by Leslie Kelly
She supposed it wasn’t a surprise that Dale was on her mind now, even though she was definitely over him. Well, she was over the tender emotions, not quite over the hurt or anger. Anyway, losing her job had brought all those feelings to the forefront again. Dale had commented when they’d broken up that a “woman like her, who worked around a lot of men” was bound to get into trouble. Damn, she hated that he might hear about this and decide he’d been proved right.
“Jackass,” she mumbled.
Damien immediately stopped raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, sorry, I guess I was talking to myself.” Feeling herself flush, she quickly added, “And I was not talking about you.”
“Your boss?”
She shrugged, noncommittal.
“You talk to yourself a lot, don’t you. I heard one of your scintillating conversations when I walked up behind you in the parking garage.”
She winced. “Did I singe your ears?”
“Don’t worry about it. Anybody who’s had a day as bad as yours gets a pass on language and just about everything else.”
“Everything else, huh?”
Possibilities flooded through her mind. She could think of a lot of things that would help her get her mind off her ex, her job, her car and all that ailed her. Getting back in the saddle, sexually speaking, was the perfect way to move past everything that had been going wrong for the past few months. She could get her rocks off, have an unforgettable night of passion and walk away tomorrow, clean slate, ready to start again. And doing it with the incredibly sexy man escorting her to a private table in a corner of the bar sounded heavenly.
Remember—make him want to.
She hadn’t come on to a man in months, hadn’t even really flirted, and definitely hadn’t tried to get a guy into her bed. But it was kind of like riding a bike, wasn’t it? A woman never really forgot how to make a man want her. At least, a woman as skilled at it as Viv Callahan had once been.
Instinct kicked in, her body making the decision one second ahead of her brain. As he pulled out her chair, she reached up and unbuttoned her suit jacket, slipping it off. There was nothing she could do about the shapeless skirt that reached her knees, but she was wearing a silky white blouse that could be considered sexy when it wasn’t concealed by the jacket.
She made it even sexier by surreptitiously unfastening two more buttons while he took his seat opposite her. When he looked at her, his gaze traveled to her suddenly much-deeper neckline, lingered there for a moment and then moved up to her face.
His smile said he’d read her every move.
She didn’t care.
Didn’t blush.
Didn’t retreat.
No.
Instead, she went one step further. Smiling innocently, she said, “Another good thing about unemployment. I no longer have to put my hair into hideous buns, either.”
Reaching up, she pulled out the pins that constrained her thick, long hair, and shook it out, running her fingers through its length. It fell in a golden curtain around her shoulders.
He didn’t take his eyes off her, as she’d known he wouldn’t. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t see an attractive woman’s long, silky hair and imagine twining his fingers in it as she rode him into oblivion.
Damien watched her, his lips parted, his eyes hooded. And a surge of feminine power rose within her. For the first time in ages, she felt strong, sure of herself, certain of what she wanted and how she was going to get it.
The real Viv was back—in charge, in control and ready to get wicked.
* * *
STARING INTO THE face of a woman who’d gone from extremely attractive to drop-dead gorgeous, Damien felt like a baseball player standing on the field who’d just learned all the rules of the game had changed. Missed swings no longer counted as strikes, and three definitely didn’t mean you were out. As for a grand slam, well, he had the sense that was suddenly well within his reach.
What, he wondered, had happened?
She’d been prickly when they met—with reason, given what she said she’d been going through. She’d warmed up and become a little flirtatious, but mostly just conversational. He’d noticed flashes of wit, but nothing that could have been described as provocative. And then, between the time he pulled out her chair and when he sat across from her, she’d armed herself with every potent, sexual tool in her arsenal. She’d gone from buttoned-up, sedate businesswoman to vamp with a few unbuttons and a swish of that glorious mane of blond hair.
Only a fool, or a male virgin, wouldn’t get the message.
“What are you up to?” he asked, blunt, as always. He didn’t play games, not when it came to anything important. And he sensed she could be important.
“Hmm? What do you mean?” she said with a shrug, playing innocent.
He nodded toward the hair, and cast another pointed glance at the extremely interesting cleavage. “I asked Miss Marple for a drink and ended up with Jessica Rabbit.”
“Who’s Miss Marple? And, uh, Jessica who?”
Not many people shared his enjoyment of old mystery novels, so he gave her a pass on that one. But a woman built like Roger Rabbit’s wife ought to be familiar with the cartoon character.
“She...”
“Kidding.” Batting her lashes and vamping her voice, she purred, “‘I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.’”
Oh, yeah. She most definitely was.
“Why the costume change?”
She shifted her gaze away, but before she could reply, a server stopped by their table. The young woman deposited two glasses of ice water, garnished with lemon, and offered them each a perfunctory smile. That was good. He didn’t want to be recognized and called by name by everyone in this place, not in front of Viv.
“Two gin and tonics, please,” he said, remembering his companion’s drink preference.
