Tempting the Billionaire (9 page)

H
enry Townsend perused the fresh artwork before him in flinty silence. Crickitt fidgeted as she waited and watched. Though she was confident the meeting wouldn’t end with Shane firing her, she didn’t have as much faith in Townsend.

The new logo was almost identical to the one she’d sketched that night in Shane’s office. The same night he’d moved to sit next to her, then brushed his shoulder against hers. The memory snapped like flashbulbs in her mind.

Fiery, amber eyes flicking to her lips.

A guttural sound escaping his perfect mouth.

The heat of his lips searing hers.

She risked a look over to Shane, who happened to look over at her at the same time. He nodded his head in reassurance, and for the first time in a good long while, she didn’t feel alone.

“No mascot,” Townsend growled.

Carrie straightened, perched on the edge of her chair like a nervous canary.

Shane and Crickitt kept quiet.

Townsend slapped the portfolio full of artwork, business plans, and ad pitches closed and slid it across the conference room table. It skidded to a halt in front of Crickitt.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

Crickitt and Shane exchanged glances. “Which part, Henry?” she asked.

His lined mouth tilted into what she guessed was supposed to be a smile. “All of it, Ms. Day. All of it.”

With that, he pressed his gnarled hands onto the table’s shining mahogany surface and pushed himself up. His cronies followed him single file out of the room. The moment the door swung shut behind them, Crickitt turned to Shane. He startled her, grabbing her up and lifting her off her feet. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“You did it!” he said, giving her a squeeze and pressing her against a wall of hard male chest. He set her down, but his cologne continued tickling her nostrils. He smelled
so good
. Downright edible. She slid her arms from his neck, letting him go, even though every part of her anatomy protested.

“You really did it,” he said.

“We did it,” she corrected as they took an awkward step away from each other.

Shane palmed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess we did.” Then he smirked. “And you didn’t even have to make out with him.”

Crickitt flushed. “Lucky me, I guess.” She busied her hands packing the portfolio into her bag.

Shane gathered his briefcase. “Do you have plans tonight?”

She didn’t. And more than anything she hoped that Shane was asking because he wanted to make plans with her. She shouldn’t hope that at all. Not after they promised to keep things between them platonic. Not after Ronald’s confusing phone call.

“Why? Feel like treating your PA to a congratulatory dinner?” she blurted anyway.

“You’ve earned it.”

A thread of pride caused her to lift her chin. She had earned it. And more than that, she deserved to spend the evening the way she wanted. And she wanted to spend it with Shane. “Okay,” she told him. “I accept.”

Crickitt stood on the sidewalk in downtown Columbus beneath a building that resembled the space needle in Washington. She craned her head, shielding her eyes from the warm summer sun. Skyview was practically perched in the clouds, rotating too slowly to notice, giving its diners a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of downtown. “I’ve always wanted to eat here.”

Shane took his eyes from the skyscraper to look at her. “Me, too.”

He’d never been here before? And he’d brought her, which made their coming here instantly more meaningful.

Inside, the hostess sat them at a coveted window seat. Crickitt studied the Matchbox-size cars below before focusing on Shane’s reflection in the window. He was watching her, the sun highlighting the line of his jaw, his perfect lips.

“Madame?”

Crickitt turned to find their wine waiter,
sommeliers
she remembered they were called in five-star restaurants, a bottle of wine propped onto a white cloth over his forearm. “Château Sedacca.” He placed the bottle on the table and opened it with a manual wine service. Shane watched her through twinkling eyes, which made her remember the electric bottle opener, his fingers gliding along hers. Was he remembering that, too?

The waiter splashed the slightest bit of red into the bottom of her glass. When she only smiled up at him, he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, right.” She lifted the wine and sipped, allowing the liquid to slide on her tongue before trickling down her throat. It was the same wine she’d had at Shane’s house. She remembered the burst of fruitiness, the soft tannins in the background. And the hint of it on Shane’s lips when she’d kissed him.

