by Kent, Julia
“Twenty percent bounce in sales. That's all I needed to hear.” Mike slid the lens back in place, blinking hard. He needed saline solution, but his stomach growled louder than his eyes were dry. A piece of brie called his name and he shoved it and a strawberry. Followed by a slice of salami.
“You sure they were telling the truth?”
The food turned to lumpy, wet sawdust in his mouth. “Wha' woo dey eye?” He walked to the fridge and pulled out another beer, the liquid making the food easier to get down. For someone who was meticulous in his investment research, he felt like an idiot. It hadn't occurred to him to double-check that stat.
“They lie because they're reality TV producers,” Jeremy laughed. “Everything is twisted and manipulated and bent to meet advertising goals, dude. Product placement, consumer pushes, you name it -- you should know that better than anyone. You run a fucking media company!”
“I'm the CEO. I don't deal with the details.”
“Your dad did.” Ouch.
“The difference between the business my dad built and what I run now is like the difference between a canoe and a cruise ship.”
Jeremy weighed that out by chewing on a salami and cheese sub. Mike wondered where he got the sub roll. Why was he buying food he couldn't remember? “Your dad sold you the company for a share of your start-up's stock options. You made him a happy man...” His voice faded out. Mike's dad, Joe Bournham, and founded a white-pages advertising company in the 1960s. Mike helped to bring it to database and mailing list level, and in the late nineties Joe had sold it to him for 1,000 stock options. Stock options that paid out big time, and that had made it easier to fund his dad's medical bills when the pancreatic cancer made its death march into their otherwise happy life.
Turning Bournham Industries into a juggernaut had helped ease the pain of his dad's loss.
“When did we get so fucking serious?” Mike asked, his stomach sour.
“I'm the one who has threesomes in Bangkok on the beach while you peruse new merger contracts and go over the twenty-seventh mission statement revision.”
Mike just cleared his throat. Silence. Jeremy started twitching a bit, the change in the room's atmosphere tangible. “If you really want to talk about threesomes, Bangkok isn't the one I reminisce about...” The two men had, on and off, found an affinity for sharing women. Not many – in fact, exactly two. One had been a fluke, in college. Debbie was a cheerleader who decided to experiment, and Mike and Jeremy were the lucky lab rats. She had married a rising-star quarterback her senior year and was now a well-known football wife in the NFL. If they crossed paths at charity events, she acted like she didn't know Mike.
Which was just fine. He didn't need acknowledgment. He knew her.
Jeremy pitched back another beer and cocked his head. “Dana's done with us. You know that.” After two years of a permanently-casual arrangement that was ill-defined, Dana had decided to go monogamous. Mike got over it in, a few weeks. Jeremy still wasn't quite over it, a year later.
“And we should be done with her.”
Nodding, Jeremy stood, dumped the empty in the recycling bin, and grabbed another bottle. “Wild times in Thailand again, Mike. C'mon...”
“So I can get you out of jail after propositioning a gender-bending prostitute?”
“You live for that!” Jeremy recoiled in mock horror, as if offended. “Did I ever leave you on a roof in Vegas?”
Snort. “No, but I might throw you off mine if you keep lying to me.” Jeremy was about as capable of a Bangkok brothel visit as Mike was of forgetting Lydia.
Damn it. There she was again, invading his brain.
“Why'd you make me come here? I'm dressed to lift.” And, indeed, he was.
Mike gestured to his face. “This. I realized I can't live my regular life for six weeks, because then my cover will be blown.”
“Cover? You sound like a DEA narc.”
“How do you know I'm not?”
Bzzz. Saved by the bell. He read the email that came through. “OK, good. My tech access is set up for Matt Jones. At least she did something right.”
“She?” Jeremy cocked on eyebrow. “You got someone new?”
Mike nearly choked again. Except he had nothing in his mouth. “Uh, no.” Faltering, he tried to pull it together, but just the thought of her name was making it hard to think clearly. “New admin.”
