Too Many Bosses

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Too Many Bosses Page 23

by Jan Freed


  “Laura, think. It’s the danger, the whiskey. I don’t want to take advan—”

  She stopped his protests with her mouth. Take advantage of her? She almost laughed. But the taste of him, the texture of his lips and teeth and tongue was so glorious she moaned, instead. It was a long drugging moment before she realized he wasn’t participating.

  Laura drew away to study him. They were both breathing hard. His mouth might be passive, but his eyes could have smelted ore. Reassured, she reached up and clasped his cheeks.

  “Don’t think. Feel,” she ordered, pulling him down to her lips.

  Her hands worked two buttons loose on his shirt and burrowed through the crisp hair on his chest. She squirmed against the ridge in his lap and nipped and laved and teased his lips until she thought she would die if he didn’t kiss her back. He twisted his head and broke the connection.

  “Laura, stop,” he pleaded, his voice and expression tortured. His chest rose and fell like ocean swells. “This isn’t what you want. I can’t give you what you want.”

  “Then give me what I need.”

  Running her palms down his ribs, she hit his belt, pulled his shirt free and fumbled with his buckle. At the first tug of his zipper, Alec groaned.

  The next instant she was lifted, turned and dropped on her back against the couch. He followed her down and pressed her into the cushions from chest to toe.

  Dazed, Laura reached up and stroked his jaw. “No strings. No regrets. I promise.”

  His eyes darkened. “You’ll regret it,” he predicted in bleak tones. Then his mouth slanted hungrily over hers, making up in spades for his earlier lack of participation.

  If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget how this man made her feel. He didn’t want the words, so she told him with her body.

  I love your hair, said her fingers, caressing the curls at his nape. I love your strength, said her palm, gliding over contoured muscles in shoulders and arms. I love your kisses, said her lips, softening beneath his devouring mouth.

  He lifted his head a fraction.

  “I love you, Alec,” said her heart, bursting with emotion. Only when he pressed two fingers against her lips did she realize she’d spoken aloud.

  “Don’t talk. Feel,” he ordered, lowering his mouth once again.

  It was as if he’d been playing and had decided only now to get serious. His tongue twined, meshed and explored with succulent greed. One hand found her breast and kneaded gently, the other plucked the remaining pins from her hair and plunged deep.

  She forgot Jack Brewster, forgot her aches, forgot her very name. The only things existing were Alec and the sensations vibrating her body like a plucked harp. The throbbing below her belly begged for appeasement. Her pelvis tipped up and pressed.

  Alec caught his breath, then sat up, pulling her with him. He unbuttoned his shirt with sharp jerky movements and shrugged it off. Stripping off his belt, he sent it sailing across the room like an airborne snake. He yanked off his shoes, then peeled down pants, underwear and socks in one movement to stand unabashedly naked in front of her.

  She couldn’t help him remove her clothes. She was too entranced with the sight of powerful legs, broad chest and muscular arms. And of course, that other part of him. The part that jutted and pulsed and elicited an empty ache between her thighs in response.

  Careful of her bruises, he pressed her gently back down against the cushions, a sacrificial lamb at the altar. The shock of her bare skin against soft leather widened her eyes. The shock of his hot mouth on her nipple closed them.

  With hands and lips and tongue he worshiped her, leaving no part of her body untouched. She trembled beneath his tender homage. Her body twisted, her moans grew more tormented. She fisted her hands in his hair and tugged, beseeching him to join her. “Alec, please.”

  Suddenly he lunged up, warm and solid and heavy. She parted her legs and gasped at his single powerful thrust. Quivering, she watched his taut beautiful face as he struggled to give her time to adjust. But her body had been well prepared and demanded satisfaction. Now.

  She ground against him until he threw his head back and growled. When finally he looked down, his gaze mesmerized, dominated, glittered with primal possession.

  “Hold on,” he warned.

  The ride was wild and rough and incomparably thrilling. It carried her up and up and up until the sweet agony had her clawing at his back. Just when she thought the climb would destroy her, Alec reached between their bodies and found the hub of her femininity. One flick, two, and she careened over the edge in a whirling exhilarating fall that made her cry out in wonder.

