by Dorien Kelly
While she and Annabeth debated the pros and cons of waterproof mascara, Howard Blenham came in the front door. It was the office’s worst-kept secret that Howard saw his therapist every Monday. He was generally tolerable for a few days afterward, but by the end of the week tended to revert to behavior that made Rasputin look like a sissy.
Today it appeared that something new and different had happened between Howard and his therapist. S.U.’s prime legal mind wore a fixed smile, like one a dishonest used-car salesman might sport while extolling the virtues of a lemon.
“Germs are my friends,” Howard declared. He turned back and settled one shaking finger on the front door handle, then pulled away as though the thing was about to rip his hand off and devour it.
“Germs are my friends.” A lightning-quick touch to the magazine stack in the reception area, matched by a wince that crinkled even the dome of his bald head.
“Germs are my friends.” He reached for the telephone, but with a possessive snarl, Annabeth hauled it out of range.
“Germs are my friends,” he said to Cara, then backed through the door to the offices, hands in the air as if he were a surgeon entering the operating room.
Cara and Annabeth looked at each other.
“Current insanity theory?” Cara asked, knowing the receptionist had to have one.
“Global warming.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Cut me some slack, I had a late night. Kill All Virgins was playing at St. Andrew’s Hall.”
Annabeth was safe from the band’s lethal grasp. Cara was less so from the Newby files. It was time to go forth and dredge more truth.
Cara picked up her coffee mug and said to Annabeth, “Take two aspirin and call me with a new theory.”
Before cruising to the conference room, she headed to her office for some fresh pencils and a new notepad. Cara pulled up short at her door. It was in a weird position, not quite open, yet not quite closed.
She pushed the door open. It made it most of the way, then bounced back at her. Cara’s coffee sloshed over the side of its mug as she stopped the door from hitting her.
Muttering a fits-every-rotten-occasion “bite me,” she dabbed at the damp spots on her favorite blue DKNY skirt, then pushed through the door. Once on the other side, she nudged it closed to see what was messing with her day.
And screeched as a body fell toward her.
Not a real body. A female, inflatable one, wearing—if Cara’s eyes didn’t mistake her in the split second they got to take it in—the dress she’d worn on Black Friday while happily drunk and dancing in Bri’s store.
Dragging the dummy by the arm, she stalked to her desk, set down her coffee, and shouted, “Morgan! Get in here.”
He had to be lurking nearby. No way would he miss the fruits of his labor. Cara righted the doll, if something intended for uses she’d prefer not to consider could be called that.
“You’re damn scary,” she said to it.
Its answering static smile was Sphinx-like.
“Stella,” she said, deciding it had to have a name and thus some measure of dignity, “I think you’re wearing my dress. And once I get it back, you’re all Morgan’s.”
While she was wrestling the garment off the doll, her office door opened. It wasn’t Morgan, though. Instead, Vic Mancini stood there with a cluster of coworkers behind him.
“Didn’t know you were that kind of a girl,” he said, giving her an arch smile.
Cara glanced at her anatomically correct, half-stripped companion. “I, ah…” She could feel a dopey grin working its way across her face. Okay, so this was funny. Cara gave in and laughed. Then she semi-explained, “She’s not mine. Really.”
“A gift from an admirer?” Vic teased.
Was she blushing? Lowering as it was, it felt that way. She raised one cool palm to her heated cheek.
“Infantile,” Gail Eberhardt spat from her post at the back of the watching group. She stalked away.
Cara didn’t suppose a taunting “Your mama” would do much to change Gail’s assessment.
“Don’t mind her,” Vic said. “You know, we were about to sneak out for a bagel break. Want to join us?”
She had witnessed this Monday tradition before. A couple of people at a time, this particular gang of associates would leave until the hallway was a ghost town. She’d never been invited along, and thought she didn’t care. Until now. She was undeniably charmed at the prospect of joining them.
“Sure,” she said. After all, so what if lunch was creeping up on her, she still hadn’t billed a single hour and a thirty-seven-million-dollar guillotine blade hung over her? “I’d love to. Just let me get my friend, here, taken care of, and I’ll meet you.”
Vic smiled. “Great. The Brooklyn Bagel Factory. You know where it is?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, while Cara was busy tucking Stella behind Morgan’s desk, he walked in. His smile was enough to turn Cara’s knees to mush as he closed the door behind him with a very authoritative push.
“I see you kept the dress,” he said with a nod to the figure in the chair.
“I’m no fool. Besides, Stella looks like one hot flasher in your raincoat. Burberry, is it?”
“Yeah.” He rounded the desk. “I’m sorry I missed seeing you get your surprise, but Blenham called me into his office. I think I might have heard you scream, though.”
“You did. I thought some psycho had decided to use my office as a dumping ground.”
“Nah, just a little Monday morning pick-me-up from your favorite soul music fan. You looked like you needed a few laughs when you left yesterday afternoon.”
Cara settled her gaze on her hands, which still gripped Stella by the shoulders. She wanted to ride this good mood as long as she could. It beat the hell out of the alternative, which was admitting that ninety percent of the time, she was cranky and exhausted and no longer even sure why she was working so hard.
