by Vivian Wood
Every night, it’s the same thing.
Me. My music. The solitude.
With the exception of a few janitors and jilted workers, the office was always dead around this hour, quiet as a grave. And yet despite all my best efforts to give into the silence, the sound of Heath’s husky voice stays with me—my only company in the cold, abandoned office the falling snow on the holiday-decorated city just outside my window another reminder that I have no holiday to go home to.
No family. No husband. No screaming kids welcoming me in.
Unlike everyone else.
The city was full of people rushing, always in a hurry. They rushed to work to start the day. They rushed home to end it. They rushed here, there, to and fro and to whatever small pieces of life they had waiting in the wings, finding some sense of sanctuary in whatever dog, girlfriend or loved one was waiting for them at home.
I needed no church, no synagogue, no needle, and no safe haven.
Work was my religion—the love I’d dedicated myself to.
The office is where I get my best ideas, where inspiration finds me most. The concept of getting lost takes on new meaning within these walls, and I literally sit in what has become my second home…and dream.
I dream up a world—a life—that gets new breath every day.
My job is the only baby I have time for these days. It’s the only part of my life—period—that takes my time. I’ve barely gotten a chance to visit my parents in Chicago, my friends have almost stopped trying to get me to socialize, and sex…
Sex?
I’d somehow forgotten the meaning of it after eleven long months. Hell, make that twelve.
I’d had to take the concept of self-satisfaction seriously these days, and sometimes on nights like this, when the city felt loneliness, I’d remove the small battery-operated boyfriend—otherwise known as the Rabbit—from my briefcase (as pathetic as I was becoming), my fingers drifting between my legs, rubbing to the thought of some nameless face.
I’d even tried to use David for inspiration. Once. But like all the other nights, I shut my eyes, imagining nothing at all. Pushing back a sheet of red hair over my shoulders, I let my hands skim over the button of my white blouse, let them float to the lace between my legs. When they find warm and wet contact, the touch on my clit turns electric, my eyes drifting closed only to find a familiar face—gorgeous and strong-jawed—behind my darkened eyelids.
I fling my eyes open immediately, startled to discover my skin hotter than ever at the thought of… Heath.
I’d snatch my hands away, but the heat makes them stay. An attraction, raw and without reason, quickens the pace of my delving hands. Fanning its way across my body, a blush brushes its way down my thighs, and in the midst of a tiny moan, dreaming about the dusting of dark hair along Heath’s jaw, the deep brown crop of strands at his temples matching his earthy irises, those goddamned shoulders broad enough to take a seat on, I discover an ecstasy I’d thought I’d lost, my pulse picking up, my skin twitching as warm sensations take me over, washing over my entire being.
Because despite his cockiness, his imposition, and the fact that he pokes at my most sensitive nerves… Heath Sparrow has a sexiness that can’t be denied.
I—like every other woman with a pulse—am utterly incapable of ignoring it. I wish I could…because within minutes, I am panting at the thought of Heath’s hands, his wicked smile—his lips. My fingers sliding frantically across my clit, circling and sinking, the hot as hell image of Heath brings me to the brink, an impending orgasm streaming through my system when suddenly… I’m not the only person coming.
The sound of heavy footsteps echo across the carpet outside my office, and I bolt upwards in my leather chair, nearly knocking my laptop over, my fingers snatching from my skin as if the very surface were on fire.
“What’s going on?”
The steps across the threshold behind me throttle my senses, and I grab for the hidden bottle of mace in my purse, wrapping my shaking fingers around the plastic tube before turning to face whatever stranger might be dawdling in my doorway.
I pivot, poised to spray when a pair of cocoa eyes stare back at me.
It’s the devil himself…and he’s staring at me, his brown eyes scanning my body with a sleep-like gaze—hooded and dangerously sexy.
I can barely breathe as my brain scrambles to catch up with my mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I pant.
I exhale like I’ve been running a marathon, and Heath—coolly decked in blue jeans and a white tee—regards me closely, his earthy eyes squinting as he gazes openly at me through the room’s muted light.
He steps closer, and I thank the universe that the room is too dim for him to see the sweat at my neck. He glances around the small square space.
“I left behind some notes. Thought they might be in here…” he trails off, his dark brows lowering. “Do you always stay in here after hours?”
His reproach plays teasingly on the edge of a question. Speaking with the conviction that says he already knows the answer, his low voice rumbles as always, his blatant approach and presence placing a sudden weight in the room, making a palpable tension thrum through the air.
His deep voice steals what little is left of mine, and I try to push through my sudden shyness, the accusation in his eyes and the faint smell of my dampness creating a thickness in my throat that makes it hard to breathe.
His broad chest fills the entirety of the doorway.
It is almost intimidating…but I scrounge every inch of my integrity to fight back against the shrinking of my own ego.
I inhale slowly. “I work here every night.”
Heath simply stares. “Hard at it, it seems.”
He blinks innocently, the hint of a smile on his face revealing anything but innocence. And I wonder: Could he have heard my tiniest of moans?
Indignation inflames under my breast, trumping embarrassment, and I scramble to straighten the reports on my desk, turning stolidly away.