“Your alter ego has an admin? Is she cute?” Jeremy propped his chin in his hand, elbow on the grey granite slab, intrigued.
“Lydia's, well...”
“A dog, huh.” Smirk.
Possessive anger welled up in him out of nowhere. “Don't talk about her like that.”
“Ooooo, Matt Jones has a nerve, and I just hit it.”
“I'll hit you if you keep going.” To his surprise, he feared he really would, as his fists curled involuntarily. Where was this coming from?
Palms facing Mike, Jeremy took a step back. “Hey, man, I don't want to fuck her. Just asking what she looks like. You normally date toothpicks with boobs. And fewer brain cells than Lindsay Lohan on a coke bender.”
Fair enough. Mike's anger went from boiling point to simmer. “She's young – twenties – and has that dark Irish-Welsh look. Like Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
“And...?” That was code for fuckability.
“And an ass like J. Lo's. Curves and more curves.” His mouth watered as one side lifted in a jaunty grin. Damn. “Brown, speckled eyes. Creamy skin. She's a feminist, though!”
“I'd expect hairy armpits and Birks.”
“No – she actually wears red leather pumps and skirts. And I caught her reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot -- “
“What?” Jeremy slammed his palm on the counter. “Why don't I ever find these women?”
“Because you generally don't find these women at chess tournaments, in brothels, or rock climbing.” Jeremy's face went slack. Ooops. Mike didn't mean to hit that nerve. “Sorry – I know Dana wasn't like that.”
“She's off climbing K2 or climbing the guy she left us for – who knows.” A dark silence filled the room. The day wasn't supposed to go like this. They should be talking shit and grunting and arguing over how many 45s to put on the Olympic bar.
“What about this building's gym?”
“It looks like Jane Fonda met Tae Bo and had a baby. It's all Barbie weights,” Mike said dismissively.
“Then let's go for a run. Get dressed. Too much talk and not enough pain.” Spending all day tomorrow on a plane to Detroit wasn't going to burn calories.
“How long?”
“Until the beer wears off?”
“Deal.”
Chapter Three
“I want to explain why I was reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot.” Not that I have to, she thought, but this conversation needed to happen, whether she – or Matt – liked it or not. For the past three months, Lydia had been working on a pitch for an advertising and social media campaign that would help boost her department's profits. She felt like Peggy from Mad Men, trying out her lipstick slogan, swimming against the tide of an impossible current.
Matt didn't help. Job stealer.
Her resentment was understandable, though undeserved. He looked up from the cup of coffee he'd been nursing and those bright green eyes caught her off guard. They seemed surreal. Fake? No, not really. Just a little too good to be true.
“You don't have to explain.” A sly smile stretched across his face, the angular nose widening, dimples forming where she would never have imagined they could peek out. “I'm sure you are just reading it for...pleasure.” He was classically handsome, in a Regency-era kind of way, but with a touch of firefighter. Lumberjack.
Man.
“I do, actually.” Ignoring that maddening tone, the absolute fury it sparked in her, the intense arousal it also ignited in her – infuriatingly! – Lydia struggled to maintain her sense of professionalism. Now? Really? When she needed it most, her career on the line. Leavi
ng home had been hard. Getting into grad school difficult. Finding a job at Bournham had been damn near impossible. Blowing it all because her new, cocky boss was teasing her about her work research for a project of her own making made the universe seem petty and unfair.
She spread a series of graphics on his desk, shoving aside a pile of folders, his travel mug, a smart phone with Angry Birds open on the screen, and a paper clip holder. “Angry Birds? Seriously?”
He just shrugged. “It's my Christian Grey.” The way he said it made her blush, and she did not want to blush. Not now. Not today. This was her big chance and if it didn't go well, she had to reckon with failing on her own. Failure might not be an option as a slogan, but in the real life it was all too common, and she didn't want to taste one drop of it today.
