“And I believe we should…” she began but he stopped walking and she did as well.
“I need you to make a reservation for two at Luigi’s for eight p.m.,” he told her. “And send an arrangement of gardenias to 601 Haley Drive.”
She quickly one-finger typed the instructions into her ever-present iPad. “To whom should I send the flowers?”
“No need for a name,” he snapped.
“And the card? How should it read?”
“I’m a jerk.”
She nodded as though that was a given. “Anything else?”
“Tell the guy at Luigi’s I want a private table and to chill a couple of bottles of the best plum wine he can find.”
“Plum wine,” she repeated as though he’d ordered her to have them chill a bottle of castor oil.
“Just do it without the eye rolling and lip pursing,” he grumbled. “Is there anything else I need to ignore before I shut myself up in my office?”
“The new head of PR?” she questioned. “You are to meet with her today to go over the—”
“I’ve got a new head of PR?” he snapped.
“Tatyana Sakova,” she replied. “Jamey hired her when Barrett retired a few weeks ago. She’s been here since last Friday.”
“Why the fuck didn’t he tell me?” he demanded.
“Well, you’ve been a bit preoccupied of late,” she said in an accusatory tone. “Perhaps he did and you ignored him as you do me.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Watch it, Spike,” he said, calling her by the nickname he’d given her when they were children in New Zealand.
“You asked,” she said. “I answered. You want me to lie to you, be good enough to warn me in advance and I will deliver the appropriate mistruth.”
It annoyed him that she grinned at his snort.
“When am I supposed to meet this woman?” he asked, pinching his nose between his thumb and middle finger. He had another headache brewing.
“At ten,” she answered.
“And what time is it now?”
“Five minutes to ten.”
He whipped his head toward her. “And you’re just now telling me this?”
“It’s on your calendar,” she reminded him.
“You know goddamn well I never look at that fucking calendar!” he barked. “I’m paying you a ridiculous amount of money for you to do it for me!”
She just smiled at him and that irritated him even more.
“Why am I meeting with her?”
“She wanted to pay her respects to his majesty,” she said. “Kiss your ring or your arse if your prefer. Blow you if you’re in the mood for—”
“Knock it off! Where is she now?”
“Waiting in your office.”
“Fuck, Christine!” he exploded. “And you would have let me walk in there with no warning?”
“No,” she said. “I believe I just reminded you that you were to be meeting with—”
“Just shut the hell up and get me some ginger ale,” he grumbled.
“Your wish is my command, oh high one!”
“Fuck you.”
“Right back at you, boss,” she said as she walked away.
He went right down the corridor toward his office and she turned left heading for the break room on the executive floor of his ten-story high-rise office complex. Furious at having to deal with a stranger when he was out of sorts to begin with and courting another migraine, he marched right past the woman in question and entered his office, slamming the door behind him.
“Fuck!” he groused as he slammed himself into his chair. “I don’t need this shit today!”
There was a knock on his door and he ignored it. Christine wouldn’t bother to knock so the one on the other side of the portal had to be the woman he had little interest in meeting. The knock came again—a bit louder this time—and he clenched his teeth.
“Come in!” he shouted.
The door opened and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen came through it. Her burnished-copper hair was arranged artfully, her complexion flawless, her lips as red as ripe cherries. She moved like a ballerina with grace and poise and her long legs went all the way up to a tight, well-shaped ass. She was tall and buxom and the deep green dress she wore clung to her like plastic wrap.
“Mr. McGregor?” she inquired, extending a slender, very pale hand. “I am Tatyana Sakova, your new head of public relations.”
He rose, took her hand—finding it cool and as soft as silk—and was surprised at the strong grip that met his. “Miss Sakova,” he greeted her. He didn’t like it that her grip tightened as he made to pull his hand from hers. He felt himself frowning as he told her to sit.
“I have been looking forward to meeting you,” she said, fluttering her ridiculously long and thick eyelashes. Her accent was sultry, intentionally sexy and her eyes bore into his like pale green lasers. “You have quite the reputation.”
He knew women. He especially knew when one was flirting with him. This one was doing more than flirting. She was anticipating his reaction to her, counting on it, and that aggravated him. He ignored the blatant come-on and leaned back in his chair.
“What did you want to see me about, Miss Sakova?” he asked.
“Please call me Irisha,” she said. “That is my nickname.”
“Miss Sakova,” he said with deliberate emphasis on the Miss, “I am very busy today. If you’d get to the reason you wanted to meet with me, I would greatly appreciate it.”
He watched some of the self-assurance slip from her smiling face and the green eyes turn a bit frosty. Obviously she had expected him to quickly fall under her spell and was not pleased that he showed no signs of doing so. He almost laughed when she slowly licked her lips. It was a not so subtle invitation he had no intention of RSVPing.
“I thought perhaps we could go over some of the plans I have for—”
“Any plans you have should be run first through my personal assistant Christine Bowker. She will report back to me what those plans are and if I agree with them, I will inform her and she in turn will inform you,” he said. “That’s the way it works around here.”
