by Marie Harte
She tried but couldn’t get the image of Yeats in heels from her mind. “I can’t see him wearing panties and garters.”
“Neither could I until that night,” Maggie said dryly. “The worst part about it was that he acted so normal, as if dressing in women’s underwear was supposed to turn me on. And then I realized all those questions he’d asked me about my views on sexuality had been leading to that. When I just turned around to leave, he ripped off the mask and wanted to know what was wrong. As if I saw that every day.”
“So did you tell him?”
“I didn’t stick around long enough to say anything. I hustled out of there and called a cab from my cell. Who knows what might have happened if I’d stayed?”
“Yeah. He might have demanded you wear a jock while you whipped him for being a naughty little girl.”
“Laugh it up. But this just goes to show you that not all guys are the same.” Trust Maggie to bring a moral lesson into it. “The last hippie guy I dated was nice, but nowhere near as weird as Michael. They’re all a little different.”
“Just a little,” Shelby joked but gave her friend a sly look. “I notice it’s been a few weeks since you’ve gone out though. Taking a break?”
“Well, a little one.” Maggie studied her nails. “I think maybe I’m attracting the wrong type of guys.”
“You think?”
Maggie talked over her. “Most of them think if you’re an artist, you’re easy.”
“Speaking of art, have you even started on the present for my birthday yet?” Shelby reminded Maggie at least twice a day about the paper sculpture she’d been promised.
“Your birthday isn’t until November. Give it a rest.” Maggie stood up from the bench and stretched.
Shelby stood with her and they moved to their cars. “Your sculptures are the best. I want one before you’re too famous for me to afford. I just don’t want you to forget you promised me one for free.”
Maggie mumbled something under her breath as they said goodbye then drove away leaving Shelby with her thoughts. Chuckling at the image of Dr. Yeats in garters, she drove home to clean up before her morning appointment.
Men could be so odd. A vision of male perfection wearing a scowl and a stain of hot coffee lit her mind’s eye—black hair cut short to frame a masculine face, deep green eyes the color of shady moss, and a physique that would make a nun drool. A pity he’d been such a jerk. She wondered idly if he’d been having a bad day or if he was normally that aggravating. She smiled grimly to herself and hoped that his bad day got steadily worse until he acted nice to someone, preferably a woman.
Chapter Two
Shane smiled and thanked Jonathan Grace and his wife for their time. The meeting had passed surprisingly well, and he thanked his lucky stars the Graces had gotten stuck in traffic. Mac, true to his word, had dropped Shane at his office with two minutes to spare. And with his clients running late, Shane had straightened up his desk, had their secretary arrange the prepared tray of coffee and pastries to look nicer, and spread out his proposal, acting as if he’d been calmly awaiting their arrival instead of dashing around the office like a madman.
He sighed and sank back into his chair just as Justin Harmon, senior partner at the firm, popped his head in the door. Distinguished looking with dark hair graying slightly at his temples, Harmon had an easy disposition and savvy business acumen that made his company one of the best architectural firms in the city. His brother Thomas held the creative side of things together, along with help from Shane and a few others in the wildly successful fourteen-man company.
“How’d things go? Grace seemed happy.” Justin leaned in the doorframe, his eyes sharp. “I hear Mrs. Grace really likes you.”
Shane groaned. “Mr. Grace liked the design, and he’s planning to talk to you about it after he consults his board of trustees. I really like him, but his wife…” Gloria Grace had married a much older man, and her roving eye led one to the impression that her nuptials had definitely been for his money.
“I know. I’m just glad we have a younger crowd working here now. I had to deal with her the last time she came in.” Justin shuddered, and Shane laughed.
Just then Justin’s brother walked by. He frowned. Shane prayed the clock watcher hadn’t noticed his hurried entry this morning.
“So you were late again, eh?” Thomas’s expression didn’t change when he added, “Gloria Grace was in today, wasn’t she?”
“About this morning,” Shane started, but Justin waved his apology aside.