  Alec followed, groaning his pleasure into her throat as he convulsed within her body.

  Laura lay silent, waiting for her heartbeat to slow and reality to return. She wanted...she wanted a lifetime of such moments. She wanted more than he could give her. Alec had been right about that.

  But he’d been dead wrong about the other.

  Never in a thousand lifetimes would she regret what had just happened between them.

  * * *

  ALEC FLIPPED ON the track lighting and watched the Hayes and McDonald Advertising logo light up. If anything, the sight gave him more pleasure now than during those first heady weeks of opening the business. Funny how a logo without the name “Hayes” would seem strange now, when not so long ago it would have thrilled him.

  Jason nudged through the doorway. Alec caught his shoulder as he slipped past. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To the art room. I’m gonna draw.”

  “You know the rules. Everything is to be put back exactly like you found it. And no touching anything you don’t have permission to play with.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hiding a smile at the boy’s angelic expression, Alec released Jason’s shoulder and watched him race off down the hallway. Having free run of the place would keep him occupied on this rainy Sunday while Alec caught up on billing.

  Moving to the reception desk, he sorted through a thick stack of mail and messages. One would think he’d taken a week off, instead of only Friday afternoon. Not that he regretted his action. Nothing had been more important than preventing Jack Brewster from getting off completely free this time. Alec had spent hours with his lawyer making damn sure the bastard didn’t. Laura had no idea, of course. She’d just been thankful Jack was behind bars.

  Justice was closing in on another scumbag, too, Alec suspected. He’d had an interesting conversation with an old colleague at Harris, Bates and Whitman Advertising. It seemed once the initial Golden Door Hotels campaign broke, Tom Marsh hadn’t produced a single idea the client liked. The industry had a way of culling the has-beens with cruel efficiency. Stealing Laura’s concepts had only postponed Tom’s downfall.

  Alec returned the pink message slips to their proper slot and tucked the mail under his arm. Unable to resist the pull a moment longer, he glanced at the couch. Of the dozen thoughts twisting in his mind, one steadied and held constant.

  He was in love with his partner. And he wanted her to stay.

  Heading for his office, Alec paused in the art-room doorway. Jason looked up from the drafting table. One hand clutched a fistful of colored markers, the other rested on a small layout pad.

  “Hi, Dad.” His smile was as welcoming as if hours had passed, instead of just minutes.

  Thank you, God, for giving me Jason. “Hi, son. What are you drawing?”

  “A card for Laura, so she’ll feel better.” Jason had seen the bruise on Laura’s face and been told she’d fallen down. “You think she’d like a real card better, Dad? I can’t draw as good as the store.”

  Alec cleared the huskiness from his throat. “No. She’ll like it more if you make it yourself,” he promised, warmed by the truth of his words.

  “Good, ‘cause this is gonna be my best heart ever.”

  The boy bent over the table once more, chewing his lip in concentration, absorbed in his task of love. With a
bittersweet smile, Alec walked on to his office.

  A large brown envelope propped against the back of his executive chair snagged his attention. Unease prickled his spine. He approached the chair slowly, dropped his mail on the desk and picked up the envelope.

  His name sloped in longhand across the front. He would know Laura’s elegant handwriting anywhere. With increasing dread, he sat down, opened the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  Centered on the first page was the title “Advertising Campaign, Regency Hotels Final Revisions.” The next ten pages were filled with notes on refinements to earlier print and broadcast advertisements, as well as promotional tie-in opportunities for the new campaign developed two weeks ago.

  She’d spent a considerable amount of time finalizing these details. But why?

  Suddenly nauseous, he flipped to the last sheet, a document of some sort, and scanned the page. Unbelieving, he reread the middle paragraph:

  “In order to effectuate an orderly dissolution, my client is prepared to relinquish any and all claims or interest in the Partnership assets and future income, provided you will agree to hold her harmless from all outstanding liabilities...

  The legalese blurred together as one fact became clear. Laura wanted to dissolve the partnership! She was prepared, in fact, to hand it over without compensation. The letter slipped from his fingers.

