Her Man Friday

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  She still hadn't let down her hair, though, he noted, disgruntled. Someday, he was going to have to do something about that. But not today, unfortunately. Because today he had other things that commanded his attention. He couldn't just stand here looking at Lily Rigby and wondering what she had on under that stark, conservative gray suit that did absolutely nothing to make her look either stark or conservative.

  Probably something lacy and sexy, he thought. He'd read somewhere that women who were required to wear suits and such to work often enjoyed wearing impossibly frilly underthings beneath. Peach, he'd bet. Something lacy and sexy and peach colored. One of those little half-thing bras that a woman's breasts fairly spilled free from, and skimpy little bikini panties. With a garter belt. Yeah.

  But he couldn't think about that right now, he reminded himself, because he had other really, really important matters that he needed to concentrate on instead. So he shoved aside the image of Lily Rigby in all her decadent lingerie glory and tried to remember what, exactly, it was that he was supposed to be concentrating on.

  Or maybe black, he thought. Lily Rigby in black underthings, to go with her gray suit. Yeah, that's the ticket. Black satin. Oh, yes. He could definitely see her as the black satin type. Especially with those smoky stockings hugging her long, lean legs. Black would suit her to a—

  But then, he had other things to think about today, he reminded himself yet again, this time with a brutal shove to his libido. Still his eyes lingered on Lily Rigby's face and form, however, and still his thoughts lingered on her underwear. Now, what was it he was supposed to be thinking about again? Something about a billionaire or somebody. Schuyler Whatzizname… Kimball. Yeah, that was it. Kimball Technologies and… What? Some missing money? To the tune of like… fifty million dollars… ?

  Oh, yeah. Now he remembered.

  He remembered Charlton Heston Man nearly busting a blood vessel before Leo had finally concluded his business with the board of directors for Kimball Technologies. And he remembered Halston Man leaving in a remarkably well choreographed huff. He recalled Thesaurus Man labeling him a cretinous, low-browed stupe, and Cohiba Man, through a haze of blue smoke, ordering him back to Ashling, pronto, where he would remain banished until he broke open those files and found out what was inside, or died trying. Leo only hoped he could do it without Schuyler Kimball looking over his shoulder and breathing down his neck.

  Of course, Lily Rigby would be doing that, too, but for some reason that didn't bother Leo quite so much as having an eccentric billionaire—or billionaire eccentric; he still hadn't decided which—breathing down his neck. In fact, Miss Rigby breathing down his neck—or on any other body part she might want to respire upon—was actually something Leo found himself rather looking forward to.

  Then he remembered that he was going to have to infiltrate her room and violate her personal space at some point in the near future, and a wave of guilt lapped at the edge of his brain. He reminded himself that he had no choice, that he had a job to do, and only two weeks left to do it. Still, invading a woman's personal things—without her knowledge or consent, at any rate—didn't set well at all with Leo.

  Even if, at some point while trying to infiltrate her computer files, he might accidentally happen upon the drawer where she kept her underwear. And even if then, maybe, by accident, an article of lingerie might, oh… leap into his pocket or something. He still felt a little guilty about the whole endeavor.

  "I think I may have missed something in my original investigation," he told Miss Rigby, pushing his errant thoughts aside for now. "My superiors thought it would be a good idea for me to have one more look. Just to make sure I didn't miss anything."

  Like, for example, he thought further to himself, what Schuyler Kimball's social secretary wore underneath those not-quite-businesslike suits of hers.

  "I see," she said. "Well, if there's anything I can do to help you, please don't hesitate to ask."

  Leo smiled. Oh, he wouldn't.

  For a moment, they only stood there gazing at each other, both of them obviously thinking about something totally different from what they were talking about. Finally, Miss Rigby seemed to remember that it was up to her to invite Leo inside. Deftly, professionally, she did just that, stepping aside and sweeping an arm inward in a silent indication that he should enter. As he passed her, Leo inhaled deeply, enjoying again that singular scent of hers, the one that just opened up so many possibilities.

