Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)

by Jenny Holiday

  The lights blazed inside, and Britney had salvaged the outdoor decorations and added strands of twinkling lights. Though she’d been nervous, Cassie felt lighter just looking at the festive, welcoming house. As she stepped out of the cab, the front door opened, and Jack bounded down the steps dressed in a button-down shirt and the jeans—she’d begun to think of them as “the sex jeans,” because he just oozed sex appeal when he wore them. She rolled her eyes at the Pavlovian response those jeans elicited as she watched him pay the cabbie. Her nipples tingled and moisture gathered between her legs. Gah. Did he have to wear them so often? Wasn’t he rich enough to afford a more expansive wardrobe?

  Judging by the way he raked his eyes down her legs and paused at her feet, she’d made the right choice of footwear. Then his fingers closed around the collar of her coat and pulled it back, just enough to expose a little of the red fabric of the dress.

  He patted her ass. “Good girl.”

  She followed him up the stairs, but put her hand on his arm to stop him before they went in. “So Carl is going to be in there?”

  “He is.”

  “It’s going to be weird seeing him, knowing what I know. I kind of want to punch him.”

  “Try to resist the impulse. I do every day.”

  “There’s also the part where he thinks I’m the floozy piece you picked up. Remember, from the office?”

  “Oh, I remember.”

  “You were whispering about bending me over the reception desk, and I was playing the ditz. He’s also going to think I only own one dress.”

  “There’s a kitchen island here, but we’ll save that part for after everyone’s gone.”

  “What?” It took Cassie a moment to get his meaning, then she felt her cheeks heat, even in the cold.

  “I don’t give a fuck about what Carl thinks,” said Jack, wagging his eyebrows at her. “But anyway, he obviously told Britney about you, so it can’t be that bad.”

  “Yeah, what about Britney?” She swatted his arm. “You neglected to mention the part where you’re godfather to the criminal’s kid.”

  He blew out a breath. “Yeah, and she’s a pretty awesome kid.”

  “And you take down her father, and it ruins her life.” Cassie shook her head in sympathy. What a mess.

  “Hey!” The kid in question stuck her head out of the door. “Are you guys ever coming inside? My mom says we have to go soon.”

  Jack gestured for Cassie to precede him, and she was launched into a magazine spread. How had he managed to so utterly transform the space in a few short hours? Candles blazed from every flat surface, stylish people stood around in clumps laughing and juggling champagne flutes. There was even a small Christmas tree in the living room, limbs heavy with silver and white ornaments.

  “Ha!” said Britney triumphantly, pointing to the space above Cassie’s head where she stood in the middle of the entryway. “Works every time!”

  Cassie tipped her head up. Mistletoe. “Ah! You got me!” She offered her cheek to the girl.

  “No way! Jack’s gotta do it.”

  “Oh, no,” said Cassie, suddenly feeling cornered as the chatter in the room died and everyone turned to look at her. “I have a feeling you’re the one who hung this, Britney, so pony up.” She pointed to her cheek.

  But the girl had danced away. She twirled in a circle in the festive room. “Jack has a girlfriend! It’s a Christmas miracle!”

  Cassie started to protest that she wasn’t Jack’s girlfriend when the lemony musk of her not-boyfriend assaulted her senses. He stood behind her, sliding her coat off her shoulders at the same time he reached around and placed his lips on her jawline. He’d probably been aiming for her cheek, but she’d jumped a little, and he ended up where her jaw met her throat. His breath was warm, and his lips pressed against her skin felt like a brand. He left them there for a long moment, enough for her to register that everyone else was probably cataloguing the kiss as more than strictly polite.

