Heart of Ice

by T. B. Markinson

  “Add another.” Her uninhibited moan as the third finger entered sent shockwaves through Jack’s core. “Good girl. Go in deeper.”

  It was almost more than she could bear as a spurt of Jack’s own juices escaped her. Had she ever been so turned on before from trying to make someone else come? Jack didn’t even think it was possible, but here she was on the brink of her own climax, the evidence of which was trickling down her inner thighs like a stream.

  As if aware of the situation, her companion angled, showing a surprising degree of flexibility, to dip a finger between Jack’s legs. She drew her hand back and touched her fingertips to her mouth. “I wanted a taste.”

  “Jesus,” Jack managed to utter as her throat constricted.

  She didn’t pause for even a moment in the constant drilling of her fingers deeper into the hot wetness that engulfed them.

  “I didn’t realize you were religious.” There was a trace of humor in the words as her fingers wrapped around Jack’s wrist, forcing her to go in even deeper still and with greater speed.

  In all her life, Jack had never fucked anyone like this before. She’d never imagined such intensity was possible.

  Her greedy body longed for its own release with such fierce magnitude that she pinched her eyes shut, willing herself

  not to surrender until she’d completed the task at hand.

  Orgasming twice before her partner had the chance for one?

  It was bad manners. She bit her lip, determined to persevere.

  Perhaps sensing her dilemma, her partner made it clear she had other plans. Before Jack knew what was happening, a finger was inside her, hitting the exact spot that was guaranteed to immerse her in a wave of erotic bliss. There was no fighting it any longer. The trembling increased, and Jack collapsed, writhing onto the woman’s soft, warm body and unravelling.

  “I don’t kn—” Flashes of color lit up the backs of her eyelids, rendering Jack mute.

  A low, sensuous laugh tickled Jack’s ears. “I did warn you this wouldn’t end the way you thought.”

  “But I…” Jack was unable to complete the sentence as, thoroughly spent, she closed her eyes and allowed the blackness to overtake her.

  WHEN JACK’S eyes popped open sometime later, the first word out of her mouth was, “Fuck!”

  Her heart raced. For a moment, she had no memory of what had transpired during the night. Her body felt like it had been run over by a freight train. But in a good way. She’d had an amazingly erotic dream, so fucking hot she’d almost thought it was real.

  Head swimming, she rolled onto her side, reaching for her phone on the nightstand.

  There was nothing there. Including a nightstand.

  Jack bolted up.

  She was in a strange bed, alone. Had last night actually happened after all? Her eyes darted around the massive hotel suite, but there was no sign anyone else had ever been there,

  only an empty bottle of gin on the floor beside the bed. She recalled carrying the bottle, still half full, out of the bar, but little else. The part of her brain that sat behind her forehead felt like someone had squeezed it into a vice, and it suggested that the bottle hadn’t been empty when the evening began. What, exactly, had she done?

  Her eyes spied an alarm clock, panic setting in as she saw the time and remembered in a sudden flash of clarity that she was expected in the o ce to answer the phones at seven o’clock. Which was in about twenty minutes. “Shit, I’m going to be late.”

  Jack sprang out of bed. The fact that she was naked did not escape her notice, and the pleasant ache between her legs o ered more evidence that her dream had not been entirely imaginary, but she didn’t have time to think about that now. Instead, she pulled on her rumpled clothes from the day before and prayed that the clean blouse and deodorant she kept at work for emergencies was still safely tucked in her desk drawer.

  She checked the time again. If she ran, she’d only be minutes late, and maybe that would be soon enough for no one to notice. As much as she resented being stuck with the lowly job of answering the phones, she’d been given the responsibility, and she loathed letting anyone down.

  Outside, a narrow trail had been cleared from the hotel to the o ce building, and Jack marveled how, on either side of her, there was well over a foot of snow. Closer to eighteen inches. It must’ve been a decade or more since that much had fallen in the city of Boston.