  And he was suddenly very grateful to the board of directors who were timing his every move. Because, hey, without them, Leo would have to be an honest man. And honest men just didn't enjoy their thoughts nearly as much as guys like him did. Nevertheless, he was going to have to come clean with Lily Rigby someday.

  Someday, he reiterated to himself. But not today.

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Leo's gratitude to Kimball's board of directors grew by leaps and bounds the following day, even as he was slaving away, sitting at Schuyler Kimball's desk, staring at Schuyler Kimball's computer screen, trying to get past one of Schuyler Kimball's allegedly brilliant booby traps, so he could break into one of Schuyler Kimball's personal files. He hadn't yet found an opportunity to take advantage of Miss Rigby… uh, Miss Rigby's lap… uh, Miss Rigby's laptop, so he was trying instead, one more time, to access those last few files of Kimball's.

  But instead of focusing on the task at hand, Leo was lost in a fantasy of his own making, one that involved Miss Rigby—naturally—and today's choice of lingerie—red—and the kitchen pantry he'd visited once, to help her retrieve a box of tea from the shelf where it was stored—on top.

  And even though he told himself he should instead be fantasizing about a way to get into Miss Rigby's bedroom—to find her computer, naturally—there had just been something about that darkened pantry… The isolation, the close confines, the lack of light, the mingling aromas of cinnamon and coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Yeah, maybe if he could find an excuse to go to the kitchen for something… And maybe if he could lure Miss Rigby there in the process… And maybe if he could figure out some way to get her to follow him into the pantry… Then maybe, just maybe…

  "Mr. Freiberger?"

  Leo snapped guiltily to attention at the sound of her voice, certain she must have deduced exactly what he'd been thinking about all morning. But when he turned toward the office entry, there she stood as cool and professional as ever, wearing a straight, tobacco-colored skirt that rode a good two inches above her knees, and a cognac-colored sweater cropped right at her waist. Both garments fit her like a second skin, and for a moment, all Leo could do was stare at her, his thoughts neither cool nor professional. Interestingly, she only stared back at him, and said nothing more about why she'd come.

  "Uh… yes, Miss Rigby?" he finally managed to get out, proud of himself for not drooling even once when he uttered the question.

  She lifted a hand to her hair, smoothing it lightly over the sweep of black that was twisted up the back of her head in that Kim Novak way again. In spite of the casualness of the gesture—well, casual for her, Leo thought, seeing as how she couldn't possibly know how her sweater rode up to reveal a brief glimpse of creamy flesh when she did that—she was clearly nervous about whatever she had to say to him. But, hey, nervous was good, Leo decided. Because that meant the two of them were in sync.

  "I…" she began. "That is… Would you… I mean…" She sighed fitfully, gazed upon him fully for a moment, then averted her eyes anxiously again. "I could use your help," she said softly. "If you have a moment to spare."

  A moment? he thought. A moment? Oh, he could probably spare a moment. Or two. Or ten. Or the rest of his life. Whatever.

  Immediately, he stood, ready to climb whatever mountains, and swim whatever seas, and cross whatever deserts, and slay whatever dragons she asked him to. Then he remembered that he was pretending to be someone he was not, and that he had been about to break and enter into one of Kimball's private files, so he
seated himself down again to mask his treachery before taking off on his heroic journey.

  Some epic hero, he chastised himself as he rose once again. Leonard Freiberger, he thought further with disgust. What a ratfink that guy was turning out to be.

  "I'll be happy to help," he told her, adjusting his glasses. "What's the problem?"

  "I need you in the… in the kitchen pantry," she said.

  Something inside Leo went zing. Truly. Zing. How very odd.

  "The, uh… the kitchen pantry?" he echoed, just to be sure.

  "Yes," she said, still clearly anxious about something. "The pantry."

  Trying not to rush too much, Leo circled to the front of the desk and approached her. "May I ask, exactly, why you… need me… in the pantry?"

  She nodded once quickly, then glanced down at the backs of her fingernails in that way she had of doing to hide her nervousness. Oh, boy. This was going to be great.

