by Gwyn Cready
“But . . .”
“But?” She blinked sweetly.
“But,” he said, leaning forward in earnest, “it seems to me that for sixty-three thousand dollars I could expect a little more.”
“What?”
“Open your blouse.”
He said it in the same tone as if he’d said, “Hand me the scissors,” or “Let’s review the Ryneman numbers.” Joss had to replay it in her head to ensure she’d heard it right.
“I-I—”
“I’d be risking my reputation,” he said convivially. “Why shouldn’t you risk yours?”
Risk and reward. The seesaw of business. There was a certain primitive poetry to it. At this point her task was to find the balance point. Her father, while never the best of role models, had schooled her well on this. “It’s not personal,” he’d said. “It’s a game. And unless you can remove your emotion from the battle, you’re never going to win.” Of course, removing emotion was one thing. Removing one’s blouse was quite another.
When she shifted, the diamond on her finger glinted and she nearly said no, but then she spotted her mother’s beloved map—the one that had started it all—on the wall where it had hung for twenty years. Her mother had worked so hard for so long to get Brand O’Malley off the ground. She’d poured her heart and then her health into it, and had endured a marriage that appeared, at least to Joss, to be far from ideal. Joss loved maps, and she’d worked hard to master the business behind them. She could almost hear her mother’s sigh of happiness whenever she ran her fingers over a newly printed one. Was her mother’s dream for this company going to die with Joss? No effing way. Time to put her business acumen to work.
She lifted her trembling hand and loosened the buttons.
“And open, please,” he said.
“Your admin is sitting outside.”
He pressed a button on his phone. “Pat?”
“Yes, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Close the door, will you. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Joss sat frozen while Pat stepped into the office behind her, no doubt thinking the meeting was about liabilities and outcomes, which, come to think of it, wasn’t far from the truth. Pat closed the door. Rogan leaned back in his chair.
Joss had at least imagined this possibility. It would have been foolish to entertain this strategy without having done so. But she’d been so certain Rogan would stop at a certain, albeit not purely innocent, level of flirtation.
She spread the silk.
His irises widened. It was a biological effect he couldn’t hide no matter how skilled he was—or perhaps one might say one of the biological effects. The trick was going to be teasing that effect as far as it would go under her control without triggering a biological apocalypse. She was reminded of the men about to set off the first experimental atomic explosion in 1945 who were “pretty certain” it wouldn’t destroy the earth’s entire atmosphere.
She wondered about Rogan’s next move. She also wondered if anyone in the Gulf Tower had binoculars.
He gave her a crooked smile and said, “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“No, actually. I’m trying to meet payroll.”
“It’s a pretty effective strategy.”
“I would hope so.”
Her cell vibrated. The sound of a text. She cut her gaze to the display. It was from Di. R U DOING IT?
Rogan pointed to the clasp between her breasts a tiny pearl dangled from. “Does that little thingy there open it?”
“It does.”
“Would you mind . . .?”
More than life itself. But this was the balance point. “I wouldn’t,” she said, leaning slightly forward, “but it seems to me that’s something you’d rather do yourself.”
He made a dry, choking noise.
“And all it takes,” she said, “is a quick call to Charlie.” Charlie was the president of the Brand Industries board. “Just to let him know the plan.”
This was it. If he talked to Charlie, he’d be committed. Rogan licked his lips.
“May I?” He gestured to the clasp with an earnest look in his eye. “Just a touch?”
Bless his mother. He’d been raised to be polite. He’d once told Joss he’d attended etiquette classes throughout grade school. She pulled her chair closer to the desk and nodded.
He brought his hand to the metalwork, slipping his forefinger under the clasp and letting his thumb brush the swaying pearl. He tugged slightly, measuring the tension.
“Oh, Lord,” he whispered.
The electricity in his touch surprised her. She breathed in the sandalwood on his skin.
“Charlie,” she reminded him, though the way her voice faltered, she wondered if he understood.
“Right.” He picked up his cell and pressed a couple buttons. Then his eyebrows went up and he hit the keyboard quickly. “Oops. Wrong number.” He made a nervous laugh.
Joss was glad to see he was nervous, too. This wasn’t exactly a stroll through the Nordstrom handbag department for her.
He tried the call again and held up a relieved finger. “Ringing.”
She nodded and looked into the twilight. The weather beacon flash had changed to something else—a tiny shower of sparks. She wondered if the building manager knew he had a problem.
Rogan leaned forward. “Charlie—Oh.” He put his hand over the receiver. “Voice mail.”
She pursed her lips.
“Charlie, it’s Rogan,” he said. “I, ah, need to run a quick Brand O’Malley situation by you. I know the acquisition price has been agreed on, but a few things have come up. There’s a request on the table for sixty-three more in the form of a thirty-day loan. Give me your thoughts.” He hit the End button and put the phone down.
She crossed her arms, carefully pulling the flaps of her blouse closed. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What?” The first hint of desperation broke in his voice. “I did it.”
“You forgot something. Your support.” Without Rogan’s enthusiastic blessing of the plan, all Charlie had to do was say no. She began to button.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“The thing is, it’s hard to be a cheerleader for something I don’t fully support.”
