he were correcting a naughty girl. She decided to throw it right back at him.


    ¡°Matt.¡± She could hear his breathing intensify on the phone. What was the point of all of this, she wondered. Why was he calling? They''d be at work in an hour and a half. ¡°I trust you got great mileage efficiency on that car, thus saving our department even more money on gas and commuting costs for you during your trip.¡±


    Officious. Officious, officious, officious. She was going to play her game, not his. She checked her mascara in the mirror, putting her phone on speaker.


    ¡°Did you just put me on speaker?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes, is that a problem?¡±


    ¡°Is someone else in the room?¡± An accusation, tinged by worry, came through loud and clear. What if there was? What if she''d gone to a bar and picked up a guy or two (Jeremy and Michael Bournham) and had them here at home still? Applying a thin line of eye liner, she paused a few beats before answering.


    ¡°No.¡± Why should you care? she thought. But he did. And it thrilled her much more than she wished it did. Blusher seemed redundant ¨C her face burned, pink and eager, as she checked herself out in the mirror.


    ¡°Okay.¡± Dammit. She had just given him information about herself. Now he knew she lived alone, or was he fishing? Was that just a question? She was way, way, way out of her element. And why was he grilling her about the trip.


    ¡°And let¡¯s talk about the hotel.¡±


    ¡°Yes! An Embassy Suites for only $39.95.¡±


    ¡°Did you check the spelling of Embassy Suites? They spell it S-W-E-E-T-S.¡±


    Suppressed snicker. ¡°It got perfectly fine reviews on travel social media sites and it was the lowest priced hotel in the entire metro-Detroit area.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t come as a surprise,¡± he said dryly.


    ¡°One of the reasons I picked it,¡± she said, disingenuous with great intent, ¡°was that it said ¨C I don¡¯t remember the exact wording but something about the place ¨C that ¡®Sunshine brought a smile to his face¡¯. Isn¡¯t that fabulous? I thought ¡®that¡¯s the place for Matt¡¯ when he goes on his travels. Saves Bournham Industries money, close to the client and lots of sunshine.¡±


    ¡°Sunshine is the name of the local prostitute.¡±


    She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. ¡°I see.¡± Lowering her voice, she said in a whisper, ¡°You know you can''t bill that cost to your expense account, right?¡±


    Click. Motherfucker! Did he just hang up on her? No way. Who the hell did he think he was? Mister alpha male strutting his stuff, ordering her around, calling her at home, invading her personal life and ¨C ugh! Lydia just couldn¡¯t get her swirling mess of emotions about him to calm down long enough to figure out whether he pissed her off or turned her on ¨C


    Or both.


    She had clearly hit a nerve, though, because whatever had happened on that trip had happened as a result of following what he told her to the absolute letter of the law. The entire two-night business trip cost less than $400. Some bean counter in accounting was going to be overjoyed at coming about $750 under the allocated travel expense budget.


    Michael Bournham should be pleased, right?


    She suppressed a sly smile and then realized she didn''t have to; she was alone and let her face spread with a giant grin, the woman in the mirror closer to the Lydia she¡¯d been a few days ago. She missed that Lydia. The go-getter. The one who busted her ass to try to prove herself, not just for the sake of proving herself, but because it was the right thing to do.


    Because it was an internal drive that pushed her to new places.


    Like threesome dreams.


    When he got to the part about Sunshine, Jeremy was laughing. By the time he described Bernie, that man was prostrate on the ground, face-up, like a turtle on meth. The pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance with Mike describing the feeling of being pressed against the hood of a sprite can, his face smashed in a bum¡¯s urine, stopped Jeremy¡¯s laugh cold.


    He looked up and said, ¡°The exact same thing happened to me in Bangkok once.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t one up you on anything, can I?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re about to be a billionaire, so I have to give you that.¡±


    Mike grinned. ¡°Yeah, I am. As long as I get this reality television thing out of the way and then I can focus.¡± Once again, Jeremy had surprised him in the office, but by now his presence seemed accepted. Matt Jones had a friend, and it gave him some street cred. Made him more human. No connection between Michael Bournham and Jeremy had been detected, so the triable of Mike to Matt to Jeremy wasn''t a concern.


