by Joan Hohl
Inside the sports car, Jo sat rigidly erect, staring out the windshield all the way back to the motel.
Did he have to smell so damned good? Jo blessed the darkness that concealed the rush of heat to her face at the unexpected thought.
Slowly, very carefully, she inhaled, drawing the mingled scent of pure male and expensive aftershave into her senses.
I wonder what he tastes like. The heat in her cheeks intensified at the reflection. Jo shifted against the supple leather covering the bucket seat, becoming more uncomfortable from the heat uncoiling inside than the warmth singeing her outermost layer of skin.
Eyes forced ruthlessly forward, she forbade her sight the pleasure of examining his breath-robbing, austerely handsome face, the contemplation of the possible ecstasy his beautiful mouth could wreak on hers.
What does he look like stripped to the buff? That consideration cut her breath off in her throat.
I am going totally mad!
Thankfully, at that moment Brett drove the car onto the motel parking lot and her musings were shifted to the edge of consciousness. The ensuing opening and closing of car doors were the only sounds that broke the silence from the time they left the car until they came to an awkward halt at the door to her room.
For one pulse-shattering, brief instant, Jo fancifully imagined she saw a flame leap in the remote grayness of the eyes studying her face. Then, with a brusquely muttered good night, he spun and strode to the door of Wolf’s former lair.
Stepping quickly into the pitch-black room, Jo closed and locked the door, then sagged back against its solid support. After gulping in numerous deep, calming breaths, she pushed her limp body erect, her hand groping for the wall switch.
For one infinitesimal moment there she had actually thought he might kiss her. What would she have done if he had? Jo frowned as she mentally listed her possible responses. Would she have chastised him in a scathing, acidic tone? Or, would she, perhaps, have laughed it off as of little meaning? Or, would she, much less likely, have allowed her palm to meet his cheek with resounding force?
Who are you trying to kid? she asked herself wearily. After three weeks of wondering, hoping, longing, you know exactly how you would have responded: You would have wrapped yourself around him like a wet bath towel.
The thought conjured the image and an anticipatory shiver feathered her skin, raising tiny goose bumps on her arms and thighs. Her physical response to the mere idea of being crushed to Brett’s hard, lean body no longer had the power to shock her, although it certainly had the first time it had occurred.
Performing the routine before-bed ritual of cleansing her skin and brushing her teeth, Jo’s thoughts backtracked to the first time she’d felt that hot-cold reaction to him.
It had certainly not happened that first morning, when he’d presented himself to her. She’d been much too flustered and embarrassed then to notice much of anything other than the fact that the Renninger brothers bore very little resemblance, physically or in personality.
Actually, he’d been in her office a very short time, during which he’d fired questions at her in a taut, angry tone that she’d later attributed to anxiety over Wolf’s accident.
Somewhat proud of herself for the appearance of composure she’d maintained, she had answered his questions clearly and concisely. It was when it became obvious that he was about to make an abrupt departure that Jo, voicing a query of her own, received the impression of his dislike of her. Confused, wondering why he should dislike her when he didn’t even know her, she had nevertheless repeated her question when he hesitated over answering.
“How is Wolf doing?”
“He is still on the critical list,” he’d finally, begrudgingly answered, confusing her all the more by his apparent unwillingness to discuss his brother’s condition. “I’m leaving now to fly back to Boston,” he’d gone on coldly, long fingers curling around the doorknob, giving the impression he couldn’t get out fast enough. “If there are any questions”—he’d paused, tone hardening—”pertaining to business, call the hotel and leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”
Stunned by both his tone and his attitude, frowning in perplexity, Jo had mutely watched as he opened the door then closed it again before turning to pin her with an icy, narrow-eyed stare.
“By the way,” he’d almost purred, “I’ve tapped Bob Harley for the executive slot opening soon.” The silky satisfaction in his voice went through her like the sound of a nail being scraped the length of a blackboard. “Sorry about that.”