  When he finally pulled away, her legs felt wobbly. But Britney swooped in. “Everyone, this is Cassie. I met her earlier today.” She tugged Cassie’s arm and took her around, introducing her to Jack’s employees. She met the VP Amy, who turned out to be a stunning, leggy woman much younger than Cassie had expected. She was probably not even thirty, and a sharp stab of jealousy pierced Cassie’s belly when she thought of Amy’s office nestled next to Jack’s, the two of them collaborating on plans and projects. She couldn’t dwell on her irrational reaction, though, because there were others to meet. Seth the executive assistant was studying ancient philosophy part time. Dax Harris, the software guy, greeted her warmly. And then there was Amy’s boyfriend, a tall good-looking doctor whom Cassie greeted with a great deal of enthusiasm. She met Marcus Roseman, the CEO of the third company on the forty-ninth floor, and a handful of his employees. Finally, a group of analysts from Jack’s company and programmers from Dax’s recognized her from Edward’s and drew her into their heated debate about what was going to happen in the upcoming Doctor Who Christmas special.

  Everyone was different, yet they all seemed to come together into a cohesive, collegial whole. Even spouses and kids—in addition to Britney, there were a couple of middle schoolers and a baby asleep in his mother’s arms—seemed to integrate into the group like they’d always been there. It felt almost like she was at the Christmas party of a family business.

  Even Carl was nothing less than totally friendly and charming. He and his wife Diana pulled Cassie into conversation after issuing an instruction to Britney to begin gathering her things so they could leave.

  “It will take her an hour, so I’m having another drink,” said Diana, pouring herself a glass of wine as they stood at the kitchen island. “How long have you known Jack?” she asked, reaching over to refill Cassie’s glass, too.

  “Um,” Cassie hedged, not sure what role she was supposed to be playing. Jack seemed content to let everyone believe they were dating. She supposed it would be easy enough for him to invent a breakup later. “Not too long, actually.”

  “Well, when Jack knows what he wants, he knows,” said Diana.

  “What do you do, Cassie?” asked Carl, and she couldn’t help but silently thank him for putting an end to his wife’s line of questioning.

  “I’m a student,” she said. “And a bartender, too. Though I should probably switch the order of that answer because I only go to school part time.”

  “What are you studying, and where?” asked Carl.

  “Math at the University of Toronto,” Cassie answered, seeing no reason to lie.

  Carl nodded, and asked her a series of questions about school. He seemed intensely and genuinely interested in the details of campus life, dormitories, meal plans.

  “Well, I’ve never lived on campus, so I’m not sure,” she said in response to a question about whether dorms at the local university were competitively priced compared to other schools.

  “Carl, leave her alone,” said Diana. “He’s freaking about Britney’s college,” she said to Cassie. Then she turned back to Carl. “And you wonder why we’ve never met a girlfriend of Jack’s. I always thought it’s because he’s married to the company, but maybe he just hides them because he knows you turn into the Inquisition?”

  Cassie wondered if she should protest that she wasn’t actually Jack’s girlfriend. It was one thing to let people believe it. But not correcting the record when someone said it to her face—was that any different than lying?

  Her internal moral debate was interrupted when Jack swooped in holding a large framed photograph. “Look at this. Britney just gave it to me.” It was a black and white image of one of Toronto’s iconic streetcars. Britney had managed to make the everyday infrastructure of the city look both familiar and strange, as the photo was taken from a low angle and through rain. It was both gritty and beautiful. Cassie recognized the shot as being by the same photographer whose work lined Jack’s entryway.

  Britney bopped up behind Jack, beami
ng at the overheard praise. “I want to be a photographer,” she explained to Cassie.

  “Looks like you already are one,” Cassie said. “This is beautiful.”

  “I can make you a print, too, if you like.”

  Cassie looked at Jack. His face was unreadable. “How did you get the shot from so low?” she asked Britney, turning to evasive techniques rather than responding to the offer. She didn’t want Jack to think she was overstepping, trying to worm her way into his real life.

  …

  Everybody loved Cassie. Of course everybody loved Cassie. Cassie was a nice person. Smart, charming, beautiful—the whole package.