    ¡°Lydia did that to you? She really bested you?¡± Jeremy seemed pleased. A little too pleased. There was a puckish quality to Jeremy, an impish, almost childlike attitude that practical jokes, goofy scenarios, and embarrassment were the highest art form. Especially when Mike was the victim. It wasn¡¯t malicious and never mean-spirited ¨C just good clean fun that Jeremy enjoyed. He was a great fan of Judd Apatow movies and the old 90¡¯s film, Dumb and Dumber, was for Jeremy, celebrated the way people considered Fellini a master. For him, it was the Farrelly brothers.


    As Mike described his slimy, seedy, horrific experience in Detroit, complete with Dom rescuing him, and later stopping at a drugstore so he could buy lice shampoo, Jeremy practically clapped and begged for Mike to describe Sunshine once more.


    ¡°Sunshine? Her name is Sunshine?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Mike said. ¡°She was quite a ray of something.¡±


    ¡°And you were arrested because...?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the part that I don''t understand, but when your face is smashed in a bum''s urine by Detroit''s finest, you don''t ask questions. Dom saved me. Good old Dom.¡± Mike had sent Dom to rescue Jeremy a few times, mostly from bars in the college zone where Jeremy targeted barely legal women. If there was a Mardi Gras celebration, a gay pride parade celebration ¨C a party of any kind ¨C you¡¯d find Jeremy at the heart of it, the guy drunk and covered in vomit the next day. Sort of a cross between Charlie from It¡¯s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Otter from Animal House, Jeremy was Mr. Fun to Mike''s Mr. Decent. How in the everloving hell Jeremy managed to pull off a combo of those two mystified Mike.


    But he¡¯d been a hard worker ¨C smart, suave, extremely analytical, and just a little bit unpredictably whacked. When they¡¯d cashed out their stock from the sale of the start-up ¨C and who knew writing reviews about local businesses would turn out to be a multi-billion dollar set up? ¨C leaving hundreds of millionaires of the original post-college, lean and mean founding staff, Jeremy had taken to a life of fun while Mike had taken to a life of sticking his nose to the grindstone.

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    Right now Mike was down to the skullbone while Jeremy¡¯s nose was intact, always on the hunt for pussy.


    ¡°So how are you going to...discipline Miss Lydia?¡±Advertisement


    Mike shot him a dark look. ¡°Let¡¯s not go there.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on. ¡®Matt Jones¡¯ has to do something, right?¡±


    ¡°Well, no. Actually, Matt Jones doesn¡¯t. Lydia did her job.¡± Mike frowned slightly, a musing look, as he thought the whole situation through for a minute.


    ¡°You told her to economize and she took you at your word, didn¡¯t she?¡± Jeremy smiled a little too broadly and nodded a little too hard, the mocking evident and Mike just shook his head.


    ¡°The fucking Embassy Sweets, man.¡±


    ¡°Malicious obedience,¡± Jeremy said, chuckling.


    Whoa. Mike hadn''t thought of that. ¡°Holy shit, that''s exactly what she''s doing, isn''t it?¡±


    Jeremy nodded, fiddling with his phone, playing Angry Birds on it. ¡°Yep. You get pissed at your company, so you do exactly what you''re told. Everything falls apart when you remove judgment and initiative from corporate life.¡±


    ¡°But I''ve nurtured her initiative!¡± Mike exploded.


    ¡°You''ve nurtured her libido.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Mike nearly screamed.


    Jeremy shushed him with hand signals that either meant be quiet or park the 747 at Gate 11. ¡°That''s not a pissed off employee, Mike. That''s a woman who feels scorned.¡±


    ¡°Fuck!¡± He was right. Fighting these feelings for her meant shutting down. To her, it must look like he was an asshole. Furtive encounters in the supply closet and elevator at work ¨C not to mention the nightclub incident ¨C must confuse her. Blowing hot and cold would make anyone upset. The fact that he was turning into a stone wall made him an even bigger asshat.


