He preferred serious, intellectual women, and Marisa struck him as neither serious nor particularly intellectual. She’d already been caught breaking several of his new rules, including the one against workplace relationships, which showed him exactly how seriously she took her job. Which was not at all.
She was irritating.
Irritating. Yes. But you weren’t thinking irritating just a moment ago.
No, just a moment ago she’d felt soft in his arms. The curves of her body fitting his in a way…
Luke forced the thoughts out of his head.
Attraction to Marisa Clair was not only highly inappropriate, it was also extremely unwelcome. He’d been dancing with her only because Joseph had asked him to. Because it was expected at a wedding.
Dancing was the very last thing he wanted to do, anyway. He loathed it. The only way he could manage was to count the beat so he wouldn’t stand on her feet. The problem was that once he started, he had to finish.
Not finishing offended every single one of his compulsions.
Luke started after her, following her lush green-clad figure as she dodged the other couples, heading back toward the head table to sit with the rest of the wedding party.
She’d gotten there by the time he caught up, and was picking up a glass of champagne and taking a good, healthy sip.
He stopped right behind her. “Why did you do that?” he demanded.
She muttered a curse, paused, then turned around. Wide, lapis-blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes stared up into his. Those lashes fluttered. Her full red mouth turned up in a smile that could only be termed seductive. “Do what?”
Luke didn’t respond to blatant sexual overtures from women. Flirting was, in his opinion, a pointless exercise. If you wanted sex you found someone who wanted it, too, and then you went to bed. You didn’t spend hours circling around the subject or talking about it endlessly.
He frowned. “Do what? You put lipstick on my collar.” He didn’t look down. He could almost feel the stain ruining the clean whiteness of his shirt. It was slightly off-center too, which made the whole thing immeasurably worse. Looking down would make him have to go home and change it. And then he’d have an even tougher dilemma—complete the dance first or change?
“Oh yeah.” She leaned back in the chair. “So I did.”
The music was winding down and soon the song would be at an end. The dance would be unfinished.
Dammit, he couldn’t leave anything unfinished. He stepped forward, reached for her, tugged her back into his arms.
Marisa’s hands pushed against his chest, her body stiff. “Hey, stop it.”
People were beginning to cast glances in their direction. Joseph, whirling around with Christie, raised an eyebrow at him from the dance floor. God, now they were attracting attention, exactly what he didn’t want. “We have to finish the dance,” he growled. “For Christie and Joseph’s sake, at least.”
She flashed a quick look toward the dance floor, her mouth tightening at the sight of the happy couple staring pointedly back, then she muttered another curse. Her seductive manner had dropped. Now she looked as pissed off as he was. “You promise you’ll leave me alone?”
“Gladly.” Yes, he wouldn’t be able to get away fast enough.
For the next minute, they danced grimly and silently beside the table, while he tried not to notice that the silk of her back had warmed up underneath his palm. And that she smelled like…musk and spices. An earthy scent. One that he shouldn’t like, but did all the same.
She also had a way of moving that he couldn’t ignore. Liquid and graceful, especially in comparison to him.
He didn’t want to look at her, not with that red stain on his collar, but he couldn’t help himself. Her hair wasn’t plain old gold, it was a mixture of tawny and gilt, with darker undertones of caramel and toffee. She had one hand on his chest, her fingers curled into her palm. She was a lot shorter than he was.
It made him feel…odd.
“Stop looking at me,” she said, her gaze fixed on his chest.
Irritation wound through him. How aggravating to be caught staring like a teenage boy. Especially at a woman he had no interest in.
“How do you know I’m looking at you?”
“Because I can feel it. It’s annoying. Just get on with your damn counting.” She lifted her lashes, a flash of blue peeping from underneath them. “Or do you want another lipstick mark on your collar?”
The weirdest urge gripped him to lean down and kiss her. Silence that smart red mouth of hers. Disturb her the way she’d disturbed him.
He wasn’t a man who gave in to random impulses. Control was of paramount importance—especially control over the demands of his OCD. Yet this urge was almost as irresistible as the ones that had him living life by a strict schedule.
Marisa’s eyes widened, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Hey, you’re not—”
He didn’t know what possessed him. She was an employee and that should have rendered her immediately off-limits. His rules against workplace relationships were there for a reason. Rules maintained order and order was important.
Perhaps it was the one beer he’d allowed himself. Perhaps it was the red stain burning a hole in his shirt. Perhaps it was because he was angry with her.
Or maybe it was because he wanted to see what would happen.
But for an instant, his precious control slipped and he bent his head, brushing her mouth with his.
Lightning. Sparks like a match being struck. The leap of static electricity. Intense and sudden and burning. Desire, sharp as the snap of a whip, flickered through him.
He’d never experienced anything like it.
He dropped her, the pair of them springing apart like repelling magnets.
“Holy shit,” Marisa whispered. She stared at him, one hand to her mouth. A hand that was trembling.