  Cassie was also distracting as hell. He’d practically ordered her to wear the red dress, so he could hardly complain, but goddamn. Unlike last time, she’d made no attempt to tone down the dress. Gone were the blazer and the thick black tights. Her arms were gloriously bare and she wore black stockings with seams down the back that made his dick twitch every time he caught a glimpse of them. A shiny curtain of hair hung down her back, and she’d forgone her usual light hand with makeup in favor of dark, smoky, heavily lined eyes and crimson lips the same shade as her dress.

  As she floated through the party, he was perpetually aware of her, a scarlet presence that practically oozed sex. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. Dax, who usually spent all his time with the Winter Enterprises crew arguing with Amy—the two fought like cats and dogs for some reason he couldn’t figure out—chatted with Cassie more than Jack would have liked. The analysts were all over her, too. And then when it turned out she had an opinion on the upcoming episode of Doctor Who? Forget it, she might as well have been a snake charmer. He’d caught the eye of one of the guys and shot him a look that made him physically take a step back from Cassie. Of course, Jack had no right to be possessive about her, but no one else knew that. Hell, they thought she was his girlfriend, and macking on the boss’s girlfriend was not cool.

  Though he always knew where she was and what she was doing, he’d hardly spoken to her all evening. She seemed to be doing fine on her own, and honestly, he didn’t trust himself in close proximity. This was the company party, and the boss couldn’t disappear upstairs with the party’s most noticeable guest for an hour without raising eyebrows. Still, he looked at his watch every few minutes, growing increasingly agitated with the never-ending party. By the time Carl and Britney and Diana started making moves toward departing, his skin was prickling. When Amy announced her intention to leave, too, he practically threw her coat at her.

  His vice-president caught the coat and inclined her head slightly toward Cassie, who was on the other side of the room. “This is a very interesting development.”

  “There is no development.”

  “Oh, so maybe we should just stay a little longer then?” She teasingly handed her coat back to him. “Hang on, honey,” she called after her boyfriend Mason, who was already pulling on his boots in the entryway.

  Jack’s answer was to lift her coat, holding up the sleeves for her to slip into.

  “So chivalrous.”

  “You know me.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, and maybe it was the holiday, or maybe it was three glasses of Pinot, but he suddenly felt a rush of gratitude for the loyal lieutenant who knew him better than he might want to be known.

  “She’s amazing,” Amy whispered.

  Damn. If Amy was invested, he was in trouble. He should have listened to Cassie when she tried to worm her way out of the party. In a few short hours, she’d managed to charm everyone, which meant they were all going to be disappointed when they came back to work in January to the news of their breakup.

  This is what he got from thinking he could pretend to be a normal person.

  This is what relationships did. They messed up everything around you, causing you to lose sight of what was important.

  But before he could follow that line of thought any further, the she-devil in the red dress appeared at his side. She seemed to think she was joining the exodus train.

  “Stay,” he whisper-commanded, pointing back toward the kitchen. Because the damage was done, and hell if he wasn’t going to make the most of it. And also because if he didn’t touch her soon he would detonate. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something. But then she closed it and followed his silent instruction, retreating to the kitchen. He had to stop himself from fist-pumping in victory.

  A few minutes later, he’d bundled Dax and the analysts out the door. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling as if a literal weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He usually enjoyed the Christmas party despite his protestations to the contrary. But all the gingerbread in the world couldn’t make him stop wishing for a speedy end to this year’s.

  “Hey,” came a low, throaty voice. She strolled toward him, and if there was anything hotter than those fuck-me shoes of hers, it was Cassie walking across his living room in her stocking feet. She had a hole in the big toe on one side of her stockings, and an emerald-green-painted toe stuck out. He wanted to bite it.

  “Hey,” she said again as she took a step closer than could be considered strictly friendly. “You’re standing under the mistletoe.” He looked up reflexively, though of course he shouldn’t have been surprised to see the damn plant he’d hung there himself under Britney’s instructions.

