It was years ago, before Rosie’s depression. “I’m pretty sure they’re divorced now, and I believe she’s moved away.” Not that he had the woman’s number. Krista slapped lightly at his hand. “You’re not a good liar, Dad. You don’t have any idea what she’s doing now.”
He did know they’d divorced, but only because Dick, the husband, had come 31
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to Rosie’s funeral. Krista probably didn’t remember. Chase remembered everything, especially the way Dick had avoided his eyes, the way everybody had avoided him. He felt the long, slow spiral grabbing at him, sucking him down. Not now, not in front of Krista.
He turned the stem of his water goblet on the table. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but I have a date next week.”
Krista gave an unladylike snort. “No way.”
“It’s true. Harve set it up for me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh God, Dad, we’re doomed. Harve set you up on a blind date?”
“Harve’s got good taste.”
“He’s a T and A man,” she scoffed.
He glanced around to make sure no one had heard. “I can’t believe you just said that to your own father.”
Her eyes crinkled in a smile, before she turned serious again. “Do you really have a date?”
“Yes, I do.” He forced himself to smile. “But Harve bullied me into it.” And he sure wasn’t telling Krista that it was a date with a hooker. He just wanted to make his little girl happy, to show her he was trying to move on so she didn’t worry so much. She was the most important thing in his life. The only thing that meant anything.
“Do you know her name?”
Damn. Busted. He smiled wryly. “I admit I’ve forgotten it.”
Actually he’d been hoping Harve would forget the whole thing. Now Chase would have to do it. Krista would ask. And be disappointed if he said he hadn’t gone through with the date.
BROCK RANSOM WAS BALD AND WORE GLASSES, BUT HE HAD THE
sweetest smile and told the funniest stories.
“So she asked me what that hundred-thousand-dollar payment to the former CEO was for.” He wasn’t handsome. He was your average Joe, and his nose might have been broken once, yet he held his audience of seven, their attention rapt.
Even Marianna, who’d been an executive assistant for two years—career change number three—was dying for the punch line. Jewel had long since 32
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disappeared and Marianna didn’t even care that she was on her own with her
“date.” Jewel was right: it wasn’t the looks, it was the man. And Brock’s personality more than made up for his lack of Mr. America features.
“I looked her straight in the eye”—Brock gave a dramatic pause—“and said it was a golden shower.”
Marianna’s lips twitched. Brock squeezed her hand.
“She didn’t even crack a smile, just said that must have been some golden shower.” He guffawed, a sound straight from his gut that had heads turning in their direction. The man’s laughter was infectious rather than obnoxious. “It took almost five seconds for me to realize what I’d said. Then I had to retract and say I meant a golden parachute, not a golden shower.”
The man next to Brock snorted out a laugh. “Didn’t you ask her how she knew what a golden shower was?”
Brock smiled, and really, it was the nicest smile. “I thought it best not to embarrass myself further since it was my first week as CFO, and she was the new audit manager.” He raised Marianna’s hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles lightly, and smiled. “If you only knew the number of times I’d stuck my foot in my mouth . . . You just have to learn to laugh at yourself.”
Marianna had never been good at laughing at herself and was always mortified if she made a mistake. She figured, though, that with a boss like Brock Ransom, she just might be able to get over it. He made her laugh too much.
“Your drink is empty, dear. Let’s get a refill.” Pulling her from the crowd they’d become part of, he moved on. He called her “dear” as if she were his daughter, but his gaze assessed and recorded. The man was sharp. He’d guessed she was a little nervous and told her he was proud she’d accepted his invitation. He complimented her and introduced her as if she were someone important. She became someone important because of him. All the while, he touched her, a brush of his fingers at her throat, down her arm, her back. Never out of bounds, just always there. And every time he made her laugh, Marianna got wet.
She didn’t know why.
That was a lie. She knew exactly why. It was his fantasy. The one in his profile. This CFO of a Fortune 500 company wanted to skirt the edge of risky, to get naughty at a party of his peers, where anyone could turn a corner and discover him.
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Perhaps he wanted to be discovered, to become the talk of the event. Brock loved a titillating sexual story. Now he wanted to create one of his own. As he grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, Marianna slipped closer and nipped his earlobe. Just a little bite. Brock froze. Had anyone seen?
Marianna hoped so. That’s what he wanted. It excited her to give it to him. She wanted to step out of her staid world and get naughty. If she was going to get paid for sex, she sure as hell wanted to enjoy it. Brock wasn’t the handsome man of her dreams, but he made her laugh. Looks only went so far, then there was charisma, and Brock had loads of it. Marianna wanted to give him his fantasy, a little naughty play, the titillation of risky business.
He handed her the champagne. “Tell me more about you.”
“I’m a librarian.”
He chuckled. “A naughty librarian.” His chuckles carried, but his voice was low. “Tell me the naughtiest thing my little librarian has ever done.”
Marianna didn’t think Brock would mind if she made up a story. Her skin flushed, images racing through her mind.
