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Blame It on the Blackout
Heidi Betts
WHAT HAPPENS IN THE ELEVATOR STAYS IN THE ELEVATORIn the pitch blackness, trapped between floors, Peter Reynolds had almost convinced himself that the woman in the suddenly too-cramped-for-comfort elevator car was not off-limits…and that the desperate passion they shared would not change everything.But then the lights came on, and Peter knew that he'd crossed more than one line. For Lucy Grainger was his secretary…and now, quite possibly, pregnant.If Peter were any other man, Lucy would make the perfect wife and mother to his children. But he was not the marrying kind for reasons Lucy could never understand. Yet, if that were true, why was he secretly hoping that the stick turned blue?
He Shouldn’t Be Kissing Lucy…
his assistant, his friend, the one person he didn’t want to offend because, as he often joked, she knew where the bodies were buried.
But she felt good. She smelled good. And she tasted amazing.
Since puberty, he’d had his share of fantasies. But no dream, no matter how erotic, could ever live up to what was happening right here, right now.
If they didn’t stop soon, it would be too late.
But he had no intention of stopping. The ground would have to open up and swallow him whole. This elevator that had trapped them so securely would have to break from its cables and crush them like pancakes. Because unless an act of God pulled them apart, he was going to make love to Lucy Grainger.
Finally.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire, where this month we have six fabulous novels for you to enjoy. We start things off with Estate Affair by Sara Orwig, the latest installment of the continuing DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS series. In this upstairs/downstairs-themed story, the Ashtons’ maid falls for an Ashton son and all sorts of scandal follows. And in Maureen Child’s Whatever Reilly Wants…, the second title in the THREE-WAY WAGER series, a sexy marine gets an unexpected surprise when he falls for his suddenly transformed gal pal.
Susan Crosby concludes her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Secrets of Paternity. The secret baby in this book just happens to be eighteen years old…. Hmm, there’s quite the story behind that revelation. The wonderful Emilie Rose presents Scandalous Passion, a sultry tale of a woman desperate to get back some steamy photos from her past lover. Of course, he has a price for returning those pictures, but it’s not money he’s after. The Sultan’s Bed, by Laura Wright, continues the tales of her sheikh heroes with an enigmatic male who is searching for his missing sister and finds a startling attraction to her lovely neighbor. And finally, what was supposed to be just an elevator ride turns into a very passionate encounter, in Blame It on the Blackout by Heidi Betts.
Sit back and enjoy all of the smart, sensual stories Silhouette Desire has to offer.
Happy reading,
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor
Silhouette Desire
Blame It on the Blackout
Heidi Betts
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
HEIDI BETTS
An avid romance reader since junior high school, Heidi knew early on that she wanted to write these wonderful stories of love and adventure. It wasn’t until her freshman year of college, however, when she spent the entire night reading a romance novel instead of studying for finals, that she decided to take the road less traveled and follow her dream. In addition to reading, writing and romance, she is the founder of her local Romance Writers of America chapter and has a tendency to take injured and homeless animals of every species into her central Pennsylvania home.
Heidi loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 99, Kylertown, PA 16847 (a SASE is appreciated but not necessary), or e-mail heidi@heidibetts.com. And be sure to visit www.heidibetts.com for news and information about upcoming books.
To Maureen Child and Leanne Banks—
Friends and fellow Desire authors, you’ve inspired me more than you can ever know.
Thank you for your wonderful stories that remind me of why I love this line so much, and for all the great advice you’ve offered this past year.
And to my Absolutely Fabulous editor, Melissa Jeglinski—Thank you for taking me under your wing, teaching me the ins and outs of the Desire line and making me love what I’m writing even more than I did to begin with.
With many thanks to fellow WRW member Sandy Rangel for her help with the research for this book and willingness to share her firsthand knowledge of the Georgetown area.
And always, for Daddy.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
One
Lucy Grainger tapped softly in warning on the front door of Peter Reynolds’s town house, then used a key to let herself in. Gathering the morning mail and paper from the foyer floor, she made her way past the den that held her office to the large kitchen at the back of the house. Setting the paper and mail alongside her purse on the island countertop, she started a pot of coffee and began clearing away some of last night’s mess.
It wasn’t her job to clean up after Peter. He did have a housekeeper, after all, who dropped by once a week to do laundry and dishes and relocate some of the dust that settled on miscellaneous surfaces. But Lucy was so used to taking care of him that it seemed only natural to move a few dirty dishes to the sink or throw away a near-empty carton of milk that had been left out of the refrigerator too long.
From there, she walked back toward the front of the house, up the stairs, and down the short hallway that led to Peter’s bedroom. He might have slept in, especially if he’d been up late working on some computer program or another. Or maybe he’d simply forgotten to set his alarm clock—again. But his bed was empty, the sheets tangled and nearly stripped off the mattress.
Only one place left to look. Lucy eased the bedroom door closed and walked across the hallway in the opposite direction to Peter’s home office.
Less conservative than the den, Peter liked this room because it was small, private, and casually decorated to his personal tastes. Which basically meant unadorned walls painted periwinkle-blue with white trim, a three-part desk taking up one whole corner, and low tables of sliding file drawers lining the remaining three. Every available surface was filled with assorted computer equipment, ongoing work projects, and Peter’s collection of original Star Trek action figures.
Inside, the computer tower hummed softly from its home on the floor, telling her she was right about Peter’s location. With one arm folded beneath his head, Lucy’s boss slept hunched over his cluttered desk. He wore an old gray T-shirt and plaid boxers, his sandy-blond hair ruffled and sticking up in places—probably from all the times he’d run his fingers through it in frustration during the night.
