The Devil in Denim (13 page)

But that wasn’t how Maggie played the game. And, looking up at Alex, she had the distinct feeling that she was out of her league. This wasn’t a man to trifle with. Not a man who’d be led around by his nose or any other body part. Nope. He was a man who would take over. Take control. And if she gave up the few things she still controlled at this point she might just go crazy.

“I think you’re more afraid that you might get the right idea,” he said softly.

“Oh? What idea is that exactly?”

“That you want to kiss me.”

“I thought we’d covered that part back in the bar.”

“Yeah, but that was that nasty tequila talking. You were upset.”

“That was only four days ago. Do you think you’re forgiven?

“Aren’t I?”

“I…” She hesitated, unsure exactly what to say.

“Because if you haven’t forgiven me yet, then I might as well just add to my sins.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, in for a penny, in for a pound.” His other hand stretched out, settled on her waist, and drew her close. “Merry Christmas, Maggie,” he said, and then he kissed her.

It was soft and gentle and swift, a perfectly polite Christmas kiss. But regardless, as his mouth touched hers, heat roared through her like an express train and she melted against him without thinking, opening her mouth for more. The smell and taste of him swept over her and pulled her down into a place where she wasn’t thinking, only feeling.

More. More. More
. Her body was greedy for him, desperate. So desperate so fast that it scared her into sanity and she broke the kiss off with a gasp like her last breath of air. Alex looked down at her, eyes dark and surprised, his expression somewhat dazed as she imagined hers was.

She pulled away from him, heading toward the sound of people, walking a little bit too fast, feeling like she’d lost her balance. Thank God she’d gone with simple pale pink lip gloss rather than the killer red Hana had suggested. Hopefully it wouldn’t be obvious she’d just been kissing Alex. Alex who was still behind her—she could feel the pull of him like there was a rope between them and he was the anchor. And her body protested its dissatisfaction with walking away from him loudly. So. He definitely kissed like the devil. Which meant the only sensible thing to do would be to flee. She quickened her step. When she passed through the door, she almost collided with Ollie, coming the other way. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey. I thought I heard your voice,” he said, bending in to kiss her hello. Relief warred with guilt. Obviously he hadn’t seen her and Alex or his greeting would have been far less friendly.

She almost turned her head so that his lips would land on her cheek but just managed to stop herself. Ollie had kissed her hello and good-bye for years now. Friend pecks. He’d wonder what was up if she didn’t want him to kiss her now.

His lips hit hers and she waited for the brief tingle of nostalgia that sometimes welled up when he was close to her. But tonight it didn’t come. Tonight, all she could think was that his kiss didn’t feel anything remotely like Alex’s.

“Something wrong?” Ollie asked, drawing back.

“No.” She straightened her shoulders, drew in a breath. “No. Nothing. Just got stuck in some traffic. You know I hate being late.”

“Yeah, it was a bitch getting here. Must be some construction somewhere, I guess.” Ollie slung his arm around her shoulders, drew her into the room just as Alex came up behind them. “Nice digs though.”

That was something of an understatement. Alex’s condo was massive, the room they’d entered ran the entire length of the building from what she could see. No curtains blocked the windows and Manhattan lay below them, sparkling in the rain like the world’s biggest set of Christmas lights arrayed around the darker spill of Central Park.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter who popped up out of nowhere, took a mouthful, then another in rapid succession, and wriggled out from Ollie’s grasp. “I need to say hello to everyone,” she said when his black brows drew down.

“You just got here.”

“That’s traditionally when you say hello,” she said. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time to hang out later.”

“If the boss man doesn’t monopolize you.”

“Well, he is the boss.”

“Still don’t understand why you’d want to work for him.”

She smacked his arm. “Well, it was either that or go work for another team. Maybe I still will. They probably have hotter players after all.” She smirked up at him. “But I would miss … old Flappy.” Flappy being the nickname for the Saints’ mascot suit. It was big and stinky and the players delighted in stashing it in all sorts of inappropriate places.

