Today was hers, she told herself further, as she reached for the keys to what she'd always considered, not the SUV—the sport utility vehicle—but the SAV—the suburban assault vehicle. Jingling the keys merrily in her hand, she headed toward the four-car garage behind Ashling. She wasn't going to worry about anything today, she promised herself. Not Schuyler. Not Mrs. Beecham. Not Chloe. She wasn't even going to worry about Lily.
And she certainly wouldn't worry about Mr. Leonard Freiberger and what he had been up to during his time at Ashling. Not for all the money in the world.
Funny how life worked out sometimes, Leo thought as he lay beneath a big pile of large, sweaty men. He had just been thinking about Lily Rigby—not so surprising, really, seeing as how he'd been thinking about little else lately—when, lo and behold, a woman should appear who looked exactly like her.
Well, not exactly like her, he amended as he grunted and tried to push himself up on his elbows, only to be thwarted by the most massive of the large, sweaty men. With a muffled oof, he fell back to the ground, tasting dirt, and eyed the woman again. No, this woman wasn't wearing a no-nonsense business suit and striding purposefully through a huge estate as if she were the queen of all she surveyed, the way he'd come to think about Lily Rigby. Instead, this woman was clad in faded jeans and a sweater made of some soft, fuzzy… stuff… and she was lying on her stomach in the grass with her legs bent backward and upward. She was reading a book—and was really, really involved in it, too, if the look on her face was any indication—beneath a tree not fifty feet away from where Leo had just been soundly sacked in his role as weekend quarterback.
Call him crazy, but there was just something incredibly sexy about a woman wearing big ol' hiking boots. Maybe it was because hiking boots were traditionally something he'd always viewed as utterly masculine, and seeing them on a woman who was anything but masculine just made her seem that much more feminine. Then again, he thought further, Lily Rigby could be wearing waders and have a duck sitting on her head, and Leo would still think she was sexy as hell. Especially if that was all she was wearing. Hmmm…
With one final shove, he pushed upward, freeing himself from the last of the large, sweaty men. "Get offa me," he grumbled to his buddy Nelson as the two men struggled to stand. He arced his gaze around at the five other men who met weekly for a game of football in Fairmont Park. "Jeez, you idiots, I thought this was just supposed to be a friendly game. College rules, not prison rules."
"Sorry," Nelson said without an ounce of apology. As always, however, anything the man said came out sounding like a death sentence.
Nelson stood eye to eye with Leo, but outweighed him by a good thirty pounds. With his dark skin and shaved head, and eyes as black as thunder, he was a menacing-looking sonofabitch. He'd been drafted to the Eagles once upon a time, but an injury had forced him into extremely early retirement. Which was just as well, because he was doubtless making a lot more now as a stockbroker than he would have made playing second-string ball.
He cracked each one of his knuckles in turn—slowly—and smiled evilly. "Felt like we were losing you there, man. Needed to bring you back around. You been awfully… distracted lately."
Well, no shit, Leo thought. A woman like Lily Rigby living in your brain and taunting your libido night and day sorta left a man preoccupied. But he didn't offer any explanation. Instead, he turned to gaze at the source of that preoccupation, became even more preoccupied than usual, and smiled with much preoccupation.
Yep, that was definitely Lily Rigby. She was definitely wearing some incredibly sexy denim and sweater stuff—not to mention those haunting hiking boots—and she was definitely so wrapped up in her book that she wasn't paying any attention at all to her surroundings. He could sit there all day watching her, he thought, and she'd never even know it. But hey, where was the fun in that?
He glanced down at his Georgetown sweatshirt and jeans and noted they were only a little bit muddy and grass-stained. Likewise, he was only marginally fragrant from his athletic endeavors of the last hour. So he bent to retrieve the driving cap he'd been wearing to ward off the day's chill and settled it on his head backward, where it had been before Nelson had tried to turn him into a bag of mulch. Damn. If only he'd had the foresight to wear his glasses instead of his contacts, he might just be able to pass himself off as lame Leonard Freiberger.
