Chapter One
Attaboy.
Mike felt the most bizarre sense of pride that he could, somehow, maintain an erection even through the horror of his realization that Lydia had driven him to a place in his soul and body so wild and free and hot and Bacchanalian that he had lost part of his mind and forgotten that hidden cameras dotted his office.
Logic dictated his life. Analysis and crafty, clever considerations and calibrations of every facet of every circumstance he found himself in, in order to compute the most advantageous outcome for himself. And holy fucking shit! he had lost his head —big one and little one—over this woman who was nestled in his arms right under reality television producer Jonah Moore’s camera.
How could he have let this happen? How could he have allowed himself to be driven to this point, by this incredible, luscious woman? Who, he now realized, he had just fucked twice. Once with his body, and then he fucked her over by losing his head.
Pretending to be middle-manager Matt Jones for the television stunt while hiding his true identity – CEO of Bournham Industries, Michael Bournham – had been a no-brainer a few weeks ago. But now? The no-brainer had turned into the biggest mess of his life.
Afterglow was replaced with self-revulsion and the seconds ticked by, their breathing shifting into concert with each other, the patterns of the room of touch, of sound, of sight and taste and feel, all creaking past him in time, nanosecond by nanosecond, as the full implications of what had just happened sunk in. Oh, how he wanted more of her.
Oh, how he had just destroyed that.
The worst part, though, was that she sat here, still over him, her bare skin pressed into his, a little half-smile on her face, tiny sighs and pants of contentment, and he couldn’t even enjoy it. How do you fall for someone and lose them all in the same second? First, he had to get them out from under any more tapings. Second, his mind clicked into modes that he used as CEO in intense negotiation situations. Third, he needed to make sure he did not say her name and that her face did not go near the camera. Fourth, they needed to get out of there as fast as possible.
And then, he realized what he needed to say. “I’m starving,” he said quietly, whispering in her ear, eliciting a shiver of delight from her that made him just want to take her again. Fortunately, logic was kicking in and he could hold his body at bay, but not for much longer.
“Me too. What do you want to go get?”
You, he thought. “I don’t know. Let’s decide when we leave.”
She peeled herself off of him and straightened her skirt and shirt, and then started to turn toward the camera. He leaped for her, pulling her down, taking her mouth with a kiss—the only option he could think of to hide her face from the damn camera. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the red light turn back on. Shit. He was right. They were videoing him. If he said anything to her right now it would just put her in even more danger of being fully revealed.
“Mmm,” she said, pulling back. “Round two?” she murmured against his mouth.
Not here, he thought. “Not here,” he said. “Let’s go, recharge our batteries, fuel up, and then…your place?” he said.
She got a funny look on her face and said, “I’m not sure if my gra—”
He closed his mouth over hers again. If she said “grandma,” that would…oh, God, he just…the implications were spinning through his mind. This was getting to be too much. Even Michael Bournham, CEO, had his limitations when it came to stressful, no-way-out situations. He picked her up in his arms and carried her physically across the threshold of the office, plopped her down where he hoped there weren’t many cameras, and grabbed his clothes. The hallway, he knew, had a camera on one end but not on the other. Unfortunately, that was the stairwell. If they went anywhere near the elevators, who knew? Jonah had made that snide comment the other day and now Mike really wondered what they had caught of their earlier elevator encounter.
His eyes scanned the entire outer office area where her desk and the cubicles were located, searching for cameras. Looking at the ceiling first, he saw no red lights. Looking at her cubicle he saw nothing, then back in his office he could see the red glow. So, the outer office was probably safe but the elevators could be an issue.
He dressed quickly and then, with as genuine and earnest a smile he could muster, he said, “You up for some exercise? Let’s take the stairs.”
She looked down at her shoes—which, thank God, happened to be sensible today of all days and not those red leather high heels that he had fantasized about her wearing in bed, and nothing else, while he fucked her silly.
“I’m game,” she said. “Work up an even bigger appetite.”
He felt like a live wire, his brain exploding as he tried to figure out the best possible way to get out of this building, and all he could think of was to look at her and say, “Race you!” And sprint down the hallway to the stairs.
He could hear her shuffling and then, the pounding of footsteps behind him as she shouted, “What are you? A third-grader?” Her voice carried as he slammed through the fire doors and started down the stairs, the pounding of his footsteps helping to clear his mind. As long as she didn’t say her name, as long as her face wasn’t caught on camera, there was some hope here. His cover was blown, and as he made his way down to the second flight of steps, he heard her shout from the top, “Matt, slow down, for God’s sake!”
