L.A. Caveman

by Christina Crooks

  But when he brought his thick fingers into play she broke down and begged with a ragged edge in her voice.

  Always the gentleman, Jake thought as he entered her partially. Then all thought fled along with his intention to tease her further. He sank into her to the hilt. Hot liquid silk tightened around him and pulsed. He was dimly aware of her loud cries of pleasure as he seemed to rise out of his body. Looking down at her face, distorted with her own release, he slammed back in with a shout as he thrust into her hard, quickly – but not quickly enough to abbreviate the orgasm which went on and on until he nearly passed out.

  He found himself lying next to Stanna whispering endearments in her ear and savoring her satisfied smile. He felt an emotion just as painfully pleasurable as the desire and its release had been.

  "My lover. My sweet, wonderful angel, do you know what you did to me? Do you? You are so beautiful, so damn beautiful, and I'm not just talking about your body though that's beautiful beyond compare…" Jake realized he was babbling. He felt something strangely like gratitude for her condescending to lie with him. He was going to press her dork-alert buttons if he kept this up, and why, for goodness sake, was he still hard as a rock? He should be sexually worthless for the next week at least, with an orgasm like that. But all it took was a quick glance at her and he was ready for more.

  She made a purring contented sound, nuzzling her head against the sensitive skin of his neck. Her warm nose burrowed against his neck gently and her happy sound resonated as a vibrating tickle. The tremendous surge of affection he felt in response stunned him.

  He felt his arm hairs standing up, hypersensitive to the fear he suddenly felt. He wanted to hold this woman in his arms all night. He wanted to make her breakfast. Hell, the domestic fantasies didn't stop there. His heart seemed to stop beating for a moment as he realized he'd like nothing more than to wake up to her every day for the rest of his life.

  Whoa, he thought. Bigtime Hold-The-Presses. Jolene had bewitched him into just those exact thoughts. Was it something innate in him, to relax and trust a woman just because they slept together? Better to be on guard. Better to take it as a nice gift from a sexy woman, this seduction, and not read a lifetime into it.

  Stanna stirred against him, becoming aware of his stillness. She rubbed her palm over his chest inquisitively. "Something wrong?"

  He turned his head and kissed her hair, slowly. His eyes remained open as he thought of how to answer that.

  "No," he said. And truthfully, nothing was. He wanted nothing to change, no more unwieldy emotions creeping in and spoiling his high. And Stanna did make him feel good.

  Too good.

  He stirred uncomfortably. Maybe he'd feel better if she left. That should restore his perspective. But she felt so warm and nice lying by his side.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked. Her hand made smooth little circles on his chest, but her eyes were narrowed slightly and her nostrils the tiniest bit flared. The look of blissful contentment was gone.

  What is it about women, anyway, Jake grumped to himself even as he squirmed uncomfortably. It's like they had some kind of radar for stuff. He just wanted distance. To think about things. Was that too much to ask?

  He realized he couldn't say that, though. What could he say that would buy him some time to figure things out?

  "I have some stuff to do this evening."

  Her look of surprise and disappointment transitioned immediately to anger.

  "A lot of stuff," he revised hopefully, tightening his left arm around her. A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach made him apprehensive.

  She masked her anger with a neutral look, but he'd seen the anger and knew the mask for what it was. "Stanna…" he began. She waited. He continued carefully. "I want to thank you--"

  An exasperated whoosh of air accompanied Stanna rising, reaching for her clothes. He touched her but she shook him off.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I just--"

  "You just wanted to thank me for the sex. You're welcome." She stared at him coldly, then continued to dress.

  "I was not going to thank you for the sex," Jake replied with some exasperation of his own. He took a deep breath. "I… care for you a great deal." Very still, he waited for her reaction.

  "It's good to care for the person you sleep with," she said, her voice heavy and low.