“Oh, please,” she said in a clipped, no-nonsense voice, though as he leaned closer to her, from the other side of the desk, she caught a whiff of his scent again, a spicy soap and a musk that made her swallow, hard. Her eyes couldn't stop looking at his hands as she organized her graphics. Strong, tanned, no ring and perfectly buffed fingernails. A little dandified, until he turned one over, retrieving the phone and slipping it in his pocket. Calloused and a bit worn. A man who had used his hands, but who now worked in an office. That spoke to a past quite different from this middle-management life, or a side hobby. Pulling in the reins of her wandering mind, she shook her head a bit, nipples beading as she inhaled and stretched her neck slightly, trying to distract herself.
She didn't want to like him. Her body couldn't seem to help it, though.
Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Career over clit. Career over clit.
“Fifty Shades of Grey isn't just smut. It represents an enormous sea change in the publishing world, and we're idiots if we don't do some pitches to reach out and grab market share in advertising and social media pushes.” His grin shifted from one of sensual teasing to intrigued business, his hands picking up the first graphic.
“That's just a fad.”
“Random House earned more than $70 million from that 'fad,' enough to give every employee, from top management to mail worker, a $5,000 bonus. You know what I got this year from this place?”
He cringed, which seemed odd. As if he were prepared for some sort of blow. If he was going to work here, though, he might as well know the truth about cheap old Michael Bournham. “What?”
“A coffee mug with Bournham Industries' logo on it. And a thumb drive on a logo key chain. Give me Fifty Shades any day.”
Sputtering, he seemed to defend Bourham. “I'm sure there was a perfectly logical reason for that.”
She nodded. “Yep. The logic is that Bournham's a cheap ass.”
He frowned. “What does this have to do with Fifty Shades?”
“We can target that emerging market and use Fifty Shades to leverage buying patterns and marketing campaigns for existing and new clients. Have you looked at the New York Times' bestseller lists lately? Sylvia Day. The menage series by Shayla – “
In the middle of taking a sip of coffee, he did a spit take, turning his head at the last second to avoid hitting her papers. “Did you say 'menage'?”
“Yes. It's a word. Get over it.”
“Two girls, one cup?”
“Two guys, one well-loved woman.”
“You've researched this?” His eyes lit up with mischief and her body began to tingle. What did he consider fun in bed? Ah, how she needed to know. As he held her gaze a little too long, with a ferocious heat that made her simultaneously hunger for his touch and recoil in horror at her own pliability, she broke the look and gave her head a quick shake, resuming her professional stance.
The twitch of his lips, a seductive look on his face that he respectfully turned away from her, told her the feeling was mutual.
Damn it. She didn't need actual romance to interfere with the business of romance.
“Depends on who your target demographic is. For women 26-44, with bachelor's degrees, earning $70,000 or more per year and buying the majority of romance novels, MFM is where it's at.”
“MFM? Is that like LOLcats?”
She closed her eyes in frustration, taking a deep breath to center herself. “If you have to ask, then never mind.”
“BDSM as the wave of the future?” His voice was skeptical. Winning him over was her goal, and if she could convince him, then maybe – just maybe – she could convince their boss, Dave. The Director of Communications. The gateway to promotions.
“BDSM as a paradigm shift in popular culture, especially among the 26-44 crowd.” Confident now, she used her extensive research and market analysis to push aside the attraction that keep slithering back in and undermining her goal: to win his respect and to be an ally in what she knew would be a battle later.
“They're not the big spenders – go down an age group.” The words “go down” nearly made her gasp, heat pouring into her belly, her clit beginning to tickle and throb. Even he looked a little uncomfortable at the hint of a double entendre, but quickly covered it up. “Eighteen to twenty-five is where the big money is in social media and pop culture.”
She nodded, knowing that already after countless hours of research. “Yes – and that's precisely why Fifty Shades is such an enormous shift. Because the buying dynamics for everything from eBooks to print to magazines to personal aids – “
“You mean sex toys. Don't sugar coat it.” The command in his voice sent a thrilling tingle up her spine.