She put her glass back on the table, unable to look Shane in the eye. But he watched her. She could feel his stare from across the table.

“Madame?” the sommelier asked again, bottle poised to pour.

“Oh. Yes, um, it’s perfect.” He filled her glass, then Shane’s, and finally retreated. “That was stressful,” she mumbled, only half kidding.

Shane chuckled, drawing her attention.

“What?” she asked, unable to keep from smiling over at him. “Did I do that wrong?”

He cradled his glass in one large palm. “You did not do anything wrong. I just…” He shook his head as if arriving at a conclusion that surprised him. “You’re refreshing, do you know that?”

“I am?”

He kept his eyes on hers as he took in some of the red liquid and pursed his lips, sucking in air as he rolled the wine around on his tongue. She simply stared, utterly distracted by the contours of his mouth.

“Completely,” he said. “I like that you’re not intimidated by”—he gestured at the five-piece band and flock of well-dressed diners—“any of this.”

“I’m following your lead,” she said honestly. “You’re the most grounded billionaire I’ve ever met.”

“Know a lot of us, do you?”

She waved a hand. “Tons.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made her stomach pitch. “To us.” He lifted his glass. “We kick ass.”

After she ate the finest meal to ever touch her tongue, and they’d emptied the bottle of wine and refused a second, the conversation shifted from work to family.

“My parents live in Missouri, though they do visit me several times a year.” She pretended to look at her invisible watch. “They’re about due for their quarterly butt-into-my-life visit, as a matter of fact.”

Shane smiled. “Siblings?”

“One brother,” Crickitt said, pushing her plate away before she stuffed herself beyond repair. “He’s in Missouri, too.”

“What does he do?”

“He works for the phone company. He’s a repairman. What about you? No wait, let me guess,” she said pressing her fingertips to her temples and pretending to read his mind. “You are an only child.”

“Very good.”

“And I’ll bet you were first in your class when you went to college.”

“I wasn’t first but I was close,” he said with a crooked smile.

Fingers to her temples again, she narrowed her eyes, concentrating. “Your parents bought you your first Mercedes when you were sixteen. Your dad taught you everything you know about business.”

Shane’s smile faltered. Like the moment she mentioned the clock on his living room wall, she sensed she had crossed a line.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, but his smile was polite. “My dad was a machinist at a factory.” He spun his wineglass, the liquid swirling against its sides. “And my mom was a schoolteacher.”

“And they are no longer living,” Crickitt said, picking up on the obvious. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Don’t be. Dad died a year ago. It wasn’t easy, but I’ve recovered.”

“And your mom?”

He averted his gaze, spinning his wineglass on the tablecloth. “When I was a kid.”

The waiter descended with a tray of desserts. Crickitt waved him off, having eaten too much of the five-star cuisine to make room for caramel-chocolate cheesecake.

Shane settled the bill, and they rose to leave. As she stepped around tables and dodged an incoming waiter with a tray of food, Shane briefly pressed his palm on the small of her back. A fiery trail licked her spine, and she inadvertently tensed. By the time they’d boarded the empty elevator, Crickitt was clutching her purse with strained fingers.

Shane leaned against the wall on the opposite side, regarding her from beneath thick lashes. He was so tall and broad and handsome, being under his scrutiny made her nervous. Or maybe that was excitement. It was getting easier and easier to forget this man was her employer, that he wasn’t attempting to seduce her, that he was treating her because of a job well done. She turned her eyes to the digital display and counted down the floors, hoping the gesture would tame her hijacked hormones.

Outside on solid ground, the night air welcoming and cool, Crickitt sucked in a quiet, clarifying breath. Shane easily kept pace, his long legs eating up the same distance in half the steps. He reached for the door of the limo and popped it open, gliding his palm along her back again as she slid inside.

If he made her body hum by raking her with the briefest touch, what could he do if he really took his time? She clambered inside, straightening her curls and her clothing in one nervous gesture after the other. Shane climbed in and sat beside her, at a respectable distance, but still, too close. Heat leaped to the surface of her skin, burning her cheeks, flushing her neck and chest.

