by Natasha Deen
“Hey! Hey! Can you hear me?”
The man froze in mid-whistle. The newspaper under his arm crackled.
She curled her fingers through the lattice work and leaned into the screen. “Mister! I’m up here—can you hear me? Please I need your help.”
He lifted his gaze to the sound of her voice. When their gazes met, his eyes grew round and wide, his mouth gaped open.
“My name is Nessie and I’m stuck in the vent. Please, can you call security?”
The man’s mouth puckered, his brow knit together and he stared at her as though she was an apparition. Then his face ironed free into a smooth, jovial smile.
“Is this Candid Camera?” he asked.
“Candid—no! I’m stuck in the vents!”
“Come on, where is the mike?” He crouched to peer under the stalls, then took his inspection to the sinks.
“There’s no camera. My name is Vanessa Helph. I work in the Women’s Design Department, and I was locked in a closet by Grace Hart,” she tried to keep her voice calm, but it cracked under the strain of the frustrating conversation.
“Tell Mr. Funt he needs to do his homework. There is no Women’s Design Department.”
“Yes, there is!” She rattled the screen, incensed by the man’s obtuse manner, and spat out, “Leo merged Casual and Dressy. Don’t you read your memos?”
The man’s face twisted into a disapproving frown. “I’m not going to play, if you take that kind of tone with me.”
Nessie rattled the screen again, throwing all her weight into it and wishing she could wrap her hands around the man’s neck and rattle him. “I’m sorry. Look, could you please call security?”
“No. I don’t like this prank, and I refuse to play.” He turned and walked to the door. His strides held the sharp, jerky steps of an offended rooster.
“See if I name any of my children after you!” Nessie howled. But the possibility of his moniker living on in the next generation gave him no pause, and he continued his rooster-walk to the exit.
Nessie banged and pushed on the screen, but she didn’t have the strength to move it. And since she had no room to manoeuvre, she couldn’t turn herself around and kick it in. She crawled backwards until she reached the initial bend in the ductwork and continued on to what would hopefully prove to be the boardroom.
Now singing a top-forty tune, she pressed on, ignoring the torn pantyhose making its way to her ankles, the skittering of claws against aluminum, and concentrated on the image of Grace boiling in a vat of hot oil. As she reached the chorus of the song, a weak shaft of light pierced the gloom of the ductwork. Faint, rhythmic pulsing reached her ears and could only mean one thing: she was close enough to the boardroom to hear the music from a presentation. For this, she offered up a prayer of thanks.
The duct rose at a thirty-degree incline. In Nessie’s exhausted state, it felt like the steep inclines of Mount Everest. Her limbs shaking, her lungs burning, she crawled at less than a sloth’s pace, then turned right, where a beam of light shone from the floor.
Tears of joy and failure fell as the booming bass resolved itself into the familiar tones of her team’s presentation music. She felt like a hero for making it to the boardroom, but knowing she was missing her group’s presentation, that she’d failed them as team leader, made her feel like a schmuck. Nessie crawled to the dusty vent and, looking down, beheld the shining walnut wood of the boardroom table.
“Hey! Hey!” She pounded her flat palms against the vent cover. Each rap sent sharp pricks of pain that pulverized her. “Can anyone hear me?”
Of course they couldn’t, but unlike the washroom scene, this time Nessie wasn’t leaving. She would wait, scream for help as soon as silence descended, then beg for forgiveness for letting her team down. In the meantime, she leaned on the vent, trying to get a better view of the scene below.
The full weight of her body pressed against the vent accomplished in seconds what it had taken her long minutes to do in the storage room: She crashed through the screen.
Nessie screamed as solid floor gave way under her and she collided with air. She grabbed onto the edge of the ceiling, but her fingers, slick and damp, lost their grip. Too shocked to sing as a way to count time, she fell for what seemed like hours and hundreds of feet. In reality, given the height of her body and the table top, she probably fell only a couple of feet. Two or twenty, it didn’t matter, as her legs took the full brunt of the tumble, twisting her ankle and dropping her onto one knee.
She rose, pain streaking through her body, and looked around the room. The faces of her coworkers held shock, surprise—a couple of them could have been the models for Munch’s The Scream. A few people stood on their feet, their chairs overturned behind them. Leo stood off to the side, his arms still outstretched as though he had tried to catch her. The music faded into silence. Seventy people stared at her, waiting for an explanation, and there was only one thing to do.
Slowly rising to her feet, and projecting an “I planned this all along” attitude, she said, “Though the women’s liberation movement has given women a lot of freedom, females in the workforce still have to kick down walls and break through ceilings to get the careers they want.”