She blinked, clearly surprised at his reaction. “Everything goes through her?” At his nod, her mouth tightened. “I was hoping we could work closely together.”
“Well, that’s up to you and Christine how closely you two work together,” he said, grasping what she was inferring but deliberately misinterpreting it.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I meant you and me. The two of us working closely together.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he said.
Spike came in with a can of ginger ale and a glass. She cut her eyes to the Ukrainian woman sitting in front of her boss’s desk but didn’t speak to her. She placed the can and glass on the desk then asked him if he needed anything else.
“No,” he said. “I believe Miss Sakova was just leaving.” When she didn’t rise from the chair, he arched a brow. “Is there something else you wish to discuss? If so, I’m sure Christine will be happy to listen, won’t you, Christine?”
Spike pursed her lips. “Of course, Mr. McGregor. I’m always available for listening.”
“Miss Sakova?” he pressed. “Do you need to go over something with Miss Bowker?”
The beautifully made-up face of the Ukrainian woman froze. The pretty green eyes took on a brittle glint. She rose to her feet, smoothed down the front of her dress—palms lingering over her crotch then sliding over her hips—before she leveled a hard glower directly at him.
“No, Mr. McGregor, I think not.”
“Then close the door on the way out, would you?”
He saw Christine flick a triumphant smirk toward the woman and knew his instincts about the new PR head were spot on. Spike was a good judge of character and he knew it wouldn’t be too many weeks before she found a way to get rid of the redhead.
For the first time in two years she called in sick. The cramps
were whipping her ass and she was curled up in her bed, burrowed beneath the covers while she waited for the Midol to kick in.
The house was quiet. Her neighbors had gone to work, their children to school. No dogs were barking. No birds were singing in the oak tree beside her window. It wasn’t garbage day so there would be no loud racket to interrupt her so she began to drift into that semi-awake state—helped along by the med.
She’d been thinking about him—as she found herself doing more and more often—so it was natural that he would show up flitting across her mind’s eye as she succumbed to the delicious pull of sleep.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Racing along the beach, sand flew from the hooves of the stalwart black stallion. Mane rippling in the breeze, neck rhythmically extending and retracting, the destrier carried them effortlessly past the undulating ocean and the waves breaking close by. The scent of saltwater was sharp, its tang tickling the nose. Overhead, seagulls soared on the thermals and a lone albatross dipped its wings in greeting. The summer sun beat down with just the right intensity as white clouds skidded haphazardly through the sky.
She rode with her cheek pressed to his broad back. Her arms were clasped around his waist, her thighs rubbing against his as the fluid gallop of the horse slid them forward and back. Beneath the tricorne, his dark hair curled at the nape of his strong neck. He had one hand expertly controlling the reins of the thundering horse and the other clasped at his navel over hers. The scent of him—cinnamon and some other dark spice—was in her nostrils and the feel of his body against hers sent fingers of need crawling over her.
They were running from the law, she and her highwayman lover. The rapier buckled to his left leg glinted in the sunlight. The pistol stuck into the waistband of his buff-colored breeches was part of his stock and trade. In the brisk wind, the ruffles of his white silk shirt fluttered. Left behind at the tavern had been his long-tailed embroidered coat, his silk waistcoat, and her lace shawl—all their belongings in fact. They had barely made it out the window of their rented bedchamber and to the barn to fetch his mount before the Redcoats stormed the tavern with muskets primed.
He was her beloved Syn, her lover, her master in the arts of sensual pleasure, and the most wanted man in England. If they caught him it would be the noose for him unless his wealthy father could intervene. In that case, it would be Botany Bay for the dark sheep of the McGregor clan.
The skirt of her burgundy velvet gown whipped along the stallion’s flanks. There had been no time to don stockings and her legs and feet were bare. Syn had swung her behind him and raced out of the stable as shots rang out and wood splintered in their wake.
“Hold tight, milady!” he had shouted as he jumped the black brute over a low stone wall and set it to galloping over the heather-dotted meadow.
Now he was reining in his mount, the Redcoats far enough behind they could take shelter, hide until the danger was past.
He swung his long leg over the horse’s head—the dusty black leather of his knee-high boot grazing the thick mane—and slid gracefully to the ground. Turning, he held his hands up to her and she went easily into those powerful arms. Holding her above him, he gave her a devilish grin that made her insides turn to mush then let her body slide slowly—enticingly—down his hard length. Arms wound tightly around her, he brought her to him, slanted his mouth over hers and thrust his tongue firmly between her lips.
The sound of pounding hoofbeats brought his head up and he reached down to take her hand. He smacked the stallion smartly on the rump then tugging her behind him, he ran for the protection of a high dune. They were barely hidden before the Redcoats galloped past, chasing after the high-spirited mount that was rapidly outdistancing the troop.
“Close call,” he said.
“What will we do without a horse?” she asked.
“Raven will be back,” he said. “He’ll lead them a merry chase then circle back around. I’ve trained him well. All we needs do is wait, milady.” He lay down on the heated sand with her hand still firmly in his and splayed her palm against his thudding chest.
