Who's on Top?

by Karen Kendall

  Jane swallowed. She tightened her arms around him. “Oh, Gil. I guess I didn’t understand. I just want you to be happy. I respect you one hundred percent—for following your dream and not letting anyone else dictate how you should live your life. Now that’s success.”

  Gilbey hugged her back and kissed her cheek. She felt closer to him than she’d felt in years.

  Abigail handed her a glass of champagne, and they all toasted Gilbey and his continued success as a sculptor.

  Nobody said a word to Gil when he carved his baked potato into a perfect pyramid—they were a bit underdone—and his steak into a parallelogram.

  Dad actually told jokes all through the meal and gazed at the gallery director when he thought nobody was looking. He was clearly besotted. He made no mention of the weeds in the front walkway, the moles in the lawn or the Jets.

  No matter what the outcome with Abigail, Dad seemed to have either gotten help on his own or worked himself out of his depression.

  Jane had to respect that, too. She really did.

  23

  ON HIS THIRD CONSECUTIVE DAY of unemployment Dominic actually found himself carving little mice out of Vermont cheddar for Rusty. He had already rearranged his sock drawer, vacuumed twice and experienced all the horrors of daytime television.

  After an hour of “White-Trash Hermaphrodite Teenagers Who Talk Back to Their Grandparents,” his mind had curdled along with his blood.He’d visited every Internet employment site three times, fielded four phone calls from headhunters and sent out five résumés.

  He knew he was losing it when Rusty took one look at his third cheddar mouse, bit the head off and walked away.

  “Ingrate!” Dom called after him. He wondered if he should take up knitting or—God forbid—go visit his mother. But no—the sanatorium staff would have to superglue any movable objects to the floor or various shelves and tables because of her tendency to throw things at him. And he didn’t want to invest in a new umpire’s mask, anyway.

  The most exciting aspect of his day was getting the mail, and his ears perked up as he heard the little white-and-blue truck approach his apartment building and bank of postal boxes.

  He really had to get a job. This was pathetic. Dom forced himself to wait until the postman had driven off, and then went for the mail.

  Inside his box were the usual coupons, a newsmagazine, some bills. And an unexpected package.

  Dom frowned at the return address on the padded mailer; the thing had originated with the evil Jane O’Toole.

  Had she sent him a kilo of anthrax? Had he left his boxers at her place? He was without a clue. However, he knew he didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want to open anything from her and couldn’t care less if she were hit by a bus. So why wasn’t he tossing her infernal package into the Dumpster right behind the mailboxes?

  Because he was going to throw it in his fireplace without opening it and toast s’mores over it, that was why. He’d toss a sprig of sage on top, to smoke her spirit out of his life. Double-crossing little psych major.

  Dom stalked to his fireplace and dropped the package on the hearth. He stomped off to the kitchen for some matches. He marched back to the hearth with destructive intent.

  Rusty sprawled shamelessly on his back like a C-list model draped over the hood of a car. The cat squinted at him.

  “What?” asked Dom. “I’m not opening that. It’s from her.”

  Rusty shifted positions and began to clean something Dom would rather not watch him clean.

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Rusty stopped and stared telepathically at him.

  Dom stared back. “Hey! I do not have my head up my ass. That’s very rude.” He looked back at the package from Jane.

  “Fine. I’ll open the thing before I burn it.” He ripped at the end of the mailer and pulled out a report with a blue cover—and an audiotape. Dom frowned. Then he walked to his stereo system and popped the tape into the rectangular mouth of the cassette player.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, DOM pumped his fist into the air and then grabbed Rusty and tossed him aloft, to the cat’s great disgruntlement. “Yeah! Go, Jane, go!”

  He dropped his pet on the sofa, where he bounced—a further affront to feline dignity. “See Jane kick ass!”The cat glared at him and Dom sobered. “And, uh, see Dick be a Dom. I mean, Dom be a dick. See Dom grovel.” He sighed. “Yep. I see a lot of abasement and apologies to Jane in my future. I wasn’t very nice to her, was I? But first things first.”

  He sped to the phone and dialed Arianna’s direct line. He got her voice mail, but it didn’t matter. “Hi, it’s the healthy, well-adjusted Dominic Sayers here. You know, your highly intelligent, skilled and well-respected, valuable asset to Zantyne? I just wanted to let you know how much I’ve enjoyed my three days off, but I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. We can talk about my transfer then at your—no, make that my—convenience. I’ll just bet you’re prepared to give me a raise and a positively glowing recommendation, and I surely will appreciate that.” Click.

