by Sabrina York
In five years, she’d never been so close to him.
He was so warm.
She couldn’t resist a quick peek at his profile and was stunned to realize he was looking at her. Every muscle in her body froze and caught on fire. His gaze burned through her. God, his eyes were beautiful up close.
But as soon as their gazes met, as soon as he noticed they were tangled in a visual tryst, he frowned and turned away.
Why that sent a shaft of pain through her heart, she had no idea. And she refused to think about it.
Why did he have to be such a dick?
Why, in a social situation, could he not be civil? Make small talk? Smile, perhaps? People did it every day. But not Tristan. There was a firm line between work and private lives that he never crossed. Even here, now, she could tell he was very uncomfortable sitting with his coworkers, drinking beer. She could feel the tension in him, it fairly hummed in an aura around him.
It was damn aggravating.
And it spurred Shannon to mischief.
Deliberately, she let her thigh relax against his. His response was immediate. He tensed up like a tightly coiled spring. His knuckles went white around his glass until she was certain the fragile vessel would shatter under his grip. Thusly encouraged, she tapped her foot, rubbing her leg against his in time to the song as though she were merely enjoying the music. As though she had no cognizance of the heat searing into her at the spot their bodies intersected.
His muscles bunched. He stood and tossing her a dark look, muttered, “I’ll be right back.”
Disappointment skirled in her belly as he hightailed it to the bathroom. Sunk in her misery and completely absorbed in her pathetic Tristan-fest, she jumped when two heavy hands fell on her shoulders.
“Hey, this ain’t fair,” a deep voice boomed. “Why do you get so many pretty ladies at your table?”
Shannon turned to the behemoth behind her, an unfamiliar man wearing a Stetson and shit-kicker boots. His words were directed at Adam but his eyes were on her. “Hey there, sweet cheeks,” he drawled. “Wanna dance?”
She shot another forlorn glance at the men’s room and shrugged. “All right.” Why not? At least she could try to enjoy the evening.
“Whoo hoo. You shore got a pretty accent,” the cowboy said, drawing her to her feet and onto the dance floor, where he yanked her against him. He was big and hard and cute in a gosh-I-shore-like-country-music kind of way but hardly her type.
Within a minute she was pretty sure enjoying the evening was out of the picture and she had the crushed toes to prove it.
“Who the hell is that?” Tristan growled to his brother when he came out of the men’s room—hard-on finally tamed—to see Shannon on the dance floor with a man big enough to eat her for breakfast.
Adam shrugged and tipped back his beer. “Some guy. Asked her to dance.”
“And you let her?”
“Let her?” Adam snorted. “Have you met Shannon Weiss? She does whatever she wants.”
“He could be some kind of pervert.”
“I dunno.” Sara stared dreamily at the twirling couple. “I think he’s kinda studly.” This, she said as the man’s large paws slipped down to cup Shannon’s ass.
Tristan bristled and glared impatiently at the others sitting around the table doing nothing as that bear of a man mauled his—their—friend.
“Maybe she’ll get lucky.” Jenny grinned and licked the rim of her glass. She caught Tristan’s expression and blanched. “Or…not.”
“Whatever.” He shoved his fist into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills, which he tossed unceremoniously onto the table. He drained his beer. “I’m outta here.”
“Okay.” Adam sketched him a wave. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Tristan forced himself not to look at the dance floor as he made tracks for the front of the bar.
Damn but it bugged him to see her smiling and flirting and dancing, for Christ’s sake, with another man. The sight of Billy Bob’s hands on her ass almost sent him into orbit.
He had to get out of here. Now.
He desperately needed to be alone.
Hell, what he really needed was to get laid.
But none of the usual suspects interested him. Not anymore.
The only woman he wanted was Shannon. And she was beyond his reach.
Chapter Two
Tristan checked his watch—for the tenth time—and frowned. It was after nine and she wasn’t here. He tried not to let Shannon’s absence dominate his attention but it was hopeless.