“Never mind. You arrived before the meeting, and Grace liked him,” he said to Thomas. “I meant Jonathan Grace. I think we might need to hide him the next time Gloria wanders in though. He’s been limping. Too many pats on the ass, eh, Shane?”
Shane shot his boss the finger, not constrained by the typical employer/employee relationship. The Harmons had a loose working environment, which made Thomas’s straight-laced attitude odd in a sea of laidback architects.
“I’ve dealt with Gloria in the past. Thank God you’re here,” Justin said with evident relief.
“I’m glad to be here too.” Leaving his uncle’s company in Philadelphia three years ago had been hard, but Harmon & Sons allowed him to be near his parents. Not to mention he worked for an outstanding firm.
Thomas shook his head. “If you weren’t so good behind the drawing board…” The empty threat joined the others he issued weekly.
“But he is,” Justin reminded him. “So cut him some slack. We don’t pay by the hour. And it was a known fact before he got here. You remember what Brett said.”
“Not this again.” Shane sighed.
“Your own uncle told us we wouldn’t want you because you were habitually late and had no social skills to speak of,” Thomas was quick to reiterate.
Justin added, “But then he explained that despite your lack of punctuality, you always put in more than your fair share of work and could do magic with design. He also said you could charm the pants off a client but that your mother despaired of ever becoming a grandmother, hence the crack about your social skills.”
“My mother has wanted to see me married since I turned five, but I’m quite happy being single.”
“Hey, you’ve got no issue from me.” Justin held up his hands. “Not all of us long for the marriage noose. I mean, look what happened to Thomas.” Thomas replied with an anatomically impossible suggestion, causing both men to laugh as he walked away.
“So what did happen this morning? I’m curious.” Justin handed him a sheet of paper. One of the Cornell idiots in the back had been busy. Shane had attended Syracuse, where he’d had more to do than make stupid charts. He and the guys constantly bickered over which of their universities trumped the other, which made work fun, but at times annoying. Like now.
A graph titled “Shane’s Reasons Y” listed the days of the week on one axis and Shane’s past excuses on the other.
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
Good to know he was at least consistent. “Today was strictly legitimate.” Shane tried to defend himself. “Okay, so the alarm clock did happen to ring four times before I woke up. Still, I was dressed and ready to go when I noticed my idiot brother had taken my car. I had to run to the coffee shop to meet a buddy of mine for a ride. And when I got there, this ditzy woman spilled coffee all over me.” He pulled out his stained shirt from the trashcan beneath his desk.
“Priceless. I’ll have to add ‘lady throws coffee at me’ to the list.” Justin laughed as he left the office.
Shane stared at his ruined shirt and wondered how he’d made it to work in one piece. His belly still felt tender and was slightly pink, but he was for the most part unharmed by the hot coffee. The same could not be said for his shirt. His head throbbed from the constant rush of the morning, and his stomach craved something to soothe the acid churning in his belly, courtesy of his caffeine addiction.
He checked his watch and blinked at the late
hour. His meeting with the Graces had taken the entire morning. Then he swore when he realized he’d forgotten to grab his frozen entrée from the freezer at home for lunch. Leafing through the phone book until he found a familiar tab, he called downstairs to place an order for takeout.
As he waited on hold, he looked down at the white pages and noticed the name of a massage clinic above the restaurant’s name.
That’s exactly what I need. In fact, his younger brother had some work done at Bodyworks a few months ago. George had been recovering from knee surgery and at the advice of his physical therapist had gone to the massage clinic for some relief. Recalling his mother’s glowing recommendation, Shane knew they not only did clinical work but also the basic feel-good type of massage.
Just what he needed. The more he thought about it, the more he thought about getting one. He placed his lunch order and hung up the phone. He’d just clinched the Grace deal, a nice piece of business that would bring the firm a lot of revenue. And after today’s hectic morning, he felt he deserved to give himself a treat.
