2.
Mitchell Cooper grinned all the way back to Maintenance, one hand in the front pocket of his jeans, the other swinging his toolbox as jauntily as if it were a picnic basket. That Jenessa Sterling was as pretty as hell, especially when she was irritated. Prettier still when she was busting a sweat over a faulty thermostat—and a book hot enough to blister skin.
He elbowed open the door to the half-forgotten corner of the Bianchi’s universe that he supervised. It wasn’t near large enough for his needs, or for those of the men and women on his staff. In true Bianchi’s style, more money and space had been allocated to the men’s bathrooms up on the executive floor than to the whole of the Maintenance Department. It irked him some, but for the most part, management left him to his own devices, and that made up for a multitude of sins.
His friend and right-hand man, Omari, was waiting for him, seated behind Mitch’s desk. His heavy rubber-soled electrician’s boots were casually draped on the desk, crossed at the ankle. He was a hefty brother, with thick limbs and stubby fingers. A gold ID bracelet that weighed at least half a pound hung from his wrist. He was dressed pretty much the way Mitchell was, in dark denim, except that it required a whole lot more fabric to cover Omari’s middle-age spread.
“You been gone long,” Omari observed.
Mitchell let the toolbox clink to the floor. “Yup.”
“Wouldn’t have been over in, oh, let me guess: Corporate Communications, would ya?”
Mitch nodded, still grinning.
“And don’t tell me you actually did what you said you were gonna do. Don’t tell me—”
“I never said I was going to do anything,” he corrected. “I merely wondered aloud what would happen if. . . . ”
“If you sabotaged Jenessa Sterling’s thermostat so you’d have to go over there and fix it.”
“No, I theorized . . . I ruminated on the possibility . . . that something might suddenly go wrong with something in her office. Like the thermostat, for example.” He sat down in his own visitor’s chair, too much in a good mood to kick Omari’s ass out of his own seat. “That’s a long way from going ahead and doing it.”
Omari fooled around with knickknacks on Mitch’s desk, moving papers aside and putting them back, rolling a glue stick along the smooth wooden surface and watching it return to its original position. “And the day after you were busy doing all this theorizin’, it sure ‘nuff happened, eh?”
“Sure did,” Mitch agreed affably. “Wonders never cease.”
Omari stopped playing the fool with Mitch’s stuff and jutted out his chin, both hands on his desk. With his sparse, graying beard and eight-ball scalp, he looked like a prophet in the wilderness, making a pronouncement that had an excellent chance of coming to pass. “You’re gonna get yourself into a whole heap of trouble, kemo sabe. I’m telling you that for your own good.”
Mitch tried to look innocent. “How so?”
Omari counted off on his fingers. “One, you been sending Little Miss High Society kinky stuff. I mean, Mitch, a dirty book, for Pete’s sake! You’re gonna get sued. Ever heard of sexual harassment?”
“It was not a dirty book,” Mitchell corrected, still affable. “It was a book of poetry.”
“A book of sex poetry.”
“In my experience, sex can be mighty poetic.”
“And in my experience, sex can be mighty dirty.”
“Only if you do it right.” Mitch laughed. He was surprised at his friend. Omari was a straight shooter, but he’d never pegged him for a worrier.
Omari kept on counting. “Two, you been messin’ with company equipment. That’s enough to lose you your job.”
Mitch was unfazed. “They’d have to find out about it first. And who’s going to tell them?”
Omari raised one hand and placed the other over his heart. “Not me, dog, I swear. But that don’t mean I’m likin’ what I see. What the hell were you thinking?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to see if she’d read the book. And you know what?”
Omari sighed. “What?”
“She was into it. I walked in and there she was: hot and bothered. Face flushed and dewy like a morning lily.”
“Because you yanked out wires in her—”
“Because she was enjoying my book. And it made me happy. I’ve had it for years. Bought it in an antique bookshop. It was a pleasure watching someone experience it. Spreading the joy, you know?”
Omari pointed excitedly into Mitch’s face. “There. There it is. Problem number three. What you hoping to achieve with Blondie over there? How much more joy you plannin’ on spreadin’?”
