by Cathryn Fox
He lowered his voice and leaned in. His eyes skirted over her once again. "Come on, Cat. You really need to start being a player if you want to get ahead in this competitive business. Come out with me Saturday night and we'll talk about the ways I can help you."
She'd rather pull her toenails off with a pair of pliers than spend a Saturday night with him.
Feeling compelled to show him exactly what she thought of his nauseating idea, she slammed her coffee cup onto her desk with much more force than required. The coffee sloshed over the sides and landed on Hawk's jeans. Such a shame.
With bright-eyed innocence, she blinked up at him. "Oh, sorry."
Hawk jumped and swatted at his crotch. Likely the most action that area had seen in awhile. That small stunt might have earned her a scowl from him, but it gave her a whole lot of self-satisfaction.
His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared as his beady eyes tracked back to her face. "You know, Cat," he bit out, "a second article might have given you a chance to impress the editors at the Daily Press. You're screwing your own career."
Better than screwing him.
Wait! Her mind raced. How did he know about the Daily Press? Before she had a chance to ask, he turned his back to her and strutted away. Refusing to give him satisfaction by chasing after him, she sat in her chair and stewed.
Well, that hadn't gone quite as planned. Grumbling, Cat turned her attention back to her blank screen. Returning to professional mode, she dug into her interview notes and redirected her attention to this week's column.
A short while later, Cat blinked her eyes and was pleased to see she'd written a good chunk of her article. She scanned it, thrilled to discover it wasn't half bad. Actually, it was pretty damn good.
As she read it over again, she found herself chuckling out loud, realizing just how much she enjoyed writing about mating and dating woes. She had to admit, when she hit the big times, she would miss frequenting the nightclubs and mingling with the young and well-hung, as she'd once heard it put. Cat enjoyed interviewing both genders on their dating disasters. Not that she had to frequent the clubs for research material, she just enjoyed the interaction. Lately, however, her phone had been ringing off the hook with people wanting to tell their stories to her. She had enough research material and ideas to last a whole year.
Cat climbed from her chair and stretched. Her gaze skated over the office, taking stock of her coworkers milling about, phones ringing, and televisions blaring as everyone kept a close eye on current events. It was only a small setup compared to the Daily Press, but most of the people in the office were her friends. She kind of liked the close-knit family feel to it. Perhaps it was because she'd grown accustomed to having so many people around, being raised in a family with six older brothers and all.
Her gaze fell on the floor-to-ceiling glass wall separating the office complex from the bustling downtown sidewalk. The midday autumn sun sliced through the clear panels and beckoned her. Since she needed to grab lunch and stretch her legs, she decided to answer the call of the warm rays. As she made her way to the door, she spotted her boss, Blain, stepping into his office.
She stopped and backtracked. "Do you have a minute?"
Blain glanced up from his keyboard, his kind brown eyes meeting her gaze. In some ways he reminded her of her father. Perhaps it was the short cut hair and tinges of gray around his temples. Blain played hardball with his staff, needing to run a tight ship, but Cat knew deep down he was a fair man.
"That depends," he replied.
They both knew the real reason she stood there, clinging to his doorframe like a barnacle, so there really was no point in skirting the issue. "So what do you say? Have you changed your mind about me doing a follow-up? "
"No."
Cat stepped farther into the office. "Come on, Blain. My article was great and you know it." Except for the fact that she made one teeny, tiny mistake and mentioned Rio, of course.
"That's not the point, Cat."
"Then what is the point?" she asked, willing to play hardball in return to get what she wanted.
Blain drew air and leaned back in his chair. "Are we going to do this again?"
Cat planted her hands on her hips; her lips thinned. "Sam is a good guy. He doesn't deserve to have protestors breathing down his neck. Let me write another article to make this right for him."
Cat stiffened as Hawk's voice sounded from behind. "Sounds like someone is sweet on Mr. Scientist."