When the server was gone, Viv glanced around. “This is beautiful—the view of the river is lovely. It’s even nicer than the one from the restaurant upstairs.”
“Coward.”
Her jaw fell. “What?”
“No subject change allowed.”
“Did I do that?”
“You know you did. Now answer the question,” he murmured, enjoying the sparkle in her eyes and the tiny smile lurking on those lush red lips. She was slightly annoyed that he was pressing her, but also, he suspected, excited that he was following her where she’d led him with those two unfastened buttons.
“I suppose you’re right,” she finally admitted. “Remember that librarian comment? Well, I have been wearing a costume. Not by choice. It was at the suggestion of my supervisor.”
Back to the job with the shitty coworkers and asshole of a boss. He stiffened, instinctively growing angry on her behalf again. “Why was that?”
“I worked with a lot of poor, weak, helpless men. Isn’t that sad?”
He rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where she was headed. “Men with no self-control?”
“You win the prize. You want to hear the really fun part, the kicker I found out today when I was being fired?”
He wasn’t sure, but nodded anyway.
“I was a bet.”
Damien’s hands clenched into fists on the table.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, during his we’ve-decided-not-to-keep-you-through-the-rest-of-your-probationary-period speech, my boss’s boss said the guys had bet on who could get me into bed first.”
“Are you serious?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
Damien had the urge to hurt someone, and vowed that by the end of the day, he’d have found out the name of her ex-employer, invested in the company and fired her son-of-a-bitch supervisor. Hell, he could buy the damn company and fire every man who worked there.
> “Entirely. Seems I was just too much of a distraction, so it was best for everyone—including me, for my personal safety—if I left.”
“Jesus Christ,” Damien muttered. Lifting his water glass, he half drained it, trying to cool himself off. He was stunned by the idiocy not only of her male colleagues, but also of a higher-up who would hear about that bet and react by firing the victim. If the man had been one of his employees, Damien would have hit the roof. Not only was it wrong on a moral level, but the guy had also just opened up his employer to serious lawsuits.
When he felt capable of being rational, he said, “Call your lawyer.”
“I can’t afford one.”
“I’ll call my lawyer.”
“Thank you, but no.” She offered him a small, humorless smile. That, and her slumped shoulders, told him how crushed she was by this entire situation. “I just want to forget it ever happened,” she said. “I got severance, and I’ve been promised excellent references.”
“All to keep you from suing or making trouble.”
“Yes. Normally, I’m good at making trouble.” She traced the tips of her fingers across the condensation on her own glass. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”
He watched her long, slender fingers, so delicate and feminine, but also strong. He sensed she wasn’t so much giving up as she was choosing what she thought was a better option.
“I’m sorry. And I’m goddamn angry. Let me help you.”
“I don’t need any help.”
Used to taking care of things, and bothered that he couldn’t in this situation, Damien bit back a frustrated retort. She was independent, he respected that. But he couldn’t stand the idea of anybody getting away with that kind of bullshit, especially when Viv was the injured party.
Their drinks arrived. Damien glanced at his watch. “Twenty-nine-and-a-half minutes,” he pointed out before sipping, enjoying the icy bite of the alcohol.
Remembering her comment in the garage, she smiled. “Okay, I officially resign from Man Haters Anonymous. At least for the rest of the day.”
Lucky him.
“Now, back to your situation...”
“I meant what I said. I know men like to solve things—boy, do I ever know that. But I have already made up my mind.”
As if she sensed he was about to argue, Viv tossed her hair, lifted her chin and managed a real smile. He suspected she was trying to downplay her sadness and humiliation as she said, “I must say, though, I’m not happy my good behavior went to waste. I was so nice, so plain and sweet while trying to get those guys to lose interest.”
Plain she could never be. He doubted sweet was used to describe her very often, either. No, she was spicy.
“The deck was stacked against you because of that bet. You could have come in to work literally wearing a nun’s habit and it wouldn’t have changed a thing.”
“I understand that now. But I gave it my best shot, believe me. Though, I didn’t think of the habit angle, and I should have, given my Catholic-school upbringing.”
Something else they had in common. “Nuns are terrifying.”
“No kidding. My second-grade teacher, Sister Margaret, wouldn’t have recognized me over the past several weeks, I was so demure. If she had, she’d probably have fallen over dead of shock that her predictions of my future wickedness hadn’t come true.”
He sipped again, wondering just how wicked this woman could be. “Future wickedness, huh? Did she believe you were destined for damnation?”
“Or prison.”
He chuckled.
“You think I’m kidding? Yeesh, let a nun catch you in a coat closet with two boys, playing my-underwear-are-better-than-yours, and she’s pegged you as a bad girl for life.”
“Were they?
She cocked her head. “Were who what?”
“Were yours better than theirs?”
Snorting and rolling her eyes, she said, “Well, duh. Angry Beavers beats Darkwing Duck or Animaniacs any day.”
He had just taken another sip of his drink but her response made him swallow the wrong way, and he had to cough into his fist, half laughing, half groaning. When he could speak again, he asked, “Your parents let their seven-year-old daughter wear Angry Beavers panties?”
“Caught that, didja?” she replied with a snicker. “They worked a lot, raising six kids, five of them strapping, athletic, eating-them-out-of-house-and-home boys.”
Ouch. Five brothers. He wondered where she fell in the Callahan family lineup.
She continued. “Because of my parents’ work schedules, my oldest brother had to take me back-to-school shopping that year. He didn’t want to be caught by any of his high school friends in the little girl’s department at the mall, so I had free rein when it came to choosing panties. Heh. But hey, better than Ren and Stimpy, right?”
“I don’t know, ‘happy-happy, joy-joy’ seems like a good underwear motto.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“I don’t think they make Ren and Stimpy drawers in my size.”
“Bummer. That would be a wicked-good theme song to have in your pants at all times.”
They laughed together, and Damien found himself relaxing more than he had in ages. Strange, considering the fact that he was sitting here, drinking gin and tonics, with a gorgeous woman he wanted to take to bed, and they were talking about childhood cartoons. He hadn’t had a completely normal childhood, given his family’s wealth, but he’d enjoyed the occasional after-school Nickelodeon binge, and remembered fighting with his sisters over who got to watch what.
Funny that this new stranger made him remember those days, so far in his past he’d nearly forgotten about them. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a conversation like this. Lately, all he talked about was business when at work and shopping and finances when with his family. He avoided relationships, knowing he wasn’t cut out for them, but, on occasion, he did talk sex with women who expected nothing more from him.
This one had him talking cartoons.
He suddenly realized he liked her. Quite a lot. Not just because she was strong and independent after going through hell. Not just because she made him laugh. It was also because he suddenly realized she’d done what she’d set out to do. She’d distracted him from the issue of those two buttons and that tumbling sea of hair. Clever girl.
“So, Wicked Viv—”
“Vixen Viv,” she interrupted.
“Even better. So, Vixen, was Sister Margaret right about your wickedness? Are you planning to seduce me?” he asked, not letting her evade the subject this time.
He kept his eyes focused directly on hers, so he saw the way they flared. She licked her lips, and a faint pink tinge rose in her cheeks. He knew she wasn’t blushing; that wasn’t embarrassment or modesty.
It was heat.
And he had his answer.
“Are you saying you would have to be seduced?” she finally asked.
“No, I’m not saying that at all.”
Seduction implied having to be coerced or convinced to do something. That wouldn’t be the case with Viv. He’d been attracted to her at first sight, and his interest had heightened with every passing minute.
It wouldn’t take a seduction for him to ask her to come up to his suite on the top floor of this hotel. How had she put it—he could ask her to join him for a drink, and then dinner, and then breakfast. She most definitely wouldn’t have to be the one doing the seducing. All she had to do was say yes.
“Viv, would you—”
She cut him off. “Yes.”
He smiled. So did she.
And that was that.
3
VIV HADN’T BEEN sure how to answer his question about her seductive intentions. With Damien Black’s unfinished invitati
on, however, she hadn’t needed to. What was happening between them was on both their heads...and would soon, hopefully, be on their bodies.
No, this was not a seduction. This was all about instant connection, shared desire and pure heat. It also had something to do with timing. She was in the right frame of mind to have a wild, one-night fling, and he was the right man—oh, Lord, he was right in all the best ways—in the right place, to make it happen.
That was why she’d cut him off, not even needing to hear the rest of his question. The answer was yes to anything he cared to propose.
There was one thing, however. “One night,” she said, wanting to make sure he knew where she stood.
“What?”
“I just want to make sure we’re both on the same page. One night is all I’m interested in, and since you’re here from out of town, hopefully that’s all you want, too.”
He stared at her, intent, assessing. Finally, he replied, “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
“Why?”
“Why am I acting like a guy, wanting just a one-night stand?”
“Nobody could mistake you for a guy.”
“Not in looks, maybe. But my attitude—about this, anyway—is probably more in line with a man’s.”
He didn’t deny it.
She ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass. Would she turn him off by admitting she was a woman who wasn’t afraid or ashamed to go after what she wanted?
“My life is too convoluted right now to consider any kind of relationship.” Lifting her finger to her mouth, she licked off the condensation, eyeing him wickedly, making promises about what kind of night they could have. “But I want you. I want one hot night with somebody I won’t have to deal with tomorrow when I start picking up the pieces of my life.”
He appeared indignant. “Deal with? You don’t want to have to deal with me?”
She shrugged, not repentant. Better to lay things on the table now. “Well, not you personally. I just don’t want to care about any repercussions or expectations. I don’t want to worry about whether you’ll call, or have you worry whether I will.”