"I need a pair of glasses," he said, so focused was he on that one thought.
"What for?" Nelson asked.
Only then did Leo realize he'd spoken aloud. He didn't want to have to explain his reasons to a bunch of guys who would hound him relentlessly about his double life and his attraction to the delectable Miss Rigby. Nor could he offer an honest explanation anyway, even if he wanted to, seeing as how he had taken a blood oath for the sake of Kimball's board of directors.
So all he said was, "Long story. It's not that big a deal."
"Here," Mike, one of the other men, piped up. He pulled off his own tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles and held them out toward Leo. "Take mine. They're not real. They're mood glasses."
Leo scowled at his friend. "Oh, God. Not you, too." But he reached for the glasses anyway. "What is it with this stuff?" he asked as he donned them. "I can't believe anybody who doesn't have to wear these things would actually choose to wear them."
All the men gaped at him. "Chicks dig 'em," they said as one.
Leo rolled his eyes. "Just pretend you don't know me, okay?"
Nelson chuckled. "Like we don't do that all the time."
Leo emitted a rude sound of disgust in response, and turned his back on the men. When they realized he was approaching Miss Rigby, however—hey, they were smart guys; they recognized a man in heat when they saw one—they all began to laugh themselves silly and offer him, oh… etiquette instruction… that was dubious at best.
Suddenly, he felt as if he were back in sixth grade, and all the boys in school knew about his crush on Marianne Gianelli, and how he was leaving the football field to go over to where the girls were playing Josie and the Pussycats, just so he might get a whiff of her Love's Baby Soft cologne.
It was humiliating, he thought, that a thirty-eight-year-old man could be reduced to hormone-driven prepubescence by the simple sight of a woman in hiking boots. Man. He was a disgrace to his gender. Even if they were really sexy hiking boots.
As he drew nearer to Lily Rigby, however, his humiliation vanished, because there was something about the look on her face as she rapidly, rabidly, turned the page of her book and continued to read. Seeing that expression made him feel much better about the potential for what might lay ahead.
In the time it took her to finally notice him, he had dropped down onto the grass beside her, had leaned on one elbow and stretched his legs out before him, feigning an idleness he was nowhere close to feeling. And even after she did look up, it still took a moment for her eyes to focus, a moment he used to drink in the sight of her.
If she'd put on makeup that morning, it had long ago vanished. And somehow, the absence of cosmetic enhancement only made her that much more attractive. Her eyes were clearer somehow, her mouth more luscious. The cool wind had stained her cheeks and the tip of her nose pink, giving her the appearance of an innocence he suspected wasn't quite an illusion. For all her businesslike efficiency, there was still something very human and approachable about Lily Rigby. And even though he couldn't quite define what that something was, Leo decided that he liked it. In fact, he liked it a lot.
Her hair was tucked up under a knit cap, save the long bangs brushing her forehead, bangs that she'd always combed to the side before. The fringe of black only added to the suggestion of youthful innocence about her, and for the first time, he wondered if she was younger than he had originally guessed. Thanks to her air of command at Ashling, he had assumed that she was in her early thirties. Now, however, he wondered if she had yet to even see thirty at all.
He told himself to say hello, but as he opened his mouth to do so, she s
eemed to suddenly recognize her surroundings. Her eyes widened in surprise when she realized who he was, and she hastily sat up, shoving her book behind her back. It was, to say the least, an incriminating gesture. He could only imagine what she didn't want to get caught reading. Probably some gruesome true crime thing about relentless slaughter, he guessed. That was about the only thing he could think of that would be unlike her.
"Mr. Freiberger," she said. But there was little welcome in her voice when she said it. "Where did you come from?"
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, to where his friends were still gathered. There was no sense denying he knew them, seeing as how they were all pointing at him and doubled over with laughter. He didn't even want to think about what kind of speculating they were doing back there. "I'm here chaperoning a bunch of slackers who wanted to play football today," he said. "How about you? What brings you into the big city?"
"I… I decided to take the day off."
