Crickitt stood on the sidewalk in downtown Columbus beneath a building that resembled the space needle in Washington. She craned her head, shielding her eyes from the warm summer sun. Skyview was practically perched in the clouds, rotating too slowly to notice, giving its diners a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of downtown. “I’ve always wanted to eat here.”
Shane took his eyes from the skyscraper to look at her. “Me, too.”
He’d never been here before? And he’d brought her, which made their coming here instantly more meaningful.
Inside, the hostess sat them at a coveted window seat. Crickitt studied the Matchbox-size cars below before focusing on Shane’s reflection in the window. He was watching her, the sun highlighting the line of his jaw, his perfect lips.
“Madame?”
Crickitt turned to find their wine waiter, sommeliers she remembered they were called in five-star restaurants, a bottle of wine propped onto a white cloth over his forearm. “Château Sedacca.” He placed the bottle on the table and opened it with a manual wine service. Shane watched her through twinkling eyes, which made her remember the electric bottle opener, his fingers gliding along hers. Was he remembering that, too?
The waiter splashed the slightest bit of red into the bottom of her glass. When she only smiled up at him, he raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, right.” She lifted the wine and sipped, allowing the liquid to slide on her tongue before trickling down her throat. It was the same wine she’d had at Shane’s house. She remembered the burst of fruitiness, the soft tannins in the background. And the hint of it on Shane’s lips when she’d kissed him.
She put her glass back on the table, unable to look Shane in the eye. But he watched her. She could feel his stare from across the table.
“Madame?” the sommelier asked again, bottle poised to pour.
“Oh. Yes, um, it’s perfect.” He filled her glass, then Shane’s, and finally retreated. “That was stressful,” she mumbled, only half kidding.
Shane chuckled, drawing her attention.
“What?” she asked, unable to keep from smiling over at him. “Did I do that wrong?”
He cradled his glass in one large palm. “You did not do anything wrong. I just…” He shook his head as if arriving at a conclusion that surprised him. “You’re refreshing, do you know that?”
“I am?”
He kept his eyes on hers as he took in some of the red liquid and pursed his lips, sucking in air as he rolled the wine around on his tongue. She simply stared, utterly distracted by the contours of his mouth.
“Completely,” he said. “I like that you’re not intimidated by”—he gestured at the five-piece band and flock of well-dressed diners—“any of this.”
“I’m following your lead,” she said honestly. “You’re the most grounded billionaire I’ve ever met.”
“Know a lot of us, do you?”
She waved a hand. “Tons.”
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made her stomach pitch. “To us.” He lifted his glass. “We kick ass.”
* * *
After she ate the finest meal to ever touch her tongue, and they’d emptied the bottle of wine and refused a second, the conversation shifted from work to family.
“My parents live in Missouri, though they do visit me several times a year.” She pretended to look at her invisible watch. “They’re about due for their quarterly butt-into-my-life visit, as a matter of fact.”
Shane smiled. “Siblings?”
“One brother,” Crickitt said, pushing her plate away before she stuffed herself beyond repair. “He’s in Missouri, too.”
“What does he do?”
“He works for the phone company. He’s a repairman. What about you? No wait, let me guess,” she said pressing her fingertips to her temples and pretending to read his mind. “You are an only child.”
“Very good.”
“And I’ll bet you were first in your class when you went to college.”
“I wasn’t first but I was close,” he said with a crooked smile.
Fingers to her temples again, she narrowed her eyes, concentrating. “Your parents bought you your first Mercedes when you were sixteen. Your dad taught you everything you know about business.”
Shane’s smile faltered. Like the moment she mentioned the clock on his living room wall, she sensed she had crossed a line.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said, but his smile was polite. “My dad was a machinist at a factory.” He spun his wineglass, the liquid swirling against its sides. “And my mom was a schoolteacher.”
“And they are no longer living,” Crickitt said, picking up on the obvious. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Don’t be. Dad died a year ago. It wasn’t easy, but I’ve recovered.”
“And your mom?”
He averted his gaze, spinning his wineglass on the tablecloth. “When I was a kid.”
The waiter descended with a tray of desserts. Crickitt waved him off, having eaten too much of the five-star cuisine to make room for caramel-chocolate cheesecake.
Shane settled the bill, and they rose to leave. As she stepped around tables and dodged an incoming waiter with a tray of food, Shane briefly pressed his palm on the small of her back. A fiery trail licked her spine, and she inadvertently tensed. By the time they’d boarded the empty elevator, Crickitt was clutching her purse with strained fingers.
Shane leaned against the wall on the opposite side, regarding her from beneath thick lashes. He was so tall and broad and handsome, being under his scrutiny made her nervous. Or maybe that was excitement. It was getting easier and easier to forget this man was her employer, that he wasn’t attempting to seduce her, that he was treating her because of a job well done. She turned her eyes to the digital display and counted down the floors, hoping the gesture would tame her hijacked hormones.
Outside on solid ground, the night air welcoming and cool, Crickitt sucked in a quiet, clarifying breath. Shane easily kept pace, his long legs eating up the same distance in half the steps. He reached for the door of the limo and popped it open, gliding his palm along her back again as she slid inside.