  "There's um, there's something in the pantry I need your help with," she said. "It's… well, it's rather personal."

  The zinging inside Leo accelerated into a loud vroooom. "Oh?" he asked, pretending he had no idea what she was talking about as he pondered exactly which garment to start with. The zipper on her skirt seemed the most likely place to begin, but there was a lot to be said for that tauntingly short sweater, and—

  "In fact, it's almost embarrassing to have to discuss it with you this way," Miss Rigby continued, oblivious to his intentions. "But I… I…"

  "You… you… ?" he prodded.

  She finally looked at his face again and inhaled a deep, wistful sigh. Wistful was good, he thought. He could do a lot with wistful. "Well, there's something in the pantry I need you to get for me," she finally confessed.

  The vrooming inside Leo screeched to a halt as he realized he had been a bit premature in his plans for her clothing. "Tea?" he asked halfheartedly.

  "Um, no," she said. "Not tea."

  The zinging geared up again.

  "Actually," she told him, "it's… it's a bug."

  Pfft. So much for the zinging. So much for the vrooming. So much for the zipper on her skirt. There was nothing like the introduction of entomology into a seduction attempt to pretty much send it over a cliff. "A bug?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Yes, rather a large one." She lifted her hands to hold them about an inch or so apart, then, when she looked up and noted his disinterest, moved them until they were about five inches apart. "It's about this big," she said. "With long antennae that are quite… unpleasant." She shivered for effect. "It's very… quite… um… really icky."

  "A bug," he said again.

  "A big, icky bug," she clarified adamantly. "I tried to find Mr. Tooley, to see if he might take care of it, but he seems to have left the grounds."

  "All right," he said, resolved to his new role in life as exterminator. "Show me where it is."

  He kept an eye on Miss Rigby as he followed her to the kitchen, enjoying without a trace of guilt the dance of her hips as she walked—well, hell, he ought to get some kind of reward for what he was about to do. Then, when they arrived at their destination, he crossed to enter the pantry alone, while she remained steadfastly on the other side of the room. He noted the offending creature immediately. It was hard to miss, seeing as how it sat brashly on the wall beside a box of Cocoa Puffs, taunting any and all comers. Plus, he had to admit, it was pretty big. And more than a little… icky. Involuntarily, Leo fought off a major wiggins.

  "You got a baseball bat?" he called out over his shoulder.

  "No, I'm afraid not," she replied, her tone of voice indicating that she hadn't realized he was joking.

  Then again, he thought, eyeing the bug once more, maybe he wasn't exactly joking. He thought about asking for a Colt .45, but what came out was, "How about a fly swatter?"

  "On the door behind you," she told him.

  He claimed the weapon and disposed of the insect as quickly and neatly as possible—which, in the long run, turned out to be neither quick nor neat. Then he exited the pantry, still armed with the fly swatter, his dead quarry sheathed in a shroud provided by Brawny paper towels. Somehow, the brand name made him feel that much more heroic, and he straightened to his full, bug-slaying height as he approached Miss Rigby.

  She shuddered again as he passed by her and made his way to the trash can, but before he could dispose of the corpse, she reached out a hand to circle her fingers shyly around his wrist. His pulse leapt at the contact, and when his gaze met hers again, he saw that her eyes shone with gratitude and something else he probably shouldn't ponder. And damned if that zinging didn't kick right in again.

  "Mr. Freiberger?" she asked, her voice a soft caress.

  "Yes, Miss Rigby?"

  "Could you…" She batted her eyelashes at him quite prettily. "Could you… would you… take it out to the big can outside?"

  "Of course," he said chivalrously. "I'd be delighted."

  When he returned from completing his task, the kitchen was empty. The pantry, however, was not. The door stood open, and Miss Rigby was inside, straining to reach something from a shelf that was laughably beyond her reach. She had one leg extended elegantly behind her, and as she pushed herself higher on tiptoe and thrust her arm upward, her sweater crept above the waistband of her skirt to reveal once again that soft, brief span of tender flesh beneath.