Lucy’s own fingers clenched at her sides as she fought the urge to flatten those spiky spots or slide a palm down the strong curve of his spine.
She sighed. This was the problem with working for a man she had half a crush on. The line between employer and potential lover got blurrier by the day.
But only for her. Peter didn’t see her as potential lover material. Most of the time, she didn’t think he saw her as a woman at all.
As a secretary, an assistant, the person he ran to when he needed just about anything, yes. But as an attractive, interested, flesh-and-blood woman? He’d never glanced up from his computer screen long enough to notice.
Then again, that was one of the things she loved about him—his passion for software design and starting his own company from the ground up. He was brilliant and already had corporations from around the world calling him to help work bugs out of their systems or simply get things running more smoothly. But what he loved most was designing his own games and programs, and that had been his focus for the past two years, ever since she’d started working for him.
Reaching past his sleeping form, she collected several empty cola cans scattered over the desktop and on the floor. He drank too much of this syrupy stuff, especially when he was busy and became nearly obsessed with a particular project.
Two of the aluminum cans slipped from her grasp and rattled as they bounced against each other on the way to the carpeted floor. The noise startled Peter and he shot upright. Blinking sleepily, he looked around as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He rubbed a hand across his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”
“A little past nine. How long have you been working?”
“I started after dinner. Around six, I guess.”
Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and stretched. His knuckles nearly grazed the ceiling as he raised his arms high above his head and stood on tiptoe. The posture puffed out his chest and showed the taut, well-defined muscles of his calves and thighs.
A ripple of awareness shot through Lucy, but she pretended not to notice.
“I was working on that GlobalCon glitch. It took me longer than I expected, but I think I took care of the problem.”
She moved to the wastebasket near the door and dumped the soda cans in, making a mental note to recycle them later. “So those were billable hours you spent last night. What time did you finish?”
“Damned if I know.” He scratched a spot on his chest and yawned again. “The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was about 3:00 a.m.”
She nodded, wondering if GlobalCon and all of Peter’s other clients realized just what a bargain they usually got with him. Sure, he was expensive, but he was also the best. And since he rarely remembered to log the times he began and ended his work for them, the bills she sent were generally best-guess estimates.
“Why don’t you go lie down for a couple of hours. You look exhausted.”
The grin he shot her swept right down to her toes and curled them inside her plain navy pumps.
“Nah. Now that I’m up, I might as well get showered and dressed.”
Peter in the shower. Now there was an image she needed floating around her brain the rest of the morning. As though he didn’t already keep her wide-awake most nights.
“Besides, I want to call GlobalCon and let them know I took care of their problem, then see if I can make any more progress on Soldiers of Misfortune.”
Soldiers of Misfortune was Peter’s latest obsession, a virtual guerilla warfare game with enough blood and guts to keep adolescent boys entranced for hours. Lucy tried to work up a modicum of outrage for his perpetuation of teen violence, but she played the games herself from time to time and had to admit they were fun. And so far, she hadn’t snapped and committed any acts of mass destruction.
Careful not to touch him, she moved around the office, collecting the rest of the clutter from Peter’s long work night. “Don’t forget to try on your tux and see if it needs alterations before tomorrow night.”
Halfway out the door, he froze. Twisting his neck just far enough to look at her, he asked, “What’s tomorrow night?”
“The City Women benefit against domestic violence. You’re giving a speech and receiving an award for your support of the organization and donations of refurbished computers to local battered women’s shelters.”
He’d spent weeks upgrading old systems so women who were trying to escape unbearable situations could train for new jobs to support themselves and their children instead of feeling forced to return to abusive husbands.
His eyes closed, chin dropping to his chest. “Damn, I forgot. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get out of it,” he said, shooting her a hopeful expression.
She bit down on a smile, not wanting to encourage him. “Not unless you want to disappoint hundreds of grateful women and children.”
With a sigh, he rested his hands on his hips. “Fine. But I’m going to need a date.”
A stab of pain hit her low in the belly. Followed quickly by envy and regret.
Peter had dated hordes of beautiful, successful ladies. Models, actresses, news anchors, real estate agents… He was handsome, funny, charming, and—though he was still striving to build his software company into one that would rival the best of the best—wealthy enough to catch a single girl’s attention.
Lucy told herself it didn’t hurt to see him with all those other women. Except when she came to work in the morning and discovered them still in his bed, or just leaving, or found a stray pair of panties while cleaning up between the housekeeper’s visits.
“I’ll go through your Rolodex and see who might be available.”
A minute ticked by while Peter stood in the doorway and she lifted the now-full plastic bag from the metal trash can.
“No,” he said, startling her. “I don’t feel like putting on a show for someone who just wants to be seen with the great Peter Reynolds.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure the City Women will understand if you attend alone.”
“I have a better idea,” he announced, turning around to face her. “You can come with me instead.”
He said it as though he’d decided to have chicken for dinner over steak, and Lucy couldn’t help but feel like the feathered creature unfortunate enough to be dragged to the chopping block.
If he’d meant it as a real invitation, if he’d even once looked at her as though he wanted her on his arm for the evening because he was attracted to her, she might have considered it.
Oh, who was she kidding? She’d have jumped at the chance and prayed he didn’t lose interest before the main course.
Shaking her head, she gathered the edges of the garbage bag together to keep the items from falling out and headed for the stairs, brushing past him with barely a millimeter of space to spare. “No, thank you.”
“No? What do you mean no?”
His voice, raised in surprised indignation, followed her down the steps. As she rounded the newel post and headed for the kitchen, she noticed he was hot on her heels.
“Lucy, you can’t possibly mean to leave me to my own devices. I’ll drown in a sea of shiny, happy people. You know how much I hate crowds and public speaking.”