He knew the feeling. The effects of the kiss resounded through him, bouncing off the walls like sonar, mapping the interior of him. Spreading the vibrations of it through his whole body, tuning him.
“Marisa—” he began, knowing he had to say something.
“Don’t you ever do that again.” Her eyes were intent, a furious light in them.
Dammit. What the hell had he done that for? What the hell had come over him? “Don’t worry,” he said, stiffly. “I won’t.”
“You’re damn right you won’t.” Her creamy skin had flushed and she turned her head to check out the dance floor. He noticed the blush extending all the way down her neck. “Oh, thank God, I don’t think anyone saw. Which means you’re not going to say anything to anyone about it either, okay?”
“Of course not.” He cleared his throat, his hands automatically moving to do up the buttons of his shirt. Then he realized. His shirt. The lipstick. He was going to have to change. “We won’t speak of it again.”
Her hand dropped from her mouth as if she’d only just become conscious of what she was doing. The blush on her cheeks deepened further. “We really need not to be around each other. So after this wedding stuff is done, we stay away, right?”
“Agreed.” He wouldn’t argue. She was right. Completely apart from the fact that they didn’t like each other, he couldn’t be kissing an employee. Especially one in a junior role. No matter that the kiss was a minor aberration. A moment of insanity.
One that he would make damn sure he forgot.
Her gaze had fixed on something. His mouth.
“You’ve got…” She stopped, touching her lips again.
Lipstick. He had lipstick. On his goddamned mouth.
Luke growled. Then, without a word, he turned and made his way out of the ballroom. He had to get home. Get this bloody shirt off. Wipe his damn mouth.
And forget about kissing Marisa Clair.
Chapter Two
Marisa regarded her computer with dislike. She’d have thought that two years working at a gadget magazine would have given her at least s
ome kind of technical knowledge, but no. She was as clueless as ever when it came to technology.
Tentatively, she pushed a button and was rewarded by the sound of the motor thingy, or whatever it was inside a computer that made it go, turning on.
So far so good, since last night it had been dead as a doornail. Leonard, the cute tech guy, had come through. Man, she owed him an e-mail. A saucy one. He was hot in an adorable, geeky kind of way and they’d had a little thing going on between them—at least they had until stupid Luke McNamara’s rules had come into force and she’d been sent that warning from HR. But still, one naughty e-mail wouldn’t hurt, right? No one would know. After all, someone had to keep the IT guys sweet.
A damn shame her computer wasn’t as easy to deal with. Men had the virtue of being simple at least. Flash some thigh, a bit of boob, and they were good to go. But sadly, one couldn’t flirt with a computer. Show off some thigh, and the computer only sat there, completely uninterested.
The screen finally came on and yes, thank God, everything was going for a change.
Lucky Leonard. His e-mail was going to be very saucy indeed.
Marisa whipped open her e-mail program.
“Mar? You in?” Ben, her immediate boss and editor in chief of Total Tech, called through the open door of his office. He sounded impatient.
Great. And she was so in the mood to deal with that today. Not.
“Yeah,” she called back, quickly beginning a new message.
“I need to talk to you about tomorrow’s schedule.”
“Okay. Just a second.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she quickly typed out Leonard’s e-mail.
Dear Sex Bomb,
I could lick your hard drive all day long. As a special reward for your cleverness, if you can guess what color panties I’m wearing, I’ll give you a flash (and I’m not talking computers now).
Wet sloppy kisses,
The Saucy Woman Upstairs.
P.S. If you hadn’t guessed, this is a thank-you.
Marisa grinned and hit send. Poor Leonard. He’d probably self-combust with embarrassment. Still, he was cute. And each time she had the slightest problem with her PC he was there within seconds of her call.
“Marisa!” Ben bellowed.
“Okay, keep your hair on,” she muttered, grabbing her notebook and a pen. Then, louder, “Coming.”
Some days she wondered what the hell she was doing in this job. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ben—even when he was grouchy—or even the work. It was that being Ben’s PA didn’t satisfy her in the way other people’s careers seemed to satisfy them.
Like being a gadget journalist satisfied Christie, for example.
As she got up to go into Ben’s office, she cast a glance at Christie’s empty desk and pulled a face. She and Christie had bonded over being the only female staff members in the entire magazine and it wasn’t the same when she was away. But her best friend was still on her honeymoon with her gorgeous tech billionaire husband.
Yep, her friend was happy and going places, while she…
While you’re drowning in debts you STILL haven’t paid off.
That was true. Yet was it her fault that her pay was crappy and she barely scraped by as it was?
Her gaze dropped, as it always did, to the hand-blown glass vase on her desk. The one her father had made and given to her just before he died. The one she kept there as a reminder of her own dreams. Dreams as small and as fragile as the vase.
Marisa bit her lip and turned away.
…
Luke’s PC chimed with another e-mail and he couldn’t help muttering a curse. Because now he would have to stop fiddling with the spreadsheet he was working on and open the e-mail. Because he always had to read a new message whenever he got it. Another one of the things he had to do to keep his life running like clockwork.
