Her fingers sank into his hair, tugging just hard enough for him growl as his first teasing taste of her exploded on his tongue. He'd wanted to take his time, but they were moving faster now. Her hips arched as she came apart on his tongue and fingers, her cries guttural as he lifted her from the bed. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he kissed her deeply, groaning as his hard length slid along her slick flesh.
He was a numbers guy, a self-professed tech geek who liked logic and order. It was only rational that he and Rosalie would finally sleep together after a year of pretending they already had been.
As he scrambled onto his back and allowed her to position herself above him, he was certain that no, this sure as hell wasn’t a mistake. Nothing that felt this good could ever be wrong.
Mixing a little pleasure in with their business?
What could be wrong with that?
1
Rosalie Bridges didn't consider herself a complainer. She prided herself on seeing the positive, finding the bright side, and seeking out the little moments that she could point to and say, "There. Right then I was really, really happy."
Some days though, she had to concede, that finding those moments was really hard.
Today, for example? Leaving the safety of her bed had become really hard to justify.
"Okay then, I'll go over it again from the top. Maybe I'm just not explaining it correctly?" Pasting a bright, winning smile on her face, Rosalie gripped her pen tightly to keep from throttling the unctuous restaurant manager who'd barged into her office without an appointment, only to demand she deal with him immediately. "We understand it's a clumsy workaround, but until the tech team installs a suitable patch in the system, it's the only way to keep this from happening again. Would you like to show me what's tripping you up?"
As outreach manager for the Aspen satellite office, Rosalie was used to fielding McClellan Systems’ less sophisticated clients. The pace was slower and sleepier here than in the main New York office—during last year’s visit, she hadn’t been able to believe how fast everyone moved—which normally suited her fine. Only the people who primarily bought their systems—the geriatric owners of family restaurants and passionate hippie-chefs with no common sense—often needed a patient, guiding hand.
And today, Rosalie was quickly running out of patience.
Taking a deep breath, Rosalie crossed and re-crossed her legs before smiling at the client across from her. “We'll take as long as you need." She shut the valve on her irritation. After all, it wasn’t the customer’s fault that her desk was sporting a sad lump of yellow carnations.
Carnations!
How had she been so wrong? When Connor had looked her in the eye and known her favorite flower, he’d convinced her this was it. After all these years of loving him from afar, he finally reciprocated all her admiration and desire. He knew her, well enough to know how much she valued the language of flowers. Roses meant passion.
Carnations?
Carnations—yellow carnations—meant … disappointment. Rejection.
As if the carnations hadn’t been insulting enough, the card hadn’t helped. Bland, boring, and printed—not even handwritten—on an insipid cardboard cut-out more suitable for a funeral arrangement.
Inside, all it said was “Thanks for all you do for McClellan Technology Group." No name. No signature.
At first she'd thought it was a joke. She'd even stood at her doorway, waiting—for longer than she cared to admit—certain that the real, promised bouquet of roses would arrive soon after.
After all, she'd forgiven the flowers’ late delivery. Since their encounter at the lodge, she'd barely even been in the office until this week. For the past six weeks, she’d bounced from smoothing out their client relations with information-gathering visits to their businesses to attending a mandatory training in Denver before flying out to Singapore for a development workshop from which she was still jetlagged.
But she couldn't forgive this card.
All she did?
What she did was help him win over clients by pretending to be in love with him—no matter that she actually was. What she did was always remember his clients’ names and add the right people to the company’s Christmas card list. What she did was send a case of Vince Judson’s favorite IPA, sealing Connor’s most recent deal, even while in another freaking country.
What she did was make him look so good that he was in the running for Esquire's Man of the Year, again. Was that all she did for McClellan Technology Group?
Or, was all she’d done was have sex with him in a moment of weakness she regretted more and more with every awful day that passed?
He hadn't even thanked her for all she did for him. Rosalie had always brushed off Connor's single-minded focus on business, but there was no brushing off how he'd thanked her for helping his company.
“This is completely unacceptable.” The client’s voice rose, calling her attention back to him as he threatened to "take this to someone higher." Rosalie jerked the leash on her runaway thoughts and sighed.
"You have every reason to be frustrated." Her words felt disloyal, but screw it. "The president of the company is aware of this issue." She glanced at the vase of carnations one more time before arriving at a decision. "Here's the number for his personal cell." She scribbled Connor’s direct line on a scrap of paper. "You can call him any time, day or night."
Handing the piece of paper to the suddenly pleased client, she bid him farewell, feeling petty but triumphant. Connor wouldn’t like being sold out like this. She was supposed to handle these issues so they wouldn't land in his lap. It was what she did for McClellan Technology Group.
She brushed her hands together, trying to hold on to the rush from petty revenge. But as soon as the client left, it faded, leaving her alone in her office with the carnations again. For all the satisfaction knowing that the client was about to ruin Connor's day gave her, she was pissed that they had come to this.
They'd known about the weakness in the software for months now.
Connor had known.
