FrankenDom

by Rotham, Robin L.

  “Hi,” she said with a seductive smile, dropping the lipstick into her purse.

  He grinned back. “Isn’t this your floor?”

  “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

  “Honey, this is definitely your floor.” Barrett let his smile grow hard and hers disappeared at once.

  “I was just leaving,” she said as she swept by.

  She didn’t look back but strutted directly through the front door to a waiting cab. Barrett rolled his eyes at the cloud in her wake. Nothing said working girl like a shitty Giorgio knockoff, and hell if she didn’t smell like she’d just bathed in the stuff—right after she humped the Chiefs’ starting lineup. Hopefully some punk would be kind enough to put a bullet in him before he got that desperate for sex.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Barrett focused on the front desk. The spit-shined coed behind the counter wore a pleasant smile, but she watched him with wary eyes. He didn’t blame her. His monogram wasn’t BIG for nothing, and he probably looked like he was sizing up the joint for a robbery. The girl’s stock went up a couple more points when he realized her finger was poised over the alarm button.

  “I’m Barrett George.”

  Her eyes flickered over his clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t recognize the— I mean, we expected you at…”

  Pink bloomed in her cheeks and he grinned. “No problem—I’m used to it. So, no Friday casual around here, huh?”

  “No, sir.” She reached for the phone. “The rest of the staff is up in Summerhall F. I’ll call up there and—”

  “Thanks, but I’ll head up and introduce myself in a minute.” He ambled over and rested an elbow on the desk’s cool, polished surface. Checking out her nametag, he said, “So Amanda, did you see the lady who just left?”

  “Hand-me-down suit, loud purse, slutty shoes?”

  He stifled a smile. There was nothing wrong with her powers of observation.

  “That would be the one,” he said. “Is she here a lot?”

  She bit her lip. “Define a lot.”

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  “Never mind. Any word on Alderton?” At her mute headshake, he straightened and touched his fingers to his brow in a small salute. “Carry on.”

  Since his knee was stiff from the long drive, he bypassed the elevators and headed up the curving staircase, wondering what other nasty little surprises awaited him. That rumble in his stomach was turning to a burn, so he pulled a roll of antacids from his pocket and peeled off a couple, grimacing as he chewed them up. He liked wintergreen, but all they’d had at the convenience store this morning was fruit-flavored.

  At the top of the stairs, Barrett hung a left into the conference wing and headed down the hall. Voices drifted from the open door to Summerhall F, so he slowed his approach to get a preview of the conversation.

  “I don’t know how long he’s going to be here,” a whiskey-smooth female voice declared. “All they said is that Mr. George will be the interim GM while a new management team is assembled.”

  That had to be the hotel’s accountant, Jillian Fox. He took a covert look around the door frame and nearly purred in appreciation. A redhead, his favorite flavor. She leaned against a table at the front of the room, her posture patently defensive. Though her short-sleeved shirt was buttoned almost to her throat, her crossed arms framed a promising abundance of feminine flesh, and her trim calves stretched a long way between the conservative hem of her business skirt and a pair of low-heeled pumps.

  Tall, stacked, and a redhead—shit, it was like he’d phoned in his order ahead of time. Too bad they were working together. Maybe after he’d wrapped up this case, he’d spend a night or two unwrapping her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, new management team?” a man asked. The asshole tone raised Barrett’s hackles, but he couldn’t get a look at the speaker without revealing his presence. “What the hell’s the matter with the old management team?”

  Jillian’s eyes bugged as she threw her hands up. “What management team, Darwin? Our general manager’s been AWOL for almost a week now and we haven’t had an assistant manager in over three months.”

  Ah, Darwin Patton. His was one of the files that had caught Barrett’s attention.

  “Hey, money lady, don’t get all snooty on me. We have a tight team right here and this place is running just fine without some corporate fancy-pants sticking his nose into things.” After a few murmurs of agreement, he continued, “Why’d you have to go and call them, anyway? We’ll probably all be out on the street looking for another job once this new team shows up.”

  “Gee, I don’t know—maybe because the pay period ends next week and there’s no one in-house to sign our checks?”

  “You could have signed them.”

  Barrett’s brows went up. Hell of a suggestion from the security chief.

  “The last time I checked, forgery was against the law, Darwin, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like you’d be—”

  “Drop it, Darwin.”

  There was a little grumbling and then someone said, “Miss Fox?”

  “Yes, Berta?”

  “Can you tell us anything about Mr. George?”

  Barrett was tempted to step in, but he made himself wait. Jillian Fox had handled the security twit without any help and he was reasonably sure she wouldn’t blow his cover. Besides, he wanted to hear what she had to say about him.

  * * * * *

  Jillian shook her head at Berta’s question. “I’ve never met the man.”

  “But have you heard anything?” Mike asked.

  Actually, she’d heard from one of the executive secretaries in Kansas City that the hotshot investigator they were sending down had a reputation for being a hard-core player, but she wasn’t inclined to pass on that bit of news, especially at a staff meeting. And since Barrett George apparently wanted to play secret agent man, she even had to keep the fact that he was a hotshot investigator to herself.