    She was right.


    ¡°She saved Bournham Industries quite a bit of money,¡± Jeremy said, a supercilious tone permeating his words. ¡°The CEO will be pleased.¡±


    ¡°The CEO is not pleased,¡± Mike said in a hard voice.


    ¡°No,¡± Jeremy wagged his finger in Mike¡¯s face. ¡°Matt Jones is not pleased. Mike Bournham should promote her.¡±


    Mike chuckled. ¡°I¡¯m not sure promote is the verb that I want to apply to her.¡±


    ¡°How about fuck?¡± Jeremy said, all humor stripped from his banter. The shift made the room seem colder and Mike cocked his head.


    ¡°That goes without saying.¡±


    ¡°I thought so,¡± Jeremy said, nodding slowly. ¡°So who''s going to do it?¡±


    The hair on the back of Mike¡¯s neck stood up. ¡°What are you talking about, Jeremy?¡± Was this some ploy for Jeremy to come into the office and try to snag Lydia? Had he gone too far in talking about her?


    ¡°Well, you know,¡± Jeremy said, scratching the back of his head, taking his time smacking his lips together, drawing this out until Mike started waving his hand come on, come on, come on. ¡°Is it going to be Matt Jones or Mike Bournham? Which one wants her most?¡±


    Mike sighed and closed his eyes. Oh, fuck. When he had signed on with the reality television show this was not a scenario that he had considered. He had thought that there might be some awful, violent episode with an employee or a nasty negative argument with someone, or maybe he¡¯d discover that people were embezzling.


    Perhaps he¡¯d find out about some lurid love affair among his upper management, or learn that the mafia had infiltrated his procurement department. Of all the scenarios that he had envisioned where things went wrong, falling for one of his administrative assistants hadn¡¯t even been anywhere near the short list. Or the long list.


    Any list.


    He wanted her, as time passed, more and more. Mke knew that if he let this go on much longer he¡¯d end up needing her. Lydia knew him as Matt Jones, her asshole interloping boss. She knew him in an alter ego, as the owner of the company. So, who was it going to be? Two identities were for superheroes and Mike was trying damn hard to become a billionaire.


    But he was no batman.


    Chapter Eleven


    Reluctant to have any contact with him, Lydia avoided Matt all day. No choice now, though; an email from a big client needed Matt''s immediate attention, and it was a simple meeting schedule issue she needed to take care of. One quick question and she could clear this out and go home. She and Matt had worked way too late wrapping up a huge deal for this client, and it was 9:40 p.m. The office was deserted. One last question and she could go home and eat ice cream while watching Portlandia.


    Rapping on the door twice, she barged in without waiting for him to say anything.


    And walked into her threesome dream.


    Completely unhinged for a few seconds, she gaped openly at Matt and Jeremy, who was sitting on Matt''s couch, relaxed and fluid, like a long, loose, highly-fuckable sex machine ready for this to become one of those porny scenes from a really bad online sex video.


    Oh, my God, she was losing her mind.


    Jeremy started humming in the silence. Matt glared at him after a few seconds, giving Lydia something to attach to. What was Jeremy humming?


    His head bouncing to and fro, Jeremy continued his little song, smiling at Matt.


    He was humming You Are My Sunshine.


    ¡°Did you interrupt us for fun, or is there some work purpose, Lydia?¡± Matt asked, irritated and slapping Jeremy on the shoulder, which caused him to stop mid-bar and grin madly at Lydia.


    Her face flushed as she reconciled the humor and the anger, struggling for balance. How rude! And of all the days to feel so frumpy and off-kilter, the thirteen-hour day beating her senseless and wearing her down. Vulnerable and raw, being treated like his little administrative slave was about as appealing as fetching Dave''s double soy latte.


    Jeremy wore a simple red t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. Not exactly corporate wear, while Matt seemed ready to take on the executive suite with a fine suit about three levels ¨C no, make it six ¨C above his pay grade. Only the lack of a tie made it look ¡°business casual.¡±


    Ish.