Ollie snorted. “Face it, it’s me you can’t live without.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she retorted. “It’s nice to have a dream.” She took another mouthful of champagne, the wine easing the stew of nerves and butterflies in her stomach little. She watched as Alex joined a group of players standing near a trio of low red leather couches set around some sort of space-age-looking fireplace.

They looked up at his approach, smiles a little warier than normal, but they seemed to welcome him readily enough. Still, she should go and join him, help ease the way.

And she would. Right after she found Hana. She excused herself to Ollie and went in search of the girls.

Hana and Shelly were standing with two of the other players’ wives, all of them laughing at a black-clad waiter with a very cute face who was offering them some sort of canapé involving long bamboo skewers and fried shrimp. They were obviously tasty because Shelly moved to block his retreat as he tried to move on to the next group and secured another four.

“Maggie, hi,” she said, after a rapid swallow. “Grab one of these before you go. They’re divine.”

The waiter offered his tray and she took one, and a napkin, with a grateful smile, then moved out of his way so he could escape.

“Hey,” she said to the group as she stepped into their circle.

“The new boss serves good food,” Hana said as she took one of Shelly’s extra skewers.

“Are you criticizing my catering choices?” Maggie laughed.

“No, but the last few parties that Veronica catered for were a little dull.”

“Don’t blame me, I wasn’t here.” She took a careful bite of shrimp.

“Yes, but you’re here now. And this party is fabulous. I love this place. I wonder how long it took him to get into the building,” Shelly said speculatively.

“Money helps with waiting lists. Particularly for places like this,” Maggie said. “Don’t hold your breath, Shel. We pay Hector well but this might be out of his league.”

“Oh, I like our place,” Shelly said. “But a girl can dream.” She finished her own shrimp and wagged the empty skewer at Maggie. “You’ll have to get Alex to give you a proper tour. See if everything’s as good as this room.”

Maggie resisted the urge to kick her in the shins. “I’m not all that interested in interior design,” she said dryly. “Why don’t you ask him to give you a tour?”

She glared at Shelly over the top of her glass and Shelly seemed to get the message because she dropped the subject.

“You know, he might own the building,” Hana said.

“I thought this was a Trump building,” Peta put in. She tipped her glass toward the window, a wide grin on her face. She was tiny and delicately built, like Hana, and the floaty layers of white chiffon of her dress emphasized it. “Anyway, who cares who owns it? What matters is that we’re here, drinking the man’s very nice liquor and looking fierce.”

Peta was married to Cordell King, one of the other pitchers. They’d been together since high school. Both of them had come from a small town in Georgia. A long way from their current Upper East Side location.

Maggie raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that. And to a successful season,” she added.

“Girl, do not start with the baseball talk,” Peta admonished. Shelly, Hana, and Moira nodded agreement. “We’re still on break.” Peta practically ran the women’s fastball league program for the Saints. Between that and wrangling Cordell, she earned her vacations.

“You four might be, I’m back at work.” Keeping the deal she’d made so that programs like Peta’s wouldn’t be cut. No. She wasn’t going to think about that tonight. Tonight, she was determined to enjoy herself. Channel her inner Scarlett O’Hara and ignore her problems like a champion.

“So we hear,” Moira said. “Which means you’re obligated to spill all you’ve learned about the three spunky amigos.”

“McBoss, McDoc, and McMystery,” Peta added.

Maggie held out a hand. “No. No ‘Mc’ anything. This is not
Grey’s Anatomy
.”

“Pity,” Shelly said. “Though Lucas does look kind of like Patrick Dempsey.”

A hotter, more Italian Patrick Dempsey, perhaps. “You four are hopeless. You’ve got men of your own who are plenty hot. And these guys are their bosses.” She shook her head at them. “And my bosses,” she added when Hana started to open her mouth.

Moira pouted. She was built like Marilyn Monroe, only with red hair and big gray eyes. She did a good pout when she wanted to. She also regularly made bundles of cash for the investment bank she worked for, doing the sorts of deals that Maggie didn’t begin to pretend to understand. “You spoil all our fun, Maggie.”

“You have plenty of fun without me.” She made a mental note to pick Moira’s brains once she knew more about what exactly was going on with the Saints’ finances. Maybe she’d have a brilliant idea or two to spare.