  Not work with Laura? Not see her laugh, hear her sass, share her love of life?

  According to her lawyer, Alec had ten days to respond to the letter of intent. But surely she wouldn’t end things so impersonally?

  Grabbing the large brown envelope, he turned it upside down and shook. Sure enough, a small note fluttered out. As he picked up the scrap of paper, a subtle fragrance wafted from its milled fibers. He breathed in the familiar scent of lavender and squeezed his eyes closed. He didn’t want to read this. Didn’t want to confirm his worst fear. Only the lure of her handwriting overcame his cowardice.

  Dear Alec,

  I hope you’ll find these notes helpful in finalizing details of the Regency campaign. For obvious reasons, I think it’s best we dissolve the partnership before our private-contract term has expired. Sam has agreed to continue using your services with no revisions to the original agency/client agreement. (He doesn’t like it, but he’ll do it.)

  At the last minute, I was simply not brave enough to tell Jason goodbye personally. Please tell him I love him and will be in touch soon.

  At this point, the stationery grew puckered and the ink smeared, as if something wet had spattered on the paper. Alec looked away, swallowed several times, then brought the note closer.

  You’re a good father, Alec. Always believe that. Jason’s a very lucky boy. I know I can trust you to explain my leaving so he’ll understand.

  Best wishes for the success of McDonald Advertising. You deserve it.

  Love, Laura

  P.S. I don’t regret a thing.

  Alec stared blindly at the note resting on one thigh. He was so damn tired. Tired of the constant struggle not to feel. When he’d made an agreement with a hotheaded spitfire to form a temporary partnership, he’d never expected to ache so at the actual separation. But then, he hadn’t known—really known—Laura at the time.

  Outside, the summer storm raged. The darkened windowpane wept a steady stream of raindrops.

  * * *

  LAURA HALVED three ham sandwiches with a butcher knife, added a pickle to each plate and carried them to the chipped formica table. After two weeks at her father’s home, the routine was depressingly familiar. So much had happened to her in the past three months. Yet nothing had changed in this old kitchen since the day she’d left for college.

  There hung the same blue gingham curtains, faded and in need of a thorough washing. There sat the same ancient gas-burning stove that had given her fits on winter mornings. Even the same clunky refrigerator, one of the first models General Electric had ever manufactured, still hummed valiantly in the corner. Everything was just as it had always been. Dull, dull, dull.

  She lifted the hair off her nape and noted its heaviness. She needed a shape-up cut. But finding a stylist in Luling or Gonzales who possessed Marilyn’s skill would be next to impossible. Why bother? Who cared?

  Letting her hair drop, Laura grimaced as the strands clung to her sticky neck. Of all the modern conveniences, she missed air-conditioning the most. Although the house boasted two window units, one in her father’s bedroom and another in the small living room, she knew the electric bills they generated were steep. The last thing she wanted was to cost her father more money now that she was home.

  Footsteps on the back porch alerted her to the men’s arrival. The screen door twanged open, and suddenly the kitchen shrank to miniscule proportions. She clenched her hands against a wave of claustrophobia.

  “Hi, honey. Don’t you look pretty.” Grant Hayes swept off his sweat-stained hat, tossed it onto the refrigerator and bussed her on the cheek.

  Laura forced a weak smile for her father, pleased to see more color in his face. Even with the weight he’d lost, he was a strikingly attractive man.

  Whereas Laura and Scott had inherited their mother’s golden eyes, their father possessed irises as green as spring leaves. His lean face might have weathered and his mahogany hair silvered, but in Laura’s opinion, the changes only enhanced his rugged appeal. As tall as Scott, her father had also been as strong as a bull until his recent heart attack.

  “Sit down and quit buttering me up. I already fixed your lunch. And you—” Laura nodded to her grimy brother “—wash your hands and get the milk.”

  When the men were seated, she turned to Scott. “How’s the east pasture? Still holding on?” A movement flashed in her peripheral vision. “Dad,” she warned sternly, “you know you’re supposed to cut back on sodium.”

  Caught in midair, Grant threw her an exasperated look and thwacked the saltshaker down.