“You are a reckless brigand, Synjyn McGregor,” she accused.
“That I am, wench,” he agreed. “That I am.”
He pulled her down to him—her body covering his—and took possession of her mouth once more with a fiery kiss that made her toes tingle. His expertise with that endeavor underscored the reputation he had for being a devil-may-care rogue for whom the ladies stood in line to be led astray. When he turned her over so she lay beneath his enticing weight, she knew her chastity was soon to be a thing of the past.
Her man was aptly named for he was as sinful a rogue as had ever walked the moors.
The hard, thick swell of him pressing between her legs as he shifted hers apart with his knee brought a moan to her lips. His hand was on the bodice of her gown, pulling it down, uncovering her camisole. He lowered his head and caught the gauzy fabric between his teeth, capturing her nipple as he did.
“Syn, nay!” she cried out and would have thrown her arms around him had he not imprisoned her hands in his to hold them to either side of her head.
“Lina, aye!” he whispered against her breast.
He ground the steel of his shaft against her and tugged at her nipple. She saw stars in the bright blue sky over her as he suckled her as a babe would its mother. He released one of her hands to use his to cup her breast to better position it for his attention. He kneaded her flesh and she groaned, thrashing her head from side to side on the sand. His hand slid down her side, her hip, her thigh. So entranced with what his hand and lips were doing, she barely felt the glide of her skirt as he inched it up her leg until she felt the hot beach breeze wafting over her.
A harsh gasp exploded from her throat as his hand brushed across the opening of her pantaloons. She bucked beneath him and his teeth clenched tighter on her nipple to still her. She went rigid then for his fingers had found the opening and delved inside. The touch of fingertips along the most private part of her tore a cry from her very depths.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She bolted up from the mattress with her hands snagged in the fabric of the coverlet. She shuddered for it had seemed so real. She could almost feel the heat of him lying atop her, the scent of him surrounding her. Her heart was racing and her lower body was so heavy with desire she wanted to cry.
She looked at the calendar hanging on the wall above the little makeshift desk in the corner of the room. It had only been eleven days since she’d begun this devil’s bargain with the demon himself. There were nineteen more days ahead of her and only the gods knew how many nights of longing, throbbing and needing he intended to put her through.
With a loud moan, she fell back on the bed, turned to her side and—clutching her pillow to her aching breasts—buried her face against the softness.
Her heart was doing a funny little squeezing thing. She was beginning to realize she desperately wanted the Kiwi.
For more than the nineteen days that were left.
The migraine had never materialized but he was miserable nevertheless. He’d spent the last five hours of his workday staring out the window—getting nothing done, dodging calls, ignoring emails. Playing hooky.
He kept glancing at the clock like an antsy adolescent waiting for the end of the school day. The time moved in slow increments that had him gnashing his teeth. He wanted to be out of his office, on his bike and roaring home to change for the evening he had planned for his lady.
His lady, he thought and that brought a smile to his lips. He was beginning to think of her in that way. What had started out as a drunken bet nine years earlier between him, Jono, and Craigie that he could find a woman willing to give up her virginity for a million dollars was fast becoming the most exciting adventure he’d ever undertaken. It was more thrilling than running with the bulls in Pamplona, racing in Monte Carlo, cliff diving in Acapulco, or diving the blue holes of the Bahamas. It was proving to be more rousing than the African photography sa
fari the three had gone on five years earlier. Wilder than shooting the whitewater rapids on the Deschutes River in Oregon a year after that. It was more breathtaking than bungee jumping one thousand and fify-three feet down off the Royal Gorge Suspension Bridge over the Arkansas River three years before. The invigorating experience of hang gliding in Interlaken, Switzerland two years ago on his thirty-fifth birthday couldn’t compare. Not even the adrenaline pumping, death-defying run down the seven-thousand-feet vertical drop down the ski run at La Grave, France in 2012 could hold a candle to the stimulation he felt while waiting for Melina to appear each night.
And though his time with Melina wasn’t dangerous as his other pursuits had been, it was far more awe inspiring and three times as exhilarating. He felt more a man with her in a dark office room than on the summit of the most dangerous mountain.
Spike poked her head in. “You need anything before I leave for the day?” she asked. “Strychnine-laced coffee, arsenic-sprinkled cookies or a Fer-de-Lance to stuff in your pants?”
“Fuck you very much but no,” he said with a nasty grin that would cower anyone other than the four people who knew him best.
“Then I’m outta here,” she said.
“Hey!” he called out. “Did you make the reservation at Luigi’s?”
She gave him one of her patented go-to-hell looks.
“Did you send the flowers?”
She flipped him the bird in answer and disappeared through the door.
“I’m gonna fire your disrespectful ass, Spike!” he yelled after her.
It was a hollow threat and she knew it. She was one of the Fab Five, a dear and loyal friend. She’d been with him since the very beginning of his tenure at the head of McGregor Industries. He had a feeling she would be the fierce gatekeeper of his kingdom for as long as the two of them drew breath.
30DaystoSyn Page 13