    Careful attention to their bodies, to detail, was her saving grace in keeping her temper in check. ¡°The MacMillan account needs to know specifics for the next in-person meeting,¡± she answered, seething. Jeremy noticed the change and stood, eyes alarmed, and headed toward the door.


    ¡°I''ll catch you later,¡± he said to Matt, then tipped his head at Lydia with a nod goodbye.


    She didn''t return it, eyes zeroed in on Matt. Tapping her toe, she splayed her palms up, a gesture of extreme impatience.


    Squaring his shoulder, he planted his hands on his hips and said, ¡°Yes?¡± as he shook his head, a jerk-like quality that made her whole body roil in fury.


    ¡°The MacMillan meeting? When do you want me to schedule it? They''re asking and need to make travel arrangements.¡±


    ¡°Do you really need to consult me for every silly little detail like this? Isn''t it your job?¡±


    Rolling her tongue in her mouth, she imitated his stance, her hands on her hips now, defiant. ¡°I''m just doing exactly what you say,¡± she replied, matching his tone. ¡°Sir,¡± she spat out.


    ¡°This whole malicious obedience schtick isn''t going to work, you know.¡± Confusion clouded her features. She didn''t know what he was talking about.


    ¡°Malicious obedience?¡±


    He washed his face with his hands, then ran them through his hair, keeping his arms stretched above his head, showing off those perfect arms. Rein it in, Lydia, she warned herself. Not now.


    Not here.


    ¡°You plan only to follow orders, right?¡±


    She smirked.


    ¡°Go tell MacMillan we''ll meet on August 20.¡±


    Spinning on her heel, she left the room. He followed, and then in a low, clear voice, ¡°And kiss my ass.¡±


    Time stood still. The universe imploded. Her entire body was a supernova.


    Because he had just given a direct order.


    And she needed to maliciously obey it.


    Her breath poured out of her in heaving gasps, the room so small it was starting to feel claustrophobic, and all she could feel was the rush of blood through her ears, her heart pounding, and how much she wanted to kiss him, touch him, be with him right now.


    Being hurt like this, having him put up a wall and keep her firmly behind it, was blindingly stupid. It made absolutely no sense, and she wished she''d stayed so late. Glowing light from the naked bulbs high in the ceiling made him seem more menacing than he was, hands on his hips, jaw tight and face a mask of granite.


    Some part of him seemed to thaw as his mouth turned up a half-grin, not a smile, but a wry, angry look, cold and harsh.


    Without thinking, she walked back, bent down and did it, reaching around him, touching his waist as if she had the right to access his body at will, kissing his butt with a big, loud ¡°Mwah!¡± Standing, she glared at him, arms crossed, daring him to respond. Blinking steadily, he worked to avoid a reaction; she could see his struggle and wanted to laugh.


    Ignore me now, she thought.


    Their breathing filled the room. Anger dominated. Matt should have been the one in power, but instead her hurt, his restraint, and their ¨C what? Misunderstanding? ¨C hung out and stayed for a while, managing this internal state of affairs.


    ¡°Do as I say, ¡° she mocked, pretending to use his voice, co-opting his own words from the other day. ¡°Fine. I kissed it.¡± Cocking one shoulder, she stared him down. A luxurious, sinful heat made its way slowly from her lips to her chest, spreading down her torso and lighting her clit on fire, the throbbing nearly audible in this tiny, dim space. His office wasn''t her idea of romantic. This would have to do for a showdown, her skin nearly begging him to touch it, her eyes hooded and, she hoped, holding back her yearning.


    Righteously pissed, she didn''t enjoy being toyed with. Tender treatment in his hands at her apartment the other night couldn''t possibly translate into the cold shell he''d put up recently. He needed to choose.


    Now.


    Those fine, manicured hands reached for his belt buckle, practiced and smooth movement beginning to unbuckle his belt. A sultry grin spread across his face, tempered by a slow, furious burn that scared her just enough to titillate.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± she asked slowly, eyebrows arching up.


    As he undid the buckle, he peeled the leather belt out of the loops, then folded it, snapping, the sound like a voice crying out in pleasure, her own throat strangling on a little mewl she suppressed.


