The masterpiece was only nine by seven inches or so. It featured the head and shoulders of a Harlequin in near profile, bedecked in blue, yellow and red diamonds. He wore a black hat that came to a rounded peak at the crown and swooped down over his ears almost like bull horns. The lip of a wine bottle featured in the bottom left corner of the painting. What I loved best was his stark white face with slashing black eyebrows—he peered at you mischievously, yet seriously, a glint in his dark eye. As if he understood something you didn’t, like he was staring at the doom hovering over your shoulder. A drunken, tired and probably poor performer was he. I could relate to that.
“I’m impressed you identified it as a Picasso. I only knew from Oliver’s bragging,” I said. The piece wasn’t signed.
His voice came from behind me. “It’s Rose Period, probably 1901 to 1905-ish. Wonderful. Although I’m more a Cubist man, myself.”
I shifted to see his face. “Well, aren’t you smart in the ways of art?”
He rolled his eyes, but smiled to lessen the blow. “I’m smart in the ways of lots of things.”
I caught the Harlequin’s gaze again and resisted an urge to wink. “How much do you think Steak on a Stick paid for it? Ten million? Twenty?” I had no idea, but it was fun to fantasise about pissing away gagillions of dollars for the sake of beauty.
“Not enough.”
I turned to him. He stared down at me with an odd expression. He blinked it away and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. I trembled and whispered, “Suppose we steal it and run away to Bali?”
Taking a step closer, he said, “Now you’ve got the right idea.”
That look in his eyes was much less confusing. I giggled and stared at my feet. It would be so easy to grab it off the wall and disappear…move to a beach…have monkey butlers…
Sam rocked back on his heels. “How is it he gave you the code to this room? In the trenches, he refers to you as ‘Girl Number Two’.”
“Yes, his respect for me is well known.”
The backs of his knuckles trailed the outside of my arm, and he took my hand in his own. The small gesture infused me with a sense of value. The feeling that I wasn’t merely a drone, but a person—his touch told me he saw me as one. Sudden emotion welled in my throat. I couldn’t speak for a long moment. He played with my fingers, and my forehead fell to his shoulder. When my voice box could vibrate again, I said, “I clean it. The room. I may be Girl Number Two, but I am Feather Duster Number One.”
In a flash, his arms were around me. His intoxicating smell rolled over my senses. “You’re number one to me.” It was his second cheesy pick-up of the night. I always did love anything dripping in dairy. I took his head in my hands and feasted on that luscious, exaggerating mouth.
We fell back against the wall and thumped into the Picasso’s frame. I flew away from it as if prodded by red-hot pokers. “OhmyGod is it okay?”
He straightened the painting. “Yes, don’t worry.” Gently, he took my shoulders and rubbed the tops of my arms. “We did not pulverise Pablo.”
Relief rendered my entire being dizzy. I plopped onto the safety of the bench. “Let’s—”
He stood in front of me, hands on his chiselled hips. “Let’s…?”
“You didn’t come up here to look at a painting, did you?”
That now-familiar smirk flashed. “What if I did?”
“Then this sweater isn’t doing its job.”
“Yes, it is.” He said it low and soft, his voice the timbre of honey. I imagined him whispering dirty somethings into my ear and shivered. “Your sweater is the hardest-working member of the staff here at Steak on a Stick.” Before I could even cobble together a joke from ‘hardest’, ‘member and ‘staff’, he leaned to plant his shoulder in my belly. In a flash, I was tipped caboose over noggin and carried out of the room. He shoved the vault door shut with his foot.
We arrived at the leather sofa. Without ceremony, he dropped me onto it, bottom first. He lowered himself beside me and wordlessly gathered me to him.
My last remaining ounce of good sense fled as I settled into the warm expanse of his lap. My shaking palms splayed against his chest. We’d do it on my boss’s couch, and he’d never call, but oh, Lord, his hands… They ran up my spine, under the sweater, and his full lips brushed my neck, sending a fevered bolt of desire straight down my body. I let my head fall back, and my brain stop questioning. My greedy fingers wove into his wavy, silky hair. Grabbing a handful, I pulled until our lips met with that blazing electricity unique to us. His kiss was why people had lips.
