Start Me Up

by Maggie Riley

  I put a hand to my cheek even though I knew I was probably the color of a tomato. It was burning hot.

  “It’s just warm in here,” I told the girls.

  “Mmmhmm.” Georgia gave me a knowing look. “Warm.”

  “I just got a little overheated.” I got up and opened one of my small apartment windows.

  “I’ll say,” Georgia muttered and poured herself another glass of wine.

  It was strange, for whatever reason, I felt myself wishing Jack was here. Not just because I wanted to strip him naked and have my way with him, but also because I kind of missed his brooding. Which was weird. And probably not good. I forced myself to stop thinking about my boss and opened another bottle of wine.

  “Speaking of hot,” Meredith interrupted, “I have to tell you all about my date this week.”

  I sat back down, and picked up my knitting, while the other girls giggled and kept a firm grip on their glasses. I sighed. Apparently I was the only one who was going to be getting any knitting down tonight.

  Chapter 11

  LIBBY

  I started the next day determined to drag something personal out of Jack. After the girls had left last night – all four of them incredibly drunk – I sat down at my computer and tried again to work on the book. I had hoped the wine would lubricate my mind a little, allowing me to find something in my notes that I had overlooked before, allowing me to make the book interesting instead of sounding exactly like the hundreds of articles that had already been written about Jack. Before I gave up and went to bed, I seriously considered printing out several of those articles, stapling them together and handing them to Jack as if it was my first draft. I had a feeling he would have probably been thrilled with that result. He probably wouldn’t even notice that it was the same thing over and over and over again.

  But this morning, I was a woman on a mission. My lucky thong – straight out of the laundry – was firmly between my butt cheeks, and I had my best pair of heels and most professional suit-like outfit I could find. Of course, it was bright green and a lot tighter than what most of the women in his office wore, but I was a curvy girl and sometimes curvy girls had to stretch their seams a little.

  I strode into the office, waving at the security guard who still hadn’t warmed up to me. Usually it bothered me, but today I wasn’t going to be bothered by anything. Not a sour faced security guard, not the woman in the elevator who gave me a strange look, and not the handsome brooding man whose secrets I was here to uncover. I am woman, I thought to myself, let me pry!

  But my confidence flagged a little when I walked into Jack’s office. He sat behind his desk, looking every inch the successful business man. The hot successful business man. My heart rate sped up, my palms growing damp. And then he looked up at me, catching me in his dark, intense gaze, and a totally different part of my body grew damp. Sorry, lucky thong, I thought.

  “Ms. Hanson,” he intoned. “Good morning.”

  “You really should just call me Libby,” I told him, sitting down in front of him.

  It was a mistake because sitting made my already tight clothes a little tighter and I could feel the fabric straining against my hips and boobs. But I could also see Jack’s gaze going to those spots as well, and I could see a flash of something in his eyes. Attraction. It was definitely attraction.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I leaned forward, crossing my legs slowly and deliberately. My skirt rode up, creeping up past my knee. If I was interested in playing fair, I would have smoothed it back down, but the time for fairness had passed. I was going to get answers, and I was going to get them today.

  “Ms. Hanson,” Jack began, directing his eyes back up at me.

  I held up my hand. “Libby,” I corrected.

  He frowned, a line showing between his eyebrows. I could tell he didn’t like me contradicting him, but I was curious how far he was willing to push it. I smiled.

  “Libby,” he finally acquiesced, his voice gruff.

  Sexy and gruff. My lucky thong was definitely in trouble.

  I shifted in my seat, enjoying the way Jack was looking at me. I had unnerved him a little. Good. The playing field had been uneven so far, but if I had to use my womanly wiles to even it, I would. It was for the good of the book, I told myself.

  “And I think it would best if I called you Jack,” I told him, offering another bright smile.

  He sighed, but didn’t answer. The look in his eyes was wary. I leaned back a little.

  “I thought I’d update you on the progress of your book,” I said, pulling out my notebook.

  “Very well,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Unfortunately, it’s not going well,” I said bluntly. “Exactly as I suspected it would.”

  His eyebrows went up. “I thought we discussed that the quality of the book was your responsibility, not mine.”

  “Very true,” I nodded. “However, I think we both can agree that the final product depends on the quality of the material available.”

  “Are you questioning the quality of my material?” he asked, leaning forward.

  The problem was that I was extremely interested in his material. And I had a good feeling that I would have absolutely no problem with its quality. Unfortunately, that was not what I was here for.

  “I’m afraid I am,” I said bluntly.

  He looked surprised. Whether it was because I was contradicting him or because he didn’t believe me, it didn’t really matter.

  “The book is boring,” I told him, feeling a little like a broken record. “You need to give me more to work with.”

  “I’ve given you access to my staff, taken you to my factory, had you sit in on meetings. You’ve had more access than most reporters have had.”

  “And all of that is great,” I admitted, “but you’re the story.”

  He groaned.

  “You can’t avoid the truth,” I told him. “This is a book about you, and I don’t have anything interesting about you to include.”