His aftershave had long faded, but the crisp fragrance of his laundry soap combined with his pheromones mingled in her senses. Twice she heard an intake of breath and twice she turned in anticipation, but each time his breath ended on a sigh as he focused on the landscape whizzing by the window. Crickitt spent the remainder of the ride staring out her own window, the dead air between them stifling.

The limo door opened in front of her apartment. Shane got out first, offering Crickitt his hand. She took it, shuddering as his long fingers grazed her bare flesh.

“I’ll walk you up,” he murmured, taking her canvas bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

Heart thundering in her chest, she fumbled with the keys, grateful to have something in her hands. At the door, it took all of her willpower to keep the key steady as she pushed it into the lock. She could feel Shane standing behind her, the heat radiating off his big body surrounding her like an embrace.

Finally, the key slid home and she turned the knob. If she faced him, he’d see every ounce of desire on her face, every bit of longing reflected in her eyes. She kept her back to him and focused on opening her front door. “Thank you for dinner.”

But he didn’t let her get away with it.

“Crickitt?”

She took a deep breath, tried to mask her expression in nonchalance. But when she turned, she found Shane close enough to touch, his face bathed in the pale porch light, his perfectly formed mouth edged in a day’s growth. Moving her eyes from his face didn’t quell the urge to devour him where he stood.

His suit was creased, his collar open, giving her a generous view of his bitable neck. His tie, harmlessly dangling from his jacket pocket, filled her head with fantasies she’d never had before.

Tempting.
The word echoed in her ears, making her wonder how long Eve was able to resist before caving in and sampling the apple.

She finally managed to dredge up her voice. “Did you forget something?” she asked.

He scanned her face, his nostrils flaring. Her heart sped and she sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for his answer.

“Now would be the perfect moment,” he said, leaning a palm on her door frame and causing her to press her back against the door, “for me to say yes.” He reached out and toyed with a button at the top of her shirt. “And kiss you good night.”

Her fingers convulsed around the doorknob.

Please. Please do that.

“But…” He pushed away from her, his fingers leaving her shirt. “I wouldn’t want to be the first to break our pact.”

“Our pact?” she squeaked, her voice tight with longing.

Shane stepped away, and Crickitt’s breath left her as if he’d taken it from her lungs. The moment evaporated, lost in the span of that single breath. Shane handed over her bag and she took it, unable to hide the shake of her fingers.

“Let me know,” he said, watching her as he backed down each of her porch steps, “if you want to revisit that agreement.” Rolling one shoulder, he added, “Make an amendment.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it ineffectually. At the moment her muddled brain couldn’t recall what, exactly, an amendment was. She knew it had something to do with the Constitution.

At the limo, Shane tortured her with one final sexy grin before sinking into the limo. “Sweet dreams, Crickitt,” he said, then shut himself inside.

When her brain sent the message to her hand to wave, the limo had pulled out of her street and disappeared behind a thatch of trees. She wrestled her keys from the knob and shut the door, pressing her forehead into the solid wood until it ached.

Let me know if you want to revisit that agreement.

She pushed herself upright and let out a groan that sounded like a mix of longing and defeat. Trudging to her bedroom, she tossed her bag aside and collapsed onto her multicolored comforter.

She should be relieved. There were a hundred reasons why getting physically involved with her boss was a bad idea.

But she couldn’t think of any of them. The only images flooding her mind were the things she would have done to him if he’d leaned in the slightest bit and closed his mouth over hers. She would have hauled him into her foyer by his collar and put those lips to good use for the next hour.

Rolling over, she smothered a groan into her frilly decorative pillow.

Bad idea
, her brain reminded her. But she couldn’t get a single other part of her body to agree.

C
rickitt ignored the purr of her desk phone and continued filing the papers stacked in the crook of one arm. It was nearly seven o’clock, and she was more than ready for a relaxing weekend away from the office. It’d been impossible to relax around Shane this week. The almost-kiss at her front door left her flustered and sexually frustrated. Though she hadn’t actually been around him much since then. Which made her wonder if she’d squandered the moment.