“Right. So if you’ll excuse me…” I say, standing.
“I don’t think I will, actually.” Heath walks several steps to plant himself in front of me. I suck in a breath that hurts, and he inches close enough to almost touch me.
“Now, everybody here at the firm can keep pretending to play nice…or I can take advantage of this extremely rare moment alone with you to tell you what I suspect you already know…because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t take such extreme measures to avoid me like you do.”
Heath eyes me, his jaw tilting by the slightest fraction.
“Don’t lie, Keats.” He sucks in a breath, blowing it out of his nostrils. “Is this firm planning to represent clients who may sue Chris Jackson?”
The beat of my heart picks up at the mention of Brett’s father’s name. It’s a name that’s unspeakable in this building, and with the unfortunate incident involving Managing Partner Fitzgerald Sparrow AKA Heath’s dad, nobody wanted to touch any case implicating the long-time friend to the firm.
At least, nobody but me.
The truth? The firm wasn’t representing clients looking to sue Chris Jackson.
But I was.
Secretly vetting some of his most-affected victims after official office hours, I’d hoped my late-night sessions—sexual or otherwise—wouldn’t catch up with me. But I should have known that I would never fool a man like Heath, who was as sharp as he was shrewd. As sexy as he was sinister.
He looks at me, his cinnamon eyes blazing under the dim light.
“King & Sparrow is a good firm,” he utters slowly, “…but it could be great. Our focus is too litigation-based, our arguments uninspired. Our research has become stagnant, and what’s worse is that we’re better than this.”
“We’re?” I lift a skeptical eyebrow.
Heath glares. “Yes, we’re. I’m here now, aren’t I? That makes me part of the firm’s future. For now, at least…”
His last sentence is scarily ominou
s, but I ignore it.
“Our staff is too fucking good to put up with any ratings-grabbing bullshit. That’s why I’ve banned any talk of representing Chris or any of his crooked ass associates.” He glances quickly behind him. “But if you think you have a shot at going against him, I do have some notes I want to share with you…if you can stand being in the same room with me long enough to look them over.”
It’s a question. Not a command.
A first for a male Sparrow, I’m sure.
Heath Sparrow—the mighty Heath Sparrow—just set a record by making a decision that was entirely self-motivated. In the low amber light, he looks different today—stronger somehow. It’s almost as if the curtain of cold he keeps up has set as soon as the sun does, and when he leaves the room and returns, a heap of notes in his hands, I am breathless, my body struggling to adjust to this new man before me, who seems so much stranger than the last.
He places his folders on the edge of my desk, pulling up a chair. I sit and as we work in silence, the room grows still around us, the atmosphere turning thick. You could cut the tension between us with a well-placed spoon and as I watch Heath’s full lips part to speak, a cell phone rings, shattering the uncomfortable quiet between us.
He picks it up, tearing my trance in two.
I tuck my fist into my side, my sweaty fingers now trembling from something more dangerous than desire. Grabbing my notebook and laptop with one hand, I try to blaze past Heath, almost clipping his shoulder with mine as I make my way past him to the door.
Until he grabs me.
I turn to him before crossing through it.
He places his phone on his shoulder, his towering frame hovering over mine as he gazes down at me, his sharp jaw ticking. I don’t say a word.
“I need a moment with you before you go.”
“I don’t have a moment, Heath,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. “And even if I did…I have no intention of sharing it with you.”
I don’t like what “a moment” suggests. And, hell, the suggestion part is a stretch, at best. He’s telling me what he’s going to do, reverting back to the old Heath…and I’m tempted to pepper spray those big brown eyes of his right out of their sockets.
The man’s ego knows no bounds.
“A moment is the last thing you and I need, Heath. Trying to play nice doesn’t seem to work for either of us these days, so here’s my suggestion.”
I tap the mace from earlier on my hip, pointing the non-spraying end in his direction.
“Just please, Heath,” I release a long breath, feeling it down to my toes. “Just stay the hell out of my way…and I promise to stay out of yours. I appreciate your help. I do. But like I said when we first met again: We can work… Just separate.”
With those words, I turn…but not before seeing a strange smile creep slowly onto his face.
It isn’t until I’m halfway down the hall, almost to the front door of the building, that I realize the can of mace in my hand—the one I’ve been waving around during my little tirade—is actually my small, pink Rabbit vibrator.
Hence, the smile…
I sigh.
I can’t seem to win when it comes to Heath, my body whispering that it doesn’t want to…
Chapter Fifteen
HEATH
There was a natural rhythm to the clicking of the Mont Blanc pen she was using to write in the margins of her notepad, and where I was positive that that sort of nervous habit would have driven me bat-shit crazy anywhere else, right here…with her?
I found it oddly charming.
Maybe it was because she was so damned focused. Maybe it was because of her charming button nose…
I couldn’t help but notice the small scar across her hand, a birthmark near her knuckle. Her calves and wrists were tiny and though her fingers constantly moved as she scribbled on the pages of the book in front of her, everything else was as unmoving as ice.
Her demeanor was twice as frigid.
It was clear that her aloofness was practiced, and though I admired her for sticking to it as long as she could, I held in a silent laugh at the knowledge that her rigid façade would fall at my feet.
