by Frost, Sosie
“Mr. R is inquiring once again about the status of the sale.” Mr. Greer bit over the words, irritated and flustered by whatever papers he shuffled on the other end of the line. “Now, he understands that Ms. Maxwell will be reluctant to sell the company, but he is stressing to you, once more, that although she is connected to Maxwell Intimates, she is in no position to delay our progress. It is his prerogative the company be sold and sold promptly. And Cameron, he is not pleased with these delays. This is costing all of us a lot of money. He wants you to return his call at your earliest convenience, and if I were you, I would be prepared with some facts, figures, and good news. The last thing we want is to miss out on this opportunity. We are trusting you. This is why you were hired.”
The message ended.
And I should’ve deleted it.
Should’ve stricken it from this world with just as much zeal as I banished my pathetic whimpering regarding something as insignificant as a chili dog.
Who the hell was Mr. R?
Why was he demanding that we sell the company?
And why hadn’t Cameron said anything about this?
Something told me that this prick needed to be shown the door—first, where my name emblazoned on top, then swiftly slammed in his face.
If this so-called “Mr. R” thought he could bully either one of us, he had no idea the trouble he just caused himself.
I was nauseous. My tits were sore. And I already suffered a variety of unique and terrifying mood swings for both me and the grocery store checkout clerk who’d accidentally smooshed my breakfast banana.
It was only ten o’clock in the morning, and I’d already laughed, cried, gotten angry, become unrepentantly horny, and readied for war.
We were not selling my company.
And despite what this Mr. R believed, Cameron was no longer in his corner.
They could hire him. Pay him well. And promise him the moon. But I had something they didn’t.
My ace in the hole?
A bun in the oven.
17
Cameron
It’d been a mistake leaving Milan.
I traded a luxurious hotel brimming with decadent foods, silken sheets, and blissful, serene solitude for the dank gloom of Ironfield with the recurrent stress that was managing a failing company.
Of course, the mark of a true fool wasn’t abandoning a warm bed with the beautiful woman, it was trusting that woman with the company while I with distribution hubs in San Francisco.
Maybe it was her beauty.
Maybe it was her charm.
Maybe it was the fact that the woman was pregnant with my baby, and that made her the most irresistible, stunning, and amazing creature to grace this earth.
But, in my lovesick delusion, I hadn’t considered the damage Mackenza Maxwell could cause if I allowed her to seize control of the business for the two days while I was out of town.
My first mistake was trusting her.
My second mistake was falling in love with her.
And my third mistake was thinking that pregnancy would mellow out any underhanded, deviant tricks she would pull to maintain authority over her family’s company.
No amount of manicures, pedicures, or in-home massages could keep Mackenza away from the office.
And I’d tried.
Chocolates. Opera tickets. A carte blanche promise to buy her anything and everything she wanted for herself or the baby from the ritziest stores Ironfield could offer or, if she so chose, Fifth Avenue in New York City.
She’d denied the private plane and the credit cards.
But she kept the chocolate.
At least I’d won on that front.
However, when I returned to Ironfield, I’d come armed with only a laptop, not the requisite rifle and bayonet needed to conduct trench warfare with a woman obsessed with salvaging her family’s lost cause by annexing my office for herself.
I approached the doors, and Tessa burst to her feet, rounding the receptionist’s desk to offer me a replacement cup of coffee for the order that Mackenza had certainly, deliberately, botched.
“Let me call Ms. Maxwell,” Tessa said. “She’s been expecting your return.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose as Tessa rang into my office, eventually waving me forward.
“Go ahead, Mr. Mitchell. Mackenza will see you now.”
Fantastic.
I opened the doors and was met with the same disappointment as when I left.
The dreary, drab walls closed in around the space. The fraying carpet bunched near the door, nearly breaking the necks of all the hyperactive salesman Mackenza kept scheduling to meet with me and waste my time. The chipping, sagging beast of a desk swallowed what might’ve passed for a light and airy office if my orders had been followed and the Venetian blinds cluttering the windows were removed and burned.
So much for the twenty-five thousand dollars I’d commissioned for a complete and total renovation of the office.
Mackenza stood behind my desk, offering me the guest seat.
Tessa whispered from behind me as she closed the doors. “Good luck, Mr. Mitchell. You’re going to need it.”
I didn’t need luck with Mackenza, but I could’ve made good use of a whip and chair to tame this lioness.
Christ. What was it about this woman? She’d been irresistible before, despite my best efforts to ignore, deny, and refuse every feeling that dizzied me in her presence. But now? Knowing what I knew? Knowing what I’d felt?
Her body against mine. My name on her lips. Our secret in her womb.
The woman would’ve driven me to my knees if I wasn’t so disgusted by the fifty-year old carpet. Was it too much to wish for it to be ripped up and tossed in the same dumpster sharing the company’s stock?
“Mr. Mitchell.” Mackenza offered me a beaming smile. Nothing good would come of that. I’d either lose my balls, my wallet, or control of the company. “Won’t you have a seat?”