“Use your imagination. I think she’s cute as hell. And have you seen her legs? They ought to make molds of them and cast them in bronze.”
“Dog, she’s a manager.”
“So?”
“So this is corporate America. She’s management. . . and management don’t go fishin’ in the Maintenance pool. You’re hangin’ your hat too high. Why don’t you just find yourself a nice, ordinary girl, and be happy?”
Mitch became somber for a minute. “I was married to a nice, ordinary girl for eleven years, and I was very happy.”
Omari looked thrown for a few seconds, and blustered, “Oh, man, I’m sorry. I forgot. . . . ”
He put his friend at ease with an upraised hand. “It’s okay. Been a long time. Let it go.” Wendy had been dead for five years, and although he still missed her, he’d come to terms with it. It wasn’t as though she’d died suddenly. She’d suffered from a congenital heart defect, and throughout their marriage, they’d both known she’d be the one to go first, and that it could have happened at any time. He was grateful for the love she’d given him, and the years they’d had together.
He swung the conversation back to Jenessa Sterling. “I like the girl. I’m a single, reasonably good-looking brother—”
Omari blew a raspberry.
Mitch ignored him. “And from what I hear, she’s single too. What’s wrong with that?”
Omari was still skeptical. “What do you think she’ll say when she finds out you’re the one leaving her all those kinky gifts?”
“‘Thank you’?” Mitch suggested hopefully.
Omari leaned forward on his forearms so he could deliver his death blow more effectively. “What do you think she’ll say when she finds out you’re not her Secret Santa?”
That was the tricky part. Leaving a lady presents that let her know how much you admired her femininity—like bath oil, for instance—was one thing. Leaving her presents when you weren’t technically supposed to, was a whole different ball game. But that was okay; he’d be ready to arm-wrestle with trouble if it came his way. “I hadn’t thought my plan out that far.”
“You’d better. Because next week’s the office party, and when they start revealing Santas, she’s gonna be mighty surprised.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged.
“Either that, or some lucky S.O.B.’s gonna be taking credit for all your hard work, and whatever miscellaneous crap he’s been giving her.”
“You ain’t kidding on the ‘crap’ thing! I heard her Santa gave her a Snoopy mug. A Snoopy mug, for a woman that classy. Can you beat that?”
“Well, far as she knows, he gave her a Snoopy mug and a bottle of lemon-flavored lube.”
“Lemongrass body oil,” Mitchell corrected, although he knew Omari was just trying to get his goat. “And don’t worry, my man. I intend to take full credit for my hard work.”
“And then she’ll peg you for a weirdo.” Omari placed his hand on Mitch’s sleeve. The large hand was square and rough from a lifetime of honest work. “Take it from someone who’s way older and a whole lot wiser—”
“You’re fifty-two. I’m thirty-nine. How does that make you way older?”
“Well, just wiser, then. Plus, you’re still sorta new here, so I’m gonna give you the heads-up, a’ight? These ladies, these office girls, they don’t think much of men like me and you. T
hey didn’t even invite us to be part of the whole Secret Santa nonsense. All of Bianchi’s, from Accounts to the executive wing, is in on it. Everyone except Maintenance. Want to know why?”
Mitch already knew, but he decided to humor Omari. “Why?”
“Because we’re invisible. Because we don’t count. To them, we’re nothing.”
Mitch straightened. “I can assure you that any woman who thinks I can be overlooked because of the job I do is in for a big surprise.”
“I hope you won’t be the one in for a surprise. Just because she looks like a kitten in those nice-fitting little skirt suits of hers don’t mean she ain’t got claws. I hear she can be a real bitch when she set her mind to it.”
Mitch shook his head. “That’s just the lonely talking.”
Omari gave him an exasperated look. He tried a different tack. “And another thing: girls like her, they’re high maintenance. See that head of hair she’s sportin’? Betcha it costs ‘bout the same as your mortgage, just keeping it looking the way it does.”
