Secret Desire

by Taylor, Susan D.

  Secret Desire

  Susan D. Taylor

  Copyright Warning

  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By

  Etopia Press

  1643 Warwick Ave., #124

  Warwick, RI 02889

  http://www.etopia-press.net

  Secret Desire

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan D. Taylor

  ISBN: 978-1-939194-65-7

  Edited by Nancy Cassidy

  Cover by Amber Shah

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Etopia Press electronic publication: February 2013

  ~ Dedication ~

  To Douglas S. Taylor, my husband and cherished friend, the man who listened, encouraged, and always provided a source of inspiration, not to mention motocross tech advice. To my mother and daughter for their belief that wishes do come true. Namaste.

  Thank you to Nancy Cassidy, my editor, for your time, endless patience, and commitment. Thank you Etopia Press and Annie Melton for this chance.

  Chapter One

  Seattle, Washington

  Claire would not say his name for the one-millionth time. Would definitely not think of his hard body or his hot mouth or the things she wanted to do with him.

  Perhaps denying herself was ridiculous, but it was an exercise in self-control. She had little or no other means to stop him from appearing in her dreams, flashes of him in her thoughts, filling her fantasies uninvited. He was living back home again; her father had told her when she called last week. He’d come back to renovate his parents’ house. She inhaled, banishing an image of him, and scribbled onto the yellow legal pad.

  You’d think a broken heart would stop bleeding.

  She pinched the pen between her fingers and drew a line through the words. If only forgetting were possible. She’d considered hypnosis but was too embarrassed to pursue it as a remedy. If she could be done with him by elixir or tonic, she would have ordered a magical potion from sheer desperation, even if only for some placebo effect.

  All she had at the moment was an ink pen, moving and marking fine lines over her words. She didn’t stop until the letters were obliterated. But not the sentiment. Or the feel of his lips.

  Dustin, she sighed. Her personal critic groaned.

  “Fine. One million one and counting,” Claire grumbled.

  She took a last sip of her coffee and set the cup down on the table. She needed to occupy her mind so he didn’t keep reappearing in her thoughts willy-nilly. Only in her secret writing could she find an escape if she chose or seek to fulfill her fantasies of the man she’d left back home. Tonight Dustin seemed to take possession of her thoughts, but it was her body that wanted fulfillment. She half-closed her eyes and imagined the things Dustin would do to her. Her breath caught, her eyes fluttered, and he was gone.

  Claire moaned, slamming her hand down in frustration. She had to stop imagining him. These fantasies tended to spill into her nighttime writing, and if she wasn’t careful, her next heroine might very well fall into the arms of a motocross-riding hero who closely resembled the boy next door. Even on the opposite coast, without seeing or talking to him for years, he was dangerous.

  The words she’d written on the yellow pad might be hidden, but the lines did not erase her feelings. Her writing was more like her life than she’d rather admit. She hid all week at her desk at Ethos working in a job that was safe while she longed to do something else. At first she’d believed getting hired by a cutting-edge magazine like Ethos was the realization of a life goal. She was writing for a living. Each week she hammered out a story for her editor, until recently, when she’d realized her life was no different than before. She wasn’t happy as a journalist. She couldn’t make herself fit into a slot by never giving into her own desire to write from the heart. Deep down she was a card-carrying romantic, with an e-reader filled with love stories and an ever ready box of tissues.

  There was one place where she could be alone and take control of her memories of him. A world of respite, where things might have a black moment, a darkest hour, but in the end things worked out for her fictional characters, two people who fell in love, with some form of happy ending and many, many steamy, sexy scenes. Her only curse was to have an ever present imaginary critic who constantly whispered sweet nothings in the form of harsh criticisms. At the moment, the critic was nowhere to be seen and Claire could bring her sexy fantasy world to life.

  She reached for her computer. Her fingertips sat poised at the keys as the image of the scene within a story evolved. She bit her lip, thinking of Dustin, and shook her head.

  “Stop that,” she hissed softly.

  Claire readied her imagination. She refocused on the screen. She flexed her curled fingers in anticipation. As if a shot was fired, Claire’s fingertips began tapping out the rhythm of the story, a current flowing from her body into the computer. Claire leapt forward into the realm of creation, escaping her apartment kitchen, laying out the groundwork of her next story. The walls melted away.

  Cynthia’s gray suit spoke clearly of business and nothing at all frivolous. Her skirt fell an inch or so above the crease at the back of her knees. The seams of her stockings ran perfectly straight down the back of her calves. But her shoes…they spoke an entirely different language than her suit did. Six-inch heels—sling-back stilettos in Madeira-wine-colored patent leather. She lifted one arched foot, dangling her shoe. There he was, coming through the front doors of the office with a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. Her heart tripped and somersaulted. She held her breath, and once again he walked by her as if she were a piece of the reception room furniture.