Without releasing my mouth, he deposited me on the couch and twisted on top of me, setting his weight between my legs. At the raw contact, I whimpered and arched against him, one leg hooking over his hip. Fingers teased the back of my knee, then higher. His hand caressed the underside of my ass on the way to slip into my panties. I jumped at the intimate shock. The sound of his helpless little moan made my sex ache.
A blinding, painful light made me squint. “What are you two doing up here?” Walt the security guard, usually friendly, sounded harassed.
Sam rested his forehead against mine. “What does it look like?” he asked irritably.
“Samantha, you shouldn’t be in here after hours.”
“I know, Walt, I’m sorry.” I felt as if I’d been caught by my dad. My lust deflated like an old tyre. I shimmied up to a semi-vertical position. “Can we please keep this between us?”
“You shouldn’t have taken him into the vault. Me and Tommy have been watching you through the windows.” Behind Walt, his young assistant Tommy waved.
No!
“We have to tell Mr Taylor.”
Noooooooooooo!
My head swam. Swam from Sam. Swam from my blood having travelled south in gleeful anticipation of ending a year’s worth of celibacy. Swam from accidentally getting caught making a live porno. I pushed Sam off me and pulled my skirt down.
Walt gave me a comforting smile. After all, we were buddies who chatted about our mutual hatred of the same TV shows. “It’ll be okay. He’s not going to fire you…probably. Are you drunk?”
“Would that make it better?”
“Maybe.”
I squeezed out a breath. “I’m whatever you need me to be for this to go away. I’m sorry. So sorry. Come on, Sam, let’s go.” I took Sam’s hand and slunk from the room, eyes falling to avoid meeting Walt’s gaze and Tommy’s creepy grin. I wanted to explain that I usually did not engage in public lewdness, but I kept my wanton mouth shut.
My desk of pain stood right outside Oliver’s office, so I grabbed my purse and coat while Sam waited in the shadows. I hustled to the elevator and stabbed at the down button. Naturally, it took forever to get there. Three sets of eyes stared at me. I studied the single dent in the elevator doors, perhaps caused by a ruined secretary of Christmas past. Tommy’s rapid breathing rattled in his lungs.
The doors slid open, thank the gods. Sam and I got in.
“I’m sorry. This is all my fault,” he said.
“Yes.”
His eyebrows rose incredulously—he probably had not expected me to agree with him. “In my defence, chaos does seem to follow you everywhere you go. You can’t even eat without creating an office incident.”
“What a charming observation.” The wet spot on my sweater pressed soggily into my skin. Traitor. Perhaps it was the sweater’s fault. “I’m sorry to have ruined your evening.”
The elevator sang and hit bottom. The doors had barely whooshed open when I shot through them. In the lobby, he caught me by the arm and turned me around with gentle firmness. “I never said you ruined my evening. Quite the opposite, actually.” Dropping his hand, he sighed and asked, “Can I call you?” It was the first uncertain sentence he’d said to me all night.
“Sure. Let’s go make out at my mother’s house next.” It wasn’t really fair to blame him, but becoming office gossip—again—would put a girl in a mood. And I might have just lost my crummy,
yet necessary job.
Stalking into the cold, grey Los Angeles rain, I let the sky dribble on my face. Happy freaking holidays. I wondered how this night could get any worse.
One should never wonder that to oneself, FYI.
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About the Author
Lucy Woodhull has always loved le steamy romance. And laughing. And both things at the same time, although that can get awkward. Her motto is: “Laugh and the world laughs with you—cry and you’ll short-circuit your Kindle.” That’s why she writes funny books, because goodness knows we all need to escape the real world once in a while. She believes in red lipstick, equality, and the interrobang. Lucy daydreams in Los Angeles with her husband and a very fat cat who doesn’t like you.
Email: [email protected]
Lucy loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Lucy Woodhull
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