“You should have thought of that before you agreed to be there.” She set the trash from his office on the countertop and began separating it into the plastic recycling bins set in one corner.
“God, that coffee smells good,” he murmured, tossing a longing glance at the pot that had just finished dripping. “Look, I can’t go alone. I need you with me. There are going to be some very important people in attendance. People who could turn into future clients or help get Reyware and Games of PRey off the ground. You’re my assistant. You know our software programs and intentions for the company almost as well as I do. And no one works a room like you do. People love you.”
When she didn’t respond, he continued, sounding more desperate by the second. “Consider it in your job description. I’ll pay you overtime. You can take the appointment book and set up a dozen meetings with potential backers for the next month.”
Ah, yes. She was, indeed, his assistant. And if he was making this into a work-related affair, then she had no choice but to go with him.
But she didn’t have to make it easy for him.
Turning from the recycle bins, she leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You won’t be so impressed when I show up in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to a high-priced charity dinner.”
Relief washed over Peter’s features and he slapped his hands down flat on the marble island as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. “Not a problem. I’ll take care of everything. Or rather, you’ll take care of everything, but I’ll foot the bill. Here…”
He reached back, as though digging into a hip pocket, then realized he was still in his boxers. Shaking his head, he rushed to assure her. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a credit card. I’ll get you two credit cards. Buy whatever you want.”
Then he came around the island, reached her in three long strides, and wrapped her in a hug tight enough to crush her ribcage. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He punctuated each adulation with a kiss to her temple.
Lucy’s knees grew weak and she let her eyes drift shut as the heat of his body seeped through the thin material of her white blouse, short navy skirt and stockings.
Oh, sure. She could spend the evening with this man and remember it was nothing but business. No problem. And maybe after performing that small miracle, she’d practice turning water into wine.
Peter slugged back his sixth cup of coffee since Lucy had awakened him this morning and punched the computer mouse to send the cache of e-mails he’d composed in the last half hour.
He was learning that it wasn’t easy taking care of himself. She’d only been gone two and a half hours, but she was usually around during the day to answer the phone and come when he called, so he was finding it difficult to carry out his normal routine.
He’d finally given up answering the telephone when it rang every five minutes, and was now letting all calls go directly to voicemail. Lord knew Lucy would be better able to deal with the messages when she got back. And even though she often went through his electronic mail for him, forwarding only those that required his personal attention, today he’d done it himself. He wasn’t completely helpless, after all.
The snail mail, however, was a different matter. No way was he going anywhere near that pile of paper cuts. Lucy would let him know if there was anything he needed to see.
From his office upstairs, he heard the front door open and a wash of relief poured over him. Thank God. Now he could lock himself in his room and concentrate on his real strength—program design—instead of dealing with the other odds and ends of getting through the day.
Crossing his office threshold, he stopped on the second floor landing and watched as Lucy struggled to close the door while balancing assorted shopping bags and boxes in both arms.
Looking up, she spotted him and blew a stray strand of straight black hair out of her face. “You could offer to help, you know.”
“Oh. Right.” He spent more time with computers than people, and Lucy would be the first to point out that he sometimes lacked social graces. But the minute she called him on it, he rushed into action, bounding down the stairs and grabbing up her entire load.
“Sorry about that. It looks like you had luck shopping, anyway.”
She shrugged out of the lightweight jacket that matched her dark blue skirt, tossing it over the banister and leaving her once again in a soft white blouse that showed off her feminine attributes to perfection. It didn’t help that he could see the outline of her black lace bra through the gauzy material, either.
Peter’s blood thickened and a lump of temptation formed in his throat. But a moment later, he tamped down on both, refusing to let his mind wander a path he had no business exploring.
Lucy was a beauty, no doubt about it. From the moment they’d met, when she’d first interviewed for the job as his personal assistant, he’d been fascinated by the silky fall of her long ebony hair, the smooth complexion of her porcelain skin, the bright, sharp blue of her doe-shaped eyes.
Of course, there was no chance of anything happening between them. Peter had long ago put a mental block on the possibility of building a relationship with any woman, let alone one who worked for him. God forbid he turn out like his father…. He had too much in common with the old man already and had no intention of making a wife or children as miserable as his father had made his mother and him.
But he’d hired Lucy in spite of his attraction to her, simply because she was the best damn applicant on the list. She typed, took dictation, had a phone voice that could make a saint fall to his knees, and knew her way around computers almost as well as he did.
So, if he found himself staring at her ripe red lips most of the time while she spoke, or taking an unnatural number of cold showers after she’d gone home for the day, he had no one to blame but himself.
Dressed now in a clean pair of tan chinos and dark green polo shirt, he noticed the curve of her mouth and wondered what she found so amusing. Lord knew he was in too much physical pain to mimic her contented smile.
“I hope you still think it was a good idea to make me go with you tomorrow night once you see your credit card statement.”
That gave him a moment’s pause, but then he shrugged. The tissue paper in several of the boutique bags rustled with the movement. “How bad could it be?”
Her brows shot up. Holding a hand out like she expected him to shake it, she quipped, “Hi, let me introduce myself. I’m a woman with carte blanche to charge anything I want on a man’s account. I also happen to know your net worth. Any questions?”
He chuckled. Her sense of humor had always been machete sharp, but that was just one more reason he enjoyed her company.
“Remind me to have a couple of drinks before I open the bill,” he returned. “In the meantime, how about a little fashion show?”
Eyes wide, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Come on,” he cajoled. “I want to see what I paid for.”
Furry, multilegged caterpillars wiggled inside Lucy’s stomach as she considered Peter’s request. The last thing she wanted to do was attend tomorrow night’s charity benefit with him, and the next to the last thing she wanted was to model her new evening gown before she absolutely had to.
