by Lisa Plumley
Maybe that’s why, when her iPhone rang, she took one look at the absurdly handsome photo of her grinning boss on its screen and felt like drop-kicking the device back to San Diego.
“You want to talk to Damon?” Natasha asked Scott archly.
Like an overeager puppy, he nodded. “Yes! I do!”
“Then here.” She grabbed her iPhone and hurled it at him. It smacked his chest. “Here’s Damon now. Knock yourself out.”
Triumphantly, Natasha swiveled on her heel, then stalked away. Unfortunately, she wasn’t as lucky as Scott had been. Because her grand exit was interrupted by the speedster driving the scooter. Before Natasha knew what was happening, she was on the floor. Dazedly, she raised her head. “Hey! Hit and run!”
The woman tactlessly zoomed toward the next bank of slot machines. A crowd formed as Natasha got awkwardly to her feet. As soon as the onlookers realized she was neither injured nor likely to chase down the scooter driver and exact revenge by assaulting the woman with a bucket of quarters, they lost interest. Chattering and smoking and drinking those foot-long cocktails served in Las Vegas, the bystanders meandered away.
Although Natasha felt embarrassed—and her knee hurt a little—she did realize one saving grace. Scott hadn’t noticed. In the distance, he merely jabbered away. “Natasha?” she heard him say into her phone. “Yeah, she’s right here.” A pause. “No, she gave me her phone.” Another pause. “Me? I’m Scott—”
Natasha stalked nearer. She snatched away her phone.
With relish, she ended the call. “Whoops. I forgot my phone. I guess you’ll have to make a first impression later.”
Scott appeared stricken. His mouth froze in an O shape.
“Oh, wait. I forgot. You only get one chance to make a first impression. I hope you didn’t intend to ever do business with Torrance Chocolates, Scott.” Natasha leaned nearer, making sure he discerned exactly how flattering her first-date dress was. The minute his gaze slipped to her cleavage, she smiled. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? You should never piss off the gatekeeper. And at Torrance Chocolates, I’m the gatekeeper.”
Scott swallowed hard. He seemed taken aback to be hearing such blunt language from her—a usually sunny girl from So Cal.
“I’m … sorry?” he ventured. His gaze wandered to her iPhone. Not surprisingly, it rang again. Damon was persistent that way, especially when he wanted something. “I’m really, really sorry!”
“Too late.” Musingly, Natasha regarded her iPhone. She showed its screen to Scott. “Oh, look. It’s the superstar stud of our industry, calling me.” On behalf of beleaguered personal assistants everywhere, Natasha smiled. Scott’s fingers jerked with a reflexive urge to take her phone. “I’d better get this.”
Then, casually raising the phone to her ear, Natasha sauntered away—and this time, fate was with her. She didn’t even get smacked by a runaway tourist for her trouble. “Hello?”
“Natasha? Thank God you’re there,” Damon said.
Striding through the casino, Natasha made a disgruntled face. Why did her phone calls so often begin with that phrase?
“Yes, I’m right here, as usual,” she said curtly. “I’m the Red Cross of personal peccadilloes. The ‘fixer’ of front-page predicaments. The person who can be counted on for the inside exclusive on the latest business deals and for fresh coffee—”
“Hey. You know I don’t drink that stuff anymore.”
Right. He’d interrupted her rant to obliquely remind her of his illfated marriage to Giada—the same marriage that had wrecked her hopes for a little something personal between them.
Since then, Natasha hadn’t even bothered telling Damon about her divorce. He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t volunteered, partly for fear of seeing their working relationship change because of it. After all, she still had her reputation as Damon’s professional kryptonite to consider. She didn’t think Jimmy Torrance would give her the boot for being single, but …
“Maybe you should.” Drink some coffee, I mean. Buckets and buckets of coffee. “I hear it’s useful for sobering up.”
Damon let that slide. “Who was that with your phone?”
“My date.” She kind of reveled in saying it. “Scott.”