She spun around and met with dark eyes that burned into her like hot coals. One brow arched knowingly. He gave a derisive twist of his lips, his voice taking on a hard edge. "Is this article really about Sam, or is it about you, Cat?"
"Hawk," Blain's voice grated in warning, obviously tasting the tension between the two.
Contrary to what Hawk believed, the article was intended to benefit Sam, not herself. This was no longer about personal gain or upping her credentials to impress the Daily Press, which made her take pause. Wouldn't a hard-core journalist use whatever means necessary to fetch a story? Even go against their own best interests, or step on a few people along the way? Some inner voice warned that, contrary to what her father believed or wanted, perhaps she wasn't cut out for hard-hitting news after all.
Ignoring Hawk, Cat turned back to Blain and switched tactics. "One article, then I'll drop it."
"It's too late, Cat. Yesterday I asked Hawk to do a follow-up. He's on it."
Cat's lips tightened. Anger flared through her. She twisted around and cut Hawk a look, resisting the urge to whack that smirk off his face. The lying bastard had no intention of talking to Blain for her, like he'd offered earlier, in return for God knows what. He'd known all along he'd gotten the follow-up.
She walked up to Hawk and pinned him with a glare. "You make this right for Sam." With that she stalked back to her desk. Mind racing, she stared at her half-finished article for the next fifteen minutes or so, yet couldn't seem to concentrate on a single word. Agitated, she rifled through her drawers, although she had no idea what she was searching for.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of her destination before she'd gotten sidetracked. Needing air, she grabbed an orange off her desk, pulled her tote bag out from beside her chair, and made her way to the front door.
As she approached the glass wall, she glanced out and spotted Hawk talking to someone on the other side of the street. The man looked vaguely familiar. Cat squinted, her mind racing, trying to place the guy Hawk appeared to be in deep conversation with. Then it hit her. It was none other than the infamous protester, Eugene Letterman.
She furrowed her brow in confusion. Why would Hawk be talking to Eugene?
Cat's stomach tightened. She felt her blood run cold. She didn't like the look of this at all. Not one little bit. Hawk was up to something. Every instinct warned her. Did this have something to do with Sam? Were the two in cahoots? If so, how and for how long?
Cat ripped the peel off her orange and moved closer to the window. Wishing she could hear their distant conversation. Hawk handed something to Eugene, but from her angle and distance she couldn't tell what.
Perhaps it was time for her to do a little investigation of her own, whether Blain approved or not.
* * *
Chapter 6
With all the metered spots taken in front of Cat's newspaper office, Sam parked a block down the street and walked the rest of the way. The warm sun beat down on him and helped soothe his ragged nerves. As he approached her building, he spotted Cat pushing through the front glass door and stepping out onto the curb. The minute Sam set eyes on her his body buzzed to life and his blood raced.
South.
He registered every curvy detail of her business attire. Coat draped over her arm, she wore a knee-length black skirt that hugged her hips in all the right places and a soft green blouse that matched the color of her eyes. Cat scanned the street and ripped the peel off an orange like the two had a personal vendetta.
What was it with
her and oranges anyway, he mused. Did she have some kind of addiction?
Sam could almost smell the succulent wedges. He could almost taste its vine-ripened sweetness.
He could almost stop his cock from hardening.
Damn.
Twirling on the ball of her foot, Cat spun in the opposite direction and hurried down the street. He had no idea where she was headed, but her strides appeared to be quite determined.
"Cat," Sam called out to her, but the bustling pedestrians and street sounds swallowed his voice. Weaving his way through the lunch-hour crowd, he jogged to catch up. As his long legs ate up the distance, he called out again, louder this time.
Her footsteps stilled. She turned back around. Her mouth dropped open but no words came. He could almost hear a small gasp crawl out of her throat when she spotted him rushing toward her.
Smoothing her hair off her face, a gesture he was becoming increasingly accustomed to, Cat hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and stepped toward him.