  It was foolish to keep trying to capture his attention. She doubted standing in her birthday suit with a rose between her lips would gather more than a side-glance from the Adonis in a Hugo Boss suit. She tried not to lose hope. There was always tomorrow. One day the handsome hunk might look up.

  Cynthia exhaled a sigh and picked up the envelope she had brought with her. She crossed the room filled with people seated under the crisp office lighting. The room smelled of newspaper ink and buzzed with whispered comments. She reached the end of the reception area, coming to the hallway. Several high-pitched voices rose behind her and she swerved left.

  She ran her hand over the smooth mahogany paneling, only stopping when she came to a doorway. She studied the sharply etched nameplate and inhaled with a hollow sense of satisfaction. There was no need for an invitation, not anymore. This was her office, a reward for spending evenings and weekends under a slush pile two feet high and always meeting deadlines. She pushed the door open and entered the office, gliding alongside the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. She flung the envelope onto the credenza and picked up her printed agenda for the day.

  “Mamma mia,” she muttered. Every box was filled all the
way to eight o’clock that evening. She twisted to look out the window and was caught by the image of herself in the thick glass.

  Her reflection was the ghostly image of a woman who yearned for something missing. She griped the single sheet of paper as if it were a lifeline.

  She walked around her desk, sat and read for the next hour nonstop. Finally, she sighed as she tossed the bound set of papers into a basket on her desk. She rubbed her forehead and stretched languidly, and then she lifted another packet from the nearby pile. She snapped off the rubber band and read aloud for a while, but soon set it down. Disappointed, Cynthia pressed the sensitive point at her temple. She tightened her mouth in annoyance. She scanned another page of the last submission plucked from the slush pile. Already two other sets of eyes had reviewed each story before she touched a page, but she still hadn’t found anything decent in the pile.

  A quick knock sounded at the door, and Emily, her assistant, came in carrying another tray of manuscripts.

  “Over there, please.” Cynthia pointed. Her assistant nodded and picked up an armload of stories marked “REJECT.”

  “Not a decent plot line in the bunch?”

  “Zero. Keep your fingers crossed for the next stack.” That wasn’t altogether true. One story had promise, but the author had portrayed the hero as weak and controllable. Not the alpha male this editor was interested in publishing. Maybe she was just cranky because each of the heroines had enjoyed a date that ended with a hot naked man doing everything under the sun with them.

  She’d be happy with a clothed man, dinner…the image of the navy-suited Adonis filled her until she remembered eight o’clock tonight might end up as nine o’clock if she didn’t get cracking. A rapid double knock sounded and the door wedged open. Her boss stuck his head inside.

  “Cyn, you up for lunch?”

  She glanced back at him over black eyeglass frames. “No. Not with this stack. I’m camping out here until the pile is whittled down…far down. But thanks, J.P.”

  “Right.” He chuckled. “I’d better watch out for my corner office.” The door closed, and Cynthia leaned forward, tapping her fingernails ruefully.

  She lived here, sometimes slept here. Not so bad…if you counted the fact she’d made editor before turning twenty-five and now ran the most popular romance imprint. Still, it was not enough. The board would meet next week, and she expected another promotion. Yes. He’d better watch that damn corner office, she mused without feeling especially excited.

  Cynthia pushed back into the cushy leather chair and swung her legs on top of the desk. She tossed another overdone romance into the reject pile. Already pages into the next story, she hardly noticed her door open. “Emily, I’m looking for more tension, more heat. I want something that sizzles.” Cynthia didn’t raise her eyes from the page. “None of these make me hot, never mind dripping wet.”

  “Excuse me?” a deep male voice asked.

  Cynthia lifted her gaze from the manuscript and locked onto a pair of deep brown eyes set in a tanned face. She swallowed and for a moment wondered if she was dreaming. She pinched herself. Adonis was standing right in front of her. Up close, she was convinced he must be one of the cover models. If only she had a digital camera in her desk.

  “Photography is down the hall, make a left, and look for the red door.” She was suddenly too nervous to enjoy the eye candy break.

  “Cynthia Lewis?” He stepped into her office before closing the door. The man’s broad shoulders were perfectly framed by the door behind him. Her eyes drifted down his body, lingered at the bulge in his pants, and eventually returned to his face. His lips clamped together, making the muscle along his jaw twitch. He walked toward her and didn’t stop until he stood in front of her desk. He towered above her, his fingers pressing the glass surface of her desk as he leaned over.

  “Yes, I’m—” Christ, she almost forgot her own name.

  The man’s gaze fell to her legs still carelessly strewn across her desk. Her heart thundered in her ears. Warmth from his sharp exhale caressed the skin at her ankles.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was demanding.