  It really was lonely at the top.

  “Not a word,” she said flatly. “I assume the executive suite is ready, Berta?”

  “Sorry I’m late,” came a deep baritone from the door.

  Jillian jumped to her feet, silently cursing the heat that rushed to her cheeks. A mountainous man in horn-rimmed glasses and a polo shirt was strolling toward her, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. Good Lord, Abby had said he was tall, but she hadn’t mentioned he was built like a linebacker. She’d expected more of a low-rent James Bond, but obviously her concept of a hard-core player needed updating.

  Maybe Abby had meant to say hard-core football player—the guy had definitely been eating his Wheaties.

  But no, she’d said specifically, and with obvious relish, that he was a breast man, a detail that had taken some of the shine off Jillian’s excitement at finally getting a little help down here. She’d been tearing her hair out for weeks and the last thing she needed was some corporate Lothario talking to her chest for an indefinite period. Her mother had always been flattered when good-looking guys couldn’t drag their eyes from her cleavage long enough to notice she had a brain, but nothing turned Jillian off faster.

  Except maybe being spied on. How long had he been out in the hall listening to them talk?

  Swallowing, she forced a smile. “Mr. George, I presume?”

  “Live and in person.” His disarming grin was no doubt designed to put everyone at ease, but it made her wish she’d worn her blazer. “You must be Jillian Fox.”

  He pulled a sun-browned hand from the pocket of his khakis and offered it to her. Fighting the urge to wipe her damp palm on her skirt first, she shook it firmly.

  Unbelievably, his bright green gaze remained firmly focused on her face. She’d totally psyched herself up to ignore a subtle but insulting inspection of her figure and hide her distaste for the man behind a plastic smile. The fact that he seemed more interested in deciphering her express
ion threw her off big-time, and she lowered her gaze to his square chin in self-defense.

  It was stubbly. Either he hadn’t shaved today or he was one of those guys who had to do it twice a day. The masculine shadow went halfway down his thick neck, and below, a smattering of dark hair sprouted in the open collar of his shirt. The way the hunter-green cotton hugged his wide shoulders and round biceps left no doubt that he was in very good—

  Her eyes widened as they jerked back up to his. Oh hell. She’d been checking him out, and the amusement sparkling in his eyes said he’d definitely noticed.

  Talking while she ground her teeth wasn’t easy, but she pulled it off. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Call me Barrett.”

  I don’t think so.

  Jillian straightened her spine and pulled her fingers free of his, reaching immediately for the bulky ring of keys on the table.

  “Tag—you’re it.” She dropped them into his hand and headed for the rear of the conference room. She could feel his gaze boring into her back, and though she’d been walking successfully for nearly thirty years, she became excruciatingly aware of her gait. Trying to minimize the sway of her hips, she slipped into a glide step, only to realize it didn’t work nearly as well in pumps as it had in her marching shoes.

  Crap! This was just one more reason why she’d never even considered entering a pageant. The minute she was the center of attention, things that she usually did by rote—things like walking and breathing—suddenly took intense concentration.

  Just walk, for God’s sake—it’s not that hard!

  Since most of the aisle seats were occupied, it took an eternity to reach a vacant row. She slipped into a chair at the back and put her hands together in her lap to still their trembling while she tried to get her breathing under control. What in the world was wrong with her? He was just a man. A womanizer. She had no business letting him affect her this way. After all, she had another date tomorrow night with Paul Danner, the doctor of her dreams. She should be concentrating on letting him affect her this way.

  “Pretty quiet around here today,” Mr. George commented. He stood right where she left him, both hands in his pockets once more.

  Mike held up a hand. “Michael Greeley, sales. We’ve got two large groups checking in after six.”

  “Guess I’d better make this quick, then—thanks, Michael.”

  He flashed a toothpaste-commercial smile and Jillian’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to fix Paul’s kind, patient face in her mind’s eye and was dismayed to realize she couldn’t quite recall it.

  “Hi, I’m Barrett George,” he continued. “I’m a Scorpio, I’ve got a degree from Notre Dame, and my turn-ons are contact sports, horror novels, and imported beer. My pet peeves are square pizza, round ice cubes, and telemarketers who think my name is George Barrett. I’ve been with MGB for almost five years now and I look forward to getting to know all of you. Any questions?”

  There were a few muted giggles and snorts, but no one said anything.

  “Moving on. Has anyone heard anything from Arlen Alderton?”

  Jillian didn’t expect any affirmative responses but glanced around anyway. Everyone looked studiously ignorant.

  “All right, then is anyone having any problems that I need to address immediately?”

  After all the crap Darwin had given her, she’d expected him to jump right in with a list of grievances, but he just sat there trying to look cagey.

  “In that case, I’ll just make a few comments and turn all of you except the department heads loose.” He jingled whatever was in his pockets and then strolled across the front of the room, scanning the crowd as he talked. “First, I looked around on my way in and the hotel seems to be in great shape. Corporate will appreciate hearing that the mice kept right on working while the cat was away, and I mean appreciate in a way you can spend, come next payday.”