“Oh dear. I wouldn’t want anything to be hard for you.”
She came around the table, seated herself on the desk and leaned back on her palms. The flaps slipped farther apart.
He closed his eyes. Evidently, he’d heard of the “remove emotion” trick, too. “Does the deal include touch?”
She knew he didn’t mean the acquisition. “Um . . .” She swallowed. This was certainly more than she’d bargained for. She could see an employee of some nameless law firm or accountant’s office gazing abstractedly out a Gulf Tower window. “Can you be more specific?”
He pursed his lips, considering. “Palms, fingers, cheek and lips.”
Oh. My. God.
“Palms, yes,” she said at last. “The rest, no.”
“Just palms, huh?” His cell started to vibrate, and he looked at the display. “It’s Charlie. I have to tell you, I’m not feeling very enthusiastic.”
The phone buzzed, paused and buzzed again. He lifted his shoulders in a question.
“Palms and cheek,” she offered.
The third buzz and then the fourth.
“Fine,” she said. “Palms, cheek and a single kiss.”
“Nip,” he corrected, and picked up the phone. “Charlie. Hi. You got my message?” He gestured for her to open her blouse. “It might inspire me,” he whispered. “Yeah. It’s a short-term thing. Thirty days, paid in full. How do I feel?” He lifted a brow in Joss’s direction, waiting, and with a private growl, she reopened the flaps of fabric. “Well, sales are improving. There’ve been a couple very nice peaks today.” He gave her a broad smile. “And there’s a big order coming in—a very big one, in fact. So, overall, I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
Bingo.
; While he wrapped up the conversation, Joss picked up her phone and thumbed a reply to Di. Not at all. Just a little lingerie action. Whew!
Rogan laid down his cell.
“Nice work,” Joss said. “But the only ‘big order’ coming in is the one from the California school system, my friend.”
“We’ll see.” He unfolded himself from the chair.
She braced herself.
He drew a finger from her belly to her sternum and flicked the pearl.
She gasped. It was as if all the current in the room were being driven through that single digit.
“I would love to get you out of all this,” he said.
She snorted.
He brushed the silk off her shoulders. It slipped like a breath of air down her bare skin. He brought his hands to the clasp and unlocked it. The fabric, released from its binding, spread slowly, and he traced the soft rise below.
She inhaled sharply and fought to distract herself by admiring his patience. He seemed to understand the enhanced value of a delayed reward. Unhappily for him, it would be the key to her victory.
“Oh, baby,” he said. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy looking at your breasts?”
“Classy. Does that work on all the g—”
He pushed the wire and lace aside, and Joss’s ability to speak vanished.
Remove the emotion.
“They’re magnificent,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He stood up, opened her knees and inserted himself carefully between them. His suit was the finest Italian wool, but even Armani couldn’t have planned for the tailoring challenge Rogan was suddenly facing.
Slowly, he brought his palms over the tips of her nipples. Back and forth, he moved. Just the barest touch. A ball of heat rose between her legs. Biology, she told herself. Just biology.
He tucked her hands behind her again, palms on the desk. Her breasts poked skyward. He brought his face to a nipple, and rubbed his bristled cheek across it. This, she thought nervously, is how you lose the earth’s atmosphere.
He inched his hips closer, and when he took a nipple in his teeth, she arched automatically. If she weren’t careful, that big order would be coming in exactly as he planned.
The weather beacon was throwing a multihued shower now, like the Northern Lights, or that scene in The Natural. It was the strangest damn thing. Of course, this wasn’t exactly the most normal of nights, she thought as Rogan made a final lap. She considered his easy blond waves. How many women have found themselves in this position with you, Golden Boy?
“I want more,” he said.
“I’m getting that impression. There’s only one problem.” She unwrapped her leg and locked it carefully across its mate. “We’ve finished the deal. Which isn’t to say we might not play again sometime.” Though she sincerely hoped not. Not this game, at least. She reached for her bra.
“Hold on. Let’s think this through.”
Think? She almost laughed. “Deal’s done, Rogan.”
“Please. Listen. You’re spread out on my desk like this and still out of reach?” He lowered his voice. “I’m going to die if I don’t have you. Right here. Right now.”
“Is that the man who’s acquiring my company talking?” She lowered herself to an elbow and regarded him closely. “Or my fiancé?”
His eyes shifted left and right. He knew he had stumbled into a trap, even if he couldn’t quite see it.
“I-I put that ring on your finger.”
“Indeed you did.” She held it up to the light, letting all three glorious, white-hot carats sparkle. “Do you suppose they make nipple rings to match?”
He whimpered. “I just think that buys me an all-access pass.”
“It does. But not until our wedding, my love. It’s only another week. Think about it. Brandy, some nice wide bed in some exotic location you haven’t yet revealed. No water.”
“Exotic, yes,” he said, still transfixed “Water, no.”
“Definitely no water. Maybe a mountain in Switzerland or the Taj Mahal or Sydney—”
“I’m pretty sure there’s water with that last one.”