    ¡°Enabling you to do as you were told,¡± he answered, his voice smooth like fine whisky as he snaked his pants down over his hips.


    Commando.


    Plunging into her was the only image his mind would hold, his brain racing ahead of himself, wanting her teeth to sink into his shoulder as he made her come, wracked with climax after climax until she went liquid and limp in his arms. Fine cotton clung to that ample ass, with curves riding the soft grey skirt until his mind could think of nothing but handfuls of her, of his palms caressing that creamy skin, of her thighs pressed against his ribcage, ankles crossed behind him, driving her face into a twisted ecstasy only he could ¨C or ever would ¨C see.


    Because he made her like that.


    This fucking office was the least romantic spot he could imagine, devoid of passion and luxury, and yet if this was it ¨C this was it. Mike had woken up determined to hold himself back, to close himself off, to make sure she couldn''t lead him astray from his singular purpose: billionaire status. Fucking her against the door with his hot breath whispering dirty encouragement, though, was how his night would end.

 Page 32

    ¡°Kiss my ass, Lydia. That''s an order,¡± he commanded, cock strong and rigid, pointing to the ceiling. Stepping out of his pants, he striped his shirt off in one fluid movement, body against hers in seconds. The shift of his skin against her clothing felt illicit, as if stealing something he wasn''t supposed to know he could take.


    Her look of shock would have made him laugh if this moment weren''t so intensely serious. Rough and ready, he plunged his hands into her hair, pulled her face up and kissed her, tongue probing, searching, using his anger to drive how much he needed her directly into her, through the warm wet center of Lydia.Advertisement


    Her body melted into his, soft breasts pressing against his pecs, hands roping around his waist, the touch cold, then warm, then searching, combing over every inch of his back and shoulders. Their breath was heavy, his hand reaching under her skirt, finding that she too was wearing no panties, leaving her open for his fingers to slip in, to know how much she was ready for him.


    She reached around his cock, her fingers encasing it and he groaned, the vibration from his throat throbbing into his center now. His knees relaxed and then he stood, sliding up her body, shoulders arching, bending over her, taking as she gave, her hand beginning to stroke him, the feeling too much. He was too close. With a growl he picked her up, wrapped those luscious legs around him, sunk his hands into the flesh of her voluptuous ass and pinned her waist to him. Seconds away from entering her he stopped, then lowered them both to the floor, barely enough room for what he was determined to do.


    He would find a way to make it work. Sliding her skirt up with both hands, he enjoyed the sensation of her soft, quivering thighs, and then his mouth kissed the inside of each, her head tipping back, her neck outstretched within his view, a thin blue vein skittering as her pulse raced. The taste of her was exactly how he''d imagined it in his fantasies, which had increasingly become dominated by her, her, and her. Something spicy, a bit sweet and yes, tart ¨C not bitter. Tongue hinting at what he was about to do, he flicked the tiniest of licks directly on her nub and she arched up, meeting his mouth, making him smile.


    Lydia''s entire being was one long glowing electric nerve, centered directly on her clit, his tongue piercing her, eliciting a warm glow from her pores that she didn''t know was possible. As the welcoming sensuality of his mouth teased out the very hint of an orgasm she sank her hands into his flesh, finding it rock hard, shoulders, biceps, forearms, the relief map of veins and sinew and man.


    He was fully naked, bent down, pleasuring her and she was accepting.


    Her breath hitched as his mouth drew out muscles she didn''t know she could control, a lust that pooled in her belly and then unwound. Tightening, releasing, tightening, releasing to grow sensations larger, making her pant, making her skin light and floating. A magic tongue, Matt stroked and licked and laved his way to bring her release, to elicit this most intimate of moments from her body, to draw her out. And the feeling of those big strong hands on her hip bones, on her waist, sliding up under her blouse to cup her breasts, and then further, tickling earlobes. One hand went down and he slipped a finger into her wet, eager passage, then two, hooking them up to find that spot. He seemed to know her body so well, and yet they were strangers when it came to flesh like this.


