She blinked at him. “Really?”
“Hell, yes, really! Townsend is one tough customer. He didn’t appreciate my ‘kid gloves’ approach. He asked for your opinion and you gave it to him. He liked your honesty.”
“But he said ‘We’re through here,’ and then he left the room.”
“Did you notice I stopped to talk with him on the way out?”
She didn’t. Reeling from embarrassment, she’d made a mad dash for the elevators in her sensible shoes.
“Henry told me to get my best people on an entirely new concept for the company,” Shane said. “He also said that the team had better include you. He gave us one week.”
“He did?”
“I should probably give you a raise.”
“You should?”
His smile widened, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “Yes, Crickitt. You were amazing in there.”
He pointed to her as she opened her mouth, cutting her off. “And don’t you dare say otherwise.”
Chapter 11
The calm didn’t last.
Shane’s easy demeanor had slipped during the drive back to Osborn. And since it was because of Crickitt’s assessment that Townsend had requested a new marketing plan, she’d felt mostly responsible for Shane’s mood swing.
Which was probably why she’d offered up her rudimentary art skills. Well, that and the fact that Shane had mentioned he’d be working late in his home office tonight. What did Shane August’s lair look like? She’d admit, curiosity had gotten the best of her.
Shane’s house was more like the Bat Cave than Bruce Wayne’s mansion. There were no expensive paintings, no ornately carved wooden furniture, no butler. A wide blank wall stood behind a black fireplace and cream-colored chaise longue in the open foyer. Beyond, a massive black wraparound couch dominated the sunken living room, which connected to a monochrome kitchen.
“Not much for color, are you?” she asked, toeing off her shoes.
“Oh, well, I don’t give it much thought.” He dropped his jacket on the chaise and she followed suit, laying down her bag.
Crickitt took the three stairs that led to the kitchen and scanned the floor plan, which was beautiful, open, and inviting. But the color scheme—if it could be called that—didn’t fit its owner. She glanced over at Shane who unbuttoned his cuffs and shoved his sleeves over his forearms, his warmth in contrast with the cold backdrop.
“Hungry?” he asked, bracing his arms on the counter.
Yes. But not for food. Crickitt swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. She shook her head.
“Yeah, me, neither,” Shane said.
A chime sounded, pulling her attention back to the living room. Next to a television mounted above another fireplace was an aging wall clock, its gold pendulum swinging. The wood was worn, the glass scratched. The brown-stained wood was definitely outside of the monochrome palette, but it didn’t look antique or expensive. Just old, and out of place.
“How about wine?”
Crickitt flexed her tired feet on the cool ceramic tile. “Oh, wine sounds great.”
“Normally, I force myself to work out before indulging,” he said, placing two balloon-shaped goblets on the breakfast bar between them. “But we’re in for a late night as it is.”
“Rules are made to be broken.” Especially the one about how a PA shouldn’t be standing barefoot in her boss’s kitchen, eyeing him from across the room.
Shane knelt in front of a narrow cooler on the far wall, his shirt molding to the muscles on his back. She followed the line of his shoulders, running her eyes down his defined arms to his torso, and finally to the pants that hugged his remarkable backside.
When he turned, bottle in hand, Crickitt averted her gaze, though she did peek under her lashes to watch him peel the wrapper from the neck. He opened a drawer and extracted a black gadget, cylindrical in shape and nearly as tall as the wine bottle itself.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Electric wine opener.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Fancy.”
“Want to try it?”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s fun,” he teased, dragging out the word.
Well, who could resist that? “Oh, all right.”
Shane rested the device over the neck, and Crickitt grabbed hold of the bottle. “There’s a button,” he murmured, enclosing her hand with deft fingers and sliding hers to the opener. He was leaning a hairbreadth away, his brows pulled down as he arranged her fingers over the round rubber circle she couldn’t see. Then he pinned her with a hooded gaze, his lips kicking up in one corner. “Just push,” he said.