"It's Saturday," he pointed out unnecessarily. "Everybody should be taking a day off today."
"Yes, well, I imagine there are a lot of restaurant and retail and hospital workers who would agree with you, but I don't see them out here running around the park."
"Touché," he said. "But you're not a retail or restaurant or hospital worker, are you? Doesn't Mr. Kimball give you weekends off?"
Her gaze darted away as she said, "It depends on what's going on with Mr. Kimball and Kimball Technologies."
Leo shrugged, using the gesture to try and see what book she was hiding behind her back. But what he said was, "The stuff going on with Kimball Technologies doesn't seem like it should affect a social secretary's duties." He tried to hide the smile he felt threatening as he returned his attention to her face, but knew he didn't quite succeed. "I mean, come on, Miss Rigby, just how much of Mr. Kimball's business do you actually handle, anyway?"
She smiled, too, not quite benevolently. "Why do I get the feeling, Mr. Freiberger, that you don't think I'm particularly bright?"
He arched his eyebrows in surprise and had no idea what to say in response to her charge. So he said nothing.
"Because that's exactly the feeling I get from you sometimes," she added. "That you don't think I do much… thinking. That you believe my job for Mr. Kimball doesn't require much… thinking. That most of my time is spent doing things other than… thinking."
"You think so?" he asked evasively.
She nodded. "Yes. I do."
"Well, gosh, Miss Rigby, I never meant to give you that impression," he said, still scrambling for an honest explanation that wouldn't insult her. Unfortunately, he thought, being honest about something like this would definitely insult her. Because truth be told, she told the truth.
"No, I'm sure you never meant to give me the impression that you don't think I'm very bright," she said. "Nevertheless, you don't think I'm very bright, do you?"
"I never said—"
"No, and I don't suppose you ever would," she interjected. "Not that it's really very important what you think of me anyway."
It wasn't?
"And in spite of your miscalculations, Mr. Freiberger—or perhaps in light of them," she amended easily, "you might be surprised how much weekend work I have to do for Mr. Kimball."
Yeah, he probably would be surprised, he thought. Especially if that weekend work actually involved work. Well, work that couldn't be performed in a horizontal position, anyway. Although there was a lot to be said for doing it standing up…
Deciding he really didn't want to think about something like that right now, he asked impulsively, "What are you reading?" Then, before she had a chance to answer, he reached behind her in an effort to snag the book from her hand.
"Nothing," she said, angling her body to hinder his progress. "I'm not reading anything."
"Oh, come on," he cajoled as he reached for it again. "I know you have a book back there. I saw you reading it. You were really interested in whatever it said, too. Just what kind of book is it?"
She grinned, turning her body more resolutely to prevent him from locating his quarry. "Oh, all right, if you must know, it's Heidegger," she told him. "Being and Time. I find it absolutely riveting."
Heidegger? he thought. She'd heard of Heidegger? But… but that was impossible. She wasn't particularly bright. Okay, he conceded, so maybe she'd enrolled in Philosophy 101 in college for a humanities credit. That would make sense. Assuming, of course, that she'd gone to college. Did they offer programs for social secretaryism at any of the universities?
"Don't give me that," he said, pushing his thoughts aside. He reached for the book again, lurching forward to rope his arm around her shoulder, hoping that might facilitate his hunt. "Nobody ever found Heidegger riveting. Not even Mrs. Heidegger. And you were definitely interested in whatever this is."
"It's nothing," she repeated more adamantly this time, turning her body even more to thwart him.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've read a few books like that myself. Come on," he echoed. " 'Fess up."
With one final lurch forward, he felt the book in his hands. Unfortunately, his final push sent him right into Miss Rigby, who lost her balance and landed backward. Leo snaked out his other arm to catch her, but the result was that Miss Rigby was on her back and Leo was on top of her.