She'd told him, multiple times that they needed a suitable patch for this stumbling block, but had he listened to her?
Did he respect her as more than a prop girlfriend at all?
Rosalie curled her fingers tightly, digging her nails into her palm to keep her cool. What the hell is going on with you? It wasn’t like her to react so strongly.
But this was Connor. Goddamn Connor McClellan. He made her feel like a million bucks every time she was at his side.
And an insignificant speck when he left.
Especially when he’d left her bed.
Her stomach clenched. Her usual breakfast of yogurt and granola wasn’t sitting right. Absently rubbing her belly, she steadied herself against her desk as dizziness hit. “Whoa,” she breathed. "Time for lunch."
She poked her head out of her office. “Are you over there?"
Rosalie’s office assistant Anna poked up from behind the high-walled desk at the front of her office. “Geez, that took forever! I thought he was going to grab a cot and sleep here! Whoa, you look like hell!" Bubbly and blonde, she had a way of framing the most cutting insults as endearing.
Rosalie laughed, rubbing her stomach again. “I don’t think I've fully shaken off that virus I picked up in Singapore.”
She’d gotten back from the international intensive only a few days ago. Clearly she was still jetlagged and queasy from the unfamiliar but delicious food. It would explain her craziness, her general irritation, and low mood. She glanced over at her desk.
The carnations were a pretty good explanation too.
Anna caught the direction of her gaze. “They are pretty though.” She smiled brightly. “Want me to order in for lunch? Something carb- filled and delicious to settle your stomach?”
Rosalie massaged the throbbing place between her eyebrows. “Yeah,” she sighed. “That would be great, thanks a lot." Retreating back to her office, she shut the door wit
h a groan.
The lodge. The trip to Singapore where she'd represented McClellan well. All signs, she'd thought, pointing towards something more with Connor.
Until this.
With a grunt, she tore the sappy, impersonal card out of its holder and ripped it in two. "Thanks for all I do?" she hissed, shredding it into tiny pieces which drifted down to the garbage in irritating snow. "Sure, Connor. More like thanks for nothing."
* * *
Connor set his phone back on his desk and stretched his hands over his head in silent triumph. He'd just hung up with Ed Coney of Ventura Enterprises.
The one who’d gotten away was back.
And this time, Connor would get his business.
He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the gleaming surface of his antique oak desk. His one concession to frivolity, it had been his grandfather's, and though the sight of it drove his mother nuts, Connor had thought taking the token from the nasty old man after his death was appropriate.
Growing up, it had been just Connor and his mother. But he still thought grimly to this day, it shouldn’t have been. The fact that his mother had gotten pregnant, and then refused to marry the father was enough for Connor’s grandfather to cut her out of the will. Everything Connor had, he owed to his mom’s scrappy, ruthless drive to provide for them both. He’d built this company as a monument to her. He’d amassed his first million just to prove that everything she’d done had been worth it.
But there’d been a tiny—okay bigger than tiny—part of him that wanted revenge. See Pops? Look at what I accomplished. Bet you wish you’d treated Mom better now, huh?
Taking his desk was petty. But Connor felt entitled to a little pettiness every so often, at least when it came to his mother’s family.
He brushed his hand over the sleek surface of his grandfather’s desk, only to lift his phone absentmindedly and check it again.
No calls. No texts. He glanced out the window. Not even a freaking carrier pigeon.
All day he’d waited for Rosalie’s response. His secretary had been given explicit instructions. Four dozen yellow roses to be delivered right to Rosalie’s desk at the Aspen office. "You’re really good with words.” He'd winked at Jenny. “Make sure there'd something nice on the card. Romantic. Meaningful. I’m no good with that stuff.”
He flipped on his intercom with a grunt. “Jenny!" he barked. “Call the florist in Aspen! Make sure those flowers were delivered."
His secretary's tinny voice buzzed through the speaker. “Already done, Mr. McClellan,” she chirped. “They confirmed delivery this morning. A woman named Anna Wilbur signed the receipt.”
Connor nodded, grimacing. Anna was Rosalie’s office assistant. He was pretty sure they were good friends too. No way the flowers had gone missing.
Which left only one other viable explanation.
Rosalie was ignoring him.
With a growl, he flipped off the switch. He did not need this right now. Rosalie should have responded immediately. Efficient, neat, and with a prompt reply, the way he liked to run his office. He expected his employees to follow the same strict schedule. It was why his business ran so well. No one cut corners; no one slacked off.
And to win Ed Coney back to McClellan? He needed Rosalie in top condition.
Is that it? Is she sick?
He grabbed his suit jacket from the hook on his door. No, that wouldn’t do. Not with the Coney business on the line. Word on the street was that the old man had found himself a new wife, one he doted on even more than the first. One of Connor's informants had even used the word “soulmates."
Connor had laughed. No one could be successful in both their business and personal life. Coney's second wife was no more than a trophy wife; he was sure of it.
Either way though, he would need Rosalie to nail this deal. If she was sick, the deal would be in jeopardy.