He called and managed to slip into someone’s last minute cancellation for later in the evening. He wrote down the time, address and his therapist’s name—six o’clock, Bodyworks on Queen Anne with Denise. Then he returned to work.
The day flew by, and before he knew it the hour had reached five. Thriving on pressure, Shane did his best work when on constant deadline. He knew he was an oddity, enjoying both the creativity Harmon & Sons afforded him as well as the strict guidelines fitting project due dates. Structure and discipline, the foundations of Shane’s life. Which explained his venture into the Marine Corps and his need to stay fit. Lately though, between travel, work and too many runs, he’d been pushing himself too hard. The massage would be more than a treat, but a much-needed respite from possible shin splints and muscle strain.
He leaned back in his chair and decided to forego his run tonight in lieu of therapy. No way he’d forego his chance at a massage for a hard race around Green Lake. Oddly enough, his mind drifted back to the clumsy woman from that morning.
She’d knocked into him at Sofa’s, which sat directly across from the lake. And she’d worn shorts and a tee-shirt, as if she’d planned on some exercise. He could still see the irritation in her whiskey brown eyes, could feel her soft curves that had jolted him as much as the hot coffee had.
He grimly accepted that the accident had been more his fault than hers. She’d been walking calmly out of Sofa’s when he’d plowed into her like a freight train. He must have seemed like a total ass this morning.
Now that he recalled the incident, he realized she’d been more than pretty. Her almond-shaped eyes had widened in outrage, and brown hair streaked with gold had blown across her arresting face in a blast of wind.
He frowned, not liking that he recalled her so clearly. When his body reacted at the reminder of her full breasts against his chest, he knew he needed to get out. A hard-on at work was definitely a message he suffered from what Mac called, the all work no play syndrome. Definitely time to get laid again.
God, he just hoped Mac didn’t mention the incident to George. Shane’s younger brother was a seventeen-year-old walking hormone. Shane loved and respected women. He believed in a serious relationship and felt that good sex was only good if you solidly cared about your partner. Which explained his celibacy for the past eight months, since his breakup.
Mac and George pitied him because he refused to hook up. From Mac he’d expect such nonsense, but from his younger brother, it made him feel old.
Shane glanced at a photo on his desk, a picture of himself and bunch of buddies in camouflage utilities standing knee-deep in sand in Iraq. Back in the day, he’d train hard and play hard when the opportunity arose. But those days seemed like a lifetime ago. Back when he’d been younger and naïve about life and politics. And love.
Not liking the maudlin turn of his thoughts, he took another look at his newest sketches for the Grace project. Good work deserved a reward. Time to treat himself to some much deserved relaxation. Just imagining the hands of a skilled massage therapist rubbing away his aches and pains urged him to get up and go. He rechecked his penned appointment and nodded. He’d been scheduled with Denise. Good. He couldn’t picture getting naked under a sheet for some big guy named Bruno.
* * *
By six thirty, Shelby had finished with her last client of the day and waved as the kind woman departed. Arching her back, she tried to rub away some of her own tension, knowing her night was far from over. She returned to the front desk to catch up on paperwork.
Massage therapy helped rid the body of contaminants and generally relieved stress. Yet more times than not, Shelby found herself mired in bills and the business side of things rather than dealing with the healing nature of her profession.
The phone rang, breaking into her thoughts. After taking the message, she frowned at the closed door of her massage room, wishing like hell the contractor would finish patching up the wall in Denise’s room. She checked the appointment book and noted Shane Collins scrawled in Denise’s barely legible handwriting. The appointment listed at six o’clock, so Denise more than likely had another half hour to go. Damn, she hated to interrupt the massage, but she knew Denise would need to act on the message right away.
Shelby knocked quietly on the closed door and heard a low murmur from the room. Denise opened the door an inch and peered out.
“What’s up?”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got a message for you that’s urgent.”
“No problem.” Denise called over her shoulder, “Shane? I’m sorry. I have to take this call, but I’ll be right back.” A low male voice answered before she left the room and closed the door behind her, then moved to the desk. “So who called?”