  To Scott’s credit, only his eyes smiled. “If we don’t get a good rain in the next week, we’ll have to burn cactus for the cattle. But after that gives out...” His voice trailed off, leaving no doubt about the dire consequences. The current drought made the ranch’s bleak outlook even more dismal.

  Laura noticed her father’s pinched face and diverted the conversation to safer subjects. As both men wolfed down their sandwiches, she chatted between desultory bites about the vegetable garden reviving under her care, the new curtains she wanted to hang, the roast she’d thawed for dinner. Ignoring Scott’s odd expression, she concentrated on her father. He seemed pleased, but tired. If he kept pushing himself this way, he’d wind up back in the hospital.

  Crossing her arms, she steeled her voice. “Okay, Dad. You know what the doctor said. I want you to go stretch out on the bed for a few minutes and relax.”

  A mutinous scowl darkened Grant’s face. “Damnation, Laura, I’ve managed to muddle through the last seven years without your help. Quit treating me like a child.”

  The heart she’d thought incapable of feeling proved her wrong.

  Grant exhaled through his teeth and turned away. When he met her eyes again, his own were contrite. “Aw, hell, sweetheart, I’m sorry. This bum ticker’s making me mean as a rattler. You know I’m tickled as can be you’re home...don’t you?”

  I thought so.

  “It’s just that I want you to know I can take care of myself, if you ever decide to leave.” He glanced at Scott, and something passed between the two men. Fingering the saltshaker, he twirled the glass bottom on the table and frowned.

  If Laura hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn her father was embarrassed.

  “After the heart attack, a lot of things fell into perspective for me. I...I was wrong to hope you’d follow in your mama’s footsteps, Laura. This ranch was our dream, not yours. She would have encouraged you to follow your own heart. It took courage for you to strike out on your own, and I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished. Fact is, I always have been.” The saltsha
ker wobbled and stilled. His imploring green gaze held her motionless. “Can you forgive me, honey?”

  The invincible Grant Hayes looked...vulnerable.

  Overwhelmed by her shifting perceptions, unable to speak past her amazement and tender triumph, she nodded.

  Relief flooded Grant’s face. Scraping back his chair, he rose and grinned. “Think I’ll take that nap now. I have a feeling I’ll sleep like a baby.” At the kitchen door, he turned. “Confession is mighty good for the soul, Laura. Any time you want to try it, I’ll be glad to listen.”

  Laura stared at the empty doorway until she heard his bedroom door shut. Shaking her head, she got up and reached for the empty plates.

  “Just a minute, runt,” Scott said, grabbing her wrist.

  Laura’s stomach lurched. “I’ve got a million things to do. Can’t this wait?”

  He snorted. “‘Fraid not, chicken. I’ve kept quiet since the day I drove home the blubbering wreck who used to be my tough little sister. You’ve had two weeks to pull yourself together. Now sit your fanny down and talk.” He pulled downward until she had to either sink to the chair or fracture her wrist.

  She sat. “Some woman is going to bring you to your knees one day, Scott Hayes, and when she does, I’ll send her a dozen long-stemmed roses.” Laura rubbed her wrist and glared at the handsome lout sprawled beside her.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t hold your breath. And don’t change the subject.” His penetrating gaze pinned her to the chair. “Just what’s with all this Donna Reed crap, anyway? You always hated domestic stuff before.”

  Laura lifted her chin. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

  “Yes, you have,” he agreed, his deep voice gentle. “You’ve become a woman, Laura. A woman who deserves her own life and her own home. Dad doesn’t want you to sacrifice that for us, no matter what you might think.”

  She reached out and scooted a pickle round and round her plate. When it collided with the uneaten half of her sandwich, she looked up. “When things got bad for H & H Cattle Company, I made a promise to myself that if I couldn’t send money home, I would at least help out by sharing the workload. I love this ranch just as much as you do, Scott.” The sentiment sounded halfhearted, even to her own ears. With a defiant surge of energy, she pushed back her chair, carried the dishes to the sink and wrapped her sandwich in foil. Twisting the water tap, she attacked the chipped blue plates with a soapy rag.

 

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