“We need to be somewhere a little more private for that.” She stepped back, pulling on his hand, leading him out to the balcony. The long terrace overlooking Van Ness was relatively unpopu lated, but the night being chilly, with fog rolling in off the bay, the management had lit the standing heaters. Taking him to one end, on the other side of a huge potted ficus, she pushed him back against the wall. Resting one hand at his belt, she tucked her fingers just inside his waistband.
The scent of sex surrounded him, and she knew if she touched him, she’d find him hard inside his pants.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his pupils dilating in the dim light. And she spun him a fantasy.
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5
“AT MY FIRST JOB OUT OF COLLEGE, MY HEAD LIBRARIAN WAS A VERY
commanding man, in his fifties, bald, wire-rimmed glasses.” Marianna dropped her voice, just a murmur in Brock’s ear. “He made my panties wet whenever he called me into his office.”
“I bet he called you into his office a lot.” Brock’s rising temperature heated the air around them.
“He did.” She pouted prettily. “No matter how hard I tried to be good, I always did something wrong.”
“Such a bad girl,” Brock played along.
He shifted, she shifted, until she was almost flush against him, just a hairsbreadth separating them. He smelled of spicy aftershave, and his hard cock caressed her low on her belly.
“One day, I was in the fourth-floor stacks finishing up after the closing bell, when I heard steps on the metal stairs.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yes, I was,” she said, wide-eyed. “I knew it was him, and I knew I’d done something wrong. I just didn’t know what.”
“I’m sure he was about to tell you.”
“He said”—she dropped her tone an octave—“‘You’ve been bad.’ And I said,
‘What can I do to make it up to you, sir?’ ”
“What did you want to do?” Brock’s mouth quirked with a knowing smile.<
br />
“Oh, I wanted to do a lot.” She winked.
“Right there in the stacks, you naughty girl.”
“Any of the other employees could have come up the stairs.” She rubbed his chest, pushed aside his tie and slid a finger into his shirt to touch bare skin.
“Anyone,” she whispered.
Brock closed the micron of distance between them, and that was definitely an I’m-happy-to-see-you bulge in his trousers.
“So then I said, ‘I’ll do anything, sir, just don’t fire me.’ ” She enjoyed her story, her nipples tight in her little black dress as she wished she’d had a head librarian of her own.
Brock slid his hand around her waist, his fingers resting on her hip. 35
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“If you take off your glasses, can you still see me?”
He laughed. She glanced to the rest of the terrace to see if anyone heard. No. The few couples braving the chill were busy talking.
“I can see you without them.”
“Take them off. We don’t want them steaming up at a critical moment.”
“Take them off for me.”
His arms came fully around her, holding her at the waist, molding her lower body to his erection. She put his glasses in his suit pocket. He had nice gray eyes without them. Then she spread the lapels of his jacket, enclosing herself in them.
“Cold?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Easier access,” she whispered. His pulse trembled at his throat. “So, where were we? Oh yes, you agreed to do anything the head librarian wanted so he wouldn’t fire you.”
“He told me to turn around and face the shelf. So I braced my hands on the metal. Then I felt his hand on my ass.” She shuddered dramatically. Brock slipped his hands down to cup her butt.
“Then he lifted my short little skirt.”
Brock bunched her dress in his hand and raised it.
“I wasn’t wearing any panties,” she said.
He tested the tops of her thigh-highs with his blunt fingertips, found the edge of her thong. Marianna swallowed. She was warm. She didn’t need the heaters, and instead relished the cool air on her backside.
“Then what did he do?” Brock urged, his gray eyes smoking.
“He leaned in close and told me to spread my legs, then he slipped a finger down to test how wet I was.”
Brock stroked the crease of her ass along her thong. “How wet were you?”
“Drenched,” she whispered, mesmerized by her story, by his touch, by the fact she was letting a virtual stranger stroke her. And she wanted more. “He turned me around.”
“And? And?” He sounded like a member of his audience listening to his funny stories and begging for the next line.
“He put my hand on the front of his pants.” She eased a fraction from him and, never taking her eyes off his, glided her hand down between them, fitting his erection to her palm. His lids dropped to half-mast. A burst of laughter drifted 36
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down the terrace. Neither of them looked. This was what he wanted. Her hand on him when all someone had to do was turn to see.
“He told me to undo his zipper.” She slid down the tongue of his, the rasp of metal seemingly loud, attention-getting. “Then he made me put my hand inside and touch him.” She wrapped one arm around Brock’s shoulders and slipped her hand into his slacks. He’d gone commando, and warm, hard flesh filled her palm. A part of her stood back and couldn’t believe she was doing this. But a bigger part thrilled to the knowledge that she’d made this man so incredibly hard with simply a story and a touch.
“He put his hand over mine and forced me to stroke him.” Just as in her story, Brock covered her hand with his and together they caressed his cock, her fingers wrapped around him.
“I heard someone on the stairs, but he wouldn’t let me go. He pushed me back against the shelf and rocked in my hand. I felt his come on my palm, and I smeared it all over him, making everything slippery.”
Brock swallowed, and his breath puffed. “You naughty, naughty girl.” The glint in his eyes said the naughtier, the better. All the while, she stroked him, tightened her grip, loosened it, caressed him until he was steel in her hand.