She handed me a coffee. I knew better than to take a sip but jetlag made fools of all men.
Pretty sure she had jacked off a pumpkin with hands coated in cinnamon and nutmeg. The liquid was more creamer than coffee but fuck me if I hadn’t started liking the abhorrent flavors.
I surrendered, dropping the coffee into the garbage can, stripping out of my suit jacket, and then reaching for the woman.
“Before we begin with whatever the hell it is that you’ve done…” I tugged her close, eager for a kiss, touch, or something far more rewarding. “Realize that my body seems to think that it’s still three o’clock in the morning.”
“Well then.” Her sweet voice almost sounded genuine. “By all means. Go home and rest. I have everything well in hand here.”
Mackenza made a game out of denying me. She twisted from my arms and plunked herself into my chair. Her crossed legs would’ve been the tease to distract me from whatever catastrophe she’d summoned, but it was her blouse which entertained me more. Pregnancy was a good look on this woman. Her breasts had swelled. Tender, I knew that much. Almost too sensitive for a brush of my thumb against her chocolate chip nipple. But even her modest black blouse couldn’t hide her ample, overflowing chest.
Hers was a body ripe for the wicked and sensual lingerie eagerly awaiting production.
And I considered halting it all, abandoning the company, and keeping the four model pieces for Mackenza and Mackenza alone.
A woman that beautiful deserved lingerie equally as lovely.
But for my eyes only.
I glanced over the office, staring at the peeling paint, the grey-turned-brown carpet, and the shoddy, moth-eaten furniture.
“When we were in Milan, I hired a contractor to renovate this office,” I said.
Mackenza hummed. “Oh, yes. I heard about that.”
“And, as this is not the chair that I ordered, desk that I picked out, and carpets that I’d requested be burned…I’m assuming you canceled the renovation.”
“You know, Camero
n, you’re cute when you think you can barge into this office and make as big a change as getting a girl pregnant.”
Of course. “I planned to spend twenty-five thousand dollars of my own money to improve this place.”
Mackenza feigned disbelief. “Why would you spend so much money on an office which doesn’t need any improvements?”
No improvements?
Pretty sure a pregnant woman shouldn’t have been around so much asbestos.
“This office is old, dilapidated, and outdated.”
“I think the office looks…” Even she struggled for words. “Vintage. And well-loved.”
Of course, she argued.
Why wouldn’t she? It seemed to be her favorite game.
I said nothing, merely tapping my foot against the edge of the desk. One good kick, and the entire structure shuddered and threatened to collapse.
I shrugged. “Call me spoiled, but I think I deserve a desk that isn’t one giant splinter.”
Mackenza made a face as she ran her hand over the top of the desk. She winced, removing the tiny shard of wood from her pinky finger.
“This is an antique,” she said.
“So is the carpet.”
“Nothing you couldn’t steam clean.”
“What about the rickety bookshelves?” I pointed to the uneven shelving units, oppressively cluttering the stifling office.
“Those make the space cozy.”
To prove her point, Mackenza marched across the room and retrieved the ficus plant which had lost its place of honor next to the desk. I’d banished it into the corner last week, hoping the overgrown monstrosity would die before it turned into Audrey II and demanded that I invest in another Broadway run of Little Shop Of Horrors.
“Forget it, Mackenza.” I grabbed the plant from her as she struggled to haul it across the office. A meaty leaf nearly poked me in the eye. “It’s like we’re working in the middle of the jungle.”
“This is a fifty-year-old ficus, Cameron. Did you know they got that old?”
“I wondered what smelled in here.” I plucked her from the overgrown bush and captured her in my arms. “What the hell’s gotten into you? You know this office needs to be renovated. Christ, I don’t even have space for a computer in here.”
To demonstrate, I deposited her onto the desk, right into the groove where the wood had begun to sag under the weight of the company’s crushing debts. The woman hung on before the desk collapsed beneath her. She wrapped her legs around me to properly welcome me home.
“You can put a laptop right here.” She pointed under her butt.
I leaned in, stealing a kiss. “What about the printer?”
She pointed toward the coat closet near the door. “I installed it in there.”
I scowled. “Fantastic. Now I can get my steps in for the day any time I print a report.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I peeked behind her, glancing at the open sketchbook resting near the phone. Her eyes followed mine, and she shrugged, quickly closing the pages before I could get a good look.
“Just something I’m working on.” The sketches seemed to embarrass her. “Something to do between craving every bad food and then regretting putting anything in my stomach.”
I brushed her hand away and peeked through the pages. Quick brushes of color pencils etched the pages with modest sketches of lovely, yet simple, dresses and skirts.
For whatever reason, she’d designed the clothes in a variety of soft pastels. Pinks. Purples. Far removed from her standard black blouse and skirt she wore to the office.
My eyebrow rose. “Maternity clothes?”
She smirked. “Well, technically, I’m designing regular clothes that hide the maternity.”
“Why would you want to do something like that?”
Her eyebrow arched. “To avoid the scandal? The questions? The judgment?”