  “Who are you?” His tone and the gleam in his eyes rooted her to the chair. On the brink of self-doubt, she pointedly reminded herself—she was Cynthia Lewis. A woman who wielded power in the world of publishing. Yet his complete command of himself drew her. This was a man who expected others to do exactly what he said. Nothing short of her complete fantasy warrior come to life.

  “I’m from the twenty-seventh floor.” He straightened and raised an eyebrow as if that piece of information should mean something to her.

  She hardly got out of her own office. What department was up there? Apparently totally alpha scorching studs. This was her chance, the reason she trudged out to the reception room and hovered around the front desk each morning. She bit her lip and decided—no regrets for trying “And?” She returned his mocking raised-brow expression in an eye-for-an-eye stare down.

  “I’m Thornton Maxwell…your attorney.” He turned away, but not before she caught his look of displeasure. “God. Woman, do you even know what a mess you’ve got on your hands? We need to talk. A real pressure cooker is about blow.”

  Cynthia froze. This wasn’t part of her erotic fantasy. What was he talking about? Should she just come out and admit she had no idea of what was going on or get him to divulge what demanded damage control?

  She pretended unconcerned boredom in an attempt to buy some time to think. “Someone’s got his panties in a real twist.”

  This wasn’t the first time she’d needed legal. But if he was her new go-to man, she was tempted to screw more things up.

  This was a conundrum. He was too damn good-looking. This type of man didn’t appreciate a dumbbell. Did he know how hard she worked or that sometimes contracts needed to be bent? “Explored” is what she liked to call it. Wasn’t that why McGavock Publishing hired a boatload of first-year attorneys anyway? Shoot, he was probably upset because his weekend golf game was about to be rained out.

  He paced in front of her desk while raking fingers through his thick, dark hair. Cynthia noticed the way he flexed and moved his arms, his muscles pumping and expanding. He stopped, spun around, and marched back to her desk.

  “Lewis, when you cross out clauses and write your own notes into a publishing contract, we don’t have a legal leg to stand on in court when an issue is disputed. The things you’ve included to get an author to sign without consulting legal is tying us in knots. The next time you promise a writer the moon, you better consult me first and NASA second. Not whatever pops into that pretty little head of yours. You need my help with this lawsuit, and I expect your cooperation. You might as well know now that’s going to mean during office hours as well as evenings and weekends.”

  His finger was pointed directly in front of her face. She imagined sucking the tip until her sex-crazed brain finally grasped his message.

  What? She was floored. Her stomach felt punched, the fist of surprise still lodged in her ribcage. Her mind reeled. It wasn’t possible. She was being threatened with a lawsuit for a couple of silly additions to a contract, and now this man expected her to drop everything. Was he joking? Slowly she inhaled.

  “I’m innocent.” She stared back at him. “Sure, I’m not beyond bending the rules, but a lawsuit? No, that’s not possible; it’s impossible. You’ve got to help me.”

  “We definitely need a sit-down. Not your usual brush-off and expectation for legal to jump through a hoop. This one is serious.” His gaze swept over her face and downward. The space between them crackled with static energy. He was more than steamed. But he was ready to step in and help her. A spasm of pleasure trilled in her veins. He was her knight in shining armor. She wasn’t the enemy. Not his at least. With all that pent-up fury of his, it was a shame to let it go to waste. He was handsome beyond belief…another time, over cocktails or at a party, she’d not think twice about what her body wanted. His dark eyes
weren’t all anger…passion brewed there, pulling the cords to her attraction, making her skin tingle. Oh, my. He wanted to school her good. But maybe she could teach him a thing.

  “Thor…Thornton, sit down.” She recouped her confidence. He was in her dominion. The door was closed. Her assistant always knocked before entering. The glass panels were mirrored. He was so near…all she had to do was reach out to him.

  She met his bad-boy stare with excitement screaming in her ears.

  “Please.” She was almost purring, beseeching him over the rim of her eyeglasses.

  “Fine, I’m all ears.” He pulled up a chair closer to her desk. “Well?”

  She studied him. If the man ever smiled, he’d be drop-dead gorgeous. She let the papers slip out of her fingers, and she pushed her glasses up on top of her head. Cynthia rubbed her ankles together, and his eyes fixed onto legs.

  Ding, ding. Johnny, she had a winner.

  She lifted her legs and stood, acting as if arranging her papers was vital. She felt, rather than saw, that his gaze was upon her.

  “Client-attorney privilege?” She rounded the desk, trailing her fingers along the surface.

  “Yes, whatever you share. Go on.”

  “Where shall I begin?” She stopped and leaned back on her desk, directly in front of him. Eighteen inches of space separated them.