Besides, she was late.
She was never late.
He felt unaccountably like a child promised a treat and then, at the last minute, deprived of it. It was damn annoying. He glared at his computer, at the quarterly report he was pretending to write, and snorted in disgust. Clearly he wasn’t going to get anything substantial done until he discovered where she was.
As always when there was a mystery to solve regarding one of his employees, he went directly to the source of the rumor mill. He found Sara in the lunchroom cussing at the coffeepot.
“Damn.” She flipped the switch several times in rapid succession and glared at the appliance as though it had mortally offended her.
The pot was empty. “No coffee?” he asked ingenuously. Shannon was in charge of the coffee. That was as good an opener as any.
“No. Shannon’s not coming in today. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No.” She hadn’t. Damn it. Damn it all anyway.
She smacked the pot. “Do you know how to work this thing?”
Tristan ignored Sara’s question about the idiotic coffeepot. He shoved his fists into his pockets and frowned. Shannon never missed work. Not ever. He didn’t relish the idea of not seeing her for a whole day. Weekends were bad enough. By Monday he was like an addict with the DTs, finally moving closer to his next score.
“Is she okay?”
Sara fiddled with a knob. Flicked a switch. Punched random buttons in rapid succession.
“Sara? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. It’s Bos. He’s sick. Barfing all over the place.” She tugged out the basket and scowled at the grounds before slapping it back into place with a grunt.
Ah. Bosco. Tristan frowned at the reminder of Shannon’s lover. The douche bag. He was probably a mooching deadbeat partier. “Late night, huh?”
Sara blew out a breath and frowned at the machine. “Yeah. Anyway, she said she can finish editing the quarterlies if someone can bring her laptop.”
Hmm. That sparked his interest. Perhaps he might finagle a way to see her today after all. “Where does she live?” God. She’d been working for him for five years and he had no idea.
“Villa Toscana. Off Ventura Boulevard. In Encino.”
Tristan stilled. His heart thudded in his throat. “Really?” Villa Toscana was the development just down the hill from his place. They lived so close to each other and he’d never even known. “Huh. Well, that’s on the way to my house. I can take it to her.”
“Great.” Sara seemed relieved. She probably had a hot date tonight and didn’t want to waste time wandering all over creation delivering computers to wayward coworkers. Normal people had dates. Or so he’d heard.
He cleared his throat. “If you can get me her address, I can take care of it.”
“Sure thing.” Sara stood back and placed her hands on her hips, woebegone and perhaps a little desperate. Sara needed coffee like koalas needed eucalyptus.
Tristan glanced at the thing and immediately saw the problem. He picked up the cord and stuck it into the outlet. “You might try plugging it in.” He grinned as he sauntered out of the room, his mood suddenly lifting.
He was going to see Shannon.
He finished the quarterly report in record time, urged on by a demon living in his pants. As soon as he had a workable draft, he slipped his laptop into its carrier and then slipped Shannon’s nearly identical laptop into her nearly identical carri
er. He looped them both over his shoulder and headed for the door, beset with curiosity.
What was Shannon’s place like? What was she like outside the confines of the office? And why the ever lovin’ hell had he never known they were neighbors?
Following Sara’s directions—scrawled on a scrap of paper—Tristan made his way to Villa Toscano. Though he’d driven past the development every day on his way to work and back, he’d never paid it much attention. It was a housing development just like every other housing development in the valley.
As he drove through the streets, he realized the neighborhood was really very nice. The houses were small but modern, with an attractive architecture that was pleasing to the eye. All the homes had nicely landscaped lawns and well-tended greenbelts. Shannon lived on a cul-de-sac on the far end of the development near the canyon. Tristan could see, as he pulled into her driveway, she had a nice view of the sprawling valley below. Practically the same view he, himself, enjoyed.
Interesting.