My jaw tightened. “You’re carrying my baby. The fuck do I care what anyone else thinks?”
“Some of us don’t have billions of dollars to hide behind.” She poked my chest. “Or fancy jets to fly away when it gets too hot. Or a world-renowned name that excuses any and all bad behavior due to charitable work, professional networking, and Guinness Book of World Records entries.”
“And as long as I have those things, you have nothing to fear when the world finds out that you are carrying the future Cameron Mitchell Junior.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, humor me until I work up the courage to face the world with your love child. Until then, I’m trying to design a couple sneaky outfits that might hide a baby bump.”
I couldn’t help myself.
I caressed her flat tummy and gritted my teeth.
How long did a man need to wait until he got to see that bump?
I was important enough that the world served me at my convenience, from dinners at overbooked, five-star restaurants during their busiest hours or cutting-edge technology months from official release.
Surely, somewhere in the world existed a gynecologist willing to accept a couple thousand bucks in exchange for speeding this process up.
She tapped what must’ve been her favorite page, judging by the doodles cresting the page with hearts and smiley faces. A stunning gown graced the sheets—spun from pure gold and practically shimmering on the page. She’d erased and redrawn the bump on her figure multiple times—unsure of how dramatic she’d become in a few months’ time.
“Only planning it in gold?” I asked.
“What color would you prefer?”
I held her gaze. “How about white?”
She nervously chuckled. “Probably not the most flattering in my condition.”
“You’d look just as beautiful in a potato sack or...”
In a wedding gown.
Mackenza tensed. I’d pushed too far once again.
With a sigh she closed her sketchpad.
“Well, let’s hope I don’t need to dress in any potato sacks or other vegetable bags anytime soon,” she said.
“I’m doing my damnedest to ensure that doesn’t happen,” I said. “But you make things supremely difficult.”
“And this shocks you?”
Not anymore. “Let me guess. You don’t want me to renovate the office because this is the way your family has kept it throughout the generations. And you want to keep things the same.”
“To an extent.” She arched an eyebrow. “I am willing to make certain concessions.”
“It makes me nervous when you use qualifications.”
And trusting my gut had never led me astray.
Mackenza held her hands out, bracing me for what was sure to become yet another irritatingly impossible request.
“I have a new plan,” she said. “And it will benefit both of us.”
I knew her better than that. “I doubt it.”
“I would like to propose a partnership.”
I snorted. “That sounds very magnanimous. And completely unlike you.”
She pointed a finger at me. “This isn’t me surrendering.”
“I didn’t think I’d be that lucky.”
“And this isn’t me giving up any control.”
“Control you never had.”
“That’s debatable.” She quieted me with a cautious glance. “This pregnancy has proven that we might be able to work well together.”
Might?
I had a bill for the bed we broke in Milan waiting to be forwarded to my accountant.
“We don’t do so bad in the bedroom,” I said.
She didn’t disagree. “And we get along well when we're not at each other’s throats.”
“Just means we should keep our mouths busy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Here’s what I’m thinking. I know this company can be successful. And I’m willing to work with you on it. Which means I will allow you to renovate your own office.”
A heavy moment passed.
I nodded, accidentally smiling. “Because you inten
d for this office to be yours.”
“Yes.”
“Not much of a partnership, is it then?”
For someone sitting on a desk, legs wrapped around a man, skirt hiked, Mackenza maintained a serene dignity through all things.
“During our time together, I’ve come to realize that, just perhaps, I am not the most educated on every topic.” Mackenza gestured toward her belly. “For instance, I was not aware of my hyperactive fertility.”
I grinned. “But I rather like that about you.”
“So, I’ve taken that to mean that there may be other areas of life where your experience may prove valuable.”
“Are we still talking about your uterus?”
She pushed me away. Those beautiful legs crossed closed.
Damn. Missed my chance.
“You have a mind for business,” she said. “I have a mind for design. There’s no reason we couldn’t utilize both of our strengths to make this company succeed.”
“I agree. What do you suggest?”
She huffed, closing her eyes. “Keep the lingerie.”
Was this some sort of pregnancy Jedi trick? A test to see if I knew when to bring her ice cream and when to back the fuck off?
“Pregnancy does change a woman,” I said.
“Keep your lingerie. Do whatever you wish with that aspect of the company. Create as many ensembles as you like. Focus all of your attention on it.”
“So…the mother of my unborn child is telling me that I should spend more time with scantily clad lingerie models?”
“You need something to keep you busy.” Mackenza lifted her chin. “Because, while you’re managing the lingerie, I will be in charge of the classic line.”
I nearly laughed. “In charge?”
She conceded, but only a little. “Under your guidance and expertise, of course.”
“Expertise? No need to flatter me. You already got me into bed.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. This is better than foreplay.”
Mackenza was in no mood. “I don’t want to lose this company, Cameron. But you’re right. We need to do whatever we can to ensure its survival. Earn money. Give people a reason to invest in us. And so, now, I understand the importance of the lingerie line.”