If he made her body hum by raking her with the briefest touch, what could he do if he really took his time? She clambered inside, straightening her curls and her clothing in one nervous gesture after the other. Shane climbed in and sat beside her, at a respectable distance, but still, too close. Heat leaped to the surface of her skin, burning her cheeks, flushing her neck and chest.
His aftershave had long faded, but the crisp fragrance of his laundry soap combined with his pheromones mingled in her senses. Twice she heard an intake of breath and twice she turned in anticipation, but each time his breath ended on a sigh as he focused on the landscape whizzing by the window. Crickitt spent the remainder of the ride staring out her own window, the dead air between them stifling.
The limo door opened in front of her apartment. Shane got out first, offering Crickitt his hand. She took it, shuddering as his long fingers grazed her bare flesh.
“I’ll walk you up,” he murmured, taking her canvas bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
Heart thundering in her chest, she fumbled with the keys, grateful to have something in her hands. At the door, it took all of her willpower to keep the key steady as she pushed it into the lock. She could feel Shane standing behind her, the heat radiating off his big body surrounding her like an embrace.
Finally, the key slid home and she turned the knob. If she faced him, he’d see every ounce of desire on her face, every bit of longing reflected in her eyes. She kept her back to him and focused on opening her front door. “Thank you for dinner.”
But he didn’t let her get away with it.
“Crickitt?”
She took a deep breath, tried to mask her expression in nonchalance. But when she turned, she found Shane close enough to touch, his face bathed in the pale porch light, his perfectly formed mouth ed
ged in a day’s growth. Moving her eyes from his face didn’t quell the urge to devour him where he stood.
His suit was creased, his collar open, giving her a generous view of his bitable neck. His tie, harmlessly dangling from his jacket pocket, filled her head with fantasies she’d never had before.
Tempting. The word echoed in her ears, making her wonder how long Eve was able to resist before caving in and sampling the apple.
She finally managed to dredge up her voice. “Did you forget something?” she asked.
He scanned her face, his nostrils flaring. Her heart sped and she sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for his answer.
“Now would be the perfect moment,” he said, leaning a palm on her door frame and causing her to press her back against the door, “for me to say yes.” He reached out and toyed with a button at the top of her shirt. “And kiss you good night.”
Her fingers convulsed around the doorknob.
Please. Please do that.
“But…” He pushed away from her, his fingers leaving her shirt. “I wouldn’t want to be the first to break our pact.”
“Our pact?” she squeaked, her voice tight with longing.
Shane stepped away, and Crickitt’s breath left her as if he’d taken it from her lungs. The moment evaporated, lost in the span of that single breath. Shane handed over her bag and she took it, unable to hide the shake of her fingers.
“Let me know,” he said, watching her as he backed down each of her porch steps, “if you want to revisit that agreement.” Rolling one shoulder, he added, “Make an amendment.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it ineffectually. At the moment her muddled brain couldn’t recall what, exactly, an amendment was. She knew it had something to do with the Constitution.
At the limo, Shane tortured her with one final sexy grin before sinking into the limo. “Sweet dreams, Crickitt,” he said, then shut himself inside.
When her brain sent the message to her hand to wave, the limo had pulled out of her street and disappeared behind a thatch of trees. She wrestled her keys from the knob and shut the door, pressing her forehead into the solid wood until it ached.
Let me know if you want to revisit that agreement.
She pushed herself upright and let out a groan that sounded like a mix of longing and defeat. Trudging to her bedroom, she tossed her bag aside and collapsed onto her multicolored comforter.
She should be relieved. There were a hundred reasons why getting physically involved with her boss was a bad idea.
But she couldn’t think of any of them. The only images flooding her mind were the things she would have done to him if he’d leaned in the slightest bit and closed his mouth over hers. She would have hauled him into her foyer by his collar and put those lips to good use for the next hour.
Rolling over, she smothered a groan into her frilly decorative pillow.
Bad idea, her brain reminded her. But she couldn’t get a single other part of her body to agree.
Chapter 16
Crickitt ignored the purr of her desk phone and continued filing the papers stacked in the crook of one arm. It was nearly seven o’clock, and she was more than ready for a relaxing weekend away from the office. It’d been impossible to relax around Shane this week. The almost-kiss at her front door left her flustered and sexually frustrated. Though she hadn’t actually been around him much since then. Which made her wonder if she’d squandered the moment.
Her desk phone rang again, and Crickitt growled under her breath. She stalked to her desk and answered, trying to sound neutral. “Crickitt Day.”
“Hey,” came the gruff greeting over a din of other voices.
“Ronald.” She wasn’t able to keep the shock out of her voice. The name of a local pub lit the caller ID screen. She lowered herself into her chair. Of course he hadn’t called from his cell phone. He knew she wouldn’t have answered.
The last time they’d spoken, Ronald had insisted on them getting back together, proclaiming he was wrong and begging for her forgiveness. By the time he’d mentioned the word “remarried” and claimed he still loved her, Crickitt had heard enough. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of that conversation.
