The Playboy's Office Romance

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “YOU TAKE MY BREATH A WAY.”

  A silver sweet pleasure shimmered through Lara, even before she turned slowly to see him. His smile charmed her, despite her resistance and left her a bit breathless, as well. She wondered if men ever understood the true effect of a well-fitting tuxedo. She’d never seen any man whose sex appeal wasn’t dramatically increased by the simple means of donning a tux. On the other hand, the room was currently full to overflowing with men in similar formal attire…and not one of them looked as gorgeously sexy as Bryce Braddock. “That effect is completely unintentional, believe me. I’d hoped to render you speechless.”

  His smile only deepened. “That will happen when I take you in my arms for our first dance together.”

  A quiver of silky anticipation skimmed across her nape. “You and I dance? Together?” She shook her head, enjoying the heady feel of feminine power. “I don’t see that happening.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re not at the office, so fraternization with the boss is allowed.”

  “Fraternization with the enemy, however, is not.”

  “Lara, Lara,” he said easily. “We’re not enemies. We’re just frustrated lovers.”

  Lovers. The word sent whispers of danger racing through her veins. The idea heated a wellspring of excitement deep inside her. The possibilities suddenly leaped to life in her imagination. Which was all the more reason to deny any feeling deeper than a mild amusement. “In that case, one of us must be much more frustrated than the other.”

  “That would be you, because I’m a very patient man.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind waiting for the Polar ice cap to melt.”

  “I read just the other day that it’s been melting steadily for years.”

  “Isn’t it amazing you would be reading something so scientific.”

  “Amazing, yes,” he agreed. “And timely.”

  She considered the odds of besting him at his own game and knew she could do it, but was suddenly not sure she wished to. “You don’t frighten me, Bryce.”

  His expression changed, took on a tenderness she found both alarming and vastly, gently appealing. “That’s good, Lara, because the last thing I ever want you to feel in connection with me is fright.”

  Okay, so maybe the game would wind up a draw. But for tonight, at least, she’d enjoy playing it out, see how patient he actually was, how far she could push before he gave her up as a lost cause. “What I’d like more than anything to feel for you, Bryce, is gratitude. I’m dying for something to drink.”

  “My pleasure.” And lucky guy that he was, he made a slight half-turn, snagged two glasses of chablis from a passing waiter and presented one to her with all the courtliness of a gallant knight. “To us,” he said. “And to the vanishing Polar ice cap.”

  THEA FIDGETED with the blue grosgrain ribbon which demarcated the waistline of her fussy white dress as surely as the equator halved the globe. She really wished Peter Braddock would stop glancing her way, as if calculating how much longer he could put off asking her to dance. She didn’t dare hope he’d allow her to forego that particular embarrassment tonight. The Braddock brothers, all three of them, were chivalrous to a fault, the result of good breeding matched with a lifetime of instruction on how to treat a lady.

  And she, Thea Berenson, was a lady—a fact drilled into her head since infancy, possibly even earlier—which meant she’d always be asked to dance one dance by all Braddock brothers present at any given function. That way, apparently, they fulfilled their end of some obligatory and unspoken bargain with society, and she was not left to wilt completely on the wall of wallflowers.

  Oops. Peter was headed her way.

  She twisted the ribbon into a knot, then released it in time to push her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose and look up at his darkly handsome face.

  “Thea,” he said, clasping his hands in a playfully pleading gesture. “Please dance with me. I have an acute case of too-much Julia and her theories on good nutrition. I am in desperate need of rescue. Please don’t say no.”

  In another life, an alternate universe, she didn’t say no. She teased him, flirted outrageously with him and stepped into his arms on the dance floor as if she belonged there.

  In this life, she didn’t say no, either. She mumbled an awkward, overly self-conscious, “Thank you. I’d love to dance,” and stood up, moving briskly—too fast, really—ahead of him toward the dance floor.