  For a long moment, Leo only stood there enjoying the view and the way his blood crashed through his body, dizzying him, heating up parts of him that really hadn't required heating for some time now—ever since Miss Rigby had asked him to join her in the pantry, in fact. As if she sensed the inappropriateness of his thoughts—inappropriate for anyone who wasn't currently pondering the taste of a woman's torso, at any rate—she turned to find him—oh, he might as well just admit it—ogling her.

  "Need some help?" he asked.

  Still reaching upward, she opened her mouth to respond, and somehow, he knew that she was going to insist that no, as a matter of fact, she didn't need any help, that she was this close to reaching all by herself the box that was still a good three inches shy of her grasp. So before she had the chance to say anything—he didn't want to be responsible for her telling a lie, after all—Leo strode forward into the pantry to offer his aid—or something—anyway.

  The moment he stepped inside the pantry, the already confined space shrank to virtually the size of an electron. In hindsight, he supposed that for maximum efficiency, he should have asked Miss Rigby to come out before he went in. But then where would have been the fun in that?

  Lily's breath caught in her throat as she felt Mr. Freiberger step up behind her, his entire body shadowing hers—and then some. She told herself that there was nothing untoward in his gesture, despite the intimate posture, and that he was only trying to be helpful, despite the raging inferno he'd ignited in her belly. Any inappropriate ideas she might be entertaining at the moment—and my, but they were becoming more and more inappropriate with every moment that passed—were entirely of her own making.

  He certainly did smell good, she thought, clean and rugged and masculine. His warmth surrounded her as he reached up over her head, his arm brushing against the one she still extended upward. He'd rolled the cuffs of his white shirt back to his elbows, and she cursed herself for not having had the foresight to push her own sleeves back before summoning him.

  Especially when he leaned forward some more, an action that rubbed his arm all along the length of her own, creating what she was sure must be a delicious friction, if only her flesh were bare to enjoy it. She did very much enjoy, however, the feel of his entire upper torso pressing into her back as he plucked from the shelf the box of tea cookies she'd tried to reach herself. Much to her relief, after completing the action, he didn't immediately pull back. Although she couldn't see what he was doing back there—and she was much too polite to ask—she was almost positive he bent his head down toward hers a bit and…

  Sniffed her hair.

  And that
was when Lily's superior intelligence told her that there might have been more to Mr. Freiberger's offer of help than she'd originally thought. Well, her superior intelligence told her that, and also the fact that she felt the hand that wasn't reaching up for the tea cookies settle, very possessively, on her waist.

  Yep, guys like Galileo had nothing on Lily when it came to recognizing overtures of a personal nature. And a man's fingers creeping under the hem of a sweater to strum delicately along a woman's bare flesh? Well, she was pretty sure that that was definitely an overture of a personal nature.

  It was also a damned nice feeling.

  "Mr. Freiberger?" she said, scarcely recognizing the deep, leisurely timbre of her voice.

  "Hmmm?" he answered from behind her, still unmoving, save the soft, deliberate, back and forth motion of his thumb over her skin.

  "Um, may I…" She swallowed hard as her body's temperature began to rise. Fast. "May I ask what you're doing?"

  "I'm helping you," he said in as matter-of-fact a voice as she'd ever heard, as if he weren't currently wreaking havoc with her senses and turning her insides into tapioca. Really hot tapioca. "With that thing you wanted me to help you with," he clarified further.

  Now, how could he have known about that thing? Lily wondered. She'd never spoken of that thing—that incredibly erotic, sexual fantasy thing—to anyone. Then, it dawned on her that he wasn't talking about the fantasy thing. He was talking about the bug thing. Wasn't he?

  His little finger dipped below the waistband of her skirt.

  Well, perhaps not.

  As he continued to stroke her bare flesh, leisurely, delicately, seductively, the hand that gripped the tea cookies moved lower, depositing them on a shelf at Lily's shoulder level. The hand, too, deposited itself there, something that rather hampered any effort she might make to pass by it and leave the pantry.

  Had she wanted to pass by it and leave the pantry.