by Debra Webb
“May I bring you a coffee or cappuccino, Miss Carson?”
“No, thank you.” What did a man who lived all alone need—or do for that matter—with all this?
“Let me know if you require anything else then.”
Claire turned to respond, but Gentry had disappeared. She drew her eyebrows together in a momentary frown and then allowed her gaze to travel over the lavish office. So this was the secretary’s office. Imagine what Walker’s looked like.
She deposited her briefcase and purse onto the reflective surface of the wood desk, then quickly covered the expanse of plush carpeting, intending to do a little exploring. She peeped into the hall just in time to see a man with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses enter the office next to hers. The double doors and the office’s proximity to her own indicated to Claire that it was probably Walker’s.
She slipped out and followed the corridor back into the main hall. She glanced first one way and then the other. Left led back to the front entrance she knew. She headed to the right. At the first open doorway, she stuck her head inside and found an immense kitchen. Gleaming pots hung from the overhead racks. A man and woman dressed in white scurried about. The scents wafting from the kitchen smelled heavenly, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Ignoring the hunger pangs prompted by the heavenly smells, she walked as quickly as possible without actually breaking into a run. Eventually someone would hunt her down and she wanted to see all she could before then. The hall seemed to take her toward the back of the enormous house. She craned her neck to see inside each open door she passed, mentally mapping the layout. The next door on the right was a home gym.
“Wowza,” Claire muttered. She hadn’t seen that many torture devices in one place since she checked out Gold’s Health Club. She shuddered and pushed onward. Jogging around two city blocks would just have to suffice. She’d never enjoyed self-inflicted pain. The next open door on her left turned out to be a laundry room. Shaking her head as she passed it, she wondered how much it had cost to make a laundry room that luxurious. Her forward movement came to a jarring halt as something unyielding caught her shoulders. A soft grunt escaped her as she jerked with the impact.
Claire snapped her head around to find herself face to chest with a sweaty, male body. Strong fingers had tightened around her upper arms, stopping her advancement, otherwise she would have collided fully with the wall of solid muscle now mere centimeters from her nose. Forcing her gaze upward to see exactly to whom the chest she’d just come to know so intimately belonged, her heart shuddered to a near stop.
Trace Walker.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I didn’t see you.” Heat flared in her cheeks. OMG! This was so not good!
Walker stared at her for a long moment, his face composed into unreadable lines. Assessing blue eyes seemingly catalogued every aspect of her. A lifetime later his firm grip eased and then fell away.
“Miss Carson, I sincerely hope you’re lost.” His warm breath fanned her face. “Otherwise, I might be suspicious.”
“Yes.” It was impossible to ignore the heat emanating from the body he’d apparently just put through a grueling workout in the home gym she’d passed. She edged back a step to put some distance between them. “I’m lost. The bathroom... I was looking for the bathroom.” Thank God her brain still worked on some level. Claire rubbed her upper arms with trembling hands. The man had a serious grip.
His intense gaze followed her movements. A tiny muscle flickered in his right cheek. “Did I hurt you?”
Claire shook her head vigorously. “No, you startled me.” She dropped her arms back to her sides and balled her hands into fists to conceal their trembling. Deep breath. Calm down.
His interest slid slowly down her sleeveless, white linen dress. Claire liked the simple dress with its princess seeming and sheath-like fit, and the way the white emphasized her tan, but now she was having second thoughts. The longer he looked, the angrier he seemed to become. His gaze paused momentarily on her bare legs before starting the return trip up the length of her.
“Do you always dress like this for work?”
Claire had the sudden urge to back up another step, but kept the impulse in check. She steadied her gaze on his and reached way deep down inside for her spooked courage. “Do you always dress like that?”
“When I work out I do.”
“And from the looks of those biceps, I’d say that’s a daily ritual.” As he had done, Claire allowed her gaze to travel ever so slowly over him. Black running shorts and a white T-shirt wet with perspiration plastered to a body right off the cover of a fitness magazine. She didn’t usually go for the iron-pumping type, but she had to admit that on Trace Walker it looked good rather than overdone. Then, of course, there was that face. She almost sighed.
And those heavenly blue eyes.
“Don’t presume to distract me, Miss Carson.” His gaze narrowed into a warning.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Walker.” She flashed him her most professional smile, turned and walked back in the direction she’d come. She took care to make each stride slow and easy, concentrating on swaying her hips. She heard his indrawn breath.
So Trace Walker had a weakness after all. Claire smiled in triumph. She had the distinct impression that Mr. Walker liked to be in control—strict control—over his surroundings as well as himself. He was definitely attracted to her, on some level at least. She hadn’t missed the way his body had tensed under her blatant appraisal. If she could manage to hold her ground, she felt confident she could keep him off balance. In fact, she’d never been so sure of anything in her life.
By the end of this week, Trace Walker was going to be so far out of control that he would beg her to take back her old contract.