“—or Sydney inland. Nowhere near the ocean, because you’d rather have me treading the sheets than scared out of my wits.”
“I take it snorkeling in Saint Bart’s is out?”
“And it’s not like you’ve been suffering,” she went on. “You’ve gotten everywhere you wanted to go backstage—you’ve drunk the champagne, eaten the M&M’s and hung out with the roadies. But if you want to get in the dressing room and party with the rock star, you’re gonna have to wait.”
“But I thought it was just a lark. You know, ‘It’s been such a whirlwind courtship, wouldn’t it be fun if we waited to consummate it till our wedding night? It’s only six weeks from now’—that sort of thing?”
“And?”
“I’m just so ready.” He laced his fingers as if in supplication. “And so hard.”
“This is business, Reynolds. Forget the personal side. Stick to the deal.”
“Deal. Right.” With obvious effort, he lowered himself into the chair.
She picked herself up and reclasped the bra. She hoped she still had a blazer in her office closet, because her nipples were going to be stiff for a week. Next problem to solve: ensuring the California order came in. That and shoes for the ceremony. She’d head to Sales next.
“I’m off.” She hopped onto the floor, jarring the tender flesh.
He stood when she did. “Oh. One thing.”
“What?” Cripes, she could probably press the elevator button with one of these things.
He took a step and accidentally kicked something across the room. It was Peter’s light saber.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Yours?”
“Peter’s, I think. I’ll get it back to him.” She smiled. She didn’t need a light saber. Only a demi-bra and low morals.
He retrieved the weapon and leaned it against the wall.
“What I was saying was, I’m assuming the odds are pretty high you’ll be able to pay back the loan, right?”
“Well . . . sure. I mean, what are you asking?” She wished she could put off thinking about next month’s problems until next month, especially after what she’d just done to resolve this month’s.
“What are the odds—I mean, realistically—that you will, A, have the money to pay this back, and B, not need more?”
She grabbed the cash flow statement. “High.” The business world ran on lies. Ask anyone on Wall Street.
Rogan slouched against the desk, hands in his pockets, and gave her a gentle smile. “That’s good. Because next month, the deal won’t be quite the same.”
Something in his tone made the hairs on her neck jump to attention. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning that if you come to me next month and for any reason can’t pay back that sixty-three grand, the terms are going to become somewhat less attractive.”
“How somewhat?”
He leaned toward her ear and described, in detail, the changes. Two items involved his Maserati. One, a speakerphone. And a fourth, Joss thought, wide-eyed, an act so technically challenging as to be impossible without guy wires and a spotter. So much for the etiquette lessons.
“But,” he said cordially, “I would be willing to forgive the loan.”
She exhaled relieved. “Of course you would. You’re my fiancé.”
He gave her an uncompromising look.
“But—”
“Business, Joss. Forget the personal side.”
“C’mon. I mean, if I were in a little jam . . .”
The side of his mouth rose on the last word.
“Rogan.”
He tapped a finger on the speakerphone absently. “As I said, I’m willing to forgive it. Completely. No loan. Nothing that hits the balance sheet at all. A gift. My own personal contribution to Brand O’Malley. And I’ll make it a hundred—a hundred and a quarter—to cover anything else you may have for
gotten. I mean, I was planning to give you a wedding present anyhow, and I know you well enough to know you’d rather have cash flow than a bracelet to match that ring.”
A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. She let herself imagine for an instant what it would feel like to have the burden of meeting payroll for a few months lifted from her shoulders. She could almost feel the muscles in her back unkinking.
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“It depends how you define ‘good.’” He tossed a look in the direction of his couch.
Oh.
This is where the rubber hits the road, she thought. A real rubber. She tried to look at the situation objectively. A hundred and twenty-five thousand to clear the company’s debt in exchange for something she was going to enjoy anyway. She also considered the trouble, sexual and otherwise, she’d be in a month from now if she couldn’t pay back Brand Industries. She gazed at the speakerphone and thought about the front seat of his Maserati. Her father used to say, “A good manager makes decisions quickly. If they’re right, so much the better.”
“Terms?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Twenty minutes. Whatever I want.”
A hundred and a quarter for twenty minutes. That was a lot of money, even if the prize was her. “You really think I’m going to be worth it?”
“A steal at twice the price.”
She smiled. Gotta love that.
“And no speakerphone?”
“No speakerphone.”
She shifted her weight. Her plan to wait to have traditional intercourse with him, that supposed jewel in the crown of all sexual joinings, had been a lark, just as he’d said. A special approach for the man she meant to be her husband. They were engaged. Hell, she’d even moved into his place. They’d done everything else imaginable and had no end of fun doing it. Nonetheless, there was a part of her that wished they could wait. It was only another week. But the realities of salaries, dialysis, diabetes and cash flow, not to mention her own driving curiosity about Rogan’s prowess in that last unconquered area of delight, tipped the scales.
She took a deep breath. “I accept.”
He reached for his belt buckle.
Despite the logic of the decision, sweat broke out on her palms. “You sure you wanna to do this?”
“Yes.” He led her toward the couch.