  Her shoes were all wrong for the weather. In her haste, she slid a good foot on a patch of ice, the world seeming to come to a halt until, at the last second, she was able to correct herself, avoiding a nasty crash and burn. Thank goodness. Jack already looked a sight in yesterday’s

  bedraggled outfit, smelling of sex and booze. There was no need to add big wet spots to the mix.

  Her lungs filled with frigid air, and she felt alive. Once again, the twinge between her legs reminded her something special had happened the night before. Or, too much drink had finally driven her insane and she’d imagined the whole a air with the sexy older woman. Could that be the case?

  There was too much evidence to the contrary. Hotel suite.

  Gin bottle. Waking naked. Among other things. But how many stories had her mother told her of folks back in her home village who’d had that happen? Jack had always assumed Mam was exaggerating. What was more believable?

  Her seducing an untouchable ice queen? Or that, after imbibing half a bottle of gin by herself during a storm, she’d succumbed to the Dingle curse? When put that way…?

  It had to have been real, though, right? It felt real. But if the woman in her dreams had actually been there, where was she now? And how come Jack didn’t know something as basic as the woman’s name? Jack shut her eyes, the face of a beautiful blonde dissolving into an empty bottle of Dingle gin that danced a jig in her memory.

  Fuck. I hate it when Mam’s right.

  At precisely one minute before seven, Jack entered her building, dashing through one of the security gates and pressing the elevator button. It took ages to arrive, and then after an excruciating sixty seconds, it arrived on her floor.

  One minute past. Surely no one would notice.

  When the doors separated, there stood Andrew Emerson.

  “Ah, I was just at your desk looking for you.”

  Heart falling into her stomach, Jack stepped out of the elevator. One measly minute. Seriously, was she cursed?

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. Did I miss a call?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Jack booked it to her desk, her legs pumping at double speed. The last thing she wanted

  was for a member of the Emerson family to doubt her dedication and work ethic.

  “Call?” Andrew hu ed as he walked beside her, trying to match her breakneck pace. “No, I didn’t call.”

  “You aren’t here to reprimand me for being late to cover the phones?”

  “Hold on. I thought you said you’re a portfolio manager.”

  “I am,” Jack replied, not liking the panic that flitted across Andrew’s face.

  “Then why in the world would you be on phone duty?

  That’s not your job.” His tone made it clear how far beneath a portfolio manager he considered answering phones to be.

  “I was the only other one here last night when Denise found out about the storm, and she would’ve had a terrible time getting in on the train.”

  “So you volunteered?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Jack frowned as Andrew slanted his head to one side, giving her a long look. He probably thought she was a sucker for saying yes. Most of upper management failed to appreciate the workers in the trenches, and it was doubtful any of them would lift a hand to help one of them out.

  His response, however, came as a surprise. “I like a team player, Kennedy.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.” Having reached her desk, Jack pulled out her chair, but Andrew stopped her before she could sit.

  “No time for that. I need you to come upstairs.”


  “What about phone coverage?”

  “Never mind about that. I’ll have Marian cover them.”

  Jack stared. Was he really going to ask the senior o ce manager to spend her morning answering phones? That was like asking Zeus to wash your car. “I really don’t mind.”

  “It’s not that. Laurie Emerson arrived an hour ago in a blaze of fire, demanding to talk to her PM right away.”

  Jack swallowed hard. Between dreams and real life, she seemed destined to be surrounded by domineering women today. “That’s me.”

  Andrew nodded. “It’s not a good idea to keep her waiting.

  Do you need anything from your desk before we go?”

  Jack grabbed a leather binder from her desk, throwing a sidelong glance to the drawer where her change of clothing was kept. That would have to wait. “I’m ready.”

  In the elevator, Andrew pressed the button for the twenty-fourth floor, a place Jack had never even seen. It’s not that the executive level was forbidden, exactly. It’s just that it wasn’t somewhere most employees wanted to go unless they had to. More often than not, it meant bad news.

  She’d seen grown men old enough to be her father come back from that floor reduced to tears. Often, they’d been fired. She bit down on her bottom lip to stop its tremble.