Her desk phone rang again, and Crickitt growled under her breath. She stalked to her desk and answered, trying to sound neutral. “Crickitt Day.”

“Hey,” came the gruff greeting over a din of other voices.

“Ronald.” She wasn’t able to keep the shock out of her voice. The name of a local pub lit the caller ID screen. She lowered herself into her chair. Of course he hadn’t called from his cell phone. He knew she wouldn’t have answered.

The last time they’d spoken, Ronald had insisted on them getting back together, proclaiming he was wrong and begging for her forgiveness. By the time he’d mentioned the word “remarried” and claimed he still loved her, Crickitt had heard enough. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of that conversation.

She heard a slurping sound as he took a drink, vodka tonic if she had to guess, and the clink of ice cubes against the edge of the glass. “I was thinking,” he slurred, “about you and me.”

“I’m busy,” she grated, raising every internal shield in an attempt to protect herself.

“You haven’t changed,” he said with a derisive grunt. “Still ignoring life outside of work?”

“Ronald—”

“No wonder the sex was so bad.”

A hot wave of anger blasted through her limbs, leaving shock waves in its wake. She rummaged around her head for a comeback that wasn’t littered with profanity but came up empty-handed.

“You should have been thinking about me instead of your precious career,” he continued, oblivious to her emotions. “Maybe then I would have let you stay.”

She squeezed the phone so hard her fingertips tingled. She loosened her grip and forced herself to breathe. “You’re drunk.” But acknowledging his state didn’t erase his accusations.

“The sex schedule was a little impersonal.”

Her stomach pitched.

“But you wore that lacy thingy, which I guess kind of made up for it.”

“We were on a schedule because I was trying to get pregnant.” The words bubbled up from some deep, dark place she would have preferred not to acknowledge. “You weren’t complaining at the time,” she added, tears flooding her eyes.

“Well, whatever.” He crunched an ice cube. “It worked out for the best.”

Thick emotion blocked her throat as she tried to digest the truth behind his statement. Yes, she was glad she never had children with Ronald, but it didn’t change the fact she still wanted them.

“I was thinking,” he continued rather than wait for her reaction, “about how you never bought the bread I liked, only the multigrain. And you know how much I like to get the mail, but you always ran out to the box first.”

She shook her head, trying to understand how he could follow a callous statement with one so pithy. “What are you even—”

“I loved you, Crickitt, I did,” he said in the condescending quality he’d perfected over the years. “But, more like a friend. Or a sister.”

She gave herself a moment to regroup, for the sting of his statement to dull. “Just because you’re angry,” she said, feeling her blood boil, “doesn’t give you the right—”

“Angry doesn’t change the fact that I can’t, in good conscience, be with you any longer.”

“I don’t want to be with
you
!” she shouted. Without waiting for a response, she slammed the phone onto the cradle. She stared at it, daring it to ring again. It didn’t.

And though she’d have rather died than cry over Ronald’s harsh accusations, the tears came. And wouldn’t stop coming.

Shane rubbed his eyes, but the computer screen stayed blurry. He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he’d been putting in too much computer time this week after all. In order to avoid his assistant—his incredibly sexy, distracting, kissable assistant—he’d been e-mailing her across the hall rather than walking the ten yards to speak with her in person.

You’re being ridiculous.

True. But he was also being practical. If she knew the wayward direction of his thoughts, she’d make a suggestion involving a bridge and a flying leap. And he wasn’t about to bring up the comment he’d thrown at her feet like a gauntlet. He thought he was playing it cool by suggesting she be the first to break their friendship pact.

Why hadn’t he just winked and pointed his finger like a gun while saying,
Ball in your court, babe
? What was he thinking, trying to pull off that Pierce Brosnan crap? He should have kissed her or not, and left it at that.

If Crickitt noticed his reclusive behavior, it was news to him. While he didn’t want her to feel pressured or awkward, her disinterest was making his ego sting. How could she be unaffected while he tried—and failed—to think of anything
but
her?