But—whether he knew it yet or not—he had spent quite a lot on the fancy ensemble, and if he wanted an advance viewing, she supposed it was only right to give it to him.
He must have read the indecision on her face because he started up the stairs without her. “You can use my bedroom to change. And this way, I’ll know what color corsage to order.”
“Corsage?” With a roll of her eyes, she began to follow. “Peter, we aren’t going to a high school prom.”
He swung around at the balcony railing and flashed her the unwitting, thousand-watt smile that made her teeth sweat. “Too bad. It sure would be more fun than what we have to endure.” Then he spun back and walked into the bedroom.
When Lucy arrived, the bags and boxes he’d carried up for her were scattered atop the chest at the foot of his bed. Peter rubbed his hands together and gave her a friendly wink before moving back toward the hallway.
“Give me a yell when you’re ready. I’ll be in my office.”
The door closed with a soft click, leaving her alone beside Peter’s bed…and Peter’s mattress…and Peter’s pillow. The covers were still rumpled from the last time he’d slept there and it took a great deal of effort not to throw herself across the bed and inhale his scent from every fiber of the tan, five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. She ought to know, she’d bought them for him.
Sad, that’s what she was. Pathetic and sad and unworthy of being a member of the female race. What other twenty-nine-year-old woman spent her life mooning over an unattainable boss? A clueless man who never looked twice at her…at least not the way a man should look at a woman.
Other than throwing herself down on his desk and screaming, “Take me, big boy!” she’d done everything she could think of to let Peter know she was interested. From the time she’d started working for him two years ago, she’d tried to drop hints that his advances wouldn’t be unwelcome. She’d worn her skirts a little short and her blouses a little low. She’d worn a dozen different perfumes, trying to find one that would pique his interest. She’d worn her hair up and down, short and long, straight, curly, braided…She’d leaned close while they talked and fabricated excuses to interrupt him while he worked.
Finally, when nothing seemed to catch his attention, she’d given up. A girl could only take so much humiliation, and her breaking point came the day she’d arrived at work to find another woman, half-dressed, leaving Peter’s room. Her theory that he must be gay had been shot all to hell, and she’d vowed then and there never to make another move on him.
Unfortunately that pledge didn’t keep her eyes from wandering over his well-muscled form, or her heart from skipping a beat when he said her name in that low, reverberating voice of his.
Not for the first time, she thought about quitting. She really should. She was talented, good at her job, and could probably find another position anywhere in the city within the week.
But she liked this arrangement. Despite the personal misery she suffered on a daily basis, Peter was a great employer. She believed in what he was doing and enjoyed being a part of it.
Besides, what other boss would spring for a gorgeous new evening gown and accessories that she would probably never have occasion to wear again?
Lifting items from their bags, she began to peel out of her practical skirt and blouse, ignoring the skittering of awareness that skated down her spine when she realized she was standing half-naked in the middle of Peter’s bedroom. If only he were here with her, and she was stripping down to her skin for something other than an impromptu fashion show.
Instead of bothering with the fancy undergarments she’d purchased to go with the dress, she remained in her normal bra and panty hose, and simply slipped the gown on overtop. She did trade her plain pumps for the black, glitter-covered velvet stilettos, though.
Sweeping her hair back off her shoulders, she left the bedroom and crossed the short, carpeted hall to Peter’s office. She stopped in the doorway, leaned casually against the frame and watched his fingers fly over the keyboard.
“So,” she said, catching his attention. “What do you think?”
Two
Peter glanced up from the computer screen, wondering why she hadn’t called for him when she was finished. He’d have gone over to the bedroom to see her new dress instead of making her come all the way over here.
And then his brain stopped functioning altogether. Every thought in his head flew out his ears as he stared at the vision before him.
He slid the wire-rim glasses from his nose to get a better look, but she still looked stunningly beautiful. Her hair fell about her face in an ebony curtain and the red satin of her gown, overlaid with black velvet in an intricate flowered pattern, brought out the rosy tint of her alabaster skin.
And that was just from the neck up. From the neck down, she made his eyes sting, his mouth go dry and his nerve endings sizzle.
He’d always known Lucy had a fabulous body. All the straight skirts and tailored jackets in the world couldn’t hide that. But this dress, with its spaghetti straps and scallop-edged bodice, high-slit skirt and the three to four inch heels that made her legs go on for eternity, brought out every nuance of her drop-dead figure.
His gaze drifted over the generous swell of her breasts, the slim line of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips, and up again. Her ice-blue eyes met his and for the first time in his life, he found himself at a loss for words. Speechless, when he’d thought that was something only movie stars suffered because a script called for it.
After several long seconds of complete, utter silence, Lucy interrupted his total lack of thought and started blood flowing back to his brain.
“What?” she asked, glancing down at herself as though something was wrong with the awe-inspiring concoction she was wearing. “Don’t you like it? Should I take it back?”
“No!” he yelped, too fast and too loud. Taking a breath, he tempered his tone and added, “It’s perfect. I was just…” Admiring the view…thinking sinful thoughts…looking for a way to get you out of it… “Thinking of all the heads you’re going to turn tomorrow night. We may have to beat men off with a stick.”
Her cheeks colored prettily and she lowered her eyes for a moment. “Thank you.”
“You won’t have any trouble stirring up interest for Reyware in that outfit.”
He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. What was he thinking, effectively equating her attending the charity soiree in that dress to prostitution? Hey, Luce, how about fixing yourself up and coming to dinner with me so you can give new meaning to “pressing the flesh” and drum up a little financial support for my personal corporation?
Lord, he felt like a pimp.