~*~
Trace watched Claire walk away. Walk, hell! That wasn’t a walk—a carefully choreographed seduction routine would be closer to right. All those silky curls bounced over her shoulders with each step she took. Slender hips swayed from side to side in a rhythm that made his heart beat faster. Trace took a long, deep breath and clenched his teeth against the reaction he refused to allow. That damned white dress was entirely too tight and too short for a professional setting. And that perfume. Lorna never wore perfume like that. The jasmine scent rattled him. No perfume. He would have Gabe speak to her.
He strode through the kitchen to the service stairs, seemingly unnoticed by the staff. That was the way he liked it. They performed their duties and Trace did the same. He wasn’t much on polite conversation. Frankly, he had no time for idle conversation. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reaffirmed his intention not to treat Miss Carson any differently.
Trace peeled off his sweaty T-shirt and shorts as he crossed his bedroom. He put his running shoes away in the walk-in closet that adjoined his bathroom and left his athletic clothing in a pile by the door as he did every morning. He stepped into the shower and closed his eyes against the stinging spray of warm water. But today the water did nothing to relieve his tense muscles.
He’d made a mistake.
That was clear. The woman would be trouble. Trace hadn’t considered just how far she might go to get under his skin. He’d grown accustomed to a certain reaction when he gave an order or voiced a desire. He didn’t like being the one doing the reacting. He didn’t like it at all. Gabe had been telling him for years now that he’d lost his ability to interact with people, but Trace hadn’t listened.
He had business associates, he didn’t need friends—well, maybe with the exception of Gabe. As far as feminine company was concerned, that had never been a problem, either. He never saw the same woman more than twice and that was the way he liked it.
So, why had he pulled Claire Carson into his world, and against her will at that? To teach her a lesson, he reminded himself. To make her sorry for what she’d done.
Trace swiped the water from his face and considered the other reason. The one he wanted to deny. The w
ay she made him feel... that was the real motivation behind his actions. And that scared the hell out of him. He quickly adjusted the water’s temperature to cold—very cold. Cold enough to chase away the heat Claire had stirred in his body and the images her attire had put in his head.
~*~
Showered and properly attired, Trace entered his office at precisely nine a.m. Gabe sat at the conference table viewing a file. Trace poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the head of the long table.
“Your new secretary has been here for an hour nosing around,” Gabe complained without looking up.
“I know. And good morning to you, too,” Trace said dryly, still tense despite his cold shower—or maybe because of it.
Gabe shot him an irritated glare. “I have a feeling this morning is going to be anything but good.”
“Hello, gentlemen.”
Trace looked up, as did Gabe, to find Claire breezing across the room. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite Gabe. Trace and Gabe exchanged baffled looks.
Claire placed a pen and steno pad on the table and smiled.
Trace waited for Gabe to say something, but Gabe didn’t. Finally Trace cleared his throat and met her innocent-looking gaze. “Is there something you need, Miss Carson?”
“Oh no, I’m fine, thank you,” she said too sweetly.
Trace shot Gabe a stern glance.
“We normally conduct an informal status meeting of sorts at nine each morning,” Gabe explained.
“I noticed that on Mr. Walker’s calendar,” she said on a sugary smile. “That’s why I’m here. By the way,” she extended her hand toward Gabe, “I’m Claire Carson.”
“Gabe Jarrett,” he said impatiently as he shook her outstretched hand. Gabe looked at Trace then back to Claire. “Miss Carson, this is a private meeting.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” Claire insisted. She picked up her pen, her hand poised to write. “I’ll just take whatever notes are necessary.” She straightened in her chair and crossed one shapely leg over the other.
Trace blinked and forced his gaze away from the length of tanned thigh the move revealed. He swallowed tightly and tried to ignore the scent of jasmine already disturbing him.
Gabe shrugged helplessly and shook his graying head. Trace sipped his coffee and decided that ignoring Claire would be the best course of action. “Give me an update on the Americom merger,” he announced, breaking the strained silence.
“The numbers are pretty much the same.” Gabe considered his notes. “I do think that MIC is poised for a counteroffer.”
“What makes you think so?” Trace didn’t want any mistakes on this merger, it was too important.
“Nothing concrete, really.” Gabe shuffled through the folders before him. “Just a hunch.” He shook his head at the pile of color-coded folders. “That file must be on your desk.”
“I’ll get it.” Claire sprang to her feet, startling both men.
Gabe cleared his throat. “It’s the red one.”
Claire sashayed over to Trace’s desk. Rather than going around behind it, she chose to lean over the front to retrieve the file. His attention fixated on the pristine white fabric stretched tautly across what had to be the cutest rear end he’d ever laid eyes on. His tie suddenly felt too restrictive, as did his trousers.
“Red?” Claire shuffled a few more papers.
Trace closed his eyes. Damn, if she didn’t stop bending over that desk, he was going to break out into a sweat.
“It should be right on top,” Gabe called, leaning forward to look past Trace and seemingly oblivious to Claire’s enticing position.
“Here we go.”
Trace opened his eyes then. Claire presented the red folder to Gabe and then deposited her fine-looking backside into her chair. Trace almost groaned when she crossed her legs again and dangled one white high-heeled sandal.