There was a disgruntled silence. “He sounded like a dweeb. You can do better.” A pause. “So, the reason I’m calling is—”
So much for inciting a little curiosity about her personal life. Natasha exhaled. “Look, Damon. I’m busy. I only answered my phone in the first place so I could storm off in a huff.”
Predictably, Damon didn’t ask why she needed a huff.
“—because I need you,” he went on. “I’m in a bit of—”
“Trouble?” she guessed, marching through the thronged casino at double speed. She reached the taxi stand outside, then got in line. “What else is new? Can’t you handle it yourself? I’m tired. The good news is, the taxi line is so long that I’ll probably have time for a nap before I snag a ride, but—”
“I’m in serious trouble. I’m in my suite. I can’t move.”
Natasha scoffed. “You dialed your phone, didn’t you?”
“All right. Fine. Specifically, I can only move my left foot from the ankle down. And my head. A little. The thing is—”
“Does that mean you dialed with your foot? Or your head?”
“It’s not funny!” For the first time, Damon sounded concerned. “You’ll see what I mean when you get here.”
She’d already seen more than enough of him for one day.
“Damon, call someone else. Okay?” Feeling besieged, Natasha moved up in line. “I’m really not up for this tonight.”
“But … there isn’t anyone else,” Damon said in a low, husky tone. “There isn’t anyone, Natasha. There’s only you.”
For the space of a breath, Natasha went still. How many times had she dreamed of hearing him say that? A million? More?
With a tentative smile, Natasha hugged her phone closer, imagining Damon on the other end of the line. She’d been foolish to think she could happily date Scott or anyone else, Natasha realized. Although she’d had her share of short-term affairs since her marriage had ended, none of those relationships had made her want something more. That’s how she’d known she was meant for something bigger and better—something truer.
“Damon.” Touched to realize the risk he was taking with her, Natasha broadened her smile. “Do you really mean that?”
If he did, that was it; she’d be at the hotel in a heartbeat. Even from here, she could see its incandescent, ornate tower of luxurious rooms … one of which contained Damon.
He was waiting there for her.
There’s only you. Only you.
“Yes, I mean that,” Damon told her, sounding endearingly gruff. “You’re the only one with a keycard. Jason left his on the foyer table when he left this morning. It’s got to be you.”
Oh. Deflated, Natasha gripped her phone. The sea of cars and lights and taxis and people turned blurry. Was she actually crying? When was she going to learn she couldn’t count on Damon?
“Listen. Please just come,” Damon urged in a surprisingly (for him) no-nonsense tone. “The air-conditioning is on high, and I think I’m getting a serious case of blue balls.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Why are you being this way?” Damon asked in a genuinely mystified voice. “You know you’re going to come. You always do. If you want me to beg, I’ll beg. It’s that urgent.”
Just like that, Natasha made a long-delayed decision.
“You know what, Damon? I am going to come over there,” she said. “Because I have something important to tell you, and it can’t be said over the phone.”
“You’re really coming?” He sounded hopeful.
“Yes. I’m really coming.”
“Good,” Damon said. “Bring a Snuggie for my testicles.”
Completely against her will, she smiled at that. Such was the power of Damon Torra
nce’s charm. Even ribald humor sounded good coming from him. Everything sounded good coming from him.
“But you’d better brace yourself,” Natasha felt compelled to warn him as she moved a pace farther in the taxi line. “What I have to say to you might come as a big surprise.”
“I can handle it. Just as long as you bring the ball Snuggie,” Damon said. “Maybe a hot toddy, too, if you can swing it. The bar downstairs makes an excellent one.” He sounded immeasurably cheered by her imminent arrival. As always, he trusted her to save the day. “Natasha, you’re a lifesaver. My balls and I thank you. We can’t wait until you get here.”
“I know,” Natasha said, unable to suppress another smile. “I’m on my way.”
And that … was that.
For better or worse, the decision was made.
Chapter 8
In his own defense, Damon did try to prepare Natasha for the sight she’d see when she came around the private foyer corner, strode through his deluxe penthouse suite, and reached the bedroom. Unfortunately, he wasn’t accustomed to being responsible. His version of a warning sounded a lot like …
“Natasha? I’m in here! Hurry up! I’m freezing.”