  “I had no idea I was so painfully boring.” He gave me a look.

  “You’re not,” I said. “You’re clearly a great boss and a talented engineer and you’re obviously passionate about your work, but–”

  “That’s not enough?”

  “It’s not!” I threw up my hands. “People are going to pick up this book to learn something new about you. If they find the same ten things that have been written about you in every article, this book is going to fail.”

  Bingo.

  The moment I said the word ‘fail,’ I could see his entire body language change. This was a man who did not fail. Who would not entertain the possibility that something he was involved in would fail.

  There was a second of silence. Jack let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

  “Scooter,” he said gruffly, eyes closed.

  “Scooter?” I asked, confused.

  “The name of my childhood dog.”

  I whipped out my notebook. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “What kind of dog was it?” I asked. “And how old were you when you had it?”

  “It was a beagle.” Jack looked as though it pained him to give me even this much information. “I was six.”

  “Bet you were a cute kid,” I noted.

  He shot me a look.

  “Sorry.” I tried to hide my smile. “Obviously you were a cute kid.”

  He let out a long suffering sigh.

  “And while the dog information is great, it’s not enough,” I told him. “Can you tell me anything about growing up in New York? You were friends with Mac, who now owns Tom’s Bike Shop. How did you guys meet?”

  “We had shop class together in middle school,” he said. “Not too exciting.”

  “I didn’t know they still had shop class.” I was writing everything down.

  “They didn’t really,” said Jack. “But they held detention in what used to be the shop class.”


  “So you met in detention?” I asked. “That’s a way more interesting story.”

  He seemed to squirm in his seat a little. “I don’t want to set a bad example for kids who want to get into tech. I was a little jerk at that age, but that doesn’t mean they should be.”

  I blinked at him, surprised. It wasn’t the answer I had expected to get. It was probably the most genuine, honest thing I’d heard him say regarding himself.

  “Very thoughtful of you to think of the next generation,” I told him.

  “Well, you know kids are our future and all that.” He suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable.

  Clearly I had stumbled onto something very personal. Perfect. This was the kind of stuff that needed to be mined. But Jack was already moving on to something else.

  “Mac’s dad taught me everything I know about cars and bikes and engines.”

  I wanted to go back to his random comment about kids being the future, but I also didn’t want to stop him. I reminded myself to go back to that topic at a later time.

  “Mac? That’s the owner of Tom’s Bike Shop?”

  Jack nodded. “Tom was his dad.”

  “Was the shop always so famous?”

  “Not at all,” Jack told me, and I could see him relax a little. “It was the kind of place that locals knew about – known for great service but Tom wasn’t very good at self-promotion.”

  “But Mac is?”

  “When Tom died almost eight years ago, Mac threw himself into make the shop something his dad would have been proud of.” Jack smiled a rare smile. “I’m pretty sure Tom would have been happy just to have the shop still open at this point. He would have been tickled pink to find out how popular it’s become.”

  “What about your dad?” I asked, realizing that I didn’t really have any information on Jack’s family.

  He paused. “This is an example of something I don’t like to talk about,” he said. “Something that I don’t think is anyone’s business.”

  My heart clenched a little.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” I told him, leaning forward. “You’ll get final say on everything in the book. If you want me to take out personal details, I will, but I think you’ll find that without them it’s not a very interesting book.”

  He regarded me silently for a moment.

  “I was a foster kid,” he told me.

  “Oh,” I managed.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he insisted. “My foster family was fine. They took in lots of kids, fed us, clothed us, took care of us. They were the ones who had Scooter, a dog that all of us kids loved. They were good foster parents. We just weren’t close,” he said with a shrug. “When I turned eighteen, I got a scholarship to MIT. My foster parents weren’t able to make it to my graduation, but they gave me a little bit of money – what they could spare – and it was that money that I saved and eventually used to buy my first bike.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with them?” I wanted to know, imagining an eighteen-year-old Jack at his graduation alone. It made my heart ache for him, even though his face had remained impassive the entire time he spoke.

  “I send them money,” he told me. “They still foster kids, and while they aren’t the kind of parents that Mac had, they’re still a hell of a lot better than what most kids in the system get.”

  I opened my mouth and he held up a hand.

  “Before you even ask, I don’t know who my real parents are. I was in the system from the beginning.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t begrudge them the decisions they had to make. I know how hard parents try to make the right choice when it comes to kids and how they can sometimes come up short.”

  My eyebrows went up.

  “Because of what I saw with my foster parents,” he quickly added.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Your eleven o’clock is here,” Mrs. Reynolds said as she came into the office.

  “Thank you.” Jack stood and came around the desk. He was about to walk by me when he paused and looked down. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Tonight?” Was he asking me out?

  “I know its Friday, so you probably have a date, but if you’re free, I have a client dinner meeting that you could sit in on. Might be good for the book.”

  Right. The book. For a moment I had completely forgotten that all of this was for the book.

  “I’m free,” I said, belatedly realizing that I said that way too quickly.