When Connor’s door banged against the wall, Jenny jumped at her desk. "Call my pilot. I'm heading to Aspen a day early."
He'd bring Rosalie up to speed on the Ventura Enterprises proposal. If she was sick, he'd force-feed her ginger ale, vitamin C—whatever it would take. Nothing would come between him and this meeting.
Not even her inexplicable silence.
2
Carbs hadn't worked. In fact, they'd made everything worse.
When she'd emerged from the bathroom, Anna had taken one look and insisted she go home.
Rosalie had agreed—but not before making one discreet stop first.
Now, standing in the bathroom of her brand new townhome, tapping her fingers on the marble top vanity, she felt ill for a whole different reason.
Why on earth had she bought the test that took ten minutes? In the drugstore, its promise of accurate results had convinced her, but now she was willing to trade accuracy for sanity.
Ten long minutes to discover if she was actually pregnant? Torture.
How would she survive the wait? Already, a lifetime had passed. She stared at the test, willing it to show her something. Anything. "You have to know by now," she commanded. “Lines! I need to see lines!"
A loud knock startled her. She’d been eager for distraction, but … "Jesus. Talk about bad timing. Not now."
When the knock came again, louder and more insistent, her people-pleaser instincts kicked in. Saying no had always been difficult for Rosalie, whether to people she knew or complete strangers. Like the one pounding on her door during the worst ten minutes of her life.
She straightened up, tidied her hair, and smoothed the front of her blouse, checking for any residual traces of her earlier vomit.
She still looked a fright, but whoever it was would just have to deal.
Whoever was at the door was pounding with both fists at this point. “Okay, okay! I’m coming!" She undid the latch, throwing it open, and staggered back.
Connor’s fist dropped back down to his side as he stared. “So you are here.”
Rosalie couldn’t help but laugh sharply. “It’s my house."
Of all the people to show up …
“We need to talk,” he snapped back.
"About what?” She eyed him warily. Did he know? Had she been wrong about him? Maybe her intuition from when they’d first met—about them being on the same wavelength, about him really knowing her—had been true.
“About the Coney meeting. It’s coming up.”
Rosalie gripped the door frame to keep from sagging to the floor. Already dizzy, she wanted to throw up all over again. “I thought you were coming for that tomorrow.” She’d misread every single thing about him, deluding herself. “Don’t you want to do that at the office though?" She willed herself to snap into business mode and pull away from these confusing conflicting emotions.
“Yeah, well, there’s the flower situation to figure out too.” Without even asking, he walked though her door.
Rosalie blinked. Automatically, she lifted her wrist and checked her silver antique watch.
Two more minutes. And he was right here.
“What flower situation?”
Connor turned in a slow circle, taking in her townhome. She'd crammed bright, happy flowers throughout to give it a cozy, cottage-y feel—floral prints, floral throw blankets, and geraniums in a pot on the window sill. It was her oasis. Her happy place.
He seemed too big for it, somehow.
When Connor finished his survey, he turned back to her. “The fact that you didn’t respond."
“Respond to what?”
“To any of it?” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I put myself out there, on the line. The least you could do is say you got them.”
“You think a bouquet of generic carnations with an even more generic note is putting yourself on the line?” Her anger increased. “I thought you were smart, Connor.”
She'd meant to hurt him. Only he just looked confused—and sad. “Carnations? Generic note? No, that’s not what I meant to send it all. They were supposed to be roses with a romantic note!�
��
Rosalie un-balled her fist. She relaxed her shoulders before taking a deep breath. Hope flared like a match in her chest, igniting her feelings all over again. “Oh?”
“Yeah." Connor nodded faster now. “I had Jenny order four dozen yellow roses. She confirmed it.”
“Jenny … your secretary?”
“She confirmed the order this morning.”
He hadn’t even bothered getting her flowers himself. He’d assigned the task to his secretary, but Rosalie wouldn’t cry in front of him, however tempting. “Well. That’s not what happened.”
She saw how silly she’d been now. Her crush had blinded her for too long, but no longer. She was officially done with Connor McClellan.
"Wait." When she turned to walk away, Connor's fingers brushed her arm, but she shied away. There was no mistaking the confusion on his face. "Whatever happened, I'm sorry. You need to talk to me though, Rosalie."
"About what?" She wished she could give him the silent treatment. She snuck a glance at her watch.
It was time.
"About the Coney deal. We need to sit down and hash out our plan."
"Plan to … "
"You know." Damn that dimple of his. "Our arrangement."
"You mean, you want me to sit down with you and figure out the best way to fake us being together?"
His eyebrow quirked upward and he gestured with his hands, as if to say, “Of course.”
Rosalie drew herself up as tall as possible. "Well that's too bad, Connor. Because I'm not faking anymore. We're done."
"What are you—"
When she turned away, he followed her into the bathroom. "Are you talking about the flowers? I told you, it was a mistake. You can't be so emotional about stuff like this, it's not … " He trailed off when she lifted the test off the counter.
McClellan Billionaires: The Complete Series Page 2