  All his alerts flashed to life, his innate defenses against getting too deeply involved kicking in with a vengeance. "What did you expect!" he asked angrily. Against his will, he hoped she would see through his anger to the core inside him that she'd managed to touch. That part of him wasn't angry, could never be angry at her, and was making him feel sicker and sicker to his stomach at the immediate turn of events.

  In fact, he was going to apologize and admit his bullheaded demeanor was the product of some alien possessing his body. He felt the wry curve of his lips as he opened his mouth to talk. But she beat him to it, and how.

  "I expected better," she said, her delivery cool. Brutally cool.

  Her words knocked the wind out of him. Better? That one drew blood. Better? She'd screamed underneath him in her pleasure, and she expected better? But maybe she had faked it? He felt cold.

  His voice reflected his internal thermostat. "Well, you want better, you go get it, love."

  She flinched. But, "Not a problem," she replied. A flash of worry arrowed through him. Stanna, with someone else? Impossible. But he wouldn't say a word. She wanted better.

  Without another glance at him, she finished dressing and headed out of the bedroom. Scrambling to pull on his own clothes, he heard her calling a cab.

  He emerged as she hung up the phone and stalked past him. Out the door. He heard her heels clicking on the paving stones outside before she flipped the door shut behind her.

  "Damn it!" he raged, resisting the urge to slam his fist against the door. She couldn't walk around by herself to wherever it was she told the cab to meet her. Not in those heels, not in Los Angeles! And especially not after sleeping with him.

  But she wanted better…

  He compromised, opening the door stealthily and slipping out to follow her. She was just turning the corner. He kept low and to the side of the street. He needn't have worried. She never even looked back.

  He watched over her as she waited at the local 7-11. Her shoulders were back and her head high. He felt inexplicably sad when the cab arrived and she folded herself into it, safe and graceful and remote. He felt his lips press together firmly. Anger battled with the sadness, neither winning.

  He shook his head and turned for home.

  The following morning Stanna stood nervously outside Jake's door and smoothed her pretty green jacket. It shouldn't be so nerve-wracking to humble yourself and apologize to someone you cared about, Stanna grumbled to herself.

  But she shouldn't have said it. She’d known better. All men had egos as fragile and delicate as porcelain, and she'd gone and busted his all to pieces because of her damn expectations.

  "’What did you expect?’" he'd shouted. Well, she couldn't very well have told him what she'd expected: his profession of love. But the way he'd looked at her yesterday, and his loving endearments after they’d made love made her nearly sure of it.

  He did love her. The big oaf just didn't realize it yet.

  She knocked.

  No answer. She waited. After a minute, she followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen. She breathed a sigh of relief that her coworkers weren't in there; it was just too unpleasant dealing with their coolness towards her.

  Armed with coffee, she made it back to her seat in time to answer the phone.

  "Stanna, my dear," Ian's voice crooned.

  "Hi Ian. No, I haven't called the media with a statement. Did you call Jake like I suggested?" Why was Ian being so persistent about having her make a statement? Did Men's Weekly mean that much to him, or did he have an ulterior motive?

  "No I haven't contacted Jake, and it's impertinent of you to sug
gest such a thing." It was the first time she'd heard Ian sounding shrewish, irritable. "You need to take matters into your own hands, young lady, if you wish to control your destiny. Or someone else will do it for you."

  "I'm not so sure it's a good idea anymore, Ian. Did you know that sales have doubled since that interview?"

  Ian was silent for a very long time, but Stanna heard his harsh breathing. "Doubled?" he finally repeated. "Doubled? That simply cannot be. You mean they're cut in half!"

  Stanna held the phone away for a moment, looking at it. Then she repeated, "No, Ian, doubled." Carefully she added, "Isn't that good news?"

  The screech that came out of the handset bore no likeness to Ian, the gray-haired elegant patriarch who'd hired her.

  "They can't be doubled! It was ready to collapse, it was beaten on from every direction! You idiot! You're wrong! How can this be?" He was ranting. Stanna just listened in astonishment. This was more than a little surreal. Was she talking to Ian?