  “Great,” he told me. “We’ll leave for the restaurant at five.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

  “Great,” he said again.

  Was that a smile at the corner of his mouth? Probably not.

  “Ms. Hanson,” Mrs. Reynolds came to stand next to me, “Mr. Willis’s eleven o’clock is here.” She told me, giving me a look.

  It took a moment for me to ascertain her meaning.

  “Oh!” I got to my feet. “You need me to leave.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Jack said.

  Something about him seemed a little softer, a little less gruff. But maybe I was just projecting after hearing about his childhood. Then I caught the gleam in his eyes, and realized that when I had stood, I had forgotten to smooth down my skirt. It was still hiked up past my knees, revealing a whole lot of leg. Jack’s gaze swept over me, and there was nothing soft about the look he gave me. I shivered.

  “See you tonight,” he said.

  And suddenly, I couldn’t wait for six o’clock.

  Chapter 12

  JACK

  “Who are you wining and dining tonight?” Libby asked as our town car inched through Manhattan rush hour traffic.

  I forced myself to look away from the extremely tempting sight of her in that tight, green suit. It had been distracting me ever since she walked in my office that morning, sitting down and throwing down the gauntlet.

  “And I think it would be best if I called you Jack,” she had said, smiling at me as if she didn’t know she was driving me crazy with her curves and her long, gorgeous legs, both of which had been fully on display.

  I was thankful that there had been a desk between us or she would have seen exactly how crazy she was driving me. Just the thought of her got me hard, and it was damn distracting, especially now.

  “More investors,” I told her, shifting in my seat, keeping my eyes focused out the window of the car.

  Whenever I spent any time in a back seat, my fingers itched for the steering wheel and the clutch. I hated being driven around, but I hated driving in traffic more, so when it came to trips like this – short and frustrating – the chauffeur was the best of two evils.

  “For the Celero?” she asked, her pen and notebook poised.

  “Yep,” I said flatly, doing my best to end the conversation.

  For the first time since we had met, she seemed to get the hint and put her writing implements away in the largest purse known to man. It would have put Mary Poppins to shame. A reference I only knew because of Ella.

  I was getting really sick of that damn notebook, but it was a good reminder of why I couldn’t let myself get distracted by her. The compromise she had made this morning had been a good one – that I could remove whatever I wanted from the final draft – but I hadn’t gotten it in writing before I started shooting my mouth off about growing up in foster care – something I never spoke about.

  There needed to be a contract – a legal binding document – that would be able to hold her to her word. I wanted to trust her, but I had learned a long time ago that people would say anything to get what they wanted. The only way to protect yourself was to get proof of promises made.

  Unfortunately I had learned it the hard way, and had spent the last few years fighting my ex-wife because of it. Jennifer wasn’t a bad person, but we’d had a bad marriage. We had been a bad match from the beginning and we probably would have ended it sooner if it hadn’t been for Ella.

  She hadn’t been expected
, but the minute my daughter entered my life six years ago, she became the center of my world. Everything I did was for her. Which is why I had believed Jennifer when she said it was best that Ella have consistency in her life. That shared custody just wasn’t in her best interest, but that I could come see her whenever I wanted and have her on some weekends. Of course, when it came to enacting those privileges, Jennifer would conveniently forget that I had asked for time with Ella. It wasn’t her fault, she’d say, that they were so busy. It was good for a little girl to be busy, to have lots of friends, and lots of things to do.

  I hadn’t wanted to, but I had taken her to court. I loved my daughter and I wanted to see her. I wanted to make sure my rights as a father were protected. The only reason it hadn’t gotten into the papers, and no reporter had sniffed it out, was because it all happened in Connecticut where Jennifer had moved, and the one thing we had agreed on as parents was that we didn’t want Ella in the spotlight. At all. She was to grow up anonymous and not caught up in whatever drama the media decided to invent about me.

  It had taken a while, but the three of us had finally found a balance. I got Ella every other weekend – a time I truly cherished – and Jennifer and I had found a way to co-parent that was best for Ella and didn’t drive either of us to want to murder the other. It wasn’t perfect, and it had taken a lot to get there, but it could have been way, way worse.

  All I cared about was my daughter. And as appealing as Libby was with her big, curious eyes and sexy curves, the last thing I wanted was for her to learn about Ella and put her in the book. I didn’t need that. I didn’t want that.

  But I did want her. Despite all my best efforts, I couldn’t help the desire that kept building inside of me. It had been way too long since I’d had any kind of relationship with a woman – especially a sexual one – and I was feeling the strain. My thoughts, usually occupied with work, now seemed to be singularly focused on Libby and what she was wearing under that tight suit of hers.

  So instead I focused my attention on mentally prepping for the meeting we were heading to. I hated dinners like these. My feelings regarding meeting over drinks – feelings I had inherited from my mentor – were that they were a waste of time. We rarely ever talked business, and the whole event usually turned into a pissing contest about wealth. People who wanted to hold meetings at restaurants – especially expensive New York restaurants – were more interested in my name and my clout than the product itself.