Together for Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  A discordant electronic jangle startled them both.

  Kimberly quit kissing him. She frowned. “What was that?”

  “Who cares?” Right on cue, it happened again. At the sound, Damon glanced sideways. “Oh. It’s my father’s BlackBerry.”

  At her mystified expression, Damon nodded at the device.

  “It’s used to get e-mails and appointments on the go. I gave it to my dad as a birthday present, but he didn’t take to the technology the way I hoped he would. That’s why it’s in here and not with him.” Damon smiled at her. Confidingly, he added, “I think he’s afraid he’s going to drop ‘that expensive gadget’ into a vat of bittersweet chocolate ganache or something.”

  It was semilikely. Jimmy Torrance spent most of his time and all his creativity on the family business. That’s how he’d turned a tiny seaside sweetshop into one of San Diego’s favorite “hidden treasures” for thirty years running. That’s how he’d earned himself the very office that he shared with Damon today.

  “Aw. You gave your dad a birthday present?” Kimberly cooed, running her fingers over his bare chest. “That’s so sweet!”

  “It’s not that unusual, actually. He is my dad, after all. I give my mom something on her birthday every year, too.”

  Kimberly shook her head, seeming inordinately impressed with his filial devotion. “I knew you were more than just a studly corporate hotshot.” More stroking. “You’re a nice guy, too! I have to say, when I heard I’d be profiling the company’s head of Internet development, I was expecting to meet someone a lot more . . .” Here, she broke off. She gave him a thorough once-over. She shrugged. “Well . . . geekier.”

  Damon grinned. “You can’t judge a book by its cover. Any second now, I might start talking about byte serving, hypertext transfer protocol, and compression scheme negotiation.”

  “I have a better idea.” Kimberly slid her hands lower. She cupped his ass, then hauled him nearer. “Don’t talk at all.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Agreeably, Damon concentrated on using his mouth for more diverting activities than talking. But even as he did, his dad’s BlackBerry chimed again. Damon began remembering something—something he ought to have remembered earlier.

  At the same time, a familiar voice floated down the corridor outside his office. “Damon? Well, I guess you’d say he’s a genius,” his father was telling someone proudly. “His official promotion was a long time coming. He resisted it, but—”

  Whatever else Jimmy said was lost to Damon. He was too busy simultaneously enjoying the naughty way Kimberly was nibbling on his ear and trying to remember what his father had said earlier.

  All that came to mind was his father saying, as he’d done a million times a day since Damon had been old enough to outwit his first babysitter and go looking for adventure, “You’ve got to focus, Damon. Focus! Try to behave for once. All right?”

  But all those requests were bona fide lost causes, and they both knew it. Who did his father think he’d been raising all this time? One of the Backstreet Boys? A new Disney teenybopper idol?

  Hell, no. There was no fun to be had in being good. Damon knew that. There was no glory to be found in staying focused, either. All that mattered was looking ahead . . . and maybe finding out if Kimberly’s freckles meandered all the way to her cleavage. Curiously, Damon started unbuttoning her shirt.

  The voices outside grew louder. His father—and his unknown guest—were coming closer. Probably to this office. Damon swore.

  With a mighty effort, he wrenched himself away from Kimberly. He peeked down at his desk calendar. It was rumpled. It had slid pretty far sideways. But Damon could still make out something handwritten on the square representing today’s date.

  There, right next to Kimberly’s delectable bare thigh, were the words administrative assistant and the time, 9:30.

  Having deciphered his father’s unmistakable scrawl, Damon blinked in surprise. “You can write on these things?”

  Kimberly laughed. “That’s what they’re for, silly.”

  “Oh. I thought it was decorative. But in my own defense, I don’t spend much time in the office.” Momentarily distracted again, Damon lowered his gaze to the cleavage he’d revealed, framed now by Kimberly’s silky unbuttoned shirt. He looked at the high, high slit on her Ally McBeal-style miniskirt (damn, he loved that trend), then stroked his fingers over her knee. “It made a really fine landing pad, though. You were clever enough to discover that for us.”

  “It was my pleasure. Believe me.” Kimberly gave him another sultry look. She seemed to specialize in them. “Now . . . where were we?”

  “Right about . . . here.” Damon squeezed her thigh. Another kiss kept him pinned atop her, even as he heard footsteps coming nearer. Just then, he didn’t care. Life was all about enjoyment.

  “. . . and this is where you’ll be spending most of your time,” Jimmy Torrance said as he opened the office door. “I’m afraid you might be stuck inside a lot, but the view is awfully nice.”