“I don’t plan on offering to pay her beauty parlor bills.” He stood up and gathered a few work reports off his desk. There was a problem down on the plant that needed seeing to. Fun time was over. “Don’t worry, bro, I’ve got it all under control.” He gave Omari a confident grin and turned to leave.
“Sure hope you do,” Omari sighed. He hauled his heavy bag of bones up out of Mitch’s chair and schlumped off to his own corner.
3.
On the evening of the office Christmas party, everyone downed tools early with the blessing of management and got into the mood for the festivities. There was a flurry of excitement as the ladies hurried to the bathrooms to freshen their makeup and fix their hair, spritz on a little extra perfume and switch their conservative jewelry for something more glittery and dramatic. A few brave souls had brought a change of clothes, and by the time the party kicked off at six, everyone was glammed up and wondering how long protocol dictated they should wait before they got schnozzled at the nicely stocked bar.
The party committee had been busy. The employee cafeteria was cleared of tables and chairs, and the walls and ceilings were draped with garlands of plastic holly, glittering tinsel and giant silver foil snowflakes. Fairy lights were wrapped around every pillar and snaked up and into every potted plant. Red and green wreaths were topped with glimmering candles (fake ones, in compliance with the edict handed down by the safety department) and someone had gone a little crazy with half a dozen cans of spray-on snow. When Bianchi’s did kitsch, they took it to the hilt and then some.
Jenessa mingled, joking and smiling with her colleagues, who, by seven, were for the most part well lubricated. Many were exchanging Christmas wishes and big, smoochy kisses in spite of the absence of mistletoe, which had been put on the company’s blacklist two years ago after a Scotch-fueled heavy-petting session under a dangling sprig of the stuff had turned litigious.
But even as she did her best to enjoy the evening, her eyes were constantly darting around the room. Tonight, the Secret Santas unmasked themselves. In a few minutes, squeals of, “I knew it was you!” and “You? Really?” would punctuate the air. For the millionth time that day, she found herself absently stroking the gorgeous angora sweater her Santa had left her yesterday. It was the most delicate thing she had ever seen, fine enough to be drawn through the eye of a needle, and as soft as a butterfly’s kiss. It was the perfect shade of green, making her skin glow copper and her eyes glitter like there was a fire in them. Wearing it made her feel so feminine.
She’d had some misgivings when she’d put it on. The present was outrageous; it must have cost a bundle, way over the accepted limit for presents in their little office game. And the fact that it fit so well left her no doubt that the man who had chosen it for her had a keen idea of the size and shape of her body—or wanted to. The intimate gift had been a statement of intent.
But who’d given it to her? She’d lain awake half the night wondering, tingling with excitement. That a man had been observing her so astutely, so silently from afar was arousing, even scary. The only thing that didn’t jell completely was the fact that the day before, Santa had sent her a three-pound box of chocolate-chip fudge.
Huh? One minute he was seducing her, wooing her with elegant, tasteful and personal gifts, and the next he was fobbing her off with presents he could just as easily have been sending to his maiden aunt in Fargo.
It was weird, but she was curious. Looking around, trying to see if she was good enough to guess right before the announcements were made, she felt a bump at her hip, almost making her spill her white wine, and spun about to face the culprit. It was Rob, from R&D. He was nice-looking, if you liked bearded men. A shade taller than she was in her heels, with an honest, if slightly crooked smile, long brown sideburns and a cleft in the tip of his nose.
“Hiya, there Jen!” He looked genuinely happy to see her. He glanced down at her chest, the way the mounds of her breasts undulated under the sweater, and then looked even happier to see her. “Ooh, man, you look nice tonight. New sweater?”
Not him. Whew. Jenessa mumbled something polite, put up with his chatter for about ninety seconds, and then extricated herself. The caterers had brought out a tray of chicken satay sticks, and she was a sucker for those, so at least she could kill some time over at the table.
She twisted her way through the crowd, who were by now boogieing to a hip-hop version of “Away in a Manger”, trying to keep her eyes on the prize—and ran straight into a pillar that hadn’t been there before. She put her hand out and steadied herself, confirming her split-second impression that the pillar was not one of brick and mortar, but flesh and bone.