She heard a slurping sound as he took a drink, vodka tonic if she had to guess, and the clink of ice cubes against the edge of the glass. “I was thinking,” he slurred, “about you and me.”
“I’m busy,” she grated, raising every internal shield in an attempt to protect herself.
“You haven’t changed,” he said with a derisive grunt. “Still ignoring life outside of work?”
“Ronald—”
“No wonder the sex was so bad.”
A hot wave of anger blasted through her limbs, leaving shock waves in its wake. She rummaged around her head for a comeback that wasn’t littered with profanity but came up empty-handed.
“You should have been thinking about me instead of your precious career,” he continued, oblivious to her emotions. “Maybe then I would have let you stay.”
She squeezed the phone so hard her fingertips tingled. She loosened her grip and forced herself to breathe. “You’re drunk.” But acknowledging his state didn’t erase his accusations.
“The sex schedule was a little impersonal.”
Her stomach pitched.
“But you wore that lacy thingy, which I guess kind of made up for it.”
“We were on a schedule because I was trying to get pregnant.” The words bubbled up from some deep, dark place she would have preferred not to acknowledge. “You weren’t complaining at the time,” she added, tears flooding her eyes.
“Well, whatever.” He crunched an ice cube. “It worked out for the best.”
Thick emotion blocked her throat as she tried to digest the truth behind his statement. Yes, she was glad she never had children with Ronald, but it didn’t change the fact she still wanted them.
“I was thinking,” he continued rather than wait for her reaction, “about how you never bought the bread I liked, only the multigrain. And you know how much I like to get the mail, but you always ran out to the box first.”
She shook her head, trying to understand how he could follow a callous statement with one so pithy. “What are you even—”
“I loved you, Crickitt, I did,” he said in the condescending quality he’d perfected over the years. “But, more like a friend. Or a sister.”
She gave herself a moment to regroup, for the sting of his statement to dull. “Just because you’re angry,” she said, feeling her blood boil, “doesn’t give you the right—”
“Angry doesn’t change the fact that I can’t, in good conscience, be with you any longer.”
“I don’t want to be with you!” she shouted. Without waiting for a response, she slammed the phone onto the cradle. She stared at it, daring it to ring again. It didn’t.
And though she’d have rather died than cry over Ronald’s harsh accusations, the tears came. And wouldn’t stop coming.
* * *
Shane rubbed his eyes, but the computer screen stayed blurry. He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he’d been putting in too much computer time this week after all. In order to avoid his assistant—his incredibly sexy, distracting, kissable assistant—he’d been e-mailing her across the hall rather than walking the ten yards to speak with her in person.
You’re being ridiculous.
True. But he was also being practical. If she knew the wayward direction of his thoughts, she’d make a suggestion involving a bridge and a flying leap. And he wasn’t about to bring up the comment he’d thrown at her feet like a gauntlet. He thought he was playing it cool by suggesting she be the first to break their friendship pact.
Why hadn’t he just winked and pointed his finger like a gun while saying, Ball in your court, babe? What was he thinking, trying to pull off that Pierce Brosnan crap? He should have kissed her or not, and left it at that.
If Crickitt noticed his reclusive be
havior, it was news to him. While he didn’t want her to feel pressured or awkward, her disinterest was making his ego sting. How could she be unaffected while he tried—and failed—to think of anything but her?
Then again, maybe she was struggling. There was a moment earlier in the week when he’d leaned on the door frame of her office, and while he’d given her an update on the Townsend account she’d given him a generous eye-sweep from head to toe. It was difficult, but he’d managed not to smile. And then there was yesterday. In the break room, he poured her a cup of coffee, teasing her about her unusual penchant for soy milk and whipped cream. She couldn’t meet his eye, twirling one short curl around her finger while studying her filling mug.
A few more weeks of intense office flirting and they’d both spontaneously combust under the pressure. And, for a change, he was all for it.
Opting to talk to Crickitt in person rather than finish the e-mail he’d started drafting, he stood from his desk. Then he steeled himself with a breath and opened his office door. The lobby to the right was dark, Keena’s desk abandoned. Not that he’d expected to find her there. No one stayed late on Friday evening, save for him. And Crickitt. He could hear her shuffling papers in her brightly lit office.
He strode through her open door to find her in her chair, bent over a bottom drawer. Taking advantage of the curls that hid her face, he admired the curve of her thighs and bottom as she sat rummaging through the files.
“Milking the clock?” he asked. “Just so you know you’re not going to get any overtime out of…”
The words died in his throat when she lifted her head. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red, her face tear-streaked. In two steps he rounded her desk and knelt next to her chair.
“Crickitt, what happened? Are you hurt?” In a panic, he reached for her shoulders, searching for signs of injury even as he reminded himself she couldn’t have suffered anything more serious than a paper cut.
“You could say that,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She rubbed her fingers under the hollows of her eyes and sniffed, looking everywhere but at him. “I had…an unwelcome phone call.”
Tempting the Billionaire (Love in the Balance) Page 10