Her footsteps sounded across the marble floor, barely overriding the nonstop, too-diligent hum of the air conditioner.
With a malevolent glare, Damon eyed the nearest vent. He wished he could cup his groin for warmth. He had goose bumps on top of goose bumps. He was pretty sure his hair had frostbite. After he got out of this, he was sleeping in a sauna tonight.
Natasha’s footsteps slowed, then stopped. Damon imagined her capably sizing up the situation. With Natasha’s reliable nature, take-charge demeanor, and perky nurturing ability, she could handle it, Damon knew. She could handle anything.
“Is that … chocolate I smell?” she asked. “Hot … chocolate?”
Damon sniffed. That delectably sweet, alluring fragrance still hung on the air, so familiar to him and—tonight—so condemning. It wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances.
“Did you host your workshop in here?” Natasha guessed.
He heard her handbag hit the sitting area table. Her iPhone plunked down, too, reminding Damon of the bewildering surprise he’d felt when a strange man had answered Natasha’s phone—and so intimately, too. What the hell gave Scott the right to do that?
He wondered if Natasha was having an affair with him.
Damon didn’t think she was the type to cheat on her marriage vows, but weirder things had happened on business trips. Especially in Las Vegas. The idea felt disconcertingly possible. And disappointing, too. Damon treasured his notion of Natasha’s infallibility. He liked her integrity and her poise. Sometimes, he needed her better qualities to stand in for his.
Tonight was one of those times.
“There’s not much room for a workshop,” Natasha went on in her expert way. “It must have been standing-room only.”
She didn’t know. She hadn’t heard. A sense of overwhelming relief flooded him. Until that moment, Damon hadn’t realized exactly how much he hadn’t wanted Natasha to see him the way everyone else had seen him today: as a gigantic public failure.
The truth was, his varietal chocolate workshop had been a debacle. The B-Man Media footage of Damon—basically having an on-camera meltdown while semi-drunkenly trying to devise an impressive new flavor of truffle on the fly—had already gone viral. It was on the CNN news crawl. It was the talk of the conference. It was fueling rampant schadenfreude in the chocolate industry. Worst of all, the resulting gossip—or maybe just Damon’s incompetence itself—had even made his mother cry!
Damon still couldn’t get over that. His mother had cried. His father had looked tight-lipped and dissatisfied. No matter what Damon had said—for the first time in his life—it hadn’t helped. In fact, the only person who initially hadn’t seemed to find Damon’s colossal screwup reason enough to ridicule, reproach, or simply abandon him was Tamala, the pastry chef—and soon enough, Tamala had shown her true feelings for him, too.
At least she hadn’t brought a crème brûlée blowtorch …
To be sure his one-person reprieve was real, Damon called out warily to Natasha. “You didn’t see the footage online?”
“I told you, I was on a date,” she said. “Remember Scott?”
“Remember being married?” Damon couldn’t help frowning. He was that disillusioned. “What about …” Hell. He couldn’t remember her husband’s name. Pedro? Patrick? Pacey? Pacey sounded right. But no—Pacey was on Dawson’s Creek. Damn it. When it came to Natasha’s husband, Damon had some kind of mental block working against his usually excellent powers of recall. “… your husband?”
Natasha rounded the corner. She saw him. Her eyes widened.
It wasn’t too late to apply some charm. “Um, ta-da!”
“‘Ta-da’?” Arching her brows, Natasha examined him—at length, and once by turning her head to view him upside down.
She sighed. The fact that Natasha had been through a lot with him showed, because she was otherwise completely unfazed by his compromising position. “I don’t think you have any room to judge me with all these probing questions about my husband, Damon.” She pointed at him. “You’re tied up, naked, covered in chocolate, and decorated with strategically placed—” She paused. “What is that, exactly?”
“Nougat. It’s modeled nougat.” Helpfully, Damon aimed his chin at his groin, where Tamala had outfitted him with a makeshift confectionary Speedo. At the time, he’d thought it was strange, but he’d been up for it. Now, he frowned. “You might be surprised to learn that nougat is not as warm as it looks.”