With a twist of his lips that was more a sneer than a smile, he strode from her office, leaving her staring after him in total bewilderment.
Four days later he was back.
Those four days had been rather trying for Jo—what with holding down the fort, so to speak, and worrying about Wolf, she’d been getting a teensy bit short-tempered.
In truth, Jo almost adored Wolfgang Renninger. In her admittedly prejudiced opinion he was kind, considerate, oftimes droll, and a dynamic businessman. Her liking for him had been spontaneous, her respect endless. Strangely, she had never felt even the mildest tug of physical attraction toward him. Wolf was employer, friend, and, during a few weak moments Jo had experienced, confidant.
Brett was a whole new ball game.
Added to the business responsibilities she’d shouldered, she’d be damned if she’d call and leave messages for him—and her concern for Wolf, Jo had further strained her nerves by repeatedly reviewing that scene in the office.
Why had Brett been so very tense, so very hostile?
Why had he seemed so smugly satisfied about informing her of Bob Harley’s promotion? In Jo’s opinion Bob was the logical choice for the job!
Why did he dislike her?
It was the last of the constantly revolving trio of questions that bothered her most of all, simply because, she assured herself, she had done nothing to warrant his disdain.
She had had no prior warning of his imminent return. Arriving at the office before her assistant that Tuesday morning, she had no sooner pulled her chair to her desk when the phone rang. Her response had been as it always was.
“Jo Lawrence.”
“I want to see you, now, in Wolf’s ... my ... office.”
That was it. No time wasted on mundane pleasantries such as good morning, merely, in effect, get in here.
Staring at the receiver in her hand, Jo had rationalized the sudden burst of adrenaline rushing through her as her body gearing for a verbal confrontation, not in expectancy of the sight of him.
HA!
With all her assumed coolness intact, she had walked briskly into Wolf’s ... Brett’s ... office, taken one look at him, and, metaphorically at least, begun melting.
It simply was not fair for one man to look that damn good! The image this man projected did not sneak up on one; to the contrary, his persona immediately ensnared, jolting emotions, tangling thoughts, luring the unwary to further investigate his seeming quintessence.
After four days of grappling with the fact of his apparent disdain, Jo was nothing if not wary. Lashes lowered over hazel eyes too bright with feminine interest, she viewed the splendor of his male form.
He stood so very straight, his bearing almost military, and so very tall, taller even than Wolf’s own over six feet. His thick, silky-looking, fair hair was cut short at the sides and back. The hint of a wave in the sweep in front was an invitation to eager, feminine fingers. The shortness of his hair revealed the perfect sculpting of his head, his wide brow, straight nose, high cheekbones, and firm jawline lending an overall effect of a master sculptor’s finest work of art. The very spare but sinewy flesh that covered his long frame enhanced the illusion of an elite warrior of a bygone era.
That magnificent human form should never be adorned in anything more than the merest wisp of draping over the hips.
The thought conjured the image. Her composure threatened by her own reflective imaginings, Jo had blurted the first un
related subject her scrambled mind was successful in latching onto.
“Wolf?”
Jo was much too busy being amazed at the picture of aloof composure her cool tone had drawn from him to notice the glittery sheen that came into his eyes.
“He’ll live.”
Her amazement did not extend to missing the frost that rimmed his voice, but she ignored it in the relief that swept through her entire being; not until that moment had she allowed herself to face the very real possibility that Wolf might actually die. Her sigh was more eloquent of her feelings than any amount of words could have been.
The glitter in the gray eyes intensified, embuing a molten steel quality. If his expression of cold hauteur was assumed to intimidate, it worked admirably.
“But,” he finally continued with icy deliberation, “if you are eagerly looking forward to seeing me dispatched back to Atlanta before long, forget it. Wolf will be a long time in mending.”