She pushed her hair behind her ear and felt the sticky, clinging film of a spider’s web against her hand. “How much easier it would be to do all of this in a pair of comfortable yet fashionable pumps.” She glanced behind her to see her team, their mouths agape, their eyes wide and unblinking. “Our group—” She gestured to her teammates. “Have designed a shoe for the modern woman. Slim, high-heeled, made with the classic and timeless materials of leather and suede, this sexy stiletto gives us girls what other shoes have failed to do: arch support and cushioning in the toes. It combines the best of sneaker and dress wear. Now today’s women can kick down those doors, break through ceilings, and still look sexy doing it. If you’ll allow me to turn the floor back to my team, they’ll tell you all about our new design.”
Then, trying not to hobble or wince, she walked along the table to where Leo stood. He reached out, caught her by the waist and gently lowered her into a chair.
“While I think we all appreciate Nessie’s innovative presentation,” he said, plucking the cobweb from her hair, “I believe it would be prudent to take a fifteen-minute break.” As the group dispersed, he turned to her.
“Leo, my team needs to finish the presentation.” She tried to rise, but he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.
“Tell me that you didn’t plan to crash through the ceiling.”
She rubbed her ankle and winced. “It’s a long story, involving the janitor’s closet, a broken lock and Grace. I didn’t plan it—” She looked up at him. “But when I crashed through and had everyone looking at me, I figured I could use it to help my team.”
He stared at her a moment. Then he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the sides, and said, “Vanessa Helph, who defends the honour of dogs and lies about her height, you’re something else, and I love every inch of you—even the imaginary ones.”
He spoke the words and she forgot about the campaign, the pain in her ankle, the boardroom—everything but him. “You do?”
“I do.”
“Oh,” she sighed. Endorphins rushed through her body and voided all of her aches. “I love you, too.”
He grinned and leaned in. “I’d kiss you,” he whispered, “but that might sway the votes.”
She grinned back. “Promise me that I’ll get the kiss, later.”
His smile said she’d get that kiss—and more.
****
“Ummm,” Nessie moaned as pleasure rippled through her body, “that’s the spot. Oh! Yes! Go slower, Leo. And harder.” Her growl of satisfaction turned to a roar of displeasure as Leo’s ministrations ceased. Rising from her horizontal position on the couch and opening one eye, she demanded, “Why did you stop?”
He chuckled. “Because it’s time to ice your ankle.”
“But I was enj
oying the foot massage.”
Leo kissed the tip of her nose, then turned back to wrapping the tensor bandage. “Don’t pout. Later, I promise.”
She sighed and snuggled back into the overstuffed cushions of his sofa. “It feels so good to spend the night with you, watching movies, hanging out—”
“And having your very own servant to cater to your every whim.”
“Well, that does takes the some of the pain away,” she grinned.
“I’ll bet.” He stuck the pins in place and then, gently moving her feet from off his lap, rose and went to the television. “What’ll it be?” Leo held up two videocassettes. “Romantic comedy or action adventure?”
“How about a game, instead?” She held out a bowl of popcorn.
He reached for a handful. “What kind of game?” His grin, full of seduction and promise, sent shivers tickling up and down her spine. “Like spin the bottle?”
“Truth or Dare.”
Leo groaned and collapsed onto the floor. His eyes closed, the back of his hand against his forehead, he said, “Sixteen, six, yes and yes.”
Nessie leaned over the edge of the couch to peer at him. “What?”
“Truth or Dare. I’m answering your questions.”
She finished chewing the popcorn and swallowed. “Thank you…er, what were they?”
“Sixteen, six—”
“No, I meant what were the questions?”
“How old was I when I lost my virginity? How many lovers have I had? Do I always use protection? And, have I ever had my heart broken?”
She combed her fingers through his hair. “You’ve slept with six women?”
He frowned. “Why? How many have you slept with?”
She reached for the bowl of candy and tossed a few pieces of Skittles into her mouth. “I’ve never slept with any women.”
A hail of popcorn rained down on her. “Smart aleck.”
“My smarts are what landed me an executive position at my company.”
He raised himself up on one elbow. “It wasn’t just your smarts. No one would deny a promotion to a woman who crawled through ductwork just so she could support her team.” His gaze scanned her body and he leered at her. “With you looking so delectable, I can’t help but thinking up of a few other positions you can land—injured ankle or not.”
“When I said that I wanted to play Truth or Dare, I didn’t plan to ask you questions of a sexual nature.”
“My loss,” he said, his gaze riveted to her chest.
“Hey!” She pushed against his broad shoulders. “Pay attention.”
“I am.” His long, tapered fingers slid along her thighs, pushed under her cotton T-shirt and came to rest against her ribcage.
“I wanted to know,” she said, barrelling ahead before the heat of his touch sent her thoughts heading to the bedroom. “What did you really do with Myrtle?”
He sighed. “If I answer your question, then is it my turn?”
“Absolutely.”