“Does this mean you don’t want to know what I found out about them?” Shelly asked, eyes twinkling.

“Anything that’s going to scuttle the deal?” Now that Alex had told her about the money—or lack thereof—she hoped not.

Shelly shook her head. “But Alex Winters hasn’t spent his life as a monk, that’s for sure.”

“We’ve all seen the gossip columns, Shel,” Hana said. “We knew that much. What about the other two?”

Shelly frowned. “Well, if Dr. Angelo over there screws around much, he does so very discreetly. There’s nothing but gushing raves about his surgical skills and equally gushing news about his family’s philanthropy. He’s one of
those
Angelos. Squeaky-clean as far as I can tell. Malachi Coulter was out of the country for a large part of the last fifteen years. It’s going to take me longer to figure him out.”

Maggie hid her relief with another swig of champagne. “Well, that’s good. They’re guys, they’re not married. They’re allowed to have sex. I thought you were going to tell me Alex has some secret hushed-up business scandal in his past.” Though she was pretty sure she would’ve at least gotten a whiff of that during her case-study research if he did. And she hadn’t.

“Or that one of them likes leather and whips or something,” Peta added.

The five of them stilled. Moira and Hana turned with speculative grins toward the other side of the room where Alex, Mal, and Lucas were talking to Dan Ellis and Indy Jones.

Maggie was determined not to think about Alex in leather and not much else. “Eyes front,” she hissed. Moira and Hana turned back slowly. Too slowly. Alex lifted his head and raised his eyebrows at her from across the room when he caught her watching him. She snapped her eyes back to her friends. “Really, you’re children.” She realized Shelly hadn’t said anything. “You didn’t find anything like that? Did you?”

Shelly grinned. “Sadly, no.”

“Well, darn,” Hana said.

“Hana Tuckerson!”

“Oh, like you’ve never let a guy rummage through your scarf collection and do interesting things to you,” Hana said, waving her hand dismissively. “Sheesh. Anyone would think you were really trying for that sainthood thing.”

“I’m not a saint.”

“Then go flirt with the boss, find out some more dirt for us,” Hana said.

“I am not going to flirt with him,” Maggie said, trying not to blush. She hoped the heat rising in her cheeks would be attributed to the drinks.

“Then dazzle him with your baseball knowledge or something. Whatever. I’m sure you can think of something to make him tell you stuff.”

“I was sort of planning on doing a good job and finding stuff out by being there when they discuss it,” Maggie said. She ignored Hana shaking her head at her in mock disappointment. “And speaking of jobs, I’m here to work. So excuse me while I go mingle.”

Chapter Eight

Alex watched as Maggie detached herself from her friends and walked toward him, the fabric of her dress swaying around her body with each step she took in those stupidly sexy shoes.

His heart, which he’d finally managed to get back under control after that kiss, sped up again, and he made himself look at Lucas and act like nothing was bothering him. He was pretty sure Lucas didn’t have some crazy, secret doctor power that would let him hear Alex’s heart pounding.

“Maggie’s coming,” Mal said with a nod of his head in her direction, giving Alex the excuse to shift his gaze back to her.

Damn. She was gorgeous. Her hair was loose and wavy and the dark blue dress made her skin look like moonlight or something pale and glowing. He liked the fact she wasn’t smothered in fake tan like half the women in the room. Her skin looked almost pearly under the ropes of fairy lights festooned around the room, a very watchable contrast with the gleaming dark hair and wicked dark eyes and the deep pink lips.

Those lips.

He wanted them again. He wanted more than that, the ache fierce in his body, making him glad his tailor cut his jackets long. Damn. He knew that she was right. He was the boss, she was an employee, and their getting involved in any way would only complicate things. But right now his body was pretty adamant that complications could go to hell and he was inclined to agree with it.

“Hello, Maggie,” Lucas said. “You look beautiful.” He glanced sideways at Alex with an amused gleam in his eyes and then bent to kiss Maggie’s cheek. In four-inch heels, she must’ve been close to six foot, so he didn’t have to bend far.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling at Lucas. It made Alex’s stomach clench and his instincts roared a very primitive protest. She was his.

His? Christ. He was losing it.