He got out of his car and looked up the hill, trying to gauge the location of his house in relation to hers. Could he see her place from his vantage point on top of the hill? He’d never much thought about the houses below, other than to enjoy the panoply of lights in the evening. The prospect that one of those houses was hers absorbed him. He wouldn’t be able to tell for sure unless he got a gander at the hill from her backyard. Enthralled by the possibilities, he grabbed her laptop and headed for the front door.
It took a minute or two for her to answer his summons but she finally opened the door, looking adorably flustered and mussed. Her corkscrew curls were all askew and a streak of…something was smeared across her cheek. She stood there with her delectable bow lips agape.
“T-Tristan,” she burbled, clearly stunned to see him.
She must have been stunned. She’d totally forgotten to call him Mr. Trillo. That almost made him smile. Almost.
“Shannon.” He thrust the carrier at her. “I brought your laptop.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
She took the computer from him and they stood there. Staring at each other. For an awkward moment. Or two. She opened her mouth to say something then closed it. He shuffled his feet.
He should go. He really should go.
But he didn’t want to.
And then a hideous snuffling and hacking and finally the unmistakable aria of vomitus echoed from inside the house.
Shannon flushed. “Oh God.” She tossed a panicked glance over her shoulder. “Um, come in.” She left the door open and rushed back into the living room.
Come in? he thought. Don’t mind if I do.
Slowly, he stepped over the threshold, noting the attractive art on the walls and the beautiful tile in the entry. He followed Shannon into the living room to hear her scream at a large bulldog perched on an upholstered couch. Heaving.
“No! No! No, Bos!” she bellowed, yanking the dog to the floor. “Not on the sofa.” She grabbed a newspaper and attempted to shove it under the creature’s mouth as he hacked and gacked in wild spasms.
The dog turned his head to avoid barfing on the newspaper and vomited, rather voluminously, on Tristan’s shoes.
Shannon—calm, controlled, pedantic Shannon—said something mighty profane and Tristan didn’t bother holding back his grin. There was something compelling about seeing her in her home environment. And utterly out of control.
She buried her face in her hands. “I am so sorry, Tristan.”
He kicked the worst of the mess onto the newspaper. He should be mad. Hell, he should be furious—those shoes cost him three hundred bucks. But he just couldn’t dredge up any anger.
It wasn’t her fault her dog liked to barf on men. And she was just so damn cute. Besides, it was extremely gratifying to hear his name on her lips. To know she thought of him as something other than “Mr. Trillo”. At least once in a while.
“It’s okay.”
“Bosco.” She frowned at the snorting, snuffling beast. “You’ve been a very, very bad boy. I should spank you.”
Bosco, for his part, just grinned, tongue lolling maniacally.
Tristan, for his part, was speechless. Two things occurred to him at just that moment. First of all, Bosco, it appeared, was not a muscular, dreamy stud with a cute butt and broad, muscular shoulders. He was a dog. And a dog that snorted.
And secondly, Shannon’s voice, that sultry Southampton purr, burned into his consciousness. You’ve been a very, very naughty boy. I should spank you.
Dear God. How he’d love to hear her say those words to him. Not that he was into that kind of stuff—he’d much rather be the one doing the spanking. Especially to her perky, rounded ass. But still. The prospect was mind-blowing. He was going to have to add an instance to his game where his virtual Shannon said just such a thing.
While he ruminated on the prospects, Shannon rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of paper towels. Before he could stop her, she knelt before him and began cleaning off his shoes.
Tristan went from zero to rock-hard in less than a breath. Jesus.
Reflexively, he stepped back, away from such temptation. How easy would it be to lace his fingers through her hair and pull her to his crotch? Easy.
She glanced up at his retreat, bewilderment puckering her features.
He shook his head and crouched beside her, taking the towels from her and mopping ineffectually at his shoes.
“You don’t have to do that,” he rasped, unable to meet her eyes.