And he knew his comment hurt her because she lowered her head and traced invisible designs on the carpet with the toe of her shoe.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he cursed silently. “That didn’t come out right,” he tried to apologize.
She raised her eyes to his, dark and shadowed, and offered a weak smile. “I know what you meant.”
No, she didn’t, but he couldn’t think of a way to further explain himself without making matters worse.
“I’d better go change back,” she said, letting her gaze slide away from him again. “Before I get stained or torn or wrinkled.”
He could think of a couple of things he wouldn’t mind doing to tear or wrinkle her gown. And he’d happily pay for another when they were finished.
As quickly as that image entered his mind, he shut it down. Lucy turned, heading back to his bedroom, and there was enough testosterone swimming around in his veins at the moment to watch her walk away and enjoy every elegant, long-legged stride.
But that was as far as it could go—watching. Lucy wasn’t one of the women who snuggled up to him at parties and made it clear they were hoping to spend the night in his bed.
As much as he might wish differently, he couldn’t use her to scratch this itch that was suddenly driving him crazy. She was his assistant, and he hoped a friend. Those were two things he wasn’t willing to risk.
Worse than that, though, Lucy wasn’t a woman he could walk away from in the morning. She would always be here, working for him, helping him to market his software designs and computer know-how, and filling the holes in his own personality with her award-winning people skills.
Dropping into his desk chair, he sent it spinning and watched the blue of the walls swirl around him. What a mess. He should have hired a man to answer the phone and open his mail. He sure as hell wouldn’t be having this problem then.
But Lucy was the best, and he honestly wouldn’t want to work with anyone else, no matter how hard it was to ignore her presence.
If he started something with Lucy, there would be no one-night stand, no casual roll in the hay that could be forgotten and ignored ten minutes later. She wasn’t that kind of girl.
And if she wasn’t that kind of girl, then she was the other. The forever kind, with visions of marriage and children and picket fences dancing in her brain.
That kind scared Peter to death. He’d decided long ago never to let a personal, romantic relationship cloud his acumen for business.
His father had tried to have both and failed miserably. Oh, his company was a smashing success, but his marriage might as well have been a house afire. He’d spent all his time at the office, put all of his energy into deals and negotiations…while Peter and his mother were the ones to suffer.
Peter had seen the anguish in his mother’s eyes. The slump of her shoulders, the air of dejection she carried when her husband disappointed her yet again with late nights or canceled plans.
And Peter would be damned if he’d burden another woman with that type of lifestyle, the way his father had burdened his mother. Especially a woman he cared for.
Marriage, family, happily ever after…they weren’t for him. His entire focus was on building his business and designing software to rival the competition. Which meant he had little or no time to devote to a relationship.
Even if he did…even if Reyware and Games of PRey were well-established enough to relax a bit, to go out and enjoy a healthy social life…he still wouldn’t.
For Peter, it was all or nothing. He could concentrate all of his efforts on business, or he could concentrate all of his efforts on finding a wife and starting a family. He couldn’t do both. And for now—probably for the next ten or twenty years—he chose to concentrate on his work.
It was a damn shame, though. Spending a few hours in the sack with Lucy might just have been worth losing time on a project or two.
The night of the charity event, Peter arranged for a limousine to pick Lucy up at seven o’clock. That gave her two and a half hours to get home from work, shower, change clothes, fix her hair and do her makeup.
It probably shouldn’t have taken her half that long, but she wasn’t used to attending high-priced dinners and fancy fund-raisers. And the thought of going with Peter, perhaps being mistaken for his latest bit of arm candy, had her stomach in knots.
Her apartment, only a few blocks from Peter’s town house in downtown Georgetown, was small, but served its purposes. She’d bought several paintings from a local art gallery and framed some pictures of her family and friends to decorate the otherwise sparse white walls. Small area rugs added color to the brown pile carpeting, and the African safari images on her full-size bedspread made her room feel—in her opinion, anyway—wild and exotic.
And, of course, there was Cocoa, her beautiful, long-haired calico cat, who always rushed to the door to greet her, but ran from anyone else.
“Hello, baby,” she cooed, heedless of the hairs covering her skirt and jacket as she swept the cat into her arms. Cocoa began to purr and nudge Lucy’s chin with the top of her head.
“All right, all right. You’re hungry, I know.”
As was their habit, she set the feline on the kitchen table while she opened a can of Deluxe Dinner and chopped it up into bite-size pieces on a platter with pastel pawprints and Cocoa’s name painted in flowing script.
“Enjoy your liver and chicken,” she said with a kiss to the top of the cat’s head. “I have a big party tonight and need to get ready.”
Every item she intended to wear to the benefit lay strewn across her bed, for fear she might forget something. After a quick shower, she rubbed moisturizer into her steam-warmed skin and dabbed her pulse points with her favorite perfume. Then she blew her hair dry and began the painstaking process of getting dressed.
She started with the matching bra and panty set she’d bought to go with the red satin and black velvet gown before sliding on the black silk thigh-highs the saleslady had talked her into. Thigh-highs or stockings and a garter belt, the woman had assured her, were much sexier than panty hose.
Personally, Lucy questioned the need for sexy lingerie for a nondate with her boss. She could walk out to the limo naked and doubted he would spare her more than a glance before once again burying his nose in his laptop.
With the expensive gown molding to every curve of her body, she swept her hair up and fixed it into a loose French twist at the back of her head. Makeup and jewelry came next, and she pretended not to notice the slight tremor in her fingers as she applied mascara and lipstick.
This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, attending a charity event to raise money for domestic violence victims and hopefully stir up interest in Peter’s company. Not a geeky teenager attending the home-coming dance with the captain of the football team.