  “Yeah?” he countered. “What are you going to do about it?”

  But she was already there, her lips on his before the final syllable was out. It was like she was pouring water on flames and simultaneously dousing them with oil, so complete were the contradictory sensations of relief and agitation. They kissed and kissed, tongues engaged in a battle for control as surely as all their races up stairs had been. He slid into her mouth only to find her pushing back, breaking her way into his. Each suck, every nip, was met in kind, and it ratcheted his desire up and up and up until he thought they might both catch fire.

  He put hands all over the red dress, shaping her curves beneath it, sliding it up her thighs and letting his hands brush her bare hips. Breaking the seal of their lips, he looked down. “Christ,” he bit out. Her hips were bare because she was wearing old-fashioned thigh-high stockings, lace-topped and held up by garters. She was also not wearing any panties, her dark curls practically begging for his mouth. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Visible panty line,” she said, a hitch in her breath as his hands slid down her creamy thighs. “The mark of a bumpkin. To be avoided at all costs. So say the ballerina girls at Edward’s.”

  “Finally, something to credit the ballerina girls with,” he rasped, moving his lips against her neck as he spoke.

  She was standing on her tiptoes, angling her hips toward him. He grabbed a thigh, hitching her leg up over his hip, but the height differential between them was still too great. He had to have her. Now. So he hoisted her up. She emitted a little squeal of surprise. Backing her against the wall in the entryway, he was finally able to grind his erection against her, and she moaned at the contact, rocking her hips against his. That little tilt of her hips was enough to push him almost to the edge. Pulling his mouth from her warm skin, he lifted her off the wall, still holding her flush against him.

  “What are you doing?” she breathed.

  “Taking you upstairs.”

  “No.”

  He stopped in his tracks. Christ, if she put the brakes on now, there wasn’t a shower in the universe cold enough to set him to rights.

  “You promised me the kitchen island.”

  “Fuck,” he groaned as lust shot through him, nearly liquefying his legs at the image she’d conjured.

  “That’s the idea.” She pressed her palms against his chest and he loosened his hold. His eyes practically rolled back in his head as she shimmied down his body. No sooner had her feet hit the floor than she was gone.

  Left alone in the entryway, he almost didn’t know what to do. Well, he knew what to do—he wasn’t a complete idiot—but something made hi
m pause. The idea of Cassie, laying herself out for him in the kitchen. But also the idea of what would happen afterward—a bath, maybe a movie. She might even tell him what the hell to do about Carl. The fire inside him had mellowed, replaced by a strange liquid warmth pooling in his lungs. But it wasn’t suffocating him—it was like he was a fish and he could breathe the warm, golden water.

  It was like he was happy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What was it about Jack that turned her into such a…slut? Normally, she hated that word, but something about him made her want to do the hottest, most forbidden things she could imagine. With him she felt wanton—slutty in a good way. Liberated.

  Lying belly down on the marble island with her legs hanging over the edge, she’d just gotten to the point where a niggle of doubt was starting to worm its way into her bravado. Maybe she did seem like a slut. He’d waited out there just long enough to make her wonder if she’d misread the signs yet again. She’d laid herself bare—literally—and she wasn’t sure she could take another dose of his indifference. But when he finally came into the kitchen, she heard him breathing heavily. Then he went completely silent for a few beats before breath returned, shallow and uneven. The pulse of desire between her legs became an insistent drum beat.

  “Tomorrow is Wednesday,” he said.

  What? That was the last thing she expected him to say. She started to push herself up.

  “Don’t move.” A hand settled on her back, and she stilled. “Tomorrow is Wednesday. I assume you have to work at the bar.”

  She nodded, trying to twist her head around to see him. She couldn’t read his tone without seeing his face. He sounded almost angry.

  “And we leave early Thursday,” he went on. “And then it’s done.”