She tapped Stella on her smooth, vinyl cheek. “So where do you find an inflatable woman on a Sunday?”
Morgan laughed. “Any number of places.”
“I’ll be damned. The rich boy has a seedy side.”
“Rich boys are the worst.”
The curve to his mouth and the way he said it—the worst—resounded as the absolute best in Cara’s mind. They had shared two kisses in six years. Two kisses… Certainly not enough info for an educated opinion.
“Prove it,” she heard herself saying in a voice that sounded rich and sexy—in short, not hers.
He took her by the wrist and drew her away from the chair, but he didn’t let go of her. No, he ran his hands up and down her arms.
She’d thought he’d have smooth, rich boy hands—another misconception. His palms were tantalizingly rough as they moved across her skin below the short sleeves of her silk top.
Two kisses, and they both knew the price of a third.
“Say it.” His words weighed more toward plea than demand. “You can do it.”
Cara leaned closer, until her mouth nearly brushed his. He smelled of soap and maybe just the smallest hint of sandalwood. She wanted to rub herself against him like a cat. She wanted to tease him until they were both desperate for more.
There were a thousand reasons not to do this; they were in the office, breaking rules…. But for all the stress she’d added to her life, she deserved some pleasure, dammit! And it felt hot and dangerous and right.
“Morgan,” she whispered, “I was wrong, you were right, and you’d be the happiest man in Detroit if you’d kiss me.”
He drew back. Surprise and humor sparked in his dark eyes as he realized how she’d turned his words on him.
He smiled, then said, “Good compromise.”
Yes!
Cara could feel her eyelids growing heavy, her muscles lazy and languid as her body readied for his kiss.
At the last instant, he pulled back.
Inside, her libido howled with the injustice being done to it. Outside, she let go of one little disappointed huff of air.
Morgan traced her lower lip with his index finger. “Once I kiss you, do you think you could possibly start calling me Mark?”
Cara blinked. “What do I call you now?”
“Morgan.”
“Really? Never Mark?”
“Pretty much only with a gun to your head,” he confirmed.
“Wow.” She went up on tiptoe and flicked her tongue against a particularly tempting bit of tan skin on his neck, above his starched white, probably ridiculously expensive, shirt. “Kiss me…Mark.”
And he did. Sometime along the line, someone had taught Mark Morgan to kiss really, really well. Just the right amount of persuasion, not at all sloppy, aim perfectly on. Cara rated it a nine-and-a-half on a scale of ten, the half point being reserved to see how he finished.
Problem was, she didn’t want him to finish. Ever. The analytical side of Cara’s brain shut down, an event occurring less frequently than the arrival of Halley’s Comet. Instinct, usually kept on a short tether, came out to party. Parts of Cara’s body that had been, one might say, underattended, made their presence known.
Her tongue ventured out to tangle with his. Her breasts became so sensitive that she needed to press closer to him for the sheer relief of contact. The slow heat inside her grew hotter, then sought more fuel. His hands roamed downward to skim the curve of her waist, to cup her bottom. She went up on tiptoe for a better fit against his arousal and heard him moan.
Mark nibbled on her lower lip, kissed her neck, made her crazy for the feel of his hands on her skin. His hair was sleek and thick under her fingers. His heart pounded a strong beat that matched the insistent throbbing—that needy sense of emptiness—low in her body.
“God, you feel so good,” Morgan said as he ran one broad palm up her back, then stroked the nape of her neck.
Cara shivered with pleasure and tried to get even closer. Just then, the clip holding her hair in a twist came loose. The feel of it glancing off her back before it hit the carpet was like sanity coming up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder and snapping, “Girl, just what are you doing?”
Really wishing she could get naked…which in her current surroundings would be an act of terminal stupidity.
“Morgan,” she said as he opened her blouse with a skill she had to admit was impressive.
“Mark,” he corrected before settling his mouth at the vee of her cleavage.
Cara closed her eyes and worked up some willpower. “Mark, we can’t do this…here.”
She made herself let go of him and step away. Her blouse’s buttons seemed to have grown smaller since this morning when she’d put it on. She looked down and tried to concentrate on rebuttoning them.
“Not here?” Mark asked. “So you agree there’s a possibility we can do this somewhere else?”
Cara had to smile at his innate lawyer’s ability to negotiate. She picked up her hairclip and did her best to tame her hair. She needed to buy time, to be sure. She had enough uncertainty in her life, enough of a feeling that disaster was looming on the horizon.
“I have to…to go buy a bagel.” A lame excuse was better than none at all. She glanced at the raincoat-garbed doll, who still looked like the Inflatable Queen of the World, propped in Mark’s chair. “Why don’t you buy Stella a cup of coffee, and I’ll get back with you later?”
Then Cara left because she was far too tempted to stay.
UP ON OLYMPUS, Zeus settled in with a fresh bunch of grapes. “Now that,” he said to Hera before popping the sweetest of the bunch into her mouth, “was entertainment.”
10
Cara’s Rule for Success 10:
Dress for success,
but unless you can force
the guys in your office to wear them, too,
lose the panty hose.