  “I can live with that.” Phil’s comment provoked a chorus of laughing agreements.

  “Second, in order to make the transition as smooth as possible, I’m going to try and get things squared away here before the new management team arrives. To that end, I’ll be making inspections and doing spot audits and interviews, in addition to the day-to-day stuff.”

  “So what kind of time frame are we looking at, Mr. George?” At the raised brow, Phil hurried to add, “Sorry, Phil Breton, F&B manager. I guess what I’m really asking is if any of us should be…considering other employment options.”

  “Definitely not, Phil—and I’d like everyone to call me Barrett. The Tower was already understaffed before Alderton jumped ship, so you really need the three managers they’re sending down.”

  He held up a hand and the relieved hum of chatter ceased instantly.

  “Last, at least for now, I’m going to put a brainstorm box in each of the employee locker rooms and ask you to stuff them full of ideas and concerns—if there’s something you’d like me to know but don’t feel comfortable talking about, put it there. Don’t worry about how far-out an idea is or that I’ll try to compare handwriting or use some new-fangled CSI gadget to track you down—I just want a little good old-fashioned honesty and ingenuity to spark some positive changes around here.”

  Jillian blinked. For an investigator posing as interim GM, the man was awfully proactive. And he certainly knew how to project an air of authority. Project, hell—he radiated authority. She’d seen his type before—he was a man who’d accomplish his goals, no matter what the cost, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  There was absolutely no reason why the idea should make her bones vibrate. He didn’t appear to have set his amorous sights on her, and even if he did, she she’d never had any trouble saying no and making it stick.

  “If no one else has any questions,” he concluded, “everyone but department heads can take off.”

  Their gazes collided across the crowded meeting room and she sucked in a breath.

  So why did she suddenly feel like taking every bit of her vacation time?

  Available Now!

  Carnal Harvest - Robin L. Rotham

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  Copyright 2009

  Chapter One

  Dude, how would you like to fuck my wife?

  Hake Stivers grimaced as he pushed open the storm door and stepped onto the porch. Nah, that was a little too in-your-face. Besides, at thirty-eight, he wasn’t young enough, blond enough, or cool enough to be calling his cousin dude.

  Maybe, So Brent, do you think Mandy’s sexy?

  He rolled his eyes. What was Brent supposed to say to that? The guy was damned if he thought she was and damned if he didn’t.

  Yanking the bill of his seed cap down to shield his eyes against the late morning sun, Hake looked out over the yard. The winds had already stripped most of the pale yellow leaves from the towering maples his dad had planted before he was born, and if the forecast was to be believed, the rest probably wouldn’t make it through the weekend. Come tomorrow afternoon, a big chunk of South Dakota would be under a high-wind warning.

  The drone of the air compressor told him Brent was in the machine shed, powering the dirt and chaff off the combine. He could also hear Joe coming up the gravel drive with the semi. The line at the co-op must not have been too long, for a change. There were only a dozen or so rounds of corn left to harvest last night when the guys packed it in, and if the co-op had been open later, they could have finished up then instead of this morning.

  God damn it, this all felt so wrong. Here it was, the last day of harvest, and he hadn’t even set foot in the combine, much less done any harvesting. It was a first for Hake, and one he wasn’t happy about. His dad had taken him for his first ride in the combine when he was barely a year old, and he’d never missed a harvest since. And he hadn’t missed a year of actually working during harvest since he was ten.

  This year, thanks to his own stupidity, he’d been about as useful as tits on a boar. Why couldn’t he have rolled the four-wheeler afte
r harvest? The broken pelvis and shattered femur would still have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, as would the medical bills, and Mandy would still have had to help out with chores, but at least Hake would have gotten to reap what he’d sown instead of paying his cousin’s custom farming outfit to do it.

  His sigh sent a cloud of steam into the air. Why this year, when grain prices had finally surged high enough that he might have made a decent profit for once? Instead of getting ahead a little, they were probably going to show a loss again, and it was all he could do not to scream his frustration at the heavens.

  Of course, Mandy would tell him—had told him, more than once—to be thankful that the accident had happened this year, when they had the extra money to handle it. She’d also pointed out he should be grateful it wasn’t his reckless, idiotic neck that got broken.

  Knowing she was right didn’t make his situation suck any less.

  A gust of wind made him shiver. Damn, he should have worn a heavier coat. When had it gotten so cold?

  He zipped his jacket up to the collar, then gripped the icy handrail and thumped down the concrete steps. At the bottom, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and set out across the yard at a slow limp. Mandy would bitch at him if she caught him coming out without the cane, but he was sick of it. He was sick of being laid up and sick of doctors who didn’t know their asses from their elbows, and he was really damn sick of hospitals that charged five dollars for a goddamn Tylenol.

  Most of all, he was sick of not being able to fuck his wife like he wanted to. Like she needed him to.

  The roar of the semi coming around the side of the house brought Jess tearing out of the shed. The yellow lab veered off course when he saw Hake, bounding over to lick his hand. His excited whimpers laid another load of guilt on Hake’s heart. Poor dog spent too much time alone lately. Well, as alone as he could be with a barn full of cats to chase.