Malcolm. His name slithered through the recesses of her mind like the snake he was.
At the time she’d considered herself lucky to snag the attention of Sir Malcolm DuMond—the attractive, charismatic man on the firm’s fast track. Working with him increased her chances of making senior designer. Especially when he’d all but guaranteed her the promotion—if she kept the details of the new, plum assignment quiet.
Tate hadn’t thought it an odd request. Jealousy ran rampant between artists, and most of her colleagues were a secretive bunch. She shoved suspicions aside when Malcolm suggested they work from his private office—after hours, instead of her stuffy cubicle. She’d believed this was her shot at the big time and poured every ounce of creativity into layouts, giving up nights and weekends. A social life paled in comparison to visions of a corner office, her impressive job title etched on a brass plaque. The pride on her mother’s face.
Two weeks into the project Tate had slept with Malcolm. Office romances were expressly forbidden. But they jumped headfirst into the affair, consequences be damned. No one would suspect straight-as-an-arrow Tate Cross possessed the sex appeal to attract a player like Sir Malcolm.
Yet it had bothered her that Malcolm called all the shots—not only in the boardroom but in the bedroom.
Unfortunately the clandestine meetings didn’t equate to great sex. When Tate summoned the guts to question Malcolm about his lackluster performance between his Ralph Lauren sheets, he’d assured her the “cuddling” portion of their liaisons appealed to him as much as the act.
An act she’d swallowed hook, line and sinker.
The day before the final client meeting, Malcolm had abruptly pulled her from the big presentation. Then Tate discovered the truth—Malcolm claimed he’d single-handedly created the campaign. Thereby being named head of the art department. Not only that, he’d recommended another graphic artist for the vacant senior designer position he’d left when he moved up.
Betrayal stung on both a professional and a personal level. When she’d demanded an explanation, Malcolm found the cojones to admit the only reason he’d slept with her: she was the best artist in the company—with the smallest backbone. She was too nice, too innocent about the ways of the business world to jeopardize her future by seeking revenge. He’d warned her if she fought him, she’d be the one out of a job.
Tate shattered her meek persona when she confronted Malcolm at a staff meeting.
Proving he’d used her designs in the project was almost as vindicating as blabbing the details about their relationship. His denials fell on deaf ears. Management saw their intimate association as much a breach of company policy as Malcolm’s purported ethics violations. They’d both been suspended pending investigation.
Shaking off thoughts of the past, she dumped grounds into the coffeemaker and wondered if her career would recover. Especially after her labor rep had invoked the little-known clause in the company’s family-leave policy that allowed her to take two months off. Returning to South Dakota to handle her late aunt’s estate seemed the ideal, albeit temporary solution. On the cusp of her third decade, logic dictated she take time to determine the course of her life, now that her entire professional future was in jeopardy.
As the rich aroma of coffee wafted toward her, she glanced at the patched cracks in the plaster ceiling. Now logic decreed she run as fast as her short legs could carry her. Not only was she over her head in basic home repairs, she had no clue what to do about Nathan.
The phone rang. Doubtful it was Mr. Romance calling to apologize, although part of her hoped.
“Hello?” she said brusquely on the fifth ring.
“Morning to you too, sunshine,” her brother, Ryan, drawled. “Did I wake you?”
“You wish,” she sneered.
“Pretty crabby for first thing in the morning. Aren’t you usually chipper as a bluebird or some damn thing? Singing folktales while you make a coffeecake from scratch?”
“Ha-ha.” She poured Froot Loops into a bowl. “Not even close.”
“What are you doing?”
Wondering why I didn’t get laid last night. Wouldn’t that blow his Pollyanna perception of her straight to hell? “Having breakfast. What are you doing?”
“Sipping mai tais. Watching babes in bikinis and sweating under the tropical sun. Oughta be paradise.”
“But it’s not.” Tate refilled her Employee of the Month cup with coffee. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Lonely. Missed talking to you last week. Get your city mandate straightened out?”
“Sort of.”