Irritated, and not for the first time that day by the relentless demands of his compulsions, he clicked on the message as his intercom buzzed and his PA’s voice came through.
“Your nine thirty is here, Luke.”
“Thank you, Lisa. Give me a minute.”
He didn’t like to be late—punctuality was important since his schedule was everything—but if he didn’t respond to this e-mail now he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the meeting.
Dear Sex Bomb…
Luke frowned. Read it again. Then a second time. Then checked that it was actually to him and hadn’t been forwarded on from by some idiot staff member who thought he might find it amusing. No, there was his name in the “To” box.
Why the hell would somebody send him an e-mail about hard drives and underwear?
It had a Total Tech signature line at the bottom, which meant it had originated from Christie’s magazine, too. How odd.
He’d ended up buying the magazine a couple of months ago after the original owners went bankrupt and it had nearly folded. Joseph had planned to buy it to help Christie out, but then, having doubts about being his wife’s boss, had come to Luke instead.
Luke hadn’t minded bailing out the magazine. He already had quite a little media stable, and Total Tech was pretty impressive. Even though it had meant moving its entire office into his building after its lease expired, because he liked having everything he owned within reach. Within control. It calmed him.
But he was not calm about this e-mail. It suggested workplace shenanigans, which were against company rules. He was going to have to have words with Ben about it.
Frowning, he checked the time—he had another thirty seconds before the minute was up—then he tried to figure out who’d sent him the e-mail. And his heart nearly stopped when he read the address: [email protected].
Marisa Clair. Well, there was only one Marisa Clair who worked at Total Tech magazine. Soft curves. Golden hair. Red mouth. Lightning. Electricity.
And lipstick on his collar.
A bolt of something white-hot shot straight down his spine.
For the past two weeks he’d been doing a very good job of forgetting what had happened at Christie and Joseph’s wedding. Or rather, not thinking about it, since he had a photographic memory and couldn’t forget anything if he tried. He thought she’d been doing the same. At least she’d been very clear that they needed to avoid each other at the time, so they had.
So why on earth was she sending him suggestive e-mails about her panties now?
He only had another ten seconds before the minute was up but he read it again, unable to help himself.
God, he had absolutely no interest in the color of her panties. At all.
Sure you don’t. Like you’re not already imagining whether or not they’d be cotton or lace. Whether she’s wearing a thong or—
Luke stopped the thoughts dead in their tracks. No. He most definitely did not want to know.
Which made this highly irritating. Because, of course, he was going to have to respond. He couldn’t not reply to an e-mail, which meant if he ignored it, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else.
Annoyed that now he was officially late since his minute was up, and trying to ignore the remembered heat of her mouth under his, Luke typed out a reply.
Dear Marisa,
I thought we agreed to keep our distance.
He paused, staring at the screen. Then added:
Please also remember that, as per my new e-mail policy, all e-mail is for work purposes only. So in the future kindly confine your correspondence accordingly.
Luke McNamara
CEO McNamara Financial and Compass Media
There. That should do it.
Luke pressed send, then put the e-mail out of his mind. He had more important things to be worrying about, such as the running of his company. Keeping everything ticking along the way it was supposed to. The way any CEO of a big corporation would.
Because despite his OCD, that’s what he was. A CEO of a big corporation. Successful. Functional. And completely and utterly normal.
&n
bsp; “Lisa,” he said, hitting the intercom button. “Please send in my nine thirty now.”
…
Marisa came back from lunch as restless and dissatisfied as she’d been when she’d arrived at work this morning. Turned out that spending money she didn’t have on a dress she didn’t need hadn’t shifted those feelings after all.
Shoving her ill-gotten gains underneath her desk, she sat down and once again found herself staring at the blue glass vase her father had given her. She loved that thing, loved how it reminded her of the hours she used to spend in her father’s workshop, watching him turn liquid glass into sparkling, fragile bubbles of art. After he’d died, she’d sometimes imagined she was one of those bubbles. Brittle and delicate, and liable to shatter.
Especially after Alistair.
Jesus, listen to yourself. Why are you thinking about crap like that? Alistair’s gone and you’re fine. Right? You don’t give a toss. Not anymore.
Marisa blew out a breath. Nope. She didn’t. She wasn’t glass these days, she was bloody plastic. Un-freaking-breakable.
Logging on to her PC, she reflexively opened up her e-mail program, wondering if Leonard had gotten her message yet.
But there was no e-mail from Leonard. Instead, she’d received a message from Luke bloody McNamara.
What the hell? Why was Luke sending her messages? She thought she’d been pretty clear the night he’d kissed her at Christie’s wedding. Keep the hell away from me. And he had. Which was great because God knew she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. It was bad enough having to come into work every day, wondering if she’d run into him on the way to the magazine’s offices, let alone have unexpected e-mails from him turn up in her in-box.
Not after that kiss. The kiss she definitely didn’t want to think about. Ever.
Talking Dirty With the Boss (Talking Dirty#3) Page 2