“Steady, there.” There was a hand at her elbow. She looked up into the smiling face of the new maintenance guy. The one who’d been so amused when he’d walked in on her and that poetry book. Cooper. The memory of those hazel eyes lingering on the book title, and then lifting slowly and enquiringly to her face, made her hot and bothered all over again. He was saying something. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she puffed, trying to regain the wind she’d knocked out of herself when she’d collided with him. “Thank you.” She made to go, but he was in her way . . . and he wasn’t moving.
“Congratulations,” he said. Even though the music was pounding, his deep, distinctive voice managed to cut through it with ease.
“On what?”
“Cool party.”
Did he think she was capable of planning anything so unbelievably cheesy? Tinsel hanging from the water cooler, plastic 99-cent store jingle bells clinking every time someone opened one of the doors to the bathroom? Merry Christmas sprayed on every glass surface in white foam? Hardly. The parties she planned were intricately timed, tastefully decorated oases of cool. Don’t make me laugh, buster. “Oh, I didn’t plan it.”
He looked momentarily taken aback. “I thought Corporate Communications. . . . ”
“Other company functions, yes. The Christmas party? No. There’s a committee that does that. A team-building thing, you know?” She tried to keep the snippiness out of her voice but failed.
He picked up on it at once. “You’re insulted, aren’t you?”
She let her eyes go as wide as she could. “Insulted? Me? Why would I be . . . ?”
“‘Cause I dared to think that a party where the food is served on plastic rather than china could’ve been your brainchild. ‘Cause I figured for one second you could’ve thrown a party where folks are having a great time, rather than worrying about finding their place cards and minding their Ps and Qs.”
Her elaborately piled blonde hair bristled like spines on a porcupine’s back. “Are you implying that my parties aren’t fun?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been invited to one.”
“Well, I can assure you. . . . ”
His hand fell lightly on her shoulder and gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Instantly, threads of calm shot through her. Great. The man
was part Vulcan.
“Relax,” he advised. “I was kidding. It’s not like I accused you of dipping your hand in the company cookie jar.” He took a sip of whatever he was drinking, a clear liquid on ice, and looked down at her again. “Doesn’t matter who planned it; it’s a great party and everyone’s having a ball. You should, too.”
In the darkness, the dense brown center of his eyes had expanded outward, leaving the slimmest ring of green around them. There was something about the way they glowed in the party lights, the way they sucked her in, that made her fluttery. She’d grown used to seeing him around in his ubiquitous denim, but he was dressed in dark slacks, a cream long-sleeved shirt and a tie that brought out the green in his eyes. Tonight, he was as debonair as any of the executives in the room—more so, even, because of the ease with which he wore his clothes, as though they were made for him. As though he was used to looking that good.
He jerked his head in the direction of the table. “Can I get you something to eat?”
Why not? She’d been heading there anyway. Not to mention the fact—and she’d choke herself on a giant cocktail olive rather than admit it—she was enjoying his company. It was refreshing talking to someone who wasn’t concerned about how many points he could score at a party by slithering up to the right clique and saying something witty.
She nodded, and let him guide her through the throng, adroitly ducking the waving arms that threatened to knock over her drink. Then she watched in surprise as, without asking her what she preferred, he loaded up two plates with an assortment of goodies. More taken aback by the nonchalance with which he performed this small courtesy than the effrontery of deciding what she was to eat, she was unable to protest. Instead, she followed him to a comparatively unpopulated space.
She was grateful he didn’t try to make conversation then, because she wasn’t good at shouting above the noise, especially not with her mouth full. But by the time they were done eating, the music had mellowed a little, and quite a few couples were slow dancing.
Cooper took her plate and deposited both on a passing tray. His eyes were on her again, admiring without being intrusive, taking her in from the hair piled onto her head and secured with pearl-tipped pins, to the hint of a shimmer on her lips, to her pearl drop earrings, to the fit of her new sweater. She almost felt as though he was caressing the soft green wool. She couldn’t stop herself from passing the tips of her fingers across the delicate open weave of the collar.
The Irresistible Mr Cooper Page 2