Confessing that she’d agreed to trade art lessons for landscaping with sex lessons thrown in…not a good idea. She couldn’t lie. Ryan knew her too well. Plus, if the deal fell through with Nathan, she needed Ryan’s funding to hire a new contractor.
“Tate? Still there?”
“Yeah. I just remembered. I found a freelancer and he’s…” she said quickly, “willing to work with me.”
“Really? That’s great. How much is he charging?”
“Not any more than I can afford.” She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“What are his qualifications?”
Tate dropped her phone on purpose, paused, then picked it up again. “Sorry, butter fingers. What were we talking about? Oh yeah. I do need to ask you something, and I want an honest answer.”
The soft strains of cabana music filled the silence as he shifted the receiver. “Shoot.”
“Do you think I’m attractive?”
The line went silent. “Come again?”
Tate sighed. Her brother was being polite? The situation was dire indeed. “I realize I’m your sister, but you’d tell me if there was something majorly wrong with my physical appearance that would turn a man off, right?”
“Why?”
“Well, I started dating this guy, but he keeps backing off. We mess around a little, and he stops like he’s appalled he’s been caught going at it with the babysitter.” She hoped that tidbit would fluster Ryan enough he wouldn’t remember to ask any financial details about the landscaping contractor.
But Ryan’s coughing fit on the other end of the phone sounded serious.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” he choked.
“What do you think I should do? I know he’s attracted to me, but I need to convince him to act on those impulses.”
“I’m going to need therapy after this conversation.”
Tate gnawed her fingernail, waiting at his deliberate pause.
Finally he sighed. “Bottom line. You want action? Act like a guy. Think like a guy. Set out to seduce him.”
“How?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Because you are a guy? What would you do if you were striking out with the ladies and needed some inspiration?” Like that’d happen. Ryan was the brooding-bad-boy type. Women flocked to him like lambs led to the slaughter.
A menacing chuckle exploded in her ear. “I’d watch porn. Those flicks are a veritable candy store of inspiring seduction scenes.”
Tate groaned. Ryan certainly had gotten into the spirit of the conversation. “Porn? That’s your best advice?”
“Hey, you asked.” He swore and the phone shifted away again. “Love to finish this chat—, not—but someone else is calling me. I’ll touch base with you as soon as I can.”
“Be careful.”
“Always am.” The line went dead.
Tate drummed her fingers on the table and considered Ryan’s suggestion. What did she have to lose?
Nathan rang the doorbell and stood on Tate’s porch holding a fistful of daisies.
Most likely she’d toss them in his face. Since he’d conked out on her couch and slunk away without a word.
Two days ago.
God, he’d been some kind of idiot. Her eager, soft hands had been all over him, and he’d taken that as his cue to snooze?
He snuck a peek at this watch. Five
thirty. He’d knocked off early hoping to earn brownie points, grovel, whatever it took to make up for his boorish behavior.
When he rang the bell again and nothing happened, he turned the massive wrought-iron handle and found the door unlocked. “Tate?” he called. “You home?”
Her cute little VW had been parked out front, yet the house had the silent feel he associated with empty. “Tate?”
No answer.
Nathan wandered to the kitchen. The back door stood wide open. A gentle cross breeze stirred the red-and-white-checked curtains above the sink. He plastered a smile on his face and stepped out onto the hot concrete slab. His grin disappeared.
Holy shit.
Tate was lying nude on a plastic chaise lounge.
He blinked. Nope. Not nude, seminude. The shimmery flesh-colored bikini left little to the imagination and Nathan’s imagination had been woefully inadequate.
Damn.
Heat rolled through his body as his gaze moved over her slim thighs, curvy hips, tanned stomach and delicate ribs. His hungry gaze ground to a complete halt at her cleavage.
Breathe, man, remember to breathe.
Nathan LeBeau had found breast heaven. He inched forward toward his own personal mecca. The warm breeze delivered the scent of cocoa butter and the sweet citrusy aroma that was hers alone. A mumbled prayer tumbled from his lips as he drank in nirvana.