“The footsteps came closer and closer, and he whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’ As if he were chanting. My panties were so wet even though I was afraid we’d be caught. Then he groaned.” She squeezed Brock hard in her hand, droplets of come coasting down her fingers. Leaning in, she pressed herself against him. “Then he made a strangled sound and came all over my hand. And those footsteps, closer, closer, closer.”
Brock mumbled incoherently against her throat.
“Then he pulled my hand out of his pants and held my eyes as he said, ‘Lick it all clean.’ And I did, every last drop.”
She gave Brock one last pump, one last squeeze, one last shift of her body against his. His face in her hair, he groaned, and a jet of come filled her palm. He jerked, once, twice, gasped, then held her still against him.
“Je-sus,” he murmured on the next breath, shuddering in aftermath. Then he reached in his pants pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. She wiped her hand on it, then he threw it in the potted plant behind which they’d been hiding, and zipped up. She’d caught him all, without leaving a single stain on his clothing, the only evidence being the handkerchief.
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“My dear, you are a very bad girl.” He smiled, then, her hand in his, stepped from the shelter of the ficus. People dotted the patio, laughter, voices, talking. Anyone could have seen them. Someone probably had. Brock put his arm around her shoulder and hauled her close as they passed a group. “George, Roger, so good to see you here.” A word to a friend, a smile for an acquaintance. “That,” he murmured for her ear alone, “was superlative.”
She hadn’t truly bought into the whole women’s empowerment thing until that moment. But it was power. Her blood pumped with it. He’d come fast, he’d come hard, just from the touch of her hand, her voice, and her imagination. She hadn’t even had an orgasm and it was darn near the best sex of her life. Anyone could have seen, but she’d had him in the palm of her hand, figuratively as well as physically.
“Would you like to dance, Brock? I feel like dancing.”
He held out his arm. “I’d love to.”
Under normal circumstances, she’d have rushed to the ladies’ room to wash her hands. But she didn’t feel the least bit dirty. An hour later, her feet pleasantly tired after several dances, she was slightly tipsy from the champagne she’d drunk. She couldn’t remember when she’d had such a good time at a party, especially not at one of these affairs, which was much more her parents’ speed. Jewel never reappeared, but they’d arranged to make their way home separately anyway. Outside the hotel, Brock handed her into a car he’d called for her. He hadn’t asked her to stay with him, hadn’t tried anything else. Leaning down to kiss her cheek, he pressed an envelope into her hand. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. We’ll have to do this again very soon.”
He closed her door, handed the driver some cash, and signaled him to carry her away.
The car was out of the city before Marianna loosened her grip on the creamcolored envelope. It wasn’t sealed. Easing it open, she stared at the bills inside. Crisp, green, almost new. Her blood pulsed in her ears, and she didn’t know why she’d waited so long to open it. No, dammit, that wasn’t right. She knew why. She was afraid she wasn’t worth as much as Jewel. It was lunacy to compare, but Marianna had been comparing herself to others all her life.
Glancing up to make sure the driver wasn’t watching in his rearview mirror, 38
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she pulled out the bills and fanned them in her lap. Her heart raced. They were all hundreds. She counted like a miser, one, two, three . . . Oh my God. He’d given her three thousand dollars. The thrill that ran through her was almost as potent as an or
gasm. Three thousand dollars for a hand job. It had been so fast. The rest of the time, they’d talked, laughed, mingled, danced. If she measured the actual sex time, she’d gotten one hundred dollars a minute.
“DETAILS, DETAILS.” JEWEL CALLED MARIANNA A LITTLE AFTER TEN the next morning. “How’d it go? I want to make sure you’re fine, okay, not freaking out and all that.”
Marianna sipped her second coffee of the day. “It was okay, and I’m not freaking out.” She actually felt good. Almost giddy. She could pay for the windshield in cash, buy new tires, and fix the radiator.
“What did you do?”
“We danced.”
Jewel huffed over the phone line. “You know what I mean.”
She was actually embarrassed to say. She’d never been one to talk about her sex life with friends, at least not in lurid detail. She was even a little uncomfortable when Jewel got explicit. “It was just teenage stuff.”
“I haven’t been a teenager for so long I don’t remember what that is.”
Marianna puffed out a sigh. “Hand.”
“He did you or you did him?”
She clucked her tongue, feeling her face heat with embarrassment. “It was my hand.”
“Hmm.” Jewel allowed a long pause. “How was it? Not the actual hand thing,”
she said with emphasis, “but the experience?”
“You mean do I want to do it again?”
“I mean was it worth it?”
Ah, Jewel was referring to the money. “More than worth it.”
“Do you want to do it again?”
Oh yeah. She wanted the money. She wanted the power. And next time she wanted the orgasm.
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6
“I MADE YOU A DATE.” HARVE SHOVED A NOTE ACROSS CHASE’S DESK, then sat in the chair opposite.
Chase didn’t pick it up. The thought of entertaining some woman, even if she was paid, carved a hole in the center of his stomach. He could always just tell Krista he’d had a great date.
“You don’t get the option to change your mind,” Harve correctly interpreted.
Yours for the Night Page 4