  Because however much she would rather be at home, making sparkling conversation with her cats, she was here at the Cinderella Ball, fulfilling her promise to her grandmother and dancing with any man who asked her.

  PETER WAS ALWAYS surprised to realize how well Thea Berenson could dance. She tried to hide it, tried to move as if she had no rhythm, no sense of the musical beat. But it was there in the moments she forgot to disguise it, in the graceful movements she made almost against her will. And she held herself apart from him, too. Not stiffly or uncomfortably, but as if she didn’t wish to give too much of herself away.

  He felt sorry for her, and at the same time was intrigued by the incongruity of her. Nothing about Thea fit. Not her clothes, not her meek mannerisms, not the way she lived her life. Of course, he really didn’t know how she lived or what her life was like. He never even thought about her, except for these occasional social events when simple courtesy dictated that he ask her to dance.

  But for the few minutes when he held her, at a respectful distance, and danced with her, he was aware of something about Thea that appealed to him. Something about the highlights in her earthy brown eyes, something in the tilt of her head, something in the way she looked at him, as if she had judged and found him wanting.

  Imagination was a tricky thing.

  Thea was probably just what she appeared to be, a young woman with nothing except her family name and sizeable fortune to recommend her.

  In that respect, Peter thought, they had something in common.

  But then the music ended, the dance was over and he returned Thea to her place by the wall, and didn’t give her, or the idea of what they might hold in common, another thought.

  “THEY’RE PLAYING our song.” Bryce gave Lara his most persuasive smile as he offered his hand to lead her out onto the dance floor.

  “We don’t have a song,” she answered sweetly, unmoved by his charm and refusing his fourteenth invitation to dance. But Bryce thought she was beginning to weaken. “And if we did,” she continued, “it would not be this one.”

  “I could ask the musicians to play ‘Hey, Mr. Boss Man,’ if that’s more to your liking.”

  She raised delicate eyebrows. “Or one of my favorite oldies, ‘Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me.’ I just don’t hear that song played often enough at events like this.”

  He loved the way she tried to one-up him, as if they were competing for the prize of one dance. When, in fact, they were merely engaging in the repartee of courtship, the initial sparring of a promising romance. Whether she agreed to dance with him or not, was beside the point. “Dance with me, Lara,” he asked.

  “There are women here who are dying to dance with you, Bryce. Ask one of them.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “And I’m reminding you that we have a professional relationship. Nothing more.”

  “What if I tell you I have some business to discuss with you and prefer to do it while we’re dancing? It wouldn’t look good on your resumé if you refuse.”

  “That could be construed as sexual harassment.”

  “Except that I’ve seen you dance with Adam in the past. This is no different.”

  “It is different.”

  Now, he had her. “I understand. You weren’t attracted to Adam, so it was safe to dance with him.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but saw the trap and gave in with good grace. “One dance,” she said firmly.

  He was wise enough not to grin with glee.

  “WHAT ARE THE CHANCES I can persuade you to ha
ve this next dance with me?”

  Archer chuckled as Ilsa slipped into the chair next to his. “My vanity and I thank you for the invitation, but my arthritis insists I decline, which I do with the utmost regret.”

  “Then we’ll just sit this one out. Truthfully, I’m ready for a respite.”

  “Ah, now, I haven’t seen you on that dance floor even once this evening.” He turned to chide her with a smile. “And you’ll notice I have an excellent view from here.”

  “So you do,” she said. “And you’re quite right. I haven’t danced a single dance this evening.”

  “Chairing a charity event is not synonymous with enjoying that event, is it?”

  “Oh, I’ve enjoyed myself very much, but alas, no one has asked me to dance.”

  “Hmm.” Archer let his gaze wander back to the dance floor. “Seems to me you’ve been enjoying your visit with Laurence Wheeler and haven’t given the other men here half a chance.”