OVER THREE WEEKS LATER, Mark understood Cara’s game: She was subjecting him to slow death by evasion. Evasiveness wasn’t strictly a female trait; it just seemed that women brought a subtlety to it that guys couldn’t match.
After disappearing for her bagel three Mondays ago, Cara hadn’t avoided him. Far from it, in fact. She’d come back and dumped a world of woes on him. It seemed the only thing the Newby family had been forthcoming about was their need for money. He, Cara and Nic had spent most of the following days on the phone.
Last Wednesday had been occupied by a major “come clean” conference call among Merchant, Newby and about a dozen attorneys. Mark figured the combined billable rate sitting on that call was upwards of two thousand dollars an hour—a sobering thought. And after they’d finished spending more than the gross national product of a third world nation, the deal wasn’t dead, but it still needed major CPR.
From their end, he had taken the back seat and let Cara do the talking. Once she’d gotten into the groove, she’d been good. Damn good, and those out-of-this-world skills were what made her so talented at ducking him and his one simple question: Could they please pick up where they’d left off when she’d developed that bizarre bagel craving?
He was beginning to believe the answer was a flat-out no. Not the kind of news a guy wanted from the sexiest, smartest and all-around most incredible woman he’d ever met, so he wasn’t exactly pushing it. Besides, on this late June Thursday, someone else would soon be screwing with his life.
Nic was due in today. She was part of an odd breed of Manhattan-bred adventurers. She had backpacked through Thailand, bicycled through Italy and walked the Great Wall of China. She had not, however, learned to drive a car. Since she remained too close to his mother for Mark’s comfort, Nic would be staying in one of the guest suites at Lakewind while she was in town. His mother had even arranged for Jerome to pick her up at the airport. Nic’s presence until Saturday evening was a virtual guarantee that he wouldn’t be able to corner Cara.
Mark glanced at his watch. He had, at most, another half hour until life grew even more complicated than it already was. Because he was a do-or-die kind of person, he headed to Cara’s office, then pulled up short in her doorway.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“Your, uh, dress…” he managed to say from a body knocked free of air. He’d never seen her attired quite this…exotically.
It wasn’t as though her outfit was cut down to the navel or anything, but it had skinny straps and a low scoop, and its black background was covered with crimson hibiscus flowers, or whatever their name was. He’d just always thought of them as Mother Nature’s blatant metaphor for sex.
Also, he was pretty damned sure Cara didn’t have a bra on, and was equally certain he’d regressed all the way back to adolescence to be so thrilled by the thought.
“This?” she said in a breezy voice. “It’s not my usual office getup, but I haven’t taken a real vacation in a few years, so I decided that today I’m on Bali.”
And he was right there with her. He’d never thought that pale skin could be so hot.
“If you’re worried about how I’ll look for the meeting, don’t be.” She pointed behind him somewhere. “I brought a jacket to wear over it.”
His smile was a little crooked, a little forced as he willed his blood supply to travel to places other than the obvious.
“I don’t think worry is quite the word.” He had to stop thinking about sliding the dress off her and running his hands down all that white silken perfection. “So…is that new?”
She nodded. “I visited Bri yesterday during lunch.”
This smile was focused, genuine. “That’s great news. Is everything okay with you two?”
“I think so.” Two lines appeared between her slender red brows as she frowned. “Bri’s pretty forgiving. If I were her, I wouldn’t have forgiven me.”
He sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “But you’re your own worst critic, Adams.”
“Guilty as charged,” she said. “So what are you doing in
here, anyway? Shouldn’t Nicole be getting here soon?”
“In a few minutes.” Mark suddenly noticed the way Cara kept her hands spread over something on her desk. He leaned forward and tried to read upside down. He was more skilled when the words in question weren’t covered. He looked up and caught her narrowed gaze.
“Caught in the act,” he said. “So what are you hiding?”
She rolled her eyes. “Something I don’t want you to see, obviously.”
“Come on, didn’t you ever learn to share?” he teased.
She relented, handing him a glossy brochure, almost a magazine, really. “It’s the condo I’m buying. It’s under construction right now, but should be finished by the end of the summer.”
Mark flipped through the information. Very cutting edge, and with a sharp price tag to match. Still, in his few glances at the real estate market, he already knew that there was no such thing as a bad investment in downtown Royal Oak, just now. Cara was clearly astute enough to recognize the same thing.
“Turn to page seven,” she said. “That’s the floor plan of my unit.”
Mark did as directed. “Very impressive. No shortage of room, huh?”
After another quick look, he handed the brochure back to her. She gazed at it with a hunger he’d like to have aimed at him. “It beats the white rental box I’ve been living in for the past six years.” She moved the brochure beneath a crystal paperweight. “That loft is everything I’ve ever dreamed of—my reward for paying off my student loans early.”
Until that moment, he’d never given much thought as to the amount of pressure she’d had on her to succeed. Or how much more determined Cara had to have been to attend law school in the first place. He’d done it on family money—little risk, there. If it hadn’t worked out, he’d just have joined his father, Midas, hoarding the family gold.
Cara’s life was a far different proposition. He was beginning to understand the harried look he saw in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. And he wished that it was in his power to make it go away.