    The rough industrial carpet underneath her bare bottom scratched, yet she barely noticed. His hands, his tongue, his mouth all acted in concert to give her something she had so desperately needed for so painfully long. And then she tipped, her body bucking against his mouth, seeking more, more, more of this moment, of this pleasure, of this blinding white light behind closed eyes, that spread into every muscle in her body, turning her taut, turning her clenched, turning her into a muscled expansion of everything.


    Lydia became the light, she became the dark, she became his arm, she became the walls, all of it exploding as she thrust and clenched and screamed behind gritted teeth, thumping and wriggling and writhing her way to ecstasy.


    Neither of them said a single word. It was remarkable, really. She didn''t need to. He seemed to know exactly where to touch, and when, and how, and oh, how. He sat back on his knees, quite pleased with himself from the Cheshire cat smile on his face. She paused, simply to take him in. The plane of this cheekbones, the strong jaw, the rugged tanned skin, how his shoulders stretched so far, like an inverted triangle going down over cut muscle, strong pecs, a smattering of sandy hair and the scalloped edges of his waist, narrowing down to a thicker thatch of hair, and an absolutely enormous erection that made her want to put her mouth on it, to envelop him in the warm cave of her tongue. She had another passage that was just as eager for him, but that would come soon enough.


    Right now, she had to do some ass-kissing.


    She sat up, crawled behind him, leaned down and quite literally kissed his naked ass. Matt burst out laughing, grabbed her, pinned her down on the floor and pressed his lips into hers, giving her ample taste of herself, the act so intimate she nearly cried with the joy of finding someone who wouldn''t think twice about such a thing, and for whom this easy give and take was in fact so easy. The kiss went from playful to serious, his cock pressed into her hip, his hands pulling for her bra, unleashing her breasts which rubbed against the rough fabric of her shirt.


    The office was small, had a small couch, the same couch where Jeremy had been moments ago, and she pulled him up, then pushed him down on the cushions. As she pulled her skirt up, he took control, stripping her shirt off ¨C almost ripping one seam. Taking a rosy, pebbled nipple into his mouth, the feeling sent electric shocks directly into her eager pussy. She nuzzled his neck and straddled, climbing on, grateful for the birth control she''d stayed on since college. So wet, she needed no more, she hovered over the mushroom tip, his hands possessing her body, filling his with the pliant flesh of her ass.


    He moved his hands up to her ribcage, squeezed in with a powerful act that pulled her down on him, impaled. Oh, how she shuddered as he filled her, her mouth open, tongue between her teeth, all hope of control lost. She lifted her ass using thigh muscles, and her back slowly plunging back down, sliding up and down his shaft with exquisite, languid movement that wrung every moment of frictioned joy out of this union.


    The taste of him, of them, of their communion, of her essence, of his musk ¨C blended with the sheer power of his pelvic movements, controlling how he drove into her, hammering home his want. She could feel him slamming into something deep inside her, opening it, creating a wedge that would crack wide a part of Lydia that she could not put back in the box.


    A diffuse vortex of desire, of arousal, of pain from pleasure ¨C began to build in her. She shifted, and then the movement of his hips into her, of his cock fucking her, allowed her clit to slide along his thigh as they worked together to bring each other to a place they could never visit without this joining.


    His muscles tightened, his neck went rigid, and his lips that had been claiming her mouth, her tongue, suddenly went loose and unfocused as he concentrated on what was building within, her own building so great that she began to lose all sense of intent.


    ¡°Oh, God,¡± she whispered. He made a sound. It wasn''t even a word, more an acknowledgment, like a prayer in a language only lovers could speak in the act of the flesh joining like this.


    In the distance, an industrial sound caught her ear. A horn beeped. Rain began to pelt the window. He began to push into her, faster, harder, deeper, slamming into whatever it was that was breaking inside, that needed his kind of power. Her wet, pink pussy walls clamped down hard, her ass tightening, all of her core working together to encase him in nothing but her body. Nothing but Lydia, so that he would know that the moment he came it was all her, her, her.