“Fine.” Reaching across the desk for her fourth graphic, she came a little too close to him, brushing against his arm. It was intentional. He pulled back, as if burned. “Here's a fact: sales of vibrators shot up 414 percent when suggested to readers of the Fifty Shades trilogy.” Locking eyes with his, she held steady, waiting for him to flinch. When he didn't, she felt her cheeks burning, the implication prickling her skin, a thin sheen of sweat popping up between her breasts. Her throat clicked as she swallowed, the air crackling with sex.
The look he gave her made her toes curl, a combination of smoke and smolder and amusement and questions. Then his eyes went neutral, as if he flipped a switch and pulled himself back. Whatever edge he had just been standing on, she wanted to join him, grab his hand, and jump together.
The effort it took not to look down her shirt, not to touch the silk collar and just keep moving down, not to stand and lean forward and kiss her, not to roam through her hair with hands that were hungry for those soft breasts, those luscious hips, and that creamy skin – that effort told him how strong he really was.
Atlas, really.
A disciplined man, he wasn't accustomed to fighting urges like this. Something about those almond eyes, that rich, chocolate voice, those flared hips and the delicate, yet confident way she carried herself, made him wild and untamed inside. Rational thought normally was enough to tuck away whatever irrational feelings might drive an impulsive response. If it didn't make sense, he didn't do it.
Lydia, though, made perfect sense. in his lap, on him, his tongue in her mouth, his hands burning through her skin, tantalizing and taking and claiming.
Deep sigh. Fight for control. His hands nearly shook as he reached for one of the graphics, desire wildly coursing through veins as his mind tried to tame it. Say something.
So he said, “Retail algorithms don't readily predict consumer behavior, though.” Cleared his throat. Tried to shift imperceptibly. Anything to reduce the tightness in his pants. And, he remembered – to make nice with the cameras. They were rolling, of course, and he could imagine the producers' glee. Fifty Shades? Sex toys? It's as if Lydia were in on the stunt and planned the most targeted, trending topics she could for this discussion.
His erection, thankfully, wasn't on stage, buried beneath his desk. Right where it needed to stay.
“Since when?” With an expression that said what the fuck?, she gave him a condescending look and a professional tongue-lashing. “You call yourself a social media expert? I can deconstruct a ma
iling list and extrapolate plenty of behaviors – and be nearly dead on – from the right data. Social media's no different.”
She sounded like him, more than ten years ago, trying to persuade his dad to let him try the data mining route. Crossing his arms, he heard her out. “You can?” The look on her face told him he'd chosen the dead-wrong response, as she collapsed all emotion into a pin prick of indignation. What had he said? Why the sudden change?
“I may be just an administrative assistant,” she began, cheeks bright red and eyes narrowed in anger. Ah. That's what he'd said.
“I wasn't implying – “
“Yes. You were,” she retorted, establishing control once again. Accustomed to having the upper hand in every business situation as Michael, he found himself unsure as Matt. Should he let her win this one? With cameras rolling, maybe that made better television? He frowned. Thinking like that wouldn't get him anywhere with Lydia.
Yet thinking about Lydia right now wouldn't help him raise profits.
Her idea, though, might.
“Don't tell me what I'm thinking,” he said, voice low and rough. He waved his hand, knowing it would piss her off, wanting to see how much fire she had in her belly.
It worked.
“Don't snow me and claim I'm wrong,” she answered back, voice steady, jaw clenched, standing ramrod straight now. The business suit she wore was more formal than her normal dress, which tended toward tasteful V-neck sweaters, dressy skirts and leather heels. Why the heathered grey wool suit and silk shirt? Lilac suited her, the blouse's shimmer bringing attention to her rich hair, those dark eyes, and adding a femininity to her carefully-cultivated professionalism. Quite different from her frumpier, casual look on his first day at the job. He liked both.
What he'd prefer most, though, was if she wore nothing at all. Those curves, that ass, the ample body that seemed poised for so much more, all soft and swelling. The outer packaging of a mind he was coming to respect. A body that he wanted to savor.