Matt. Oh, God, she still thought he was Matt Jones. Of course she did. He was too chickenshit to tell her, and now, racing brain and mind jumbled into one big ball of horror as he raced to get them out from under Jonah Moore's prying eye, he certainly wasn't going to spill all. In due time he would confess.
Right now he had no time to do anything but try to protect her while keeping her in a state of double ignorance.
His thighs pulled back, his back tightened, his knees drew up a little, his body willed by his chaotic mind to follow her direct order. It was the only way he could get through these moments, to do what she told him, to be directed for once. And so, he did, slowing down in the safety of the stairwell as she caught up, stood on tiptoes, reached for his face, and kissed him, breathless and laughing.
By the time they reached the street level, his quads were in agony, she complained about her feet, and they stood in the dark, the buzzing of nighttime in Boston a welcome balm for the zinging in his own mind.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Anywhere but Jeddy’s,” he answered.
Oh, the sound of her laughter, almost lyrical and lilting. She was happy, genuinely happy, and he had made her that way. No—he hadn’t.
Matt Jones had.
Tempo Bistro was the kind of place she and Krysta had talked about, hoping someday some guy would take them to because it was about five steps above their pay grade at Bournham Industries. Matt must be doing okay if he could suggest it, and Lydia wondered how much room she had on her credit card in case this was a Dutch dinner.
The atmosphere was Asian fusion—beautiful, slim lines, simple Zen look. As they were seated at a small table she glanced to her right, noticing what looked like a first date. A blonde woman sitting across from one of the hottest guys she had ever seen—he looked like a blend of a firefighter and a model. And the woman was clearly about as nervous as you could get. Blind date? she wondered. You go, girl.
Then she turned and looked across her own table, staring into those strange green eyes. She hadn’t done so bad herself. What a wild ride, literally and metaphorically. An hour ago she was perched in his lap, fucking him passionately, giving in to so much that she had held back these past few weeks. And now she was sitting across a dinner table from him, that post-coital bliss shattered by his weird need to go out and get something to eat, with a strong suggestion that they could pick things up where they left off later, in her apartment. Oh, how she hoped that offer was still valid after they ate. She could go all night, something in her unleashed and ready for beyond more.
When the server appeared, Matt began to order and she realized he was ordering for both of them. Flattered and offended all at once, she interrupted him. “I may not want what you’re ordering,” she said.
He looked at her, surprised. “I am so sorry,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I wasn’t trying to be rude or imposing, it’s just that I come here so often that I know all of the good dishes.”
Something in her flared and melted at the same time as she struggled, seconds ticking, until finally she just let go, let herself trust that she didn’t have to fight every gender battle as if it were the war. “Go ahead. If you know the menu well, then I’m going to trust you.”
“Yeah?” he said, raising his eyebrows, an uncertain grin spreading into one that was more confident.
“On this,” she said pointedly. “But don’t assume. Never assume.”
The waitress smiled and said, “First date?”
They both exchanged a slightly bemused look and simultaneously said, “Sort of.”
The waitress laughed, shook her head slightly, and walked away. Lydia leaned into the table, staring at him, his face a jumble of emotions she couldn’t identify easily. His hair was mussed, and she wondered how awful hers looked right now. All her makeup was probably melted or kissed off. Was her skirt as wrinkled as his shirt?
What she saw in his face, though, was a careful cataloging of her. They were reading each other, trying to figure out the meaning of what had just happened in the office. Some part of her desperate to know, was also eager to just let it unfold without dissecting it or analyzing it or ripping it apart. Just enjoy the heat of his body, the glow of his look, the smile on his mouth when he kissed her. If there was more she was supposed to understand, she could understand it tomorrow. Right now, she didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel.
When the server brought the food she was glad she had trusted Matt. He picked some of the most tantalizing dishes. From shrimp bigger than her fist to delicate pieces of sashimi with flavors infused with lavender and lilac and something maple, it was a smorgasbord of Asian delight, and by the end of their meal she glanced over at the blonde and the firefighter-type again and saw that some spark was there, a deepening in the way that they handled the air between them. And she smiled to herself, wondering if someone else watching them saw what she felt.
He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Sated?” she asked.
His eyelids flew open, a dark, smoky look emanating from him directly into her. “Not yet,” he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “But we have dessert yet to enjoy.”
He wondered if it was obvious—whether she could tell that he was distracted, whether his eyes revealed his deep panic, whether she could see how much he was pulled in two directions by a tug-of-war of his own making?
A quick glance to his right showed a couple in that first-date dance, the woman a curvy blonde flashing smiles at her date, a built guy who looked like an Irish-Italian boxer. Her finger traced circles around the rim of her sake glass, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. In the dating world she was saying “fuck me,” and from the cool, calm, suave demeanor the guy exuded, Mike could tell he knew it, too.