For a moment, he forgot all about the book that he had managed to free from her grasp and held firmly in his own. All he registered was the way her face was barely an inch away from his, how her pupils expanded to nearly eclipse the green of her irises, and the way her lips parted in surprise at their landing. Then, gradually, a few other things registered. He noted the way her lush breasts felt pressed against his chest, and the way her legs, tangled with his, were such an incredibly comfortable fit. And then he felt the rapid-fire pounding of her heart that perfectly mirrored his own.
Then he heard the sound of faint, masculine laughter from behind them, and it was Marianne Gianelli all over again. Quickly, he scrambled off of Miss Rigby and parked his butt firmly on the grass. She, too, wasted no time righting herself, scuttling backward to settle herself against the tree trunk, and well away from Leo.
"Uh, sorry about that," he said.
She nodded quickly. "No problem. Can I have my book back? Please?"
Only then did he remember what had started this whole thing, and, remembering all the trouble he'd gone to to get it—not to mention the wonderful reward he'd received as a result—he held up the book to inspect it. He frowned when he noted the flowers and girlie stuff on the front cover and realized it wasn't what he'd thought it was. Instead of grisly, bloody, true crime, it looked like Miss Rigby's reading preferences were as dainty and innocent as she appeared to be herself.
"Looks good," he lied halfheartedly. Then he flipped open the cover and saw the colorful illustration inside that included two semi-clad people with a raging ocean and stampeding army off in the distance. The man's face was nuzzled against the woman's ample breasts, and she appeared to be this close to having a shattering orgasm. "Whoa. Looks really good," he amended as he began to flip through the pages.
"Mr. Freiberger," she said with clear objection, reaching for the book.
But in his quick perusal, Leo's attention had lit on the word nipple, and there was no way he was going to give the book back just yet. Scanning the rest of the paragraph, he realized that innocent and dainty were the last words he'd use to describe Miss Rigby's reading preferences. Raging fever of desire was a more accurate description. Especially since it was right there in print, in the paragraph that followed the nipple business. And after that…
Good God. It was page seventy-two of How to Leave a Man Groaning with Satisfaction Every Time.
"Can I borrow this when you're done with it?" he asked, still not looking up from the highly erotic prose. He wondered if there were many men who realized the kinds of things women were learning from romance novels, then thought maybe he should start a campaign to enlighten his gender. It could only benefit everyone
.
"Are you serious?" she asked, punctuating the question with a soft laugh.
"Hell, yes, I'm serious," he assured her, turning the page to read more. He wanted to see if Melinda would achieve… satisfaction from her lover, Beauregard. Whoa. Yes, she did. Several times, in fact. Way to go, Beauregard. Leo made a mental note to try that trick himself next time he—
"It's even better if you start from the beginning and do it a little more slowly."
He glanced up from the book to find Miss Rigby smiling at him. So he smiled back, hoping that in that single gesture, he managed to convey everything he was feeling at the moment—all the heat, all the hunger, all the lust, all the longing, all the fire, all the fury, all the—
"Reading, I mean," she qualified.
Reading? Just like that, his thoughts fizzled. He nodded slowly. "I knew that," he assured her.
But her soft chuckle told him she didn't believe him at all. And that was when Leo decided that yes, it would no doubt definitely be a good idea to start at the beginning, as she had suggested, and to go slow, to see where things led. Because so far, with Lily Rigby, the path had been a bit winding. Now, however, Leo was beginning to think it was time to straighten things out.
"So, Miss Rigby," he began, glancing back down at the book in his hand, "you got plans for the afternoon? I, uh… I promise I'll go slow."
* * *
Chapter Ten
There was little in life that Leo could imagine dreading more than having to face Kimball's board of directors again. The only thing that made this incident worse than the first time was what had made it worse last week, too—on both occasions, he'd had to come clad in his persona of Leonard Freiberger.
And as he had the week before, when he'd given them his first report about the status of his work at Ashling, Leo felt strangely vulnerable, strangely violated, and thoroughly sick to his stomach. Not just because he had to be Lame Leonard Freiberger, but because he knew he was failing at the job he'd been hired to do. And failure, in any form, was something to which Leo was totally unaccustomed.
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