  Now he’d better dial the number of the nearest florist and order about five dozen roses….

  “JANE, SWEETIE. WE NEED TO talk.” Shannon and Lilia both had their hands on their hips and seemed annoyed.

  “Hmm?” Jane looked up from her keyboard.“Both of us really need to pee, and there are sixty red roses drowned to death in the toilet bowl. We counted. How long are you planning to leave them there?”

  Jane got up. “Oh, sorry. I’ll move them to the wastebasket.”

  “Are they from Dominic?”

  “Who?”

  “Jane! The man gave you multiple orgasms.”

  A deep masculine voice joined the chorus. “Yes, he did.” Dominic stood in the doorway behind them. “And surely that counts for something?”

  Lilia gasped. Shannon laughed.

  Jane paled and then did the only thing she could do under the circumstances: she pulled her hair over her face like Cousin Itt. Then she slid under her desk.

  “I’ve got a class to teach,” Lilia said quickly. “’Bye.”

  “And I’ve got a nerd to make over,” Shannon added. “See ya.”

  Her friends—some friends!—scrammed, leaving Jane to face Dominic’s Italian lace-ups. Primo leather. A nice nutmeg-brown. Distinctive stitching down the middle, handcrafted sole…

  “Jane, come out from under there,” he demanded.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you get my flowers?”

  “Yup. I watered them well.”

  “Where are they?”

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  “Jane. I need to apologize.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It’s really hard to apologize to someone who’s on all fours under a desk like a dog.”

  “Yup. Must be pretty rrruff.”

  “Damn it, Jane.” He walked around her desk and leaned down. “Come out. So what if your friends know about the multiple—”

  “I can’t hear you,” Jane sang, her fingers in her ears. “La-la-la-la-la-la-la!”

  “That’s it.” Dominic grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her out, despite her trying to kick out of his grip. Then he straddled her and pulled her hands away from her ears. “Listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I doubted you and I’m sorry I blew up at you. I’m tempted to say that I’m sorry I ever met you, Jane—”

  Her eyes widened.

  “—but that’s not true. The last time we saw each other, honey, I admitted that I’d fallen half in love with you. Well, I’m here today to tell you that when I listened to your tape, I fell the rest of the way in love.”

  “Huh,” she managed.

  “I had a feeling I was going to have to grovel.” He let go of one of her wrists in order to smooth her hair out of her face. “Don’t put that finger back in your ear. It’s immature—almost more infantile than crawling under your desk.”

  Jane stuck her chin out. “You had me with ‘I�
��m sorry.’ Now you’re losing your advantage.”

  “Honey, I never imagined—though I don’t know why not—that Arianna would falsify your report. I was stunned, blindsided, furious. I was hurt. I shouldn’t have said the things I said. Can I take them back?”

  She gave him a wobbly smile. “Not all of them. You told me a couple of home truths that…well, I needed to hear. Not that I wanted to hear them—but that’s different. About respecting the men in my life and not using my profession to avoid my own emotions.” She swallowed. “Dom, I owe you an apology, too. I did use my analytical training to try to walk away from whatever’s between us. I was so scared. I like to be in control. By the way, get off me.”

  Dom looked deep into her eyes and smiled. “Make me.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him. His response was a long groan. He got up on his knees, cradled her head in his hands and pushed her down onto her back to deepen the kiss. He didn’t seem to notice when they rolled on her initiative and she ended up on top, spread over his body like a human quilt.

  “Dom—” she broke the kiss “—I think I’m in love with you, too. But don’t tell anyone. It’s bad for my image.”

  “Not a word,” he promised, working his way under her sweater. “It’ll be our secret.”

  Too late Jane remembered the intercom at the reception phone. They wouldn’t…would they? But with Dom’s hands on her bare skin, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  “Hey, Jane?” Dom asked a few steamy moments later.

  “Mmm?”

  “I’m getting a special delivery next week, to celebrate my transfer at Zantyne.”

  “What kind of special delivery?”

  “It’s rectangular and green and state-of-the-art. We’ll be able to play pool all night long—naked.”

  “Sounds great,” she said and kissed him without a trace of fear. “I’m certainly game….”

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-6333-2WHO’S ON TOP?

  Copyright © 2005 by Karen Moser.

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