Steeling her spine with renewed determination, she slipped into high heels, grabbed the tiny sequined clutch with little more than a compact and lipstick inside and headed for the front door.
A glance at the microwave clock showed she was five minutes early, but if she headed downstairs now, she could meet the limousine when it arrived instead of making the driver buzz up for her.
She gave Cocoa one last stroke as the cat continued to lick her plate clean. “Be a good girl. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
To her surprise, the limo pulled up just as she reached the double glass doors of her building. Draping a fringed black shawl around her shoulders, she went out to meet the car.
She half expected the driver to come around and hold the door for her, but instead the door opened on its own. Her steps faltered as a foot emerged, followed by a leg, an arm and finally a head of sandy-blond hair. She’d thought Peter was simply sending a car for her, that she would meet him at the hotel where the dinner was being held. Now, it looked as though she would have to ride there with him. In the back of the limo. In close proximity.
He stood on the curb, waiting for her, looking like the California version of James Bond in his black tuxedo, and she had to remind herself to breathe, then put one foot in front of the other until she reached his side. He smiled brightly, letting his gaze slide over her as he reached out a hand for hers.
“If possible,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, “you look even more amazing tonight than you did yesterday.”
The compliment washed over her like a warm breeze, causing the corners of her mouth to lift.
And then, from behind his back, he produced a single long-stemmed red rose. “For you. I thought you might appreciate it more than a corsage.”
Although a small lump filled her throat at his thoughtfulness, she laughed. Peter could be incredibly charming when he wanted, but until this moment, she’d never been the recipient of that seductiveness.
She knew it wasn’t real. He was only being polite for this one night because she was doing him a favor by accompanying him to the fund-raiser.
Still, for her, for now, it was real. And there was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy it while it lasted. Soon enough—like first thing Monday morning—it would be back to work, back to their usual employer/employee relationship.
She lifted the bloom to her nose and inhaled its rich fragrance. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”
When their eyes met over the top of the rose, she thought she saw something deep and meaningful flash across his features, but it was just as quickly gone—if it had been there at all.
Clearing his throat, he moved away from the limousine and waved an arm for her to precede him. “Shall we?”
She nodded, stepping into the plush rear of the limo. Peter slid in beside her and the car rolled forward.
“Would you like something to drink?”
A bottle of champagne, already open, sat chilling in an ice bucket on the opposite seat. He poured a few inches of the golden liquid into a cut crystal glass and handed it to her before filling a flute for himself.
Lucy wasn’t much of a drinker, and normally she never would have started in the car on the way to an event where she knew she would probably consume even more alcohol. But tonight, her nerves were jumping like kernels of corn over an open fire. Maybe a few sips of champagne would calm them down.
“Thank you again for coming with me,” he said as the cool bubbles tickled their way down her throat. “I already feel more relaxed about the evening than if I were going alone or with a practical stranger.”
If the majority of Peter’s dates were “practical strangers,” he certainly cozied up to them enough to invite them in at the end of the night.
She took another gulp of wine to wash away the depressing thought. Peter’s love life was none of her business. His personal life was none of her business. Only his professional life, filling the hours from nine to five, were any of her concern. And sometimes a slice of overtime, such as tonight. But other than that, he could do whatever he wished with whomever he wished, and it wouldn’t bother her a bit.
“This isn’t a favor,” she felt the need to clarify. “It’s part of my job.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to come along. You could have said you were busy, already had a date, or just plain refused.”
She could have…if she’d thought of it.
The rest of the drive passed in silence until they pulled up in front of the Four Seasons on M Street, very close to the city limits of Georgetown. Peter set aside their empty glasses as the driver came around to open their door, then stepped out and turned back to offer Lucy his hand.
Arms linked, they walked into the elegant hotel lobby. A large banner and smaller, raised signs announced the City Women benefit and directed guests to the bank of elevators leading upstairs. Several couples were already there, and Peter and Lucy joined them.
The last ones in, they were at the front near the doors. She could feel the heat of Peter’s hand at the small of her back, through the sheer material of her shawl. She tipped her head to look at him over her shoulder, noticing the thin line of his mouth, the tightness in his jaw. Her eyes narrowed, and she was about to ask if he was all right when the elevator doors opened with a swish. The pressure at her back increased as he urged her forward, into the plush, paneled hallway and in the direction of the crowded ballroom.
Round tables draped with hunter-green and pink linens to match the City Women’s trademark colors filled the room, each seating ten to twelve people. At the front, a raised platform held long, rectangular tables on either side of a tall podium.
As soon as his eyes landed on the microphone he would be using for his acceptance speech, Peter made a choking sound and stuck a finger behind the collar of his shirt, as though the small black tie was cutting off his air supply.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured him, laying a hand on his elbow and running it down the length of his arm until their fingers twined. “Now we’d better get up there before Mrs. Harper-Whitfield starts �yoo-hooing’ for you over everyone’s heads.”
He groaned. “Please, no. Not Mrs. Harper-Whitfield.”
Laughing, they started through the crowd, nodding and saying hello to acquaintances, stopping to chat only when they weren’t given much choice. When they finally reached their seats, the City Women directors and founding members flocked to Peter’s side, thanking him for coming, complimenting him on his latest donation or software creation.
Lucy sat beside him, a smile permanently etched on her face for the stream of admirers who paraded past, wanting a moment or two with the esteemed Peter Reynolds.
Finally dinner was served, and they were left mostly to themselves while everyone enjoyed delicious servings of thinly sliced beef, steamed broccoli, lightly seasoned new potatoes, and fruit tartlets for dessert. Hundreds of mingled voices filled the room, making a private conversation difficult.