Gabe droned on about his hunch, but Trace didn’t get much of what he said. Claire’s foot kept just missing his leg, but for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to make himself move. He tensed, waiting for the contact, almost hoping for it. His new secretary listened intently to Gabe’s every word, taking a note or two on her steno pad every now and then.
Finally, Gabe gathered his folders and stood, “I think that about sums it up.”
Trace rose and nodded his approval. “Thanks, Gabe.” Relief rushed through him at the realization that he could get Claire out of his office now. Hell, he prayed she wouldn’t notice his arousal.
“I’ll discuss the Exelon Report with you at lunch,” Gabe called, rushing out of the office as if the room were on fire, leaving Trace alone—with the source of the heat.
He turned away from Claire’s expectant gaze and strode over to his desk. Lorna never stood around in his office like this. In fact, she rarely came into his office when he was there. And she sure as hell never aroused him.
“Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you, Mr. Walker?”
Trace looked up to find her coming around to stand beside him. She scanned his desk and then smiled up at him.
“No, Miss Carson, that’s all.” Why the hell didn’t she go?
“Don’t you have an out box?” She edged nearer to him, leaning forward slightly to get a closer look at the items on his desk.
He shook his head, then realized she couldn’t see him since her back was to him—against him, actually. Oh, damn. She brushed that fabulous fanny against his thigh and Trace had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning out loud. How had this woman gotten to him so quickly?
“I suppose you have some sort of system.” She straightened, bringing her hair close enough that he could smell the delicate feminine fragrance of her shampoo. Close enough that he could almost feel the softness against his chin.
“System?” he asked lamely.
She turned to face him. Trace stopped breathing completely then. Her firm, curvy body pinned between him and the desk sent his pulse racing, but stumbled his heart like a roped calf.
“You know,” she looked up into his eyes, her face mere inches from his, “an in and out system. First it goes in and then it comes out. In... and... out,” she repeated in a near whisper. Her warm mint-scented breath fanned across his lips.
“Miss Carson,” he half groaned, half pleaded.
“I like it, you know,” she said before he could continue.
“What?” He had the sudden, overwhelming desire to kiss the hell out of the woman. Ignoring the warning wailing in his head, he moistened his lips and inhaled more of the scent that was driving him absolutely mad. He was hard as a rock and the damned female had hardly touched him.
“The suit,” she told him. “Charcoal gray looks really good on you.” She skimmed her fingers down his lapel, as if caressing the material.
Trace manacled her wrist, restraining the need to caress the soft skin beneath his fingers. “You’re teasing me, Miss Carson,” he warned. “Sexual harassment isn’t a phrase I care to hear repeated in connection with my name.”
“Why, Mr. Walker, you’ve misunderstood my intentions.” Claire tugged her hand free of his and laughed, more with her eyes than with her mouth. “I only want to do a good job.”
Before he could rally a response, she slipped around his desk and walked out of his office. Trace shook off the lingering image of her swaying hips and trudged back to the conference table to pour himself another cup of coffee. His hand stilled on the silver pot as his gaze focused on Claire’s abandoned steno pad. He blinked then reread the notes she’d taken.
My new boss is a bonehead. Cute—but a real jerk. Pick up dry cleaning before Friday. Borrow red dress from Suzy.
If there had been any question left in his mind that he’d made a tremendous error in judgment, it no longer existed. He had seriously underestimated Claire Carson. At this point, if anyone was going to be taught a lesson in humility, it looked as if it would be him.
Trace picked up the pad and stared at the word
s on the page. He pulled in a long, deep breath. Bonehead. Anger swirled inside him. Cute. He swallowed hard and tossed the pad into the nearest trash can.
Claire would soon know just how cute he could be.
Chapter Three
Claire sighed with relief as she entered the WCMB building on Friday. She didn’t have to see Trace Walker today. Her spirit rejoiced. The last three days had been pure agony, but she had accomplished at least part of her mission. Claire grinned. She had the man so confused and agitated at times that he literally stood speechless.
Boarding the elevator with a half dozen other WCMB employees, she exchanged polite greetings. She was infinitely grateful for the comforting routine of her real job.
The thought of facing her other job on Monday made her cringe.
No doubt Trace Walker already regretted hatching this scheme. Every day she’d worn a tight, short, sexy dress. Yesterday’s selection had been a red halter dress straight out of Frederick’s—one she would never in a million years have worn to work except for this little charade. Claire had strutted around in the matching stiletto heels like a showgirl. Every twenty minutes or so she’d dash into Trace’s office to see if he needed anything. His agitation had been so evident that Claire’d had a difficult time keeping a straight face in his presence.
When she’d slipped between him and a file cabinet to assist with finding a particular file that he actually needed no help at all to locate, Claire thought she’d heard him groan. Of course, she reminded herself as she stepped off the elevator onto the sixth floor, she’d had the urge to groan as well. As much as she’d like to be, she wasn’t completely unaffected by him. Try as she might to ignore it, he did have a body to die for. He was definitely the best looking man she’d ever seen and she’d seen plenty since deciding on a career in television.
Her only motivation for trying to get under his skin, she reminded herself, amounted to pure and simple revenge. Nothing more.