“His injuries were extensive?” With an unconsciously beguiling sweep of her incredibly thick long lashes, Jo forced herself to meet his direct stare, praying he could not hear the ba-bump kick her heart telegraphed.
“Yes.” Brett’s clipped reply indicated he would not elaborate, thus it surprised Jo when he did. “The point of impact was at the door on the left” At Jo’s horror widened eyes, he nodded once, sharply. “Quite.” His lips twisted briefly, as if in memory of a painful sight “There is hardly an inch on Wolf’s left side that is not contused, lacerated, or fractured; not to mention concussed. When I left him this morning he resembled a mummy more than a man.” The cloudy haze that had momentarily dulled his eyes dissipated. Once again he staked her with that glittering stare. “As stated, the mending will take a long time.” His lids narrowed menacingly, causing a twist of alarm in Jo’s midsection. “Had that drunken bastard who ran into Wolf’s car not have died in his self-created hell, I’d have sent him there with my own hands.”
Jo did not doubt his word for a second. In that instant, Brett looked frighteningly capable of perpetrating a man’s demise without weaponry. Appalled by the quiet fierceness of him, feeling herself pale under the steely rapier points flashing from his eyes, Jo slowly collapsed onto the chair to the side of his desk.
Pray God I never incite this man’s wrath! Holding her breath, fighting to control the series of shudders quaking through her, Jo gripped the slender arms of the chair, unmindful of her whitening knuckles.
“Okay. Business as usual.”
Smothering a gasp, Jo started at his abrupt change in tone and facial expression. Oh, he still looked haughty, but the mien of murderous intent had vanished. Taking command of Wolf’s high-backed chair, Brett drew it to the large pine desk, then, settling back comfortably, he arched one pale, aristocratic brow at her.
“Any more questions?”
Jo ground her teeth at his patronizing tone, cautioning herself against incurring his wrath before their interview was over. She truly did not care to leave his office the victim of his displeasure. The very idea of the scene injected steel into her backbone—very cool steel that manifested itself in her voice.
“Yes. Several.”
Undaunted by a slight tightening at the edges of his lips, Jo led off with query one.
“Does the prognosis call for complete recovery?”
“At this point, yes.”
“How long will he be confined to the hospital?”
“The word this morning was at least three, possibly four, weeks.”
Four weeks! Jo swallowed her dismay at the thought of having to work side by side with this man for the better part of a month.
“May I see him?” She was further dismayed by the pleading note threading her voice.
“No.”
Jo’s eyes widened at his icily emphatic denial. What possible reason could he have for refusing her visitation rights to her boss? Or did he believe himself above the need for reasons? Her loss of control was evidenced by the angry outcry.
“But why?”
“The idea, Ms. Lawrence, is recuperation. You represent something altogether different.”
Anger drowned in a flood of confusion. Had Brett really sneered that last assertion? Could he consider her role of assistant so unimportant as to be sneered at? Jo figuratively shook the consideration away. She knew he employed several assistants himself; he could not help but be aware of the responsibilities entailed. But then, damn it, why had he sneered at her?
Jetting her mind free of the quagmire of her own thoughts, Jo faced him boldly.
“You will be ... filling in ... for him the entire three or four weeks?”
“In every way required.”
For some unfathomable reason, Jo was grateful for the ignorance she felt at not understanding the cause of his sardonic tone and matching smile. Thankfully, she was given no time to ponder either.
“Actually, I will very probably be in residence in this office a great deal longer than three or four weeks.”
“But you just said—”
“I said, “Brett interrupted smoothly, “Wolf will be hospitalized for that length of time. Plans have already been made for him to complete his recuperation at our mother’s horse farm in Florida.”
Jo opened her mouth to ask the obvious. Brett anticipated her.
“Anywhere from four to six months.”
Uh-huh. You bet. Why not?
Rapid fire, the seemingly unrelated terms sprang pell-mell into Jo’s thoroughly rattled brain. I am not really hearing what I think I’m hearing, she assured herself a trifle wildly. He did not actually raise the possibility of six months—did he? I’ll kill myself!