Lucy realized, too, that Peter was inordinately nervous about getting up in front of such a large group. But no matter how slowly he ate, the meal was soon over and the City Women president was addressing the crowd, describing the organization’s accomplishments of the past several months and relaying some very moving success stories.
As soon as the speaker began talking about that one special contributor who had helped to fill their shelters with computer equipment and offer women avenues other than remaining in abusive situations, Lucy felt Peter tense beside her. His entire body went taut, and his knuckles turned white where they tried to squeeze the life out of a poor, defenseless cloth napkin.
Turning unobtrusively in his direction, she leaned close enough to be heard and whispered, “Relax.” She covered his clenched fist with the palm of her hand, gently stroking his warm skin until his grip on the linen loosened. Setting the napkin aside, she slipped her free hand beneath the lapel of his tuxedo jacket and retrieved the stack of index cards she knew would be there.
“Take a deep breath,” she ordered in a soft, soothing tone. “You’ve done this a million times before, you’ll be fine. And if all else fails, remember to picture everyone naked.”
His head whipped around and his gaze, hot, green and intense, drifted over her, lingering a little too long on the area of her waist and breasts.
“Not me,” she growled with a roll of her eyes, putting three fingers to his cheek and pushing him away.
The City Women president smiled brightly as she finished her introduction and the spotlight swung to Peter. Lucy shoved the note cards into his hand and urged him to his feet before joining in on the applause.
In the end, he had nothing to worry about. His speech was both funny and poignant, delivered with perfect pitch by a man who could flirt a nun out of her habit. Before he finished, Peter promised to continue refurbishing and donating used PCs for the organization’s use, earning him a standing ovation and another round of boisterous applause. The City Women then gifted him with a plaque in appreciation of his aid.
From there, everyone moved across the hall to a second ballroom where an orchestra was set up to play for the rest of the night, as well as four cash bars that would split their profits with the hosting charity.
Now that his speech was over, Peter was much more relaxed and willing to mingle with a crowd that obviously adored him. And Lucy knew this was her cue to spring into action. To approach some of D.C.’s wealthiest citizens and talk up Peter’s freshman software company, convincing them that any man who would volunteer so much time and money to such a worthy cause certainly deserved a modicum of support for his own interests. She would set up appointments for them to visit Peter at home, see samples of his work and discuss his plans for the future of Reyware.
Two long, exhausting hours later, Lucy had set up twenty-odd meetings for the following weeks and was fighting not to yawn and offend all the people she’d just spent half the night trying to impress.
Coming up behind her, Peter slid an arm around her waist, resting his chin on the slope of her shoulder. “Have we put in our time yet? Can we get the hell out of here?”
“I thought you were enjoying yourself,” she said without turning around.
“Making the most of a bad situation…it’s not quite the same thing. So how about it—wanna blow this Popsicle stand?”
She checked her watch. Nearly midnight. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too terribly rude to leave now. We have been here for almost four hours.”
“Feels like six. Besides, I want to get home and find a place to hang my new plaque.” He waved the chunk of wood and gold plating in front of her as they made their way to the outskirts of the ballroom and sneaked off—hopefully—without being noticed.
The elevators were free, the doors sliding open as soon as Peter punched the down button. They were alone inside the carpeted, glass-walled car, and Lucy once again spotted signs of strain bracketing his mouth, his fingers clenching around the brass handhold that ran along all three sides.
“Do you have a problem with elevators?” she asked, drawing his attention from the glowing red numbers above the door.
“Elevators? No, why?”
“Because you seem awfully uncomfortable. I noticed it on the ride up earlier, too. We could have taken the stairs, you know.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I just like getting off elevators more than I like getting on them.”
That was an understatement, she thought, but didn’t say anything more since they were only going from the fourth floor to the lobby. But then the lights flickered and Peter glanced up in alarm. A second later, the entire car went dark, lurching to a stop somewhere between floors as the cables and computerized panels groaned in protest.
“What’s going on? Why aren’t we moving?” Peter wanted to know, banging on the controls as though hitting all the buttons at once would miraculously send them back into motion.
“I think the power might be out,” she told him, waiting for her vision to adjust to the pitch-black.
“Oh, God. How long do you think it will take them to get it back on?”
She shrugged and then realized he couldn’t see her. “You know how these things are. Sometimes the electricity only flickers off for a few minutes, other times it takes all night.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
Peter’s breathing echoed off the walls, heavy and exaggerated. She reached out, feeling for him, until her fingertips encountered the soft fabric of his tuxedo jacket.
“Take it easy, Peter. The elevator isn’t even moving now.”
“That’s the problem,” he gritted out, punctuating each word with a hard rap to the metal doors. “The damn thing isn’t moving!”
A shiver of dread skated down her spine. “I thought you didn’t like being in elevators because of that weird up-and-down sensation you get in your stomach.”
“Ha!” The sound came out strangled and his breathing grew even more ragged. Beneath her hand, the muscles of his arm bunched and released.
“It’s not elevators,” he snapped. “They haven’t invented an elevator yet that moves fast enough for me. It’s enclosed spaces. I can’t stand small, enclosed spaces.”
Three
Uh-oh.
“You’re claustrophobic?”
How could he be claustrophobic? And how could she not know about it?
She’d been working with him for two years now. She knew his favorite foods, his favorite color, his favorite pair of boxer shorts, for heaven’s sake. How could she have missed the fact that he was claustrophobic?
“Just a little.”
His response came out on a wheeze and she realized he was seriously downplaying just how upset he was by this sudden set of circumstances.
“All right, let’s not panic,” she said, as much to herself as to him. She moved closer, rubbing his arm, his shoulder. “The power will probably come right back on. Until then, why don’t you tell me how long you’ve had this little problem.”
