The Passionate Mistake

by Amelia Hart

  After a moment of stillness he responded in kind, bending her back so she had to cling to him to keep her balance, his hands hot on her spine and the nape of her neck under her hair. The fire between them rose immediately to flash point, his erection rising to press hard against her stomach and her knees weakening in response. With all her being she longed to melt into it, into him, sink into the darkness of pleasure and never surface to reason.

  When she dragged herself back a few inches she could feel her nipples hardened, the urgency of her own arousal. It was anguish to pull away as her body longed forlornly for its mate.

  “Come back with me,’ he growled. “I can make you feel good. Make you forget. You don’t have to deal with any of it right now. Come with me.” He stepped in close again, reached down and cupped her intimately, taking her by surprise. She gasped as he rubbed her slowly through the thin cotton, lustful and ferociously intent. When he sucked on her lip she gasped and moaned, almost undone.

  “Oh God, I wish I could,” she said, and her voice rang with sincerity. “But it’s the wrong choice and I just can’t.”

  “Why not? There’s nothing wrong about this,” he murmured with faint incredulity, his other hand savoring the curve of her bottom while that slow, maddening grind continued. It was outrageous, here in broad daylight, standing making out on the pavement. She felt fevered and half-crazed with it, with this insane situation and the way his big hands commanded her response, his mouth dropping down to possess hers again.

  If only she could go with it. Surrender to impulse and do what she felt like. It was how she lived her whole life. It made no sense to change now . . .

  But that was exactly it. Living reactively and by impulse had got her into this mess. She had to find a way to be strong; to be different. Not to do the wrong thing yet again, another brick in the wall of this tragedy. She had to stick to her decision; or things were going to get much, much worse.

  “Mike,” she murmured into his hungry mouth. “Mike,” a little stronger, “I have to stop. Please help me stop.”

  Slowly, reluctantly he pulled away, only an inch, to frown down at her in confused frustration. “Explain it to me, Kate. I don’t understand. I want you, you want me. What’s the problem?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said, with no intention of following through; ever.

  His hands tightened for a second and she thought he was going to resume his sensual persuasion. Then his grip loosened, fell away until he was no longer holding her in place. She stepped away, losing the contact with his heat, the hard vitality of him. She was bereft.

  She took another step, and another, spun on her heel and strode the short distance to her car, fumbling blindly with her key fob until she could unlock it and scramble in. She started the car and flung it into gear, peeling away from the curb in almost the same motion.

  She couldn’t resist a final glance at him. Standing motionless, just as she’d left him, his body still slightly curved into the position that had been the corresponding piece to her puzzle, the key in her lock. He looked brooding and intense, the bright sunlight gleaming on his dark hair and throwing his face into shadow as he watched her leave.

  Then she rounded the corner and he was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Twenty-four hours. It felt like her world had tilted its axis in less than that span of time. Yesterday at 4pm she had been smugly preparing to ambush Mike at a party and seduce his socks off.

  Well, mission complete.

  She hadn’t known he would seduce her right back. Seduce her to crawl out of her shell. To surrender some part of the heart she had always considered so well-armored.

  She didn’t care easily for others. There was her family, and exactly two friends who were in her circle of trust. That was it, for a lifetime of encounters with people.

  How had he done it? The fiend!

  This was absolutely, totally and completely screwed up.

  Monumentally screwed up.

  There was no way to fix it. She had shot herself in the foot. Worse: shot herself in the heart.

  She thought of never seeing Mike again, and cried. Curled into a little miserable ball and remembered the way he had touched her, relived every short minute, every hour, and wailed in despair that she wouldn’t have it again.

  So unbelievably, incurably stupid.

  He had shot her in the heart. And he didn’t even know he’d done it. Probably thought he’d had a rather good one night stand with a strangely intense hottie who then got weird and took off. Not that he’d mind seeing her again. No, he’d made that clear enough; blissfully unaware of what a lucky escape he’d had.

  From a total headcase nutjob woman who had planned to steal intellectual property from his company, then had fallen for him. Who had examined her actions as any right-minded individual would only after she’d committed herself to all that idiocy.

  No matter how many good intentions she might have about living better in the future, she’d ruined the one future she really cared to have at this moment: one that included Mike Summers in some form.

  She was miserable and tearful all the rest of Saturday; howled and cried buckets; moped and went through tissues until every rubbish bin in her apartment was mounded with white, a glut of emotion that made her feel ill on top of her misery.

  On Sunday at noon she stopped crying and sat in the middle of her bed, thinking furiously, weighing options.

  Finally she marched round the corner to the nearest pharmacy and bought a second box of semi-permanent mousy-brown hair dye. She picked out a shapeless, dull outfit and laid it out across her unmade bed.

  Then she dyed her hair and comb-dried it dead straight and lifeless, with the fringe hanging down into her eyes. Put her fake eyeglasses on the table by the door, next to her handbag, where she’d see them in the morning.

  Set her alarm clock.

  Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she stuck out her tongue. So fine, this was stupid. And pointless. What on earth could she possibly hope to achieve? Nothing, right? Right. She was only prolonging the misery.

  She was an idiot.

  So fine. One day, maybe two days of perving on Mike. Three at the most. Easing herself away rather than going cold turkey.

  Yeah, she was an idiot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At work she sneaked in as unobtrusively as possible, feeling like someone was bound to take one look at her and shout: “Thief!” or “Seducer!” But as usual people barely looked up. To them she was just grumpy, morose Cathy. The Platform Division were a little more upbeat, but their nods and smiles didn’t make a huge impact. She slid into her desk chair with a sigh, then prepared herself for the next mental challenge.

  Would he recognize her this time?

  Part of her hoped he would. Hoped he recognize her and shout out in delight that the bright young thing he’d hired was also that sexy lady with whom he’d spent such a lovely time this past weekend. Hooray!

  But the rest of her – the realistic, sensible part – cringed at the thought of discovery and prayed he’d go on treating her as always.

  He was in his office. She could see him if she scooted her chair a little sideways and then leaned right back in it as if she was stretching, giving her a view around the edge of her monitors. Or no, wait. If she shifted these two over by a couple of inches it left a gap through which she could peer while apparently deeply absorbed.

  She switched on her computer and tried to work; which really meant she gazed at a mostly blank screen for half an hour, trying not to stare through the gap at him and failing. When he got up and came into the hallway she held her breath and as he walked towards the Platform Division’s offices – bypassing the lifts – she started to hyperventilate.

  He stuck his head in the door, flashed her a smile and said, “Morning, Cathy,” already turning his head away before she could respond.

  Her: “Good morning,” was quiet and anti-climactic.

  “Morning, Hamish,”
he said to the head of the Platform Division who had a desk close by. “I’m just about to meet with the team working on the Rosscommon account. Would you mind sitting in on that one? Sorry about the short notice but I’ve only just read through the agenda and it looks like they’ll be needing you as well as me.”

  “Sure thing,” said Hamish, getting up from his chair like the good disciple he was, and trailing in Mike’s wake as the two of them went towards the lift. She watched Mike’s perfect behind grow smaller as he strode energetically down the corridor and felt such a wave of helpless lust and longing and . . . sorrow it stunned her.

  It didn’t matter that he had no idea he had made love with the woman behind this desk two days ago, held her hand, kissed her tenderly and passionately. It didn’t matter he had no way of knowing it was she. She knew it. She knew it and wanted to claim him, to affirm that bond, to know it had meant something to him too. Or rather, to know it had meant the same to him.

  It was ridiculous of her. Ridiculous and nonsensical. She didn’t need anyone else to tell her that. To tell her she was just a miserable, pulsating ball of illogical needs that were never going to be satisfied.

  She was perfectly clear on the subject. She ducked her head so it was mostly hidden behind her screens, and typed nonsense non-stop, waiting for the pain within her to ease so she could make at least some attempt to do real work today.

  She ate lunch at her desk, hungrier for any sight of him than she was for fresh air. He came and went through the day, as was his wont; the captain of his ship, roaming about looking for anywhere he could lend a hand to his shipmates.

  He didn’t check in on her of course. Days ago she’d made it clear she worked best without close supervision – had snapped at him when he interrupted her in the middle of a search and she was afraid he would come around to look over her shoulder – and he respected that, gave her space without any sign of anger. Now when she longed for an excuse to talk about something, she had nothing. Certainly she wasn’t capable of concentrating on making some brilliant breakthrough she could show off proudly.

  By the end of the day she had a headache, and sneaked out the instant she knew it was past five. She’d do better tomorrow. Be a better worker. Be a better person. Be . . . better.

  The next day was much the same. The difference was small: Mike’s mood. His usual cheer was diminished. Twice she saw him standing in the atrium, staring sightlessly down at his employees hurrying back and forth below him, a frown on his face. He walked, rather than strode about energetically. He walked past her without seeing her.

  She wished she had the right to ask if something was troubling him; to fix the problem, if there was one.

  She did get a whole hour and a little more of his time. Not all to herself. The design team were there, and she was the focus. Which under normal circumstances would have been nothing too intimidating. But with him watching her, and setting her the task of showing the designers the pseudo-scrapbooked scheduling tools, the whole situation had her revved up.

  She wanted to impress him; wanted to be flawless for him. But teaching people, waiting for them to grasp new concepts, was not her forte. She had to go over the new capabilities three times before she was certain the six men and women all got it, and while the spontaneous brainstorming showed a gratifying eagerness, the really basic questions grated on her nerves. These people worked in a software company, for God’s sake. They should know what software was capable of doing or not doing, without needing her to specify it precisely.

  “Look, I can probably get it to do pretty much whatever you want it to do, so long as Mike doesn’t mind footing the bill for my time. So yes, layers, and opacity control sliders, and inserting photos straight from the user’s albums, is all possible. Are those concrete requests? Because if they are, I’ll start making notes.”