  Gradually he got himself under control. "I apologize. I... I must be off my medication. Yes, that's it. Quite." He breathed heavily for another minute and then took his leave. "I'd better go. Please forgive me, dear. Have a lovely day."

  She hung up the phone, staring at it, her thoughts in a tangle. Ian was angry sales were up. Yet he’d said the purpose of issuing a statement was to save the magazine. Something wasn't right.

  More determined than ever to talk to Jake, she returned to his door and knocked.

  Nothing.

  This time she tried the doorknob. It turned, and before she could let second thoughts deter her she entered the office quickly and shut the door behind her, flicking on the light switch.

  She had to hurry. An idea had taken shape after talking to Ian, and she eyed the file cabinet, her suspicion solidifying into near-certainty as events of the past months became clear.

  With Jake gone, she could search for Ian's old files. She knew he'd kept them in the back of the bottom file cabinet, behind the secret partition he'd only told her about. He might not have had the chance to clear them out without observation, since Jake's firing of him was so sudden. She had a pretty good idea of what she'd find there.

  If she were right, she'd be able to more than redeem herself with Jake.

  With no hesitation this time she pulled open the drawer, reaching far back with slender fingers to find the latch. Flipping it, the drawer opened further.

  Bingo.

  She lifted out two thick accordion files, tucked them under her arms. Quickly, shut the drawer firmly, glided to the door and flipped off the light switch. In all it had taken less than a minute.

  She quietly opened the door and stepped out into the empty hallway.

  Pulling the door shut behind her, she adjusted her grip on the files and trotted back to her desk.

  She didn't see Jake's surprised expression turn to bitter cynicism as he rounded the far corner in time to see her leave his office with her arms full.

  Ian sat in his silk bathrobe in his luxuriously appointed den and stared without seeing at the tapestries on the wall.

  His ace in the hole had just disappeared.

  Stanna was his. She was supposed to do what he suggested. What was this rebelliousness of hers, anyhow? Hadn't he hired her, trained her? Hadn't she confessed she wished he were back?

  He hadn't counted on her having any business sense. She was supposed to rely on his. She was supposed to be the key that got him back into his throne room corner office in the sky, complete with its riches.

  He slowly shook his head. He was coming out of the shock she'd given him and was beginning to feel the first twinges of true fear. The feeling took awhile to identify. He hadn't felt fear in decades.

  He was feeling it now.

  The clock was running out on him. When it did they would kill him. It probably would be a spectacularly messy way to die, if he knew his boss and his associates. And he did, oh so well.

  He leapt to his feet, his pulse beating threadily. Suitcases, where were his suitcases?

  Australia. They wouldn't find him in Australia.

  Jake’s voice grated harshly on her ears, and she couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, unless it's sex you want, get out of my office. I don't have time for you."

  She faced him, her complexion heating with the memory as well as with sudden burning shame. She put a lid on it and adopted an indifferent attitude. Tilting her head up to his forbidding face, she said, "Now that you mention it, sex would be nice. As nice as what I came in here to tell you. Nicer, even." She looked around, her eyes lighting on his desk.

  "Yes, very nice. Sex on the desk? You could just bend me over it, lift my skirt. I'm not wearing underwear today."

  Seemingly unable to help himself, he took a step toward her. His eyes flicked hungrily over her body. Then his icy mask clicked into place and he said, "I don't have time for games anymore."

  "You started it."

  He refused to bite. His cold regard faded to irritation. His practiced look of indifference affected her. Why couldn't she affect him anymore? He merely lifted a brow and viewed his watch. Sounding bored, he said, "There's nothing you have I can't get somewhere else. And truthfully, I’d prefer to."

  The force of the insult struck Stanna like a blow.

  But even as he pierced her with his most forbidding look, she couldn't bring herself to feel nothing for him. Didn't he remember how good their bodies felt together? Or the magical night in the hills?

  Did she imagine everything, after all?

  Was the man even capable of an emotion as "womanly" as love?

  She raised her eyes to his aqua ones in mute entreaty. She stepped toward him, her hand lifting with a mind of its own to touch him.

  To prove what he'd just said was a lie.

  She saw a flicker of some deep emotion simmer in his eyes. Pain?

  But he stepped back, folding his arms.

  She found it hard to breathe with the disappointment that rippled through her. Placing the accordion folder gently on his desk, she turned as gracefully as she could and left his office.

  The numbness that encompassed him was like a comforting old friend.

  But as he watched her leave he actually had to grab the edge of his desk and pinch the mahogany beveling to keep himself from going after her. That look on her face... it wasn't possible to fake that kind of emotion, was it?

  Jolene had.

  But Stanna wasn't Jolene, his brain persisted. She was a spunky yet gentle, strong yet incredibly delicate woman who'd won his admiration and respect long before his untimely business trip.

  If he weren't so entrenched in his eternal vigilance against betrayal, he would’ve told her he loved her that afternoon at his house. He knew that now.

  Wasn't it a good thing he hadn't, the cool, numb part of him whispered. She'd sure shown her true colors when she walked out of his house, hadn't she? An uncomfortable tightness in his throat reminded him he'd invited her to leave.

  But then her cooperation with Ian behind his back! Jake should feel relieved.

  Then why did he feel so damn miserable? He pounded his desk with a string of oaths.

  A drive. He needed to go for a drive, alone.

  He headed out, leaving the two thick accordion files behind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Telly gave one last tiny spritz of spray to her spiky locks and stood back to enjoy the effect. Her ankle-length, tastefully gauzy skirt in muted beige tones went well with her cheerfully red-patterned silky Chinese shirt. Classy but adventuresome. Demure yet artistic. She peered at the mirror trying to see herself from a man's perspective.

  Specifically, an art museum-frequenting kind of man.

  Checking her slender gold watch, she grabbed her matching purse and glided out of the apartment. Just enough time to make it to the Getty Art Museum if she hurried. She had a good five hours before her afternoon work shift started.

&nb
sp; She drove.

  Two months, her mind jeered. It had been two months since her campaign to capture her elusive soul mate. She was beginning to believe he didn't exist. Or, perhaps one of her ex boyfriends was The One, and she didn't clue to it in time. Tony, maybe. Sure he was a bit dull and predictable, but he was stable and decent-looking and sometimes gave her orgasms, at least when she closed her eyes and fantasized about others. But maybe she'd missed the boat.

  Surely she'd find dozens of eligible, intelligent, worldly, sensitive men at the Getty. Just because her last few dates were unsavory... her last, let's see... Telly ticked off each finger on her two hands for each one. When she ran out of fingers she gave up.

  She fisted one hand and pounded the black steering wheel in gentle frustration. Then caressed it with the same perfectly manicured hand in apology.

  The guttural rumble of her Mustang's engine gobbling up the miles on the 405 freeway reassured her. At least she had her car. Her beautiful, powerful classic car wouldn't let her down.

  Just then she heard a loud 'pop' and an ominous squeal and unusual putt-putting. A freeway shooting? Then she noticed thick blue-white smoke streaming out from under her hood. Someone in the left lane yelled something while speeding past her, but she was already flicking her turn signal and pulling onto the freeway's breakdown lane.

  Los Angeles traffic zoomed past her without even slowing, the wind making her car rock slightly. She turned off the engine. The horrible squealing sound stopped. Smoke continued to billow out.

  Not knowing what else to do, she crawled over the seat to the passenger side and got out. She raised the hood, turning her head away from the smoke. When it dispersed slightly, she peered in confusion at the engine. It looked all right. No fires anyway.

  She got in again and started the engine but the squeal and renewed smoke made her shut it off again, silently cursing her car, her last mechanic, and her life. It simply could not be worse than this, stranded at the side of a smoggy L.A. freeway on her way to find Mr. Right.