    A choked cry from his lips sent a tingle of power, of victory through her, for she knew that he was about to know it, to know her. And her own orgasm came slamming into her with that knowledge, sending her over, tipping her into ecstasy, into a nerve release that pulsated out of her like a supernova as she bucked and screamed and leaned down, biting his shoulder, calling nonsense into his flesh as they thrust and thrust and thrust toward a new and complete abandon, giving in, finally, to what they restrained for far too long.


    He kissed her as aftershocks coursed through her, his lips less sure and more just wanting connection. She slipped over him, full to the brim with his cock, which she began to feel loosen inside. Her breath on his ear, his breath in turn on her neck, seemed like testimony to the passion that they had just spent.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± he gasped. Combing her fingers through her hair, she lifted up and smiled, a coy look of teasing.


    ¡°Is that an order?¡±


    They both fell into easy chuckles, her body poured over his, ear pressed to his chest and hearing the steady thump-THUM-thump-THUM of his heart. One knee hitched up and her thigh stretched across his hip, his hands making lazy caresses across her shoulder. Comfortable. Cocooned.


    Sated.


    Finally. Giving in to her attraction had been a terrible professional move, but if he''d only wanted a clean fuck he''d have gone about it quite differently. This snuggling, how his breath played on her forehead, the way he rested on the couch completely naked, confident in his own skin, made her feel something she has nearly driven out, purposefully, since he''d arrived.


    Hope.


    I''m Batman, he kept thinking, the phrase looping endlessly through his mind right now, channeling the moment in the movie when Bruce Wayne wants ¨C needs ¨C to reveal his true identity. Nestled close to him, half-naked and covered in his juices, Lydia was a goddess, a wild-fire woman with a hedonistic streak that came out during sex.


    Thank God.


    Kissing her forehead, he stroked her arm as the endorphin rush kicked in, making him settle into this state, nowhere else he''d rather be right now. Michael Bournham had finally found a woman who could complete so much that was unfinished in his life, and yet ¨C


    He had to accept her as Matt Jones.


    Panting, he stared at the ceiling, noting how harsh the cheap fluorescent lights were and making a mental list of ways he could upgrade the offices for the middle-management and clerical staff. How romantic, a voice in his head intoned. It sounded suspiciously like Jeremy. It didn''t faze him that he was completely naked, formerly-throbbing member now wilting, the chill of air conditioning triggering gooseflesh over every inch of carefully-tanned skin.


    The truth crouched in his throat, waiting to spring forward, owing her so much, wanting her even more. Needing this moment to last forever, he inhaled her scent, that sweet vanilla tinged with her musk, imprinting in his nose, his mind, his heart. Lydia deserved to know the truth, a reveal so great he nearly shook with the prospect of saying the words. Being Matt Jones had been very hard at first, but now?


    Being himself was harder.


    His eyes crawled over the window, thirty-odd floors above the city, the cars and streetlights and people seeming so big compared to his normal view from the executive suite on the top floor. How cute. How real, like Lydia, her soft curves a stark contrast to the angular, hungry women he normally dated, women who spent nine hours a week with an expensive trainer to convince and cajole their bodies into fighting aging, often winning. Trading down for a younger model never appealed to him; he tended to date women who were seasoned enough to be interesting, but these days they were all the same, like well-honed reproductions of fine art. Good enough to stare at but lacking something he couldn''t put his finger on.

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    Lydia? Now Lydia he had put his finger on. And in. And ¨C


    What have you done, Mike? She thinks you''re Matt, he reminded himself. A deep, cleansing breath didn''t help, the air redolent with her scent. Of their scent. Of --Advertisement


    Oh, shit.


    A tiny red light blinked at a regular rate in a spot perched just above the threshold to his office. He squinted, then slowly closed his eyes, a long sigh pushing as many traces of her out of his air supply, leaving him as empty of her as possible so he could fill his body with logic. Resting his head on his folded arm and the top of the couch, his ear against the back of one hand, his brain raced into full-blown catastrophe management mode.


    A quick glance up showed the light had turned off. Someone had to do that manually; Jonah had explained the process to him.


    Not what he wanted to see, because that meant ¨C


    He had forgotten about the cameras.