Tate’s sunglasses were perched on the end of her nose. She sang along with the hard-rock music coming from her phone, tapping her pink-tipped toes to the beat. A beer bottle rested on the captivating dent below her navel.
Oh yeah. Things were definitely looking up. Tate was sipping his favorite brand of beer.
Nathan’s grin came back full force. Hot damn.
Should he surprise her? Yell, Hey, honey, I’m home! Calmly toss the flowers at her feet and plead forgiveness? Or ditch the normal approach altogether and see if that chaise was sturdy enough to hold their bouncing weight?
When the song ended, he cleared his throat.
Tate emitted a little scream. Her hand flew to her heart, bringing his attention to the way her nipples peaked under her skimpy suit.
His every good intention sailed right over her eight-foot-high fence.
“Dammit, you scared me.” She pushed the sunglasses on top of her head and squinted at him as she set the beer bottle down. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Well you found me. Now go away. I’m hardly dressed for art lessons.”
He gave her a slow once-over. “Tate, honey, finding you in that extremely sexy excuse of a swimsuit is not a social blunder.”
Her pink tongue flashed at him. “Not funny. Don’t you usually work until midnight or something?”
“Usually.” He wished for his own shades to hide the avid gaze he’d locked on her lush breasts. Sweat trickled down her flat belly until it disappeared into her tiny bikini bottoms. Not knowing what else to do, he clumsily thrust the daisies at her. “However, today I knocked off early.”
“For me?” She stared at the flowers suspiciously. “Why?”
“To apologize for falling into a coma Saturday night.”
When Tate crossed her arms over her chest, blocking his view, he nearly shouted, No!
“I was more surprised you’d vanished than that you’d passed out on my sofa after the long day you’d put in. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Nathan resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. “Because I felt stupid and didn’t know what to say.”
She measured him. Satisfied with his answer, she signaled for him to hand over the daisies. “Apology accepted. First time I’ve had a guy fall asleep before we had sex. But flowers weren’t necessary.” She frowned. “I told you I don’t expect—”
“It isn’t about what you expect, it’s about what I expect from myself. I was tired, and that’s a lousy excuse. So when I saw these in the clearing—”
“Whoa.” Tate held the flowers straight-armed between them as if they’d turned into skunkweed. “You mean you picked flowers for me?”
“Uh, yeah.” Now his feet did shuffle at her narrow-eyed gaze. This was where she’d make him grovel. “They reminded me of you. Innocent looking on the outside, but you’d never guess they were wild.”
A beat passed. “That is so sweet,” she murmured. She stood and kissed his chin. “Come on. I’ll put these in water before they wilt. You seem a little wilted yourself. Want a beer?”
“Sure.” When Tate turned toward the house, Nathan stumbled over the chaise and his own tongue. Her barely there bikini was no bikini in the back. No triangular piece of fabric, just one section of string. Running right up the crack of her ass.
Sweet Jesus.
He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and swallowed hard. How was he supposed to think of romance? Or landscaping schematics? Or anything else when all he wanted was to get his hands and mouth all over her? Like right now. His jeans grew snug as the scent of hot woman permeated his lungs and her scantily clad image burned into his brain.
“Nathan? What’s wrong? You look ready to pass out.”
A low growl rumbled from his chest. “And you’re surprised? You about gave me a heart attack when I noticed you wearing that.”
“You act like you’ve never seen thong bikini bottoms before.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Those things might be the norm in public in Denver, but they’re pretty damn scarce around Spearfish, South Dakota.”
Tate’s wrinkled nose reflected her annoyance. “I don’t care if you don’t like it.”
“Does it seem like I don’t like it?” His greedy gaze rolled over her, making his pulse pound from throat to groin. “Do you have any idea how incredible you look? Very bad on my resolve to keep my hands off you.”
“I don’t want you to keep your hands off me.” Her gaze dropped to his bulging fly and lingered, then cruised back up to meet his eyes. “From the looks of it, keeping your hands to yourself is the last thing you have in mind too.” She flounced into the kitchen.
