by Elley Arden
For a moment, all Maggie could see was a couple days away from a life that was closing in on her, and some extra cash to start anew. But when she opened her mouth to agree, her stomach clenched. If only she didn’t feel like she was making a deal with the devil …
The spider scrambled in the distance, and Maggie scooted the footstool closer to the door.
“Are you interested in the opportunity, Dr. Collins?” he asked in a clipped and clearly exasperated tone.
Maggie had never been one to ignore opportunity, partly because she had her mother’s impulsive streak, but also because she was smart and determined … and right now, she was struggling to make sense of her life. This opportunity could be key.
“Send me the terms in writing.” She spewed the sentence before she could take it back, using as much conviction as she could muster.
The spider raced toward the footstool, and Maggie screamed, skipping across the hardwoods on tiptoes before she crashed into the sofa.
“What now?” he growled.
“The spider.” She panted, waiting for the eight-legged demon to regroup and charge again.
“Kill the damn thing.”
“No! That robs us of the chance to grow on a spiritual path. I practice a non-harming way of life, and I’m going to deal with this arachnophobia like any other enlightened adult. When I hang up, I’ll talk to him.”
Dead silence mixed with the distinct feeling that she said something wrong. Maggie knew the words that made sense to her sounded strange to everyone else — especially tall, dark, analytical men, but she couldn’t help herself. Try as she might to tame her alternative thoughts, in times of duress they overruled.
She fought the urge to hang up and handle her mortification in private. “Mr. Kemmons, are you there?”
“I’m all there. I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She caught his dreadful double meaning, but couldn’t blame him. After all, she told him she planned to spend Halloween night talking to a spider.
Palming her face, she drew a deep breath and refocused. “You may think of my person however you like, but professionally, I’m without reproach. I accept your verbal terms and await a contract.”
He chuckled. “Good night, Dr. Collins. Give my regards to the spider.”
• • •
Jordon pulled square black eyeglasses off his face and pressed his head to the scrolled headboard his interior decorator designed for occasions like this. He worked a lot in bed. There was a time when the work related to his libido. These days, the only thing waking him was the BlackBerry charging on his bamboo nightstand or the cordless phone resting in his hand.
A few feet below his bedroom window, the New York City streets hummed, keeping him company through another long night. He bent his knees, bringing the laptop with Carlos Nunez’s final stats closer to his burning eyes and pressed the phone to his ear.
The buzzing was displaced by one word, spoken dejectedly with a hint of Spanish accent. “Hallow.”
“Hey, buddy. How are you feeling tonight?”
“The same.”
Jordon squeezed his lips until they hurt. When Carlos sniffed on the other end, Jordon thought about hopping a flight to Carolina so the kid didn’t have to suffer alone. “Is Bernie there?”
“Just left.” A yawn filtered through the receiver.
“Okay. Try to get some rest while I work on Plan B.” Or was it Plan Z at this point?
Jordon smacked his head against the bed. If he had to, he’d start all over at Plan A and rework every detail until somebody, somewhere, helped this kid. “Night, buddy.”
“Night … ”
Dad. Jordon couldn’t remember when it first happened, but for years now — maybe since he started down the hill toward forty — the name appeared in his head at the end of certain calls. For many of the young men he represented, the moniker wasn’t far off. Jordon did more than guide their careers, and he sure as hell felt more for them than the average agent, which was precisely why Kemmons Corp. was anything but average.
Studying the laptop screen again, Jordon shook his head at the numbers. Last season, Carlos flaked out, but the kid wasn’t a genuine flake, not like Dr. Maggie Collins.
You may think of my person however you like. Jordon clicked another browser tab and gazed on the exotic Maggie. Betty Boop eyes smiled at him from the pages of her website. He pushed a palm up the stubby underside of his chin, and a devilish grin crept across his lips. Oh, he liked. A lot.
The first time he saw her, she floated down a red carpet aisle, wrapped in traditional graduation garb — with the exception of those damn shoes. It took him a moment to remember he was presenting a doctoral award of excellence to the woman in fuck-me pumps. Later in the evening, at a graduate reception, they shook hands during an introduction, and Jordon momentarily lost his mind.
Glancing at his opening and closing hand, Jordon recalled the heat that travelled from her body to his. The physical attraction intensified when she joined a group in a belly-dancing tribute to an Egypt-bound professor. Having shed the scholarly robe, she wore a sleeveless dress that was little more than a slip. He remembered the generous amount of shapely leg between the hem of that so-called dress and the black bows tied around each ankle. Those tiny bows strapped stiletto heels to her feet as she rolled and swirled all over the dance floor like an erotic dream.
A dream he couldn’t shake.
Snapping the laptop shut and tossing it to Bethany’s side of the bed, Jordon slid down the headboard, pushed into the pillow and closed his eyes. The right side hadn’t been Bethany’s side for two years. He thought about rolling over, about reclaiming the space, but his back glued to the mattress. It pissed him off that he still couldn’t sleep on the right side.
Maybe Carlos wasn’t the only one who needed a therapist.
Jordon launched an exhale from his mouth to the ceiling. If Dr. Collins succeeded in fixing Carlos, maybe Jordon would modify his impression of her from flake to capable flake. The corners of his sleepy mouth lifted. Right now, though, the only impression he cared to imagine was how capable Dr. Maggie Collins was in bed.
To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.
Also check out Crashing the Congressman’s Wedding.
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by Rachel Cross
at CrimsonRomance.com.