“Myrtle was two years from retirement but fretting because her daughter—who lives in California—just divorced her husband and needed help with the children. She—Myrtle—wanted to move out there but was afraid of the implications quitting would have on her 401K plan. So I offered her a severance package. Satisfied?”
He sat up, pulled her onto the floor and then flush against his chest, and began to nuzzle her neck. Her stomach flipped and dived, her skin goose-pimpled and became hypersensitive to every touch, breath and kiss.
“What about Archie?” she gasped. Seduction loosened her grip on her grand plan to delve into Leo’s professional demeanour.
“That’s two questions. You said that if I answered one, it was my turn.” The kisses he rained down on her neck muffled his voice.
“But you haven’t asked me anything.”
“I have a dare in mind.”
His words pulled the invisible line of desire taut, coiling need and want deep in her belly. “Answer my question and I’ll do anything you want.”
His body stilled against hers. “Anything?”
“Anything.” She captured his head in her hands, burying her fingers in his thick mass of hair, as her tongue flicked out to tease and tempt his earlobe. He hissed with pleasure.
“I told him what I did for Myrtle, and that’s why he left the office crying. Called me a saint and pledged undying allegiance to me.” Conversation ceased as Leo’s mouth descended onto hers. The agile movements of his mouth and fingers combined and tortured her with slick, heated promises of pleasure.
Leo gripped her by the hips, held her tightly, pulled both of them to a standing position.
“Vanessa Helph,” he said, “do you know the first time I ever saw you, I felt dizzy, nauseous and had sharp, shooting pains in my side?”
Her eyebrows crinkled together. “I know you’ve slept with more women than I have, but I have to say, this sex talk isn’t doing a whole lot to turn me on.”
He laughed and nipped at her nose. “The symptoms are Schumacher signs of love. All the men get it when they meet the women they’re destined to marry and spend the rest of their lives with.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“Actually, at this precise moment I think I’ll just ask you to loosen the grip you have on my neck.”
“Oh! Sorry.”
“That’s better. A man has a hard enough time breathing when he’s about to propose marriage.” The sparkle in his eyes dimmed, and in its place was a nervous sincerity that turned Nessie’s heart into liquid. “I know that we’ve only known each other for a short time, but I also know you’re the one that makes my heart beat. Marry me, Nessie.”
His voice cracked, and her body melted at his vulnerability.
“Leo, you know I will—but are you sure?”
He grinned. His face flooded with relief and the spark reignited in his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you that I’m partial to elves?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t think you were serious—besides, I’m not really an elf.”
“You’re ethereally beautiful, have pointed ears, and when I look at you, I feel immortal.”
“You know—” She traced his ear with her finger. “Mythology says that elves were worshipped as fertility gods.”
The sparkle in his eyes became a raging fire that set Nessie’s body ablaze.
“If that’s the case, then I had better get started on my worship.”
Then, with a wicked grin, he took her to bed.
About the Author
When I was a kid, there was only one thing I wanted to be: a superhero. So, I practiced my boxing skills while saying things like, "POW! Take that evil doer!" But there came a day when my dreams were dashed—the day I realized being a klutz was not, in fact, a super power. These days, I don't get to orbit space stations (and thank God, because I get motion sick on a merry-go-round), but I still get to wear the capes, leotards, and say things like, "Stand aside! This job calls for Writer Girl!"
Visit Natasha at www.natashadeen.com
Coming Soon!
What Happens in Vegas
It’s not that Binda Morningstar’s an idiot—the girl’s got more degrees than a thermometer—but there’s something about a crisis that makes her lose her mind…and accidently injure anyone within a ten foot radius. But if she’s going to rescue her boss from a cursed jewel, she’s going to have to keep it together. Unfortunately for her, the cop on the case, Corin Hawthorne, has her losing her mind and her heart…and if he gets anymore drool worthy, she’s going to lose her inhibitions, too. To save her boss and win her man, she’s got to outrun a mobster, outwit the YIFFS at a sex fetish convention, and outthink an ex-wife—and she’s got to do it all without breaking an arm or inadvertently hitting anyone with pepper spray…it’s all got Binda hoping that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Love in Miami
The move from Georgia to Miami was supposed to bring peace and calm, but for t
he past three months, Angel Baxter’s been playing reluctant mediator to her nana and their eighty-five year-old neighbour. Between ripped up azalea bushes, wrecked bird baths, and her grandmother prancing across the lawn like a deranged pixie, Angel’s nerves are frayed and she’s got more problems than a three-legged cat in a dog pound. But help shows up in the sexiest form: Harry Garret, the neighbour’s gorgeous grandson. The gardener offers his hand in the negotiations, and the rest of his body on a date at a French restaurant. But when her nana’s pranks go too far, will Angel lose out on more than peace and quiet, but on a chance at love, as well?