“Sorry, but it’s the man in your life. I’m afraid he’s broken his leg.” Shelby waited for the worried explosion sure to follow. Denise was fanatical about her man.
“Oh my God! Cupcake! What happened? Was that my mother?”
“Yeah. Your mom said he must have gotten loose somehow and ran out of the yard. A car driving at the speed limit hit him, so he’s not too roughed up. I know you’ll want to see how he’s doing. Why don’t you go, and I’ll finish up your client?”
Denise had tears in her eyes. Cupcake meant the world to her. A scrawny mutt she’d picked up at the pound, he’d been with her through thick and thin. “Are you sure?” Denise wiped her eyes.
Shelby handed Denise her car keys from the desk and nodded. “Go on home. Give me a call later and let me know how he’s doing.”
Denise flew out the door, and Shelby shook her head. She prayed, for Denise’s peace of mind, that the dog would make it.
Realizing she now had a client to pacify, she quickly moved into the bathroom to wash her hands and returned to her room. She entered to the soothing sounds of new age music and the slight aroma of jasmine from the burning candles in the corner. Dim yet peaceful, the room radiated serenity and relaxation.
“I’m sorry about the interruption,” she said quietly to the man lying on his stomach with his head down and resting in the doughnut-shaped pillow which allowed for ease of breathing. He appeared almost asleep, his back rising and falling evenly, but he mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear. Before she could say anything more, he turned his head to the side, his eyes still closed.
Shelby barely contained her dismay. Upon her table lay the half-naked form of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Rude from this morning, his upper body bare, a sheet draped over his lower back, buttocks, and legs. She glanced at the clothing rack on the wall to confirm his identity. The same black jacket and dark trousers hung from a hook, along with a blue shirt.
She stared back down at him and resisted the urge to lean into his ear and yell at him to get the hell out of her clinic. That would scare the impoliteness out of him. But her professionalism wouldn’t let her. Word of mouth traveled fast, and this guy already didn’t like her. She frowned at the thou
ght of him telling people bad things about her clinic and could almost see the dollar signs flying away.
Grimacing at his unfairly handsome face, she wondered why he’d ventured into her clinic, of all places. Seattle had more than fifty massage clinics open at any given time, yet Mr. Rude managed to pick hers. Some cosmic joke at work, surely. She swore under her breath.
“I’m going to turn your head so you don’t strain your neck.” She turned his face back into the doughnut-shaped pillow. Frowning at the feel of his skin under her palms, she felt uncomfortable with the heat that raced up her arms. She shook off the strangeness and focused on the rest of the massage.
As she continued to work on his back, she couldn’t help noticing the smooth muscles and power in his build. He had a very nice body, she thought with objectivity. As a person comfortable and familiar with human physiology, she was a good judge of such things. And a person would need to be blind and plain oblivious not to see that this man kept in very good shape. He had wonderful tone and definition. Working on him was actually very easy due to his fluidity.
As she brought clinical detachment to the forefront of her thoughts, she scrambled to bury the needy woman inside her screaming to see how his ass might feel under her hands.
“Does that feel all right?” she asked softly. She didn’t want him to know she wasn’t Denise. He needed to get his money’s worth and at the same time think positively about Bodyworks. If she gave him a great massage, he’d be too relaxed to be angry with her when he paid her at the session’s end and recognized her. She hoped.
“Mmm,” he mumbled. “That feels great.”
The sexy rasp of his voice made her belly flutter. Her massage wasn’t in the least bit sexual, but she couldn’t help feeling arousal at contact with his body. God, I am not getting turned on by this guy. He’s a lump of clay, something I can mold into healthy muscles.
She continued to work on his back. Then she changed position to work on his legs, keeping the sheet in place over his firm, tight ass. Buttocks, not ass. Ass is sexy. Buttocks is professional. She felt like a mental patient at odds with herself. Not the best time for slutty Shelby to make an appearance.