  What was she getting herself into?

  This is a good thing, she reminded herself. Everything was coming together. All those long days and nights, doing the shit work other PMs didn’t want to do was about to pay o big time. Working for Laurie Emerson was like getting the call to the major leagues. She was going to the Show.

  The elevator pinged, and Andrew led her past the most prime real estate in the building, what everyone referred to as executive row. This was where the power resided. At the far end was a table with a floral arrangement more extravagant than anything Jack had ever seen, with the possible exception of that time her mother had dragged her along to pay their respects when Ted Kennedy was lying in repose after his death. Jack was certain the flowers must be artificial—they’d cost hundreds of dollars if not—but the whi of rose and lily as she walked past said otherwise.

  There were two administrative desks beyond the flowers, and an older woman occupied the one closest to a heavy wooden door. Jack straightened up at once. Though she’d never met her in person, Jack knew that must be Marian Conti, who, prior to becoming o ce manager, had been Laurie Emerson’s personal assistant. From the look of things, she was back on the job.

  “Marian, I’m so sorry, but do you mind covering phones for a bit? I’ll explain later.” The deference he showed as he asked suggested that Andrew was every bit as intimidated by the woman as Jack was. If she felt this way about the assistant, what would it be like when she was in the presence of Ms. Emerson herself?

  Marian nodded, and Jack was relieved to see she’d taken the request in stride. Her eyes twinkled as she gave Jack a kind smile. “Don’t be nervous, dear. She’s been waiting all morning to meet you.”

  Jack forced her lips to curve upward, but there was no way the swarm of butterflies flitting every which way in her stomach was going to subside so easily.

  Andrew rapped his knuckles on the door.

  A woman’s voice answered from the other side. “Come in.”Andrew turned the silver doorknob and ushered Jack inside the o ce. As soon as she’d stepped inside, her eyes landed on the woman behind the massive desk near the window.

  Jack froze.

  Even seated, the woman was tall, imposing. Her head was tilted downward as she perused a stack of files, so it was impossible to see the color of her eyes, but her blonde hair was neatly coi ed, with the slightest frizz to suggest it hadn’t been freshly styled that morning. Her suit jacket showed only a trace of creases. It was the drop of blood on

  the shirt, barely visible but definitely there, that was the telltale evidence Jack’s brain needed to finally accept that last night had not been a dream. It was Jack’s own blood, transferred to the collar accidently after she’d stuck herself with the massive safety pin that had been holding the woman’s skirt tight against her slender waist—the skirt that had ended up on the floor of a hotel bathroom, along with the rest of the ensemble, as its owner had explored Jack’s naked body with her tongue in front of a roaring fire.

  At least now Jack knew her name.

  The mysterious woman from the blizzard was Laurie Emerson, head of Emerson Management and Jack’s new boss.

  C H A P T E R S E V E N

  THE OFFICE DOOR OPENED, BUT LAURIE DIDN’T BOTHER LOOKING UP.

  She’d spent the morning reading through a stack of recent articles on Silvio Othonos that Marian had printed for her, but it was slow going. She still had two more to read, and she hadn’t even opened the personnel file on Jack Kennedy, the portfolio manager Andrew had found for her. Who would name their son Jack Kennedy, anyway? It seemed pretentious, which was a quality Laurie couldn’t tolerate. She hoped the man wouldn’t prove too big a disappointment.

  At any other time, Laurie would’ve made it through all of the reading, plus the personnel file, with time to spare, but her mind was decidedly elsewhere. Well, one place, in particular. No matter how hard she’d tried to think of anything else, she kept ending up back in the President’s suite—the glow of a crackling fire reflecting o pale limbs, the intoxicating weight of the young, dark-haired stranger’s body on top of hers amidst the tangled bedsheets. The fact her body still thrummed like a contented pussy in a sunny windowsill hardly helped her ability to concentrate.

  Did I just think pussy ? Laurie felt her cheeks tingle as blood rushed to the surface. I meant cat. Obviously.