“I am sooo sorry,” she moaned. “After you came all the way over to bring me my laptop. Oh Bosco.” She glared at the dog once more. He’d reclaimed his spot on the sofa and was observing them impassively. At her recrimination, he wagged his nubby tail. Like once.
“It’s okay.” Tristan finished up and cast about for a place to put the soggy towels.
She took them from him and deposited them in the trash in the kitchen. She washed her hands at the sink, gesturing that he do the same. He did and took the opportunity to survey her home. It was a nice little rambler with—as he’d suspected—a beautiful view of the valley. He looked across the granite countertop to the sliding glass door on the far side of the living room.
“Nice place,” he said, accepting a fluffy towel to dry his hands.
“Mmm. Yes. I love it here.”
He strolled over to the glass doors and peered into her backyard. Ironwork fencing edged the lawn before a drop-off into the canyon. He angled his gaze up the hill and with a thrill to his solar plexus saw his own ironwork fencing.
His heart skipped a beat at the realization. He could see her house from his. And he’d never even known. “Nice view.”
She slid the door open so they could wander onto the patio. “I love to come out here at night and just stare at the stars.”
Tristan set his teeth together. Son of a bitch. That’s what he did. What he used to do. From now on he’d be watching her. His insistent erection twitched as he imagined what she might do on this patio at night while watching the stars…
The knot in his belly tightened even more.
He had to get out of here.
“Well…” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I’d better be going.”
Was that disappointment limning her eyes? “Sure. Thanks for bringing my computer and, again, sorry about Bos.”
“No problem. These are old shoes.”
A lie, and they both knew it, but he could tell she appreciated his tact.
She walked him to the door and held it open for him. “I’ll have the quarterlies done by tomorrow,” she promised.
“Don’t stay up all night. Remember, we have the staff meeting at nine.” He could have kicked himself for slipping into his usual official persona but it was for the best. Desire rode him hard. It was all he could do to resist the urge to drag her into his arms, knowing they were alone—except for Bosco, who wouldn’t be telling anyone—and her bed was just a hallway away.
“I’
ll have them done.”
“Do you think he’ll be better by tomorrow?”
She shot her dog a disgusted look. “No worries. He just got into the pantry and ate an entire summer sausage this morning. He should be all barfed out by tonight.”
Tristan couldn’t hold back a grin.
“The blighter eats everything he can wrap his mouth around.”
His grin faded as visions of Shannon’s mouth wrapped around a summer sausage—his summer sausage—wafted through his mind. His knees went weak.
“Right then,” he said. And without another word, he sketched a wave and headed for his car.
He knew it was rude and he could tell his cold departure hurt her feelings but he just couldn’t help it. Another second in her presence—preternaturally aware of her disheveled hair and casual attire, her soft come-hither expression—and he would be tossing her over his shoulder and heading for that bed.
Damn, he thought as he angled his car toward his house—which overlooked hers. His life had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.
Shannon knew, the instant she slipped the computer out of the carrying case, it wasn’t hers. Her laptop had a neon-pink smiley face sticker on the top.
This computer was Tristan’s.
A sudden thrill washed through her.
Now, she’d had access to Tristan’s computer before. As his assistant she was often called upon to upload files and organize documents. But she’d never had an opportunity to study his, um, hard drive at length. In private.
In the office, she would never dream of doing what she was about to do.
Driven by an overwhelming urge, she shoved her conscience aside and clicked on his Virtual Life icon, nestled in the corner of the screen. This was a chance to peek at Tristan’s secret self and she couldn’t let it pass her by. It was wrong to do it and she knew it was wrong but her fingers just kept moving. This was a chance to find out more about him, to learn things she would never discover otherwise. She just couldn’t resist.
The program booted up and she quickly reviewed his history, noting he had developed a couple sci-fi instances—where he got to play the captain of an interstellar freighter or survive after being marooned on a dead moon—as well as several fantasy football scenarios. But the one that piqued her interest was the scenario simply named the Office.