Crickitt stared at his pursed lips.
“You’ll hear when the cork pops.”
She depressed the button that sent the opener whirring to life, unsure if the shock waves were coming from the reverberation of the equipment in her hands or from Shane’s fingers. She met his eyes over the bottle, pulse pounding in her neck, palms dampening under his.
How had she managed to turn this into an erotic experience?
Look at him. He is an erotic experience.
A subtle pop sounded, and Crickitt dragged her eyes from his face as he released her hands.
“You’re a natural,” he said, pressing another button to release the cork and catching it in one hand.
A lump of lust formed in her throat. She put a palm to her cheek. Her face felt hot. Actually, her everything felt hot. Shane disposed of the cork, his every move as fluid and smooth as the wine he poured into their waiting glasses.
“You okay?” he asked.
She dropped her hand. “Yep,” she answered a little too loud. “I’m great.”
He handed her a glass and raised his for a toast. “To kicking ass.”
She released a laugh and, hopefully with it, some of the tension knotting her intestines.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said after they took a drink.
Lord, she hoped not.
“You’re wondering if I have any personality at all.”
Way off. Way, way off.
She swept her hair from her neck, hoping a dose of cool air might domesticate her Girls-Gone-Wild hormones. “No, I don’t think that,” she said, gesturing across the room in an attempt to change the subject. “Anyone with a clock like that has to have a personality.”
He didn’t laugh with her as he moved from the breakfast bar to stand next to her. He frowned at the clock, his emotions receding like he’d backed into a dark corner. “It was my father’s.”
Crickitt’s heart squeezed. Was. The clock was a family heirloom, and from the sound of it, not a good one. She’d singled out the one personal item in the room and learned that it held a secret he wouldn’t share. One that he shouldn’t share with a colleague. Taking a giant mental step away from the line she’d crossed, Crickitt said, “I like it.” Before tacking on a lame, “It’s nice.”
“We should get started,” he said. Brushing by her, he headed down the hallway.
Chapter 12
Two hours later, Crickitt stifled a yawn and nearly poked herself in the eye with her pencil.
“I’ve kept you too late,” Shane said from his desk. Crickitt was stretched out on the leather couch on the other side of the room, sketches and pages of handwritten notes scattered at her feet.
“No, I’m fine.” The image on the page blurred in front of her. “Well, maybe I am a little tired.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
For once Shane looked tired; no less attractive, but tired. His hair was disheveled from pushing his hands through it one too many times, and his five o’clock shadow had struck twelve. Which made her worry what she must look like. She doubted haggard looked as good on her.
He’d abandoned his starched button-down shirt in favor of the white V-necked tee underneath. He rolled a shoulder, and the rumpled cotton sculpted to his pectorals. She couldn’t keep from staring. Until now, she hadn’t had to contend with the distracting v
iew. He’d been perched behind his computer screen for most of the evening.
He stretched his arms overhead, revealing his tanned abdomen. Seeing that flash of skin made her want to yank his shirt over his head and explore the rest of his amazingly contoured torso with eager hands.
She dragged her eyes, kicking and screaming, from the flat planes of his stomach, reciting a lecture about how she needed to stop objectifying the stacked, ripped, delicious man across the room. She refocused on the sketchbook in her lap, a far less satisfying view.
“I’m relieving you of your duties,” Shane said, approaching the sofa. “Before I get accused of being a slave driver.”
Aware she was sprawled on his couch like she owned it, Crickitt moved a pile of sketches to a nearby chair and put her feet on the floor. Shane sat at the other end with a huff, the warmth from his body drifting across the cushion, his nearness causing her heart to pound.
He dropped his head onto the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “Are we going to be able to come up with anything he’ll like?”
She didn’t reply right away. She was too busy watching the low groan work its way from his throat to his lips.
Snap out of it.