  The door clicked shut, and Laurie became keenly aware of the presence of two people in her o ce. With her eyes on her

  papers, Laurie could only see their legs. The navy blue trousers and dress shoes of brown leather that were a little more scu ed than she’d like to see belonged to Andrew.

  Beside him, a pair of chocolate brown plaid pants left her confused. The cut looked oddly feminine, or perhaps it was the impression given by shoes that seemed much too small for a typical man. That fabric… had she seen it before?

  Her pulse ticked up a notch as Laurie slowly raised her head. It couldn’t be, could it? That was too much of a coincidence, and Laurie didn’t believe in them. But as soon as she saw the woman standing beside Andrew, there was no doubt. It was her, the woman she’d left sleeping in the hotel bed an hour before was standing in her o ce now. Laurie’s jaw threatened to drop from its hinge, but she bit down on the inside of her cheeks until nearly gnawing through both.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  All sorts of doomsday scenarios raced through Laurie’s head. Bribery? Perhaps the woman had figured out who she was and thought she could get a payout to stay quiet about their tryst. Or maybe she’d known since the moment they’d met at the bar, and the whole night had been a setup to get her into a compromising position. Oh, God, had the tiny viper taken a video?

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she fixed Bonnie’s nephew with a steely stare. “Andrew, what is the meaning of this?”

  Immediately, the man’s eyes widened, and he looked so rattled she was afraid they might have a repeat of the floor-wetting incident from a decade before. His body shook as he spoke. “You said to come in.”

  “So I did,” Laurie soothed with one eye to her expensive oriental rug. It really wouldn’t do to have him pee on it like an untrained puppy. “However, I was expecting you to have Jack Kennedy with you. Not, whoever this is.”

  As Laurie waved her hand dismissively at the woman she’d spent most of the previous night screwing with reckless abandon, she saw her dark brown eyes narrow and her jawline harden.

  “I am Jack Kennedy,” the woman replied.

  “Preposterous.” Laurie looked to Andrew, who nodded in apparent agreement with the woman. “Did you ask for ID?

  That’s the most made-up name I’ve ever heard.”

  “She really
is who she says,” Andrew confirmed. “Ms.

  Jacqueline Kennedy, portfolio manager. All the details are in that file I sent over. Didn’t Marian give it to you?”

  “I haven’t seen it. Marian must’ve forgotten to bring it in.” Laurie nudged one of her Silvio Othonos articles so that it better obscured the folder in question and made a mental note to buy her assistant a nice Hermes scarf at lunch to make up for throwing her under the bus. “If you’re going to continue working for me, Andrew, I suggest you learn to hand deliver important files. It’s one of my top rules. Now, both of you—go.”

  Instead of doing as she was told, the woman—who was called Jack, apparently—held firm and remained rooted in place. “Wait a minute. You said you wanted me… for a project of some kind.”

  That perfectly placed pause that so clearly alluded to their night together nearly stopped Laurie’s heart, and she had a feeling the evil little pixie had done it on purpose. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Based on what?” Jack demanded.

  “Your lack of credentials.”

  “You said you hadn’t read my file, so how would you know anything about my credentials?”

  Laurie drew a deep breath to calm the rage in her belly.

  How dare that pint-sized imp call her out on her lie? Laurie sat perfectly still in her chair, a well-practiced picture of

  poise. Mentally, she was banging her head against a wall, chanting: Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could she have been so reckless? God, neither one of them had changed clothes since the night before. Just what she needed, both Laurie and the woman she’d had her one and only careless fling with doing the walk of shame in the same o ce. Thank goodness she was mostly surrounded with men who wouldn’t notice if she wore the same outfit for a week.

  “Leave us for a minute, Andrew. I’d like to talk to the illustrious First Lady in private.”

  With Andrew gone, Jack rested her fist on her hip and glared. “First Lady?”

  Laurie shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching at her own joke. “I’m not the one whose mother named her Jacqueline Kennedy.”