  “Too true. I adore Laurence. Ian and I, Laurence and Kathleen, James and Lily…. We had such good times together that first year at Harvard. It was one of the loveliest years of my life.” She paused. “That was before we had any idea life held some hard lessons for us.”

  “I believe James was very happy then, although I was adamantly opposed to his marriage at such a young age. And then, they had Adam right away, and then Lily died.” Archer allowed himself a small sigh of old regrets. “I’m not sure my son has ever been completely happy since. He certainly never forgave me for advising against the marriage.”

  “That was a long time ago, Archer.” She leaned back in the chair and observed the dancers. “It’s just my opinion, of course, but on at least one of his subsequent engagements, he’d have done better to ask your advice before he got himself entangled.”

  “Ah,” Archer said, amused. “Had a touch too much of Monica’s company tonight, have you?”

  Ilsa looked at him, too self-confident to be chagrined. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I do have some experience with the woman, myself.” Archer had long since passed the point of believing discretion was always the better part of valor. “She’s not terrible, like the last one, but she wouldn’t be my choice for any one of my grandsons, and she has much more in common with them than she does with James.”

  “But she’s his choice,” Ilsa pointed out. “And I, truly, have no business saying anything to anyone about her. I’m sorry I let off even that little bit of steam.”

  Archer allowed the subject of James to drop for now. “So what do you think of Bryce’s choice? Or does he know yet he’s made one?”

  “From this vantage point, you must have noticed that your Prince Charming of a grandson has discovered his Cinderella.”

  Out on the dance floor, Archer saw Bryce draw Lara into his arms. “They make an attractive couple, if I do say so, myself.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone not saying so. She’s absolutely breathtaking and he’s an extremely handsome man. A match, perhaps, made in heaven.”

  “Made by a skillful matchmaker, more like it. I congratulate you, Ilsa. I would never have put the two of them together.”

  “They did that themselves. I’ve only facilitated the recognition of an attraction already in place.” She smiled. “We’re a long way from congratulations on this one, Archer. I have hope, but am not at all sure this match is meant to be.”

  “If you have hope for it, then I’m satisfied to wait and see how things develop.” He shifted his attention from Bryce to Peter, who was whirling an elegant, lovely blonde—one of several similar young women he’d partnered this evening—around the floor. “And Peter?” he asked Ilsa. “Any introduction of possibilities for him as yet?”

  Ilsa’s gaze followed his to rest on tall, darkly handsome Peter as he danced to the lilting rhythms of “Beauty and the Beast.” “A possibility has occurred to me,” she said. “I’m pondering on it.”

  “Good, good.” Archer turned toward her then, hoping his own once charming, once suavely persuasive smile still held some small impact. “In the meantime, may I ask a small favor?”

  “Of course, Archer. Anything.”

  There were advantages to being old, he thought. People were so quick to want to grant your requests. “Ask my son to dance.”

  She withdrew her ready smile and sat straighter in the chair. “I know what you’re up to, Archer Braddock. You’re setting up as my competition.”

  “As a matchmaker, you mean?” He chuckled, pleased she was so quick to cotton onto the idea. “Does that frighten you?”

  “Absolutely scares me to death.”

  Laughter rumbled up from his chest and made him cough. “Please,” he said after he’d recovered. “It will make me happy to see him dance just one dance with a grown-up.”

  Her frown curved with genuine affection. “He’s going to marry Monica, Archer.”

  “Yes, well, he isn’t married to her yet.”

  “I’ll ask,” she agreed. “But I will warn you that this matchmaking business has its share of disappointments.”

  “Allow me to nurture the hope my son can be happy again. An old man needs possibilities, too.” He watched James walk purposely toward them and saw familiar traces of his beloved Janey in their son’s face. “James,” he said. “We were just talking about you.”

  “A likely story.” James stood before them, smiling, a man long grown from the gentle boy Archer could still remember. “From where I was standing, it looked very much like the two of you were hatching a plan. Or, perhaps, doing a little…match-making?”