She wasn’t being paid to check him out after hours. They had a job to do and had very little time to do it. Shoving away teenage tendencies, she finally managed to speak. “Of course we will.”
He opened one eye. “Don’t patronize me.”
Crickitt smiled. He could be funny with a straight face. She really liked that about him.
Focus!
She cleared her dry throat and clutched the notebook against her chest. “Actually, I may have something,” she said, rerouting her attention to the task at hand. She lowered the notebook and examined her drawings. For the last half an hour she’d been working on a new concept while Shane pecked away on his keyboard. And, if her worn-out synapses weren’t misfiring, she thought her idea had potential.
Shane sat up and scrubbed his face with both hands. He moved closer, his shoulder and hip brushing against hers. “All right, let’s see it.”
She showed him.
He muttered her name, the deep timbre of his voice gliding along her ribs like a mallet on a xylophone. “This is really good.”
“Really?” she asked, lifting her chin.
He looked up at the same time, bringing their noses inches apart.
She froze like a butterfly on a board, pinned into place by his golden gaze. Shane’s eyes dropped to her mouth for the briefest second before he emitted a low grunt of approval, and she could swear he leaned in just the slightest bit closer. And then it was as if every cell in her body moved in conjunction with his. Like a magnet being pulled to metal, she breached the distance between them and touched her lips to his. His mouth was firm, warm, and tasted every bit as good as it looked. The low moan rumbling between them came from her this time. Her eyes flew open.
What had she done—or, more accurately, since her lips were still fused with his—what was she doing? She pulled back, their lips making a smooching sound as she did.
Crickitt stood, the notebook on her lap clattering to the floor. “Oh, my gosh.” A smudge of lip gloss decorated his bottom lip. “Oh, my gosh,” she repeated.
She bolted from the room, and somewhere beyond the sloshing heartbeat in her eardrums, registered Shane calling her name.
* * *
Shane stood in the middle of his office, hands on his hips, and stared down at the sketchbook at his feet.
“Oh, my gosh,” he repeated, chuckling. He wiped his lips, noticing faint sparkles from her lip gloss on his fingertips. Man. He wished he would have been ready, he’d have loved to taste those lips a while longer. His entire body hummed like a transformer about to blow, and from what? A chaste, closed-mouth kiss.
A zillion shouts of encouragement came from the direction of his dormant hormones. It’d been a long time since he’d been kissed, even longer since a woman initiated it. He stepped to the doorway and poked his head out. A slice of light shone under the bathroom door and bisected the hallway.
Obviously, she regretted doing it. And wasn’t that a shame? Hadn’t she said earlier that rules were made to be broken? He was beginning to agree.
He’d been too aware of propriety and his position as her employer to lean in any closer. Remembering the feel of those plush lips set of a string of thoughts like firecrackers…and a warning siren he couldn’t ignore. As amazing as it was to feel her warm and willing against him, he was pretty sure it shouldn’t happen again.
“Damn.”
Given the fact she was hiding in his bathroom, she must feel the same way. With no idea what he’d say when he got there, he stalked toward the door. As it turned out, a conversation started without him.
“Maybe it’s hormones,” he heard her say, which almost made him laugh out of solidarity. “Or maybe I’m lonely.” Her voice grew farther away, then closer, like she was pacing the floor.
“Or desperate,” she continued.
Well, that wasn’t very flattering.
“It was bound to happen,” she said. “Could have been anyone. Given the chance, I may have kissed Townsend.”
Shane cringed. “I certainly hope not,” he said through the door.
Silence. Then, “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
He smiled at the floor and leaned a palm on the door frame. Could she be more adorable? “Open the door, Crickitt. You can’t hide in there until morning.”
“Actually, I could,” her muffled voice pronounced. “It’s plenty big, and I can make a bed out of these fluffy towels.”
“Crickitt,” he scolded. She really was regretting it, wasn’t she? Well, he wouldn’t let her. She had nothing to be embarrassed about. He’d been right there, too, letting it happen. “What if I promise not to bring it up?”