“I see. Anyway,” Natasha said, crossing her arms in a “you’re headed to the principal’s office” fashion, “the point is, you’re hardly being … restrained yourself at the moment.”
“Actually, I’m being quite restrained at the moment.” Damon tugged at the red velvet souvenir scarves that bound him to the bedroom’s chaise. With an exuberance he definitely didn’t feel, he gave Natasha a smile. Maybe he could wriggle his way out of this by joking. “You know, in the ‘tied up’ sense of the word.”
“Right. ‘Tied up.’” Natasha didn’t seem amused.
She also didn’t seem, it occurred to him, very interested in the fact that he was essentially naked. Damon didn’t get it. Women liked seeing him naked. He typically returned the favor.
He knew Natasha had noticed his physique a time or two; he wasn’t blind or oblivious to a certain … underlying sizzle between them. It had been there from the start, from the day they’d met in his office. But she was married. And she was his assistant.
Despite his current predicament, Damon did try to be good sometimes. He always had his philosophies involving Pop-Tarts, kung fu, and not sleeping with married women to fall back on.
Doing anything else—like seducing Natasha into abandoning her wedding vows—would have ultimately made her unhappy. Making Natasha unhappy, on purpose, was where Damon drew the line.
It was a good thing she possessed an oversize quantity of tolerance when it came to his antics, he realized. Because otherwise, he might have found himself making her unhappy a lot.
But Natasha had never given him a single indication that she was bothered by coming to his rescue. She’d always seemed unfailingly patient, tirelessly proficient, and brilliantly ingenious. She’d backed him up time and again. She’d never even revisited her threat to leave him if he took things too far.
But just in case she was toying with the idea …
“So … this isn’t ‘it,’ is it?” Damon asked, just the way he always did. If he hadn’t literally been bound into immobility, he would have given a carefree gesture toward his outrageous position, too. Because even though he desperately needed reassurance from Natasha—tonight more than ever—that didn’t mean he had to tip his hand overtly. He was tougher than that. “This isn’t the thing that finally makes you leave, is it?”
“This …” Dismissi
vely, she gestured at him. “… thing?”
“Yes.” For the first time today, inexplicably, Damon felt ashamed. He’d survived the workshop meltdown. He’d endured the crushing looks from his parents, colleagues, and friends. He’d even managed to swagger his way through his later encounter with Tamala. But seeing Natasha looking at him that way nearly broke his spirit. Defiantly, he eyed her. “Yes, this thing,” Damon said again. Then, just to be excruciatingly clear—because that would make Natasha’s inevitable reassurance twenty times more valuable, and also because the world loved a man who was willing to risk it all on a dare, and he was definitely that man, above all—Damon added, “This thing that involves me being tied up, naked, covered in chocolate, and sporting a nougat thong.”
“Right. I get it.” A pause. “If you had known it was the thing that might make me leave,” Natasha asked, gazing at him through dark and unfathomable eyes, “would you still have done it?”
What a ridiculous question. Of course he wouldn’t have.
Damon tried to chuckle. “Well, it’s not every day a man gets invited to become a real-life, chocolate-covered, finger-painting palette in a naughty game of bondage taste testing.”
Not that the situation had gone down remotely in that way, he knew. Tamala had invited herself in, gotten him all worked up, taken her time seductively painting him all over with bold Cote d’Ivoire and honeyed Carenero Superior, then snapped a few compromising photos with her cell phone and taken herself away.
Apparently, Tamala had wanted retaliation. Or leverage, in case her association with his workshop threatened her job. Damon wasn’t sure exactly what Tamala had wanted. Either way, it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was Natasha … and making sure she forgave him, released him, and maybe even smiled at him.
Preferably, in that order. His unwanted chocolate coating was beginning to harden. Soon he’d be homemade Magic Shell.
“You ought to try a lick,” he joked. “I taste delicious.”
Natasha’s eyes flickered, but still she didn’t move.