Then again, maybe she was struggling. There was a moment earlier in the week when he’d leaned on the door frame of her office, and while he’d given her an update on the Townsend account she’d given him a generous eye-sweep from head to toe. It was difficult, but he’d managed not to smile. And then there was yesterday. In the break room, he poured her a cup of coffee, teasing her about her unusual penchant for soy milk and whipped cream. She couldn’t meet his eye, twirling one short curl around her finger while studying her filling mug.

A few more weeks of intense office flirting and they’d both spontaneously combust under the pressure. And, for a change, he was all for it.

Opting to talk to Crickitt in person rather than finish the e-mail he’d started drafting, he stood from his desk. Then he steeled himself with a breath and opened his office door. The lobby to the right was dark, Keena’s desk abandoned. Not that he’d expected to find her there. No one stayed late on Friday evening, save for him. And Crickitt. He could hear her shuffling papers in her brightly lit office.

He strode through her open door to find her in her chair, bent over a bottom drawer. Taking advantage of the curls that hid her face, he admired the curve of her thighs and bottom as she sat rummaging through the files.

“Milking the clock?” he asked. “Just so you know you’re not going to get any overtime out of…”

The words died in his throat when she lifted her head. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red, her face tear-streaked. In two steps he rounded her desk and knelt next to her chair.

“Crickitt, what happened? Are you hurt?” In a panic, he reached for her shoulders, searching for signs of injury even as he reminded himself she couldn’t have suffered anything more serious than a paper cut.

“You could say that,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She rubbed her fingers under the hollows of her eyes and sniffed, looking everywhere but at him. “I had…an unwelcome phone call.”

“From your ex-husband,” Shane guessed.

Crickitt gave him a searching look. “Yeah.”

That one word was full of longing. Desperate for camaraderie. And he’d gone and kicked open the door, practically inviting her to talk to him about it.

Shane released her shoulders and stood too quickly, causing his head to swim. Oh, how he wished it had been a paper cut. Then he could leave in search of a Band-Aid and escape the emotions pressing down on him from every angle. He was ill equipped to handle his own personal issues, let alone help with hers. He should leave. For both their sakes.

“I’m sorry to barge in,” he started, shooting a longing glance at the doorway. Crickitt wiped her hands over her face, looking small and alone. And just like the night he spotted her in the club and felt the pull to comfort her, he couldn’t walk away.

Settling awkwardly on the corner of her desk, he plucked a tissue from the box next to him. When she accepted it, he offered her another, not sure what else to do. He reached for a third and she waved him off.

He should say something. But what? Your ex is a jerk? I’m sorry? Everything will be okay? Shane drummed his fingers on his knees, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t write a check to solve this problem, and, frankly, he wasn’t sure if anything he said or did might make it better.

Crickitt stilled his jittering hands with her palms. “Don’t feel like you have to stay, Shane. I’ll be fine.” Her words were strong, but her voice was wobbly. “I just”—she looked around the room, lost—“need to go.” She tossed the tissues into her wastebasket, gathered a few files into a stack. “I need to get home,” she muttered again, rising from her chair.

But she didn’t move. Just stood there staring at her hands while tears pooled in her eyes.

Ah, hell.

Acting on instincts he wasn’t sure he could trust, Shane pulled her into his arms. She stiffened against him. He did his best to remain calm despite the fact that wrapping his arms around a crying woman was a completely foreign concept.

“It’s okay,” he murmured to both of them, smoothing a palm over her back. Before his insecurities took flight, she lifted her arms and looped them around his neck.

Shane stroked her back, then her hair, the movements coming more naturally than he expected. Crickitt clung to him, the cries wringing from her lungs causing his heart to lurch.

A wash of anger came over him, directed toward her jag-off ex and whatever he said to make her cry, but he forced his irritation to the side. Crickitt didn’t need his anger; she needed his friendship. He held her until her cries ceased, until her breaths evened out.