  “Gosh, you are so clever! This is such a good idea. How did you-“

  “I’m real glad you like it. Now, I have to get on. I’ve got lots of stuff to do.” It was a mystery to her why Mike’s praise could satisfy her, but the same sort of thing from anyone else left her uncomfortable. “How about you guys get together and nail down exactly what you want, then send me your requests. By email. That way we don’t have to have lots of meetings that waste everyone’s time.”

  Before she could slip out, Mike flagged her to wait a moment, came over and leaned in close enough that she could smell the subtle, delicious scent of him, mostly soap and a little bit him. She gazed up at him, feeling dazed by proximity, and found his eyebrows raised in enquiry.

  “Sorry, did you say something?” she asked stupidly.

  “’All good?’ I asked. Are you all good with the process? No issues with where we’re headed with your idea?”

  “Are we headed somewhere? Didn’t look like too much progress to me. But yeah, it should all be fine by the time they finally get it finished. No sweat.”

  “So I can leave you in charge of checking in to make sure the design team really understand what they’re doing?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”

  “Great. Keep me updated with any other inspirations. And like I said, great work.” He gave her a comradely pat on the upper arm and went back to his seat by the table.

  Very laid back, that slap. Very casual. Brotherly, almost. Was it her imagination, or did he seem distracted today? His eyes were unfocused, looking through the design team and not really at them, as he had done for her. It was like he was on autopilot.

  Could it be, could it possibly be the influence of the scarlet temptress he had met that past weekend? She considered it carefully, trying to weigh up the probability dispassionately. After all, it was an awfully tiny clue to build upon. It could be nothing. He might have indigestion, or be running mental spreadsheets in his head, solving other problems simultaneously.

  But she wanted it to be her. She wanted him to be preoccupied because he hadn’t heard from her in three days now. He didn’t have her phone number. If she didn’t call he had no way to contact her. Was he wondering why she hadn’t called?

  She hoped he was desperate for her call; which was cruel, since she had no plans of making it. But she wanted to be remembered, thought of and longed for.

  She slid into her desk chair and smiled a tiny smile as she considered that possibility. Without really thinking about it she opened her email address. The Techdos one – Kate’s email – carefully accessed so there was no connection with this office, and brought up a new draft, which she addressed to him.

  She wanted to tease him. She wanted to make him squirm, sexually. Give him a thrill. That was the impulse behind this moment. But that would be seriously unwise. She could send a note of thanks, couldn’t she? That wasn’t too servile, was it? Or was it?

  No, she shouldn’t send anything.

  She spent an hour writing it, laboring intensely and unnaturally over the stilted and almost formal sentences. It was so hard to find the words to say how she felt. Not when there was no way she could bring herself to say, “You rocked my world,” true and dreadfully trite though it might be. Rocked down to its foundations, so she was struggling to rebuild. Or even be coherent, let alone write in her true voice, as Kate.

  As soon as the short email was finished she deleted it. Contacting him again was no part of the plan. Imagining she might was just an aberration. She wouldn’t waste time like that again.

  Okay, so she was shaky right now; She kept forgetting her goal was to gently wean herself off him. It was hard to remember. It was so counterintuitive to wean herself off something, off someone , who felt so good to be with. But she could do it. She could focus and do it. It was all a matter of good mental self-discipline. She had a firm hold on herself now. Tomorrow she’d do even better.

  Wednesday afternoon she rewrote it and sent it. And instantly, instantly regretted it.

  Hi Mike,

  Thanks for your company this past weekend. I had fun at the jazz festival. It was a great idea. In fact I had f
un

  all the time I spent with you. I’m glad we met.

  All the best

  Kate.

  She considered hacking into his email and deleting it.

  Yet he might have seen it already. He was at his computer. Maybe he was reading it right now. She agonized for twenty minutes.

  She’d sent it from her own work email – the one at her family company – so her tracks were covered. But nothing had changed since Saturday. He was still going to hate her when he found out what had gone on.

  Then his response hit her work email. It sat there waiting to be read, the next step down a road she must not travel. She must be strong and delete that letter unread. No matter he might be disappointed if she never responded. She mustn’t compound her own foolish mistake by reading what he had written.

  She caught her breath. Held it. Double-clicked to open the letter.

  ‘Hi Sunshine,

  How’s your workday going? Did you solve that problem that had you worried? We have the usual organized chaos humming along here. No fires to fight today. I’m superfluous. Fancy catching up for lunch?

  Mike’

  She sat and tried to calm her breathing for five minutes. Tried to think about keeping herself safe from further pain and protecting Mike’s memory of her as a . . . well, however he had mentally filed his experience with her. She tried minimizing the window of her email, then closing it altogether. She tried to return to her mediocre work of the day, but she couldn’t take in what she saw on the screen. Her mind went straight back to framing up answers. Friendly, chatty answers. Salacious and seductive answers.

  Finally she reopened her email and hit ‘reply’. Then she wrote back: