by Sandra Brown
His hands cupped her face and tilted it up to his. As the moving picture of a little boy and his father riding a bicycle built for two wavered across their bodies, his lips molded onto hers. His tongue invaded the sweet interior of her mouth even as his body moved suggestively against hers.
Beyond conscious thought, responding purely out of physical and emotional need, she arched against him, fitting her femininity to his complementing masculinity. The contact was exquisite and breathtaking, and their soft gasps of pleasure and pain harmonized. Their hungry mouths refused to be denied as the kiss mellowed to a controlled violence. His arms wrapped around her like bands of steel. Her hands disarranged the soft cloth of his shirt as she scoured the muscles of his back with greedy hands.
They were so lost within their embrace that, when the voice boomed out at them from the overhead speakers, they separated in startled disbelief. Megan stared at Josh with wide, unblinking eyes as her chest heaved like a bellows.
“Will that be all, Mr. Bennett?” the projectionist asked again, apparently unaware of what he'd interrupted.
Megan looked blindly toward the blank screen at the front of the room. The commercials had finished, yet she hadn't viewed one since Terry had left the room. Jolted back into reality, she covered her tingling lips with a shaky hand.
In extreme exasperation, Josh raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes. Thank you, Tad.”
The microphone clicked off, and they were left alone in the dark, silent room. “Megan—”
“No,” she said shortly, backing away from him. “I don't know what … what happens to me when you … Consider the debt paid. I think the insults I've suffered from you are more than enough recompense. From now on we're even, Mr. Bennett.”
She pivoted on her heels, grabbed up her purse a second time, and groped her way out the aisle to the door. She flung it open, escape uppermost in her mind.
“Megan,” Josh shouted from behind her. The name reverberated off the walls of the projection room and was still echoing when she all but collided into a startled Terry Bishop, who was reaching for the doorknob from the other side.
Megan didn't know who was the most dumbfounded. Terry took in her tear-streaked face, her well-kissed swollen lips, the frantic look in her eyes. She followed his gaze to Josh, whose shirttail was half in, half out, his loosened tie lying at a sharp angle on his chest.
“I'm … uh … excuse me,” Terry stuttered apologetically. “That was—was Gayla, my wife. She, uh, wanted me to get your address so she can send you a formal invitation to the grand opening of Seascape, on June first. You're both coming, aren't you?”
Four
Megan could feel how imbecilic the expression on her face was. Absently she reached up to smooth her hair. No doubt the professional respect Terry had for her was disappearing rapidly as she stood there, dully trying to comprehend what he had said and provide some reasonably intelligent response. Her dominant thought was that her escape from Josh had been blocked.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Josh nonchalantly tucking in his shirttail and straightening his necktie. He seemed not at all upset by their having been caught like misbehaving children. Had she the ability to control the muscles of her face, her lips would have curled into the frown of contempt she felt inside. Why should his insouciance surprise her? This kind of thing must happen to him all the time.
Indeed, his voice was breezily unaffected when he said, “I wouldn't think of missing the gala opening of the resort, Terry. Thank you.”
“It wouldn't be nearly the event it's going to be if we hadn't had your help, Josh,” the developer said to him with a respect that nauseated Megan. He turned to her. “Megan, can you make that weekend with us?”
“I—I don't know,” she said. If Josh Bennett was going to be there, she certainly wouldn't attend. She'd think up a reasonable excuse later. Now she only wanted to leave. “I'll have to check it out with the station's management. You can send my invitation to the office. Now if you two gentlemen”—she shot a disparaging look in Josh's direction—“will excuse me, I'm meeting another client for dinner.” It was another lie, and Josh's arched eyebrow told her he knew it. “Good night,” she said, sailing out of the projection room with what modicum of dignity was left her.
She hurried down the hallways, deserted now save for a few diehards—like James had been. Go home to your wife, your husband, your family. Don't give that man the best of yourself. He's not worth it, she wanted to shout to them. She raced across the elegant lobby as though escaping a torture chamber.
Later, she didn't even remember the trip home. For once impervious to the traffic, she had driven automatically, her mind cemented oh the minutes she had spent alone with Josh. The moment she stepped into her house, she felt the emptiness like a tangible presence, like a shroud blanketing her, smothering her.
“It's his fault that I'm alone,” she said aloud in fury and defeat. Were it not for Josh Bennett, she'd still have a husband, maybe even a baby or two by now. She had him to thank for the loneliness in her life. Still he fed on her like a scavenger. When would he consider her picked clean?
He had stolen her husband from her even before his death. James had never belonged to her the way he had belonged to the Bennett Agency. Josh had taken away her dignity by obtaining her job for her. That she'd been unaware of his machinations didn't matter. How many people knew that Josh had secured her job for her? Was she laughed at behind her back? Did everyone think she'd asked for his help? And what did they think she'd done to get it? She shivered as she undressed in the air-conditioned bedroom—but not because she was cold.
Now Josh Bennett was robbing her of self-respect. Each time he touched her, she became like warm, malleable clay molded to his will. Shame washed over her as she recalled how she had arched her body up to his, how her mouth had opened to him.
“I hate him, despise him,” she sobbed, gathering her pillow close and bending her knees to her chest in an attitude of self-protection. The pillow blotted salty tears from her cheek.
Don't cry. Megan, don't cry.
“No, no.” She protested the memory of his compassionate words. She didn't want to remember the gentleness with which he'd pressed her against him, the tenderness of his hands, the sweetness of his lips. Trying to conjure up an image of a hard, calculating man, she failed. The only picture that came to mind was Josh's concerned expression as he cradled her cheeks and lifted her mouth to his.
“No,” she repeated, deeply anguished.
She hated him more than ever, yet only now would she admit to herself the true reason. Since the night they'd met, she had never been able to banish him from her mind. Tenaciously he remained. And he wouldn't be exiled now.
For two days Megan didn't communicate with either Josh or Terry Bishop. She received only a brief report from Jo Hampson. “Terry said you liked the commercials. That poor man's so uptight. If Seascape doesn't open soon, he's going to have heart failure. Thanks for filling in for me the other day.”
“Glad to do it,” Megan said with what she hoped was a sincere smile. “What kind of schedule did you work out for those convenience-store spots?”
With Seascape momentarily off her hands, she concentrated on wading through the mountain of work that had accumulated on her desk for the past several days. She made overdue telephone calls, answered correspondence, and held a sales meeting for her staff. By the third day, her self-confidence restored, she was feeling a sense of accomplishment. Coming back from a quick yogurt lunch in the basement commissary, her walk was almost jaunty.
Her buoyancy deflated like a punctured balloon when she opened the door to her office and saw Josh sitting on the couch. Her eyes collided with his, and for an intense moment neither of them moved. Then slowly he unfolded his length from the deep cushions and stood up.
Not only his appearance but also his clothing left her speechless. He was dressed in a black-and-gold sweat suit and running shoes. His hair was wind-blown, his color hig
h. Had he jogged over?
“Forgive the way I'm dressed.”
“What are you doing here?” She closed the door behind her and immediately regretted having done so. To open it now would be an admission that she felt completely undone at having found him here. Stiffly she stood just inside the door, trying vainly not to look at the deep wedge of dark curling hair in the V of the sweat shirt, zipped only halfway up. If that weren't enough, the way the matching pants fit his slim hips was most disconcerting.
“Your secretary was still at lunch,” he said, not answering her question. “I decided to wait for you to get back. Do you mind my being here?”
“Does it matter?” she asked acidly.
“Yes.” That simple unequivocal statement was more injurious than derision would have been, and she averted her eyes from his as she crossed the room briskly and stowed her purse in a bottom drawer of her desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?” she asked curtly as she assumed her seat.
“You can forgive my behavior the other day.” Her eyes flew back to his as her lips rounded into a small O of surprise. “You were right. I took advantage of a business meeting. When I kiss you again, and I will”—his voice lowered significantly—“I promise that the circumstances will be more conducive to romance.”
“There won't—”
“Yes, there will be. I'll see to it that there are many such occasions.” He looked toward the credenza, where the roses were now opened to their full glory.
Why hadn't she thrown them out? The morning after her encounter with him in the projection room she had closed her hands around the heavy vase with every intention of emptying the blossoms into the large trash receptacle at the end of the hall. But she hadn't been able to bring herself to do so. Why?
Josh walked over and pinched off one of the blossoms, then stepped behind her desk, stopping just inches from her chair. “An olive branch?”
Her heart skidded to a halt, and air felt trapped in her lungs as he extended his hand to her breast. Taking infinite care not to touch her, he slipped the rosebud into the first buttonhole of her blouse. His fingers were slow to withdraw. As they dangled there, a mere inch away, they radiated a longing to caress her so strong that her body responded as if they had indeed touched her. Her breasts swelled with desire, and the nipples tightened and peaked, beckoning to him.
She felt his eyes on the crown of her head. His breathing was rough and labored. Directly in front of her his thighs flexed spasmodically and his stiff fingers closed into fists. She curbed a mad impulse to lift one of those fists, open it, kiss it, and lay it against an aching breast.
“In answer to your question,” he said softly, “I've never lured a woman into my place of business for the purpose of seduction. I never mix business with pleasure. You, Megan, are the only woman who ever tempted me to break my own rule. Since I met you, you've been the exception to every rule.”
Still she couldn't speak. Why wasn't she casting aspersions on him? She should be lambasting him with every insult her mind could compose.
Instead she sat flustered and mute as he backed slowly away from her and sat down on the sofa once again.
“That's the main reason I wanted to see you today. To apologize. I'm here like this”—he indicated his clothing—“because one of my agents called me while I was at the gym. I thought you should know what he told me right away.”
The portentousness in his voice alarmed her. She hadn't heard such grave tones since the day he had called her at home and told her to come to the hospital right away. Her husband was in the emergency room fighting for his life.
“What is it, Josh?” Unconsciously she spoke his name with the intimacy of a valued friend, a … lover.
“As you know, one of our major accounts is the Dixieland food-store chain.” She nodded. “They're threatening to pull all their advertising off your station and divide it up between your competitors.”
“What?” She gasped, knowing immediately the importance of what Josh had told her. Dixieland grocery stores ran television commercials throughout the day and night. Losing their advertising dollars would cause a vacuum in the budget that would be difficult, if not impossible, to fill. “Why?”
“Barnes,” he said tersely. “Megan, I wouldn't trouble you with this if I thought their complaints were petty. Were this an isolated case, I'd take Dixieland's promotion man to dinner and convince him that pulling their commercials off WONE would be a stupid move. You'd never have to know about it.” He stopped suddenly, as if realizing he'd revealed more than he'd intended.
“You've done that before, haven't you?” she demanded, her face paling. “Run interference to protect me?”
“I … it—”
“Haven't you?” she asked again, impatiently.
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “But that's no more than I do for every sales manager of every television station all over the South. I smooth ruffled feathers all day. That comes with my territory. So don't go all defensive on me, okay? I've done for you what I've done for many others.”
Her back was still ramrod-straight and her chin still at a haughty angle, but she said, “Go on.”
He studied her for a long time. If she hadn't known him so well, known the kind of man he was, she might have thought his expression was wistful. His eyes scanned her hair, her face, her throat. He looked at the rosebud ensconced between her breasts for long moments. Finally he raised his eyes to hers again, and cleared his throat.
“As I was saying, if this were an isolated case, I'd let it pass. But this is the third time this week I've heard a complaint about WONE. Barnes handles each of those three accounts.”
Megan picked up her telephone and punched three numbers. “I need to see you. Now.”
She hung up and turned back to Josh. “Thank you for telling me. I can take care of it from here.”
“I'd like to stay.”
“I'd rather you didn't.”
“I'll stay.”
Before she could offer another argument, Barnes was opening her door, looking very uncomfortable. “Come in.” She was upset with Barnes, but not nearly as much as she was with Josh. One minute he was presenting her with rosebuds and whispering humble apologies; the next he was interfering in her life with the cold insensitivity she had come to expect from him.
Barnes sidled inside and closed the door behind him. He blanched visibly and wiped his palms down the sides of his pants legs when he glanced at Josh lounging on the couch. He didn't even seem to notice Josh's casual attire. “Mr. Bennett.” He nodded respectfully.
His genuflection to Josh only heightened Megan's irritation. “All right, Barnes, let's hear it. There had better be a damn good excuse why three of Mr. Bennett's clients have complained about you this week.”
“Three?” he squeaked.
“Three or one, it doesn't matter,” Megan said, her aggravation showing. “I gave you fair warning at the beginning of the week that you'd better shape up. Now the principal of the largest advertising agency in this part of the country comes to me, in an emergency situation, to tell me we may lose one of our largest accounts, and all because of your ineptitude.”
Ignoring Barnes's stammering attempt to defend himself, she swung her fiery gaze to Josh. “Mr. Bennett, would you, for my sake as well as Barnes's, enumerate the complaints you've heard?”
With the sober intonation of a judge, Josh ticked off the incriminating derelictions of duty—misrepresentation of when the client's commercials would run, misquotation of the rates, blatant indifference, total lack of communication. With each transgression cited, Barnes's face collapsed further, until he had the countenance of the saddest of basset hounds.
When Josh was finished, he swung his eyes from a distraught Barnes to Megan. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett, for warning us of this. Let's hope there's time to make amends. Any comments, Barnes?”
The young man shook his head miserably. “I've been messing up. I know it.”
“W
ell, if you want pity, you've come to the wrong place. If you want that girl in the newsroom, then go after her and go after her to win her, or give her up, or find a substitute for her, or take cold showers. I don't care.”
Barnes stared, stupefied, at Megan, clearly surprised to learn that she knew the source of his problem. As a woman she wanted to confess that she knew exactly what it was like to let someone consume one's thoughts and override one's common sense. But as an executive she couldn't afford to give an inch.
“I'm not going to divide your account list among the other salesmen, because they all have heavy loads. Nor am I going to threaten to replace the good ones you have with those that are less desirable. I don't think you'd care. What I am going to do is put you on one month's probation. For my part, that's a generous amount of time. At its termination I'm going to call personally on all your accounts. If they aren't completely satisfied and singing your praises, you might just as well clear out your desk, because you'll be gone by that working day.” She consulted her calendar. “That will be June twelfth. Have I made myself clear?”
He nodded glumly. “Yes, Meg—, uh, Ms., uh … ma'am.”
“Thank you for responding so promptly to my summons,” she said by way of dismissal. Barnes dragged himself to the door and closed it behind him.
Megan rose from her chair, feeling the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. She went to the window and stared out at a gorgeous spring day. Her eyes closed against the bright sunlight, which she dimmed by closing the blinds a notch. The sounds of traffic on the downtown streets were muted. She felt Josh's hands on her shoulders before she knew he was standing behind her.
“So a woman is his problem,” he said softly as his hands massaged the tension from her neck and shoulders. Through the thin fabric of her blouse, his hands were warmly comforting.
“Yes. Maybe I shouldn't have chastised him in front of you, but I thought your presence might increase the urgency of what I was telling him, shame him into doing what I know he's capable of doing. I don't know whether I handled it the right way or not.” It felt so good to confide her uncertainty to him.