"Sam. What are you doing here?" He'd been the one jogging, yet she was the one who sounded winded.
Gorgeous cat eyes widened with a mixture of delight and surprise as she studied him. His heart skipped a beat, thrilled with the way she reacted upon seeing him, and equally thrilled that there was no awkwardness between them after last night.
He touched her arm. He wasn't exactly sure why. He'd never been the needy, touchy feely type with women before. But Cat was so damn irresistible he couldn't keep his hands off her. Then again, there was always the possibility he was seeking some deeper form of intimacy with her.
Sam frowned in concentration.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, her perfect brow arching with genuine concern. She placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed, a silent offering of support and comfort.
Tenderness stole over him. The warmth in her eyes spoke volumes. Cat Nichols, the same woman who'd written an article on him and unknowingly fucked his future, really and truly cared about his well-being. It touched him somewhere down deep, stirring up old feelings. As bewitching green cat eyes stared up at him in worry, he felt a flash of possessiveness.
Guilt washed over him like a tsunami wave, guilt for even entertaining the idea that she'd offered herself in exchange just to get the story.
"Sam?" she asked again, "Are you okay?"
It took a moment for him to remember why he was there. He searched his mind and remembered the note. Yes, the note, the reason he'd braved lunch-hour traffic and darted down the street after her like a crazed junkie looking for a fix. Not his desperate need to see her, to touch her, to kiss her, or to hold her in his arms again.
He drew a breath, centering himself, and addressed her worries. "I need to talk to you about a letter I received today," he answered, knowing damn well he was skirting the truth.
She angled her body and peered around his shoulder. She closed her eyes for a brief second and drew in air. "Oh no," she whispered.
Reading her distress, Sam twisted around, his gaze brushed over the crowd. "What is it?"
Cat dropped her orange into her tote bag and grabbed his arm, alarm in her expression. "Remember that loudmouthed protestor?" Without giving him time to answer, she jerked her head to Sam's left and rushed on, "Well he's coming our way."
A surge of anger made Sam's blood boil. With both hands fisted, he made a move to turn, but Cat stopped him as though reading his intent.
Why the hell was he such an easy read lately anyway?
"Not here, Sam," she warned. "Not in front of the paper. Not unless you want to be tomorrow's headline."
Blood pounding, he ground his back teeth together until his jaw ached. "I don't."
"I didn't think so. Come with me." Cat tugged on his arm and led him into an alleyway.
With little choice in the matter, Sam complied and hightailed it down the street behind her. Like a dog on the chase, he followed Cat between two towering buildings.
"Where are we going?" His voice came out gruff, hating that he had to dart from the protestor, especially if the son of a bitch was responsible for the threatening note. Even though he would have preferred to get to the bottom of this, here and now, gut instinct told him avoiding a direct confrontation was his best course of action. The last thing he needed was his name splashed across the morning headlines, especially when the media attention had just begun to die down.
"There's a back door to the office. We'll go in there and wait it out." Cat reached into her tote bag and pulled out her identification card. She ran it through an electronic lock and pushed the heavy metal door open. "In here."
She stepped in and Sam followed. With her fingers pressed to her lips she whispered, "I'm not supposed to be doing this, so don't make any noise."
He put his mouth close to her ear. The scent of succulent orange and fruity shampoo reached his nostrils. He inhaled. Damn, he could just eat her up and go back for seconds. "I don't want to get you into trouble," he whispered.
She mouthed the words, "It's okay. Follow me."
Shadowing her, Sam stepped into what appeared to be a small storage room.
"The door, Sam-"
Before she had a chance to finish her sentence, Sam gripped the knob, and with a hard tug, pulled the wooden door shut behind them, blanketing them in darkness.
"Sam, no."
Confused by the distress in her tone, he turned in the direction of her voice. "What?"
Cat groaned. "Tell me you didn't pull that tight."
Obviously missing something, Sam blinked, trying to focus on her, but unable to see anything in the pitch dark. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
Cat cursed under her breath. Sexy little breathy cussing words that actually turned him on. Not that it took much these days. Christ, what kind of a guy got turned on by swearing? Actually, it really didn't matter what Cat said. She could scream at him in a foreign language and it would still arouse him. Just the sound of her melodic voice turned him on.
Wouldn't Doctor Phil have a field day with that one?
"The latch is broken," she said.
Sam felt her slide past him, enjoying the way her body brushed against his. She toyed with the door handle then blew out a resigned breath.
"Great. We're stuck."
"Stuck?"
"Yeah, stuck. The latch is broken and the damn doorframe is swollen from all the rain and high humidity we've had recently. Maintenance was supposed to be here two days ago. They're not known for their promptness."
Sam tried the door. It didn't budge. He put his shoulder into it but to no avail; it still didn't open. Running his hand along the wall, Sam groped for a light switch. "Now I suppose you're going to tell me the light is burnt out too."
Cat flicked the switch. Sam blinked and winced. "Thanks for the warning."
She shot him an apologetic glance. "Sorry." Turning her attention to her tote bag, she rooted through it and pulled out her half-peeled orange, setting it on top of the filing cabinet.
The arousing scent assailed his senses and curled around him, bringing back heated memories of the intoxicating taste of her mouth, and the unique feminine taste between her thighs.
Sam's stomach growled. His mouth salivated as his hunger for her clawed its way to the surface. His dick grew hard. A slow burning fire trickled through his veins.
He watched Cat, hair falling forward, intense concentration on her face. His heart did a curious little jump as her beauty stole his next breath. Her pretty pink tongue darted out and swiped at her bottom lip. God, she looked so gorgeous. Her sensual movements bombarded him with foreign emotions. His muscles tightened with lust and need.
"What are you doing?" His voice came out a little deep, a little gruff as he envisioned himself getting reacquainted with those luscious lips of hers.
Both sets.
Sam had the distinct impression that if he touched her again, kissed her, and sank his engorged cock into her slick heat, it would ultimately get the little wildcat deeper into hi
s system, not out, like he'd originally anticipated. He should pull back, he really should. Before they crossed some imaginary intimacy line and she touched him on another level.
She sounded flustered. "I'm looking for my cell phone. I have to call someone to get us out." She shivered. "I'm claustrophobic."
Sam reached into his jeans, his fingers curling around his cell phone. He pressed a button, turning it off.
"Where the hell is my phone?" Cat grumbled under her breath as pens and notepads spilled to the floor.
It occurred to Sam that calling for help was not his first priority. He swallowed and stepped closer, crowding her. So much for his plan to pull back. Around Cat he became blindsided by need and his control crumbled like burnt toast.
Anticipation coursed through him as his gaze flitted across her body. He felt a rush of sexual energy, similar to the one he'd gotten in Jessica Johnson's little kissing closet back in junior high. It felt as naughtily delicious now as it did back then. Only this time, kissing wouldn't even begin to sate his hunger.
Taking pause, Sam considered their predicament a moment longer. Two hours ago he'd never expected to be locked in a storage closet with Cat, sporting the mother of all boners. He had to admit, his day was taking a turn for the better.
"Are you telling me no one can get in or out? That we could be stuck in here for hours?" His mind raced and filled with all the deliciously wicked things he could do to that lush body in those few hours.
She snorted and gave him a look suggesting he was two pages behind. "Haven't you been listening? "
He grinned, enjoying this sassy side of her. "I've been listening," he assured her. "I just wanted to be sure of the details."
Still searching her bag, she wrinkled her nose, impatience obvious in her stance. "Details? What are you talking about, Sam?"
He moved into her personal space and adjusted his footing, until her legs were trapped inside his. "Maybe you shouldn't call just yet." His words sounded suggestive and gained her attention.
She flicked him a glance. When her gaze met his, her movements stilled, awareness dawning on her face. "Oh."