“Forever. Long as I can remember.” A beat passed while he sucked in air like a drowning victim. “Is it hot in here? It’s too hot in here.”
She felt him struggling to shed his jacket even though she didn’t think the temperature had gone up a single degree since the lights went off. His high level of anxiety probably had his internal thermostat going haywire.
“Here, let me help.” She took the suitcoat, folding it in half and setting it aside in what she hoped was a safe corner.
“And what do you usually do when you find yourself in an enclosed space?” If she could keep him talking, maybe he wouldn’t think so much about where they were. She might even get lucky and figure out a way to keep him calm until the elevator started moving again.
He laughed, a raw, harsh sound. “Go crazy? Throw up? Pass out?”
This was a side of Peter she’d never seen before. Sure, he was slightly scattered, a bit of a computer nerd. More focused on the new program he was designing than whether his hair was combed or there was enough milk in the refrigerator for breakfast.
But, other than the occasional round of public speaking, he was also strong and self-assured. So handsome, he made her teeth hurt. And he was in better physical shape than anyone would expect for a man who spent twenty-three hours of most days staring at a computer screen. He carried himself like a man with a mission; one who knew exactly why he’d been put on this earth and was simply going about the business of carrying out that task.
Little had she known he harbored this secret claustrophobia.
“Oh, God.” He was punching buttons again, growing more agitated by the second. “We’re going to die in here.”
She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud at that outrageous pronouncement. “We are not going to die. Come on. Come over here and sit down.”
Taking his elbow, she tugged him away from the front of the elevator until they hit the rear wall. It took some doing, but she finally got him to the floor.
Covering his face with his hands, he muttered, “I don’t feel very well. I think I might be sick.”
“You’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, finding it warm and damp with perspiration. “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“If your eyes are closed, you won’t even know the lights are off. We’ll talk and pretend we’re back at the house, and before you know it, that’s exactly where you’ll be.”
He gave a raspy chuckle. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Running two fingers lightly over his eyelids, she whispered, “You never know until you try.”
His chest still heaved with the speed of his breathing and she could feel his body shaking against her own.
“You’re in your office,” she murmured, thinking she sounded an awful lot like a hypnotist. “Working on the latest version of Soldiers of Misfortune, throwing in some extra severed heads and damsels in distress. The kids will love it.”
“Too much violence. Should be more socially conscious.”
She laughed at that, knowing how much time he spent worrying that his computer games were too mature for their audiences. “You’re just socially conscious enough. Now focus. You’re at your desk, swigging down your tenth can of soda…I’ll be in any minute with your mail, and to chastise you for drinking too much of that sugar water.”
“Nectar of the gods.”
“The gods of Type-2 Diabetes, maybe.” She played with the ends of his silky hair, trying to keep him from hurting himself as he banged his head rhythmically against the back wall of the elevator.
“You worry too much about me.”
His comment caught her off guard, and for a minute she didn’t respond. She did worry too much about him, but she couldn’t help it. She cared about him, too—too much. She cared that he worked long hours and didn’t get enough sleep, that he didn’t eat right and inhaled cola like it was oxygen. And she cared that he was so upset about being stuck in this elevator in the middle of a blackout.
“Not too much,” she said finally. “Just enough.”
Was it her imagination, or was he calming down? His breathing didn’t seem quite as loud now, and the fidgeting had slowed to a bare minimum.
A minute ticked by in silence while she waited to see if he was all right. If maybe he’d fallen asleep or really believed he was in his office, working on his latest Games of PRey installment.
But suddenly, the trembling started again, worse than before, and he shot to his feet. “This isn’t working. We have to get out of here before we run out of air. Why isn’t anyone trying to get us out?”
He pounded on the doors with his fists, shouting for help, on the verge of hyperventilating. Lucy made another grab for him, pulling him away, fighting the claustrophobia for his attention.
“Peter. Peter, stop. Listen to me.” She framed his face with her hands, able to see the barest outline of his silhouette now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No, no, no…” He shook his head emphatically, not listening or unwilling to believe. “I can’t breathe.”
She could feel the pulse at his throat beating out of control and knew she was losing him. But what else could she do? How did you calm someone who was on the brink of a breakdown?
The answer came to her in a flash and she didn’t give herself time to second guess. Leaning up on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him as she’d always imagined. Her fingers slipped from his cheeks to his nape, tangling in the slightly long hair growing over his collar.
He tasted of scotch and heat and just plain Peter, and she wondered why she’d waited two years to do this. It was crazy, it was wrong, but it was also so darn good, her skin was threatening to melt right off her bones.
And best of all, Peter’s panic seemed to have subsided. He wrapped his arms about her waist and dragged her closer, opening his mouth to let their tongues parry and thrust.
Their bodies rubbed together like two pieces of flint, all but shooting sparks. Her breasts, crushed to his chest, grew heavy and sensitive with desire, her nipples beading to nearly painful points. Lower, the hard line of his arousal nudged the area between her legs.
In the back of his mind, Peter knew he was supposed to be thinking about something. The dark, the broken-down elevator, getting out, or dying before anyone discovered them. But damned if he could find it in him to care about anything other than the warm, willing woman in his arms.
Lucy. He shouldn’t be kissing Lucy…his assistant, his friend, the one person he didn’t want to offend because, as he often joked, she knew where the bodies were buried.
But, God, she felt good. She smelled good, like flowers in springtime, with an overlaying scent of musk that made him think of hot, sweaty sex. And she tasted amazing.
Since puberty, he’d had his share of fantasies about making out with beauty queens and X-rated starlets; sometimes both at the same time. But no dream, no matter how erotic, could ever live up to what was happening right here, right now. She made steam rise from his pores and every drop of blood in his veins rush straight for the equator.
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