  “I was merely asking Ilsa to dance with you.” Archer tapped James’s left shoe with the tip of his cane. “But now that you’re here, you can ask her yourself.”

  James wasn’t fazed by this bit of parental intrusion. Instead, he smiled easily, and turned his extraordinary—and inherited—charm to Ilsa. “At seventy-nine, my father still manages to steal my thunder,” he said. “Now, of course, this invitation will sound contrived, but I did come over here with the express intention of asking you to dance. I’ve been watching you this evening, Ilsa, and while I’m sure you’ve had a lovely time, you should not go home without having danced at least one dance at the Cinderella Ball.” He held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

  There was nothing wrong with Archer’s eyesight and he noted—with great good pleasure—the hint of color in Ilsa’s cheeks, the twinkle of excitement in her soft gray eyes. “Go, go,” he urged her. “Seize the possibilities.”

  She was too much of a lady to frown at him, too refined to remark on his heavy-handed manipulation. As he watched them walk away together, Archer thought they made a lovely couple, as well-matched as ever he and Jane had been.

  Of course, it was only an introduction of possibilities, Archer knew, but it seemed possible that at this late date, he could indeed be embarking on a promising new career.

  BRYCE TOOK HER BREATH AWAY.

  He danced as freely, as effortlessly as he did everything else, and he held her just close enough to leave her breathless, but not quite close enough to warrant a protest. Even if she did say something about the way their bodies touched, the subtle nuance of intimacy in his movements, he’d only turn it to his advantage.

  And he already owned the advantage tonight.

  She’d given up on walking out of this ball with both glass slippers even before he’d cornered her into this one dance. And now, foolish woman that she was, her thoughts were tumbling with how to prolong this exhilarating feeling of free fall. “So what was the business you wanted to discuss with me,” she asked, trying to right her wrong thinking.

  “I never discuss business when I have a beautiful woman in my arms.”

  “So that was a lie just to get me to dance with you?”

  “Yes,” he agreed readily. “You didn’t really think it was the truth, did you?”

  “No, but I thought you might have the grace to pretend.”

  His smile devastated her resol
ve. “It takes all the grace I own, Lara, to keep from kissing you in public.”

  The whisperings of danger suddenly became deafening and she made the mistake of pulling back to look at him. Expecting to see a teasing glint in his blue, blue eyes, she was unsettled to see he was serious, to realize he meant what he’d said. If only for the moment he said it. “Now you’ve done what you said you never wanted to do,” she said breathily. “You’re scaring me.”

  “No.” He tightened his hold on her, drawing her again into the tempting shelter of his embrace, moving in time to the music and in easy alliance with her own internal rhythms. “I’m merely giving you fair warning.”

  Lara didn’t have a response, couldn’t think of a daunting reply. Her thoughts were whirling, dancing with the possibility that Bryce meant to kiss her. The how, the why, she didn’t want to think about, but the when, the where…Those questions tumbled in her mind, igniting sparks of tempting possibilities.

  She was in trouble here.

  Because Bryce, her adversary, her worthy opponent, had suddenly changed the rules of the game.

  He meant to kiss her.

  And she meant to let him try.

  BRYCE THOUGHT that had gone rather well. He would have liked to hold her for another dance, stay out there on the floor, among all the other couples, feel the perfection of her body as it moved against his through the rhythms of another song. But a second dance would only lead to a third and then a fourth. Given his preference, he’d dance with no one else at all and spend the entire evening courting the sweet seduction that was holding Lara in his arms.

  But he knew the art of romancing a woman was the art of pursuit and he knew when to retreat.

  He planned to walk her to the sidelines and leave her wondering what had just happened, leave her to think about his kiss, which was yet to come, but already a certainty in his mind and now a distinctive possibility in hers. He doubted he’d be able to think about anything else other than kissing her for the rest of the night, but he also knew anticipation was part of the pleasure. She’d know that, too, when the moment came.