She didn’t loosen her grip but stayed positioned between his legs, her breasts smashed into his chest. Ignoring her soft curves was downright torturous, but he forced himself to focus on giving her what she needed. Moving his palm in lazy circles on her back, he offered assurances of “I’m here” and “You’ll be okay.”

When she finally shifted, he tried to back away, to give her space. She was probably embarrassed and wanted a moment to herself to—

The slow upward thrust of Crickitt’s fingertips along his scalp stalled his thoughts in their tracks. As each follicle fell back into place with agonizing sluggishness, a new pattern of gooseflesh cropped up on his forearms.

It’s an involuntary reaction
, he thought, struggling to keep his palms flat on her back rather than crush her against him.
She probably doesn’t even know she’s—

A hot breath fanned over his neck, and Shane sucked in one of his own, the muscles in his thighs going as rigid as rebar. Before his rapidly fading self-control hijacked his brain, Shane gripped Crickitt’s upper arms to pull her away. He’d offer to get her a glass of water, then find a chair and whip to tame the drove of hormones busily turning him into a horny teenager.

“Sweetheart…” His voice was strained, tight.

Crickitt moaned what sounded like “no” before knotting her hands into his hair, tugging his head back and searing the side of his neck with an openmouthed kiss.

Shane’s nerve endings tripped like breakers. Without his consent, his hands hauled her closer as she devoured and nipped his neck. Then suckled his earlobe, her breaths coming out in short pants. By the time she blazed a mind-numbing path to his jaw, leaving his skin damp and cool, Shane’s good intentions were a far-gone memory.

Until he opened his eyes and took in their surroundings. The fluorescents overhead hummed quietly, a light blinked on her phone to show a waiting voice mail. And here he was,
the boss
, sitting on his personal assistant’s desk, taking advantage of her vulnerability.

Using the sprinkler system overhead as a focal point, he gripped her arms and firmly but gently hauled her away from his body. Stormy blue eyes met his, heat and sincerity and tenderness mingling in their depths, and whatever practical, pragmatic argument he’d cooked up dispersed like steam from an overheated kettle.

Her plush, full lips crashed into his, and with a low moan of defeat, Shane threaded his fingers into her crown of curls and tugged her mouth to his.

This.
This is what he should have done the first night she tentatively pecked him on the lips. He’d allowed guilt to hold him back, resisting with everything he had, but now that he’d given in to the temptation eating him alive, he couldn’t stop. Her hands rested on his thighs as she tilted her head back, her lips pliant and soft beneath his. She silently conceded control and he took it, sliding his tongue along her lips, begging for entrance.

One taste. Just one taste.

She obliged and his tongue swept into her mouth. She tasted of peppermint and thick, hot passion. She gave as good as she got, gripping his tie and dragging him closer, her teeth scraping his bottom lip. She freed the knot with a sharp yank, and he heard the rasp of silk as she slipped the tie through his collar and tossed it aside.

He grabbed for her shirt with both hands, untucking it even as Crickitt worked the buttons on his shirt with shaky, impatient fingers. Her hands were everywhere, and his abdomen clenched, muscles tightening under the nip of her short nails.

Returning the favor, Shane slid his hands under the hem of her shirt, over her contracting and expanding rib cage, and closed his palms over her breasts. A breath hissed between her teeth, and her mouth was on him again, tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat. Beneath his hands, her nipples hardened and Shane plucked them with eager fingers.

Crickitt snapped to attention, mouth leaving his with an audible pop as she straightened her spine.

Too far
, Shane realized a second too late.

Moving his hands to her waist, he inhaled a ragged breath, lust fogging his brain and stalling his thoughts. The heat in Crickitt’s eyes dimmed, replaced by shuttered, shell-shocked awareness. He licked his lips, an apology forming in the depths of his throat.

She beat him to it.

“I—I’m so sorry.” Touching her kiss-swollen lips, she surveyed his open shirt before turning mournful eyes up at him. “I—there’s n-no excuse—,” she stuttered, fussing over his shirt buttons.