I just couldn’t stop myself.
I liked to chip at the cracks. I fiddled with the breaking points in people’s psyches, poking at their fissures—prodding at the chinks in their armors until the only option left for the armor was to crumble.
Melt.
I was carefully working at melting Violet’s arctic veneer. And though it took longer than most, I was enjoying it. I let my hot gaze travel the length of her body, lingering below her breasts until the speed of her pen’s clicking began to quicken.
I wasn’t big enough of a prick to order her around. Although, I had the absolute power to do so.
This was one woman—an employee now, at that—that I couldn’t touch, but I had to admit: I admired her. And I didn’t admire many people.
She was slightly nervous, I could tell…but she was doing her damnedest to not show it.
She had no idea how alike she and I really were. Two people without real family—fumbling around in the world. I pass through the office, stalking towards her.
Knocking before entering, I stroll inside the small room, and she blinks up at me, raising her head from between her pages and lifting it in my direction. With a shaky grin, she says my name, and all of a sudden I’m thinking of last night. Of what it should have been.
Her shoes would have never made it. Her loose bun would have been obliterated. Her skirt would have sat rumpled around her waist by the time I was bending her over her desk—pounding into her, beating her body with my own to the rhythm of that nervous pen-clicking habit I’d grown to strangely adore.
But guilt makes me stop, halts the fantasy in my fucked-up head. I’m still dealing with the guilt that I’ve been leading her to the front of a firing squad, and I only hope that she is smart enough to see what’s coming her way. That David King, and the other senior partners I suspect are on his side, have no intentions on helping her, on being decent.
And the clincher?
I honestly don’t know why I want to. Why I want to help the firm.
Marilyn was right; where had I fucked around and found a conscience?
I’m willing to bet the Beemers that half of our attorneys drove here today…that Violet won’t exactly be pleased to be saved by the likes of someone like me.
Not like she really has a choice in the matter. I’m here.
In fact, one of the main reasons I’m here is because of her…
Because I needed to know.
Know that I wasn’t being clouded by judgment just because Violet Keats was attractive to look at. Know that I wasn’t entertaining making the biggest move in this firm’s history because I couldn’t separate the twisted twosome of business and pleasure, even as I imagined the last time that I was forced to separate everything that was long and hard on me from her half-naked and panting little body.
I’d talked Keats into letting me meet her client. That was enough for now.
In fact, the client had called the meeting when Violet told her the good news. That I might take her case. That I might risk the very ground we all walked on to help a client bury a man whose business once put us at the top of the law firm ranks.
I close my eyes, sucking in a breath so hard it almost fucking hurts. I reach out my hand.
“Mind if I borrow a pen?”
Her grin wilts as she looks into my eyes. “Sure.”
Violet rummages through her drawers, producing another expensive pen. As she passes it to me, our fingers touch, and the thought of fucking her is almost enough to make me cancel this meeting with the client when my new secretary buzzes my phone, announcing her arrival.
I leave with a nod, willing my hard-on to save it for another time. Summoning the potential new client in, my pulse pulling a Gene Kelly on the tip of my tired tongue, I take a seat behind my desk, squeezing my fists.
> Strengthening my willpower, I remember what Marilyn said, what Brett lectured me about. With their voices in my head, I find a willpower I’d believed I’d lost.
Twenty seconds later, the client opens the door, beating back the sounds inside my brain.
Ms. Fletcher was dignified, that was for sure. Clad in a blue suit that cost more than a BMW, she steps lightly into my gigantic office, her gaze flitting over the glass. Clearly accustomed to the finer things in life, she almost sneers at my father’s infamous, lightly chipped oak desk. Tempted to tell her that this desk has seen more action than she’s encountered in two lifetimes, I smile instead, rising to my feet as I shake her thin hand, motioning towards her seat.
“Please. Make yourself comfortable, Ms. Fletcher.”
She glares. “Oh, I intend to.”
I sit down across from her, crossing my legs. I beat my thumb in time to the ticking clock on the wall. I start talking without wasting a second.
“You said your company was tricked out of money, is that correct?”
She nods. “Yes.”
I gaze down at my notes. “You also say that one Chris Jackson was the man who tricked you out of said money.” I glance up. “Is that also correct?”
Her red lips purse. “Yes, that is correct.”
“You invested with Chris Jackson’s company?”
“Yes.”
I grit my teeth. “And you didn’t know about the rumors, Ms. Fletcher? The whispers about Jackson’s wanton ways?” I lean forward. “You didn’t know about the double-dealings, the back-stabbings?” I inch closer. “You didn’t know about the illegal activities, the slander, the fraud, the broken promises?” My eyes drill into hers, dragging the truth out. “You didn’t know, Ms. Fletcher, that you were consorting with the most crooked man in all of New York City investment business… Is that correct, Ms. Fletcher?”
The time ticks away. Ms. Fletcher’s regal stare never wavers from my face, and for a second there, I believe she’s going to get up and walk away. But she doesn’t. Smoothing out a line of wrinkles across her forehead, she throws her shoulders back, her brown curls bouncing as she gazes at me through eyes of steady conviction. She nods once more.