More silence was followed by the snick of the lock disengaging. Crickitt peeked out of a narrow gap in the door, her wide, doelike eyes brimming with innocence. “Really?”
“Yes.”
Careful not to touch him, she slipped into the hallway, making him feel as if he’d been the one to take advantage of her instead of the other way around. Not that he felt at a disadvantage, he thought as he swaggered toward his office. When he got there he found her hastily shoving papers into her canvas bag.
“Just so you know”—he straightened a stack of drawings and offered it to her—“I wanted to kiss you, too.”
“You promised!” She pointed the papers at him accusingly.
“I know.” She turned and he caught her elbow. “How about we deal with it now and we won’t be uncomfortable later?”
She looked at him like he’d offered her a liver and Limburger cheese sandwich.
Finally, she said, “Okay.”
He gestured to the sofa and she sat. He kept his distance, sitting on the opposite arm. The situation would only get messier if they didn’t just say the truth. Here went nothing.
“I find you more attractive than I should given my…position,” he said reluctantly. She squirmed. “But I promise it won’t interfere at work.” He dipped his chin. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?” she asked, eyes wide.
He blew out a soft laugh. She was entirely too appealing when her cheeks pinked with embarrassment. “Your turn to be honest. Come on, hit me. I can handle it.”
She clenched the strap of her bag, and for a second he wondered if she’d taken him literally and was about to brain him with it. Then a sober look crossed her face.
“I think you have the nicest lips I’ve ever seen,” she said. “And felt.”
He gulped. Her blush deepened. He struggled to keep his expression neutral as his hormones lined up to do the conga.
“But I can control my impulses,” she finished.
He tried to speak but couldn’t. His tongue was Gorilla-Glued to the roof of his mouth. He repressed the sudden urge to dump the water bottle on his desk over his head. You have
the nicest lips I’ve ever felt. And here he was, getting her to agree never to do it again.
Moron, party of one.
“See?” His voice cracked on the word and he cleared his throat. “Now we can put it behind us.”
Chapter 13
Crickitt made it through the next several days without locking lips with her boss. By then, she had labeled The Kiss as circumstantial, ebbing from sleep deprivation and/or proximity. Shane was a distraction, a preoccupation she hadn’t counted on, and becoming increasingly hard to resist.
They opted not to work in his home office over the weekend. The August Industries building was much more convenient…and far less distracting. Since then, he’d seemed remarkably unaffected. Which was a little disconcerting. Did rogue kisses from new employees happen often? Was it outlined in the employee handbook?
Shane breezed into her office, wavy hair styled against his head, his face cleanly shaven. Cool, crisp cologne wafted around her, and Crickitt pressed her knees together under the desk.
“I’m late,” he announced, sliding one sleeve aside to look at his watch.
“No, you’re not. Your meeting with Ms. LaRouche is at ten.”
He lifted his eyebrows in challenge. “She called late last night and bumped it to eight thirty.”
“Oh.” Crickitt yanked her eyes from his face to check the clock on her computer screen. “You’re right. You’re late.”
“Tell me you know enough to give me a five-minute breakdown?”
She did. Last night after work, she read all about Lori LaRouche’s line of mineral makeup and skin care products. Crickitt gestured for Shane to sit. He did, but only after another nervous glance at his watch.
“LaRouche Skin Care is a complete line featuring everything from alpha hydroxyl cleansers to easy-to-remove mascara.” Crickitt paused in her reading to look up.
His brow furrowed.
“Do you need me to come with you?” she asked, the offer more appealing now that she’d said it aloud. “Being a woman, I’m quite familiar with products like toner, glycolic gel, and day-to-night moisturizer.” And, being a woman, she was also quite familiar with the way Shane attracted members of the opposite sex like static cling.
Tempting the Billionaire (Love in the Balance) Page 7