Had she been, at that moment, presented with a mirror, Jo would have been shocked. Inside, she felt somewhat like a quivering mass of mush. Outwardly she appeared unruffled and unaffected by the news she’d received.
Transmitting an order to her hands to release their death grip on the innocent chair arms, she laced her tension-numbed fingers together demurely in her lap. Between evenly spaced breaths, she managed to calmly ask the question whose answer would see her retained or deposed.
“You will be bringing Richard Colby to New York?”
Over the previous three years, Jo had heard much, all of it good, of Richard Colby, redoubtable right arm to the head of the mid-Atlantic Coast region. Her assumption that Brett would want his right arm with him now was natural, if unsettling.
“Not likely.” Brett’s disclaimer startled Jo; had she really detected a hint of amusement in his tone? His dry smile answered her silent question. “Richard hates New York.” Brett’s voice was every bit as dry as his smile and held a very deliberate drawl. “He hates the pace. He hates the weather. And, more than the preceding, he hates the hard, Yankee twang.”
Staring at him in bemusement, Jo felt the melting process begin all over again. His soft, drawling tone turned her rigidly stiff spine to the consistency of soft wax. Heavens, but he is beautiful! His face is beautiful. His body is beautiful. His voice is beautiful. He is probably magnificently beautiful in bed as well.
Lost in her own suddenly erotic imaginings, Jo was sublimely unaware of the seconds sliding into minutes. What she was suddenly aware of was a longing to experience the magnificence of his beautiful body.
“Ms. Lawrence?”
Jo blinked herself back to reality. Though Brett’s voice had lost the long drawl, its softness enticed a shivering response through the entire length of her body.
“Have I wakened you?” Brett’s taunt was a mild reprimand for her inattentiveness.
Yes, damn you! Jo silently acknowledged the taunt for a much more earthy reason. You’ve awakened me inside, where I live, and I don’t particularly like it, especially since it’s so very obvious you don’t particularly like me.
“No, sir.” Jo’s independent spirit cringed at the self-satisfied smile he flaunted in reaction to her unhesitating use of the respectful term.
“I’m relieved.” His tone was a blatant
denial of his assertion. “I’m certain that having a woman as lovely as you fall asleep while I’m speaking would do irreparable damage to my ego.”
How very droll. How very sophisticated. How very deceitful. Positive her eyes were flashing her mental accusations at him, Jo lowered her lashes in concealment.
“Is your ego so very delicate?” she ventured softly, hating the surge of excitement that pulsed through her veins. What would it be like, she asked herself, to possess the power to damage this man’s ego? You’ll never know, her self answered with discouraging swiftness.
“No.” Brett’s reply was equally swift, equally discouraging, and amused in the bargain. “I’d say my ego is about as delicate as an enraged Brahma bull.”
Well, now that I’ve been firmly put in my place, where do we go from here, Jo wondered bleakly. Apparently Brett’s train of thought was running along the same track, only he knew the name of the next station was: Business first, always.
“Now.” He sat forward in his chair and placed his palms flat on the desk. “If there are no further questions?”
Feeling anything but the highly efficient assistant she knew herself to be, Jo shook her head mutely.
* * * *
Sliding between the cold sheets on the unfamiliar motel room bed, Jo sighed with the realization of the number of times she’d shaken her head mutely over the previous three weeks.
God! Had it really only been three weeks? It seemed like years, decades, a millennium! And every second of it filled to bursting with him.
Jo had no idea why it had happened. She had no idea how it had happened. She only knew most assuredly that it had happened. Against all reason or sense of self-protection, she was stupidly, hopelessly, mushily in love with Brett Renninger.
Balling the covers into a comforting bunch under her chin, Jo rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up almost to her chest. Then she did something she would have been mortified to have Brett witness: She cried long into the night.