Nathan waited, hoping his tender, romantic side would surface. Because in about two seconds the aggressive, take-Tate-on-the-patio side would fight to be free.
Think of the job, man.
Big surprise it didn’t work.
He tried conjuring romantic situations. Candlelight glowing across her petal-soft skin. Sultry music for slow dancing surrounding them. Sweet nothings he’d whisper in her perfect little ear. The innocent brush of her short hair across his smoothly shaven cheek. How exquisitely her feminine curves would melt into his hard body.
Hard. Yeah. Right now he had a hard-on that’d break concrete and he hadn’t even touched her. What would happen when he did?
No time like the present to find out.
Inside the kitchen, erotic visions exploded: Tate bent over the table, anchoring his thrusts from behind. Tate perched on the washer, legs spread wide, while he dropped to his knees. Tate straddling him on a kitchen chair, his face worshipping her breasts. Hot need pounded at him from every corner of the room.
Even the cold beer on the butcher-block counter didn’t cool off his frenzied thoughts. He wiped the sweat from his brow. He had to be strong, even in the face of his overwhelming lust. He could do this romance stuff. Dammit, he had to do it this way. His future depended on him retaining a cool head, especially when the one in his pants burned red-hot.
He inhaled her scent and followed the mix of coconut oil and heated skin. She hadn’t gone far.
In the doorway separating the living and dining areas, he watched her sort mail into the slots of a battered roll-top writing desk. Playing post office? He was game. Luckily she hadn’t changed from her swimsuit nor had she in a fit of pique bothered covering up her near nakedness.
Good.
The muscles in his groin tightened as he stealthily moved closer. Seconds later he spun her to face him before he pressed her against the wall.
Tate blink
ed at the smoldering look in Nathan’s eyes. “What?” His sheer size dwarfed her. Made her feel a little afraid and completely secure at the same time.
He held her gaze. Drank his beer. Bracing his left hand above her head, he lightly traced the ridged bottom of the cold bottle across her stomach from hipbone to hipbone. “You know what.”
The muscles in her belly quivered, sending a rush of heat south. Nerves, nipples, throat tightened. “Save your breath if we’re going to talk some more. I’ve heard enough.”
“Me too. I finally got it.”
She gasped when he zigzagged the icy bottle over her navel, rolling it over her rib cage so every bone felt the stinging cold. The slow glide up and down the valley of her breasts was pure torture. He outlined her nipples with the bottle tip, then brought it back to his mouth to run his wicked tongue around the rim. Not once did those heavy-lidded eyes break contact with hers. Her blood thickened. Her pulse raced. “Got what?” she repeated.
He set the bottle on the floor. His mouth lowered, breathing cool air across her sun-warmed shoulder. “Got that you don’t want to hear my ideas on romance or a lengthy lecture on xeriscaping. That you’d rather have this.”
He kissed her. Hard. Crushing their mouths together, angling her head, pulling her chin down with his thumb to open her mouth wholly to his assault with hot, wet sweeps of his darting tongue. Gentle palms framed her face. His fingers dug into her tingling scalp even as his mouth destroyed and branded her.
Releasing her mouth to take a breath, his teeth seductively scraped her bottom lip. She inhaled and felt a butterfly brush of his warm lips against hers before Nathan dove in to expertly plumb the depths of her mouth again. This kiss was softer, but no less insistent. No less potent, the sensuous way their every breath mingled and fed the desire. Tangle. Retreat. Tate’s body roared, aching for a deeper connection. Still, he merely kissed her. Gorging on her. As if he’d been too long denied her taste. Finally his hands grasped her shoulders. His thumbs slid across her damp skin to press the pulse racing in her throat.
She took that as a sign. Allowing her hands free rein, she smoothed them down his chest, needing to find a single patch of his bare skin to assure her this was really happening.
Dirty Deeds: Standalone sexy romance Page 9