  “Oh, yes, it is nice,” his father’s female guest said in an appreciative tone. Her footsteps preceded his into the office. “I love the ocean!” There was a pause. Then, in a wry voice, she added, “Will the guy who’s humping like a bunny on the desk be here every day? Or is that a one-time-only thing?”

  No one ever answered her question. Natasha Jennings would have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t disappointed by that.

  In the few minutes it took for Jimmy Torrance to hastily cross the room, shut off his dinging BlackBerry on the other unoccupied desk, and confer with the desktop Casanova and his nearly naked female partner, though, she did learn several interesting facts about her new workplace.

  First of all, she learned that either today was Nooky Monday or Torrance Chocolates was a lot more freewheeling than she’d anticipated. Second, she learned that it was both busier and much more charming—given its location inside a two-story former surf shop in La Jolla—than she’d foreseen based on her initial interview. Third, she learned that although her official job title was administrative assistant, they might as well have had miracle worker printed on her business cards.

  Because so far, all she’d done was tour the shop, the chocolate-making kitchen downstairs, and the several makeshift offices upstairs, and already Natasha could see that Torrance Chocolates needed help. They had plenty of drive, heart, and inspiration, that was true; but their transition from mom-and-pop shop to burgeoning corporate power player was clearly overwhelming them. At the moment, they were short of staff, space, and direction. To manage those things, they needed her.

  Jimmy Torrance and the rest of his staff might not know it yet, but the smartest thing they’d ever done was choose Natasha from among the dozens of (curiously bodacious-looking) applicants she’d seen during the open interviews last month.

  In fact, it occurred to her, most of those applicants had looked a lot like the woman who’d been doing the horizontal desktop tango a minute ago. They’d been made up, perfumed, and dressed to attract. They’d worn superhigh stilettos and trendily flat-ironed hair. Most inexplicably, they’d been unable to say the name of their potential future boss, Damon Torrance, without giggling and trading giddy, girlish glances with each other.

  All in all, the experience had been a lot like interviewing for a job as head groupie for a rock band. Which, in retrospect, made Natasha wonder why Jimmy Torrance had chosen her. Because while she did have her share of vanity—and her very own flat iron, lip gloss, and high heels—what she didn’t have was the kind of va-va-voom necessary to hold the attention of a rock star . . . or the corporate equivalent of one.

  Not that she cared about that too much, Natasha reminded herself. She didn’t need nonstop reinforcement of her own attractiveness. Especially not now and especially not at work.

  As the daughter of parents who’d both held down more than one job on several occasions—just to make ends meet—Natasha understood the value of hard work. She’d made it through
high school and graduated from community college and then UCSD, all while working full-time to pay her tuition.

  This was her chance to kick off her career, and Natasha wanted to succeed. Admittedly, she was starting at the bottom, but still . . . she was only twenty-four. She was here. She was in at a growing company. Unlike her competition, she hadn’t had to outfit herself in sexed-up “office attire” like a hot-to-trot fugitive Victoria’s Secret model to make it happen, either.

  Speaking of hot-to-trot . . .

  Natasha gave the office-hopping Lothario a second look. He was probably only a couple of years older than she was, but he’d made her first day at Torrance Chocolates memorable, that’s for sure. She wondered if he made the rounds of all the offices and all the different desks, or if he’d come in here solely for the spectacular view—which, in hindsight, had only been improved by the addition of him, looking all shirtless and muscular and dark-haired and intense, doing his thing in the middle of it.

  Either way, she doubted this particular incident was his first time getting lucky at work. Whoever he was, he had that aura about him—a quality that made people want to be close to him. Looking at him more carefully now only confirmed Natasha’s initial impression: this was a man for whom things came easily, whether those things were women, good times, or success.

  Speaking of success . . .

  Where was her über-impressive new wunderkind boss? She wasn’t going to be working as a direct report to Jimmy Torrance, Natasha remembered as she watched Mr. Desktop considerately shield his paramour from view so she could get dressed. She was going to work for Jimmy’s son, the famously titillating Damon Torrance, who’d been curiously absent from the hiring process.

  He’s pretty easygoing about these things, Jimmy had explained with a nonchalant wave. He’ll be happy with my choice.

  Natasha hoped Jimmy was right. As she watched the now-dressed woman scoop up a notepad, a pen, and several glossy issues of Oceanside Living from the credenza, she further hoped that whoever worked in this office wasn’t too attached to their desktop calendar. Because although Mr. Desktop hastily gave it a sideways shove to straighten it, the calendar looked wrecked. The only way to extract any useful information from it would be to read and interpret the butt prints. Everybody knew that, in the Internet age, butt-based cryptanalysis was a dying art.

  Finally, the door shut behind the woman. Silence descended on the office, emphasized by the low crash of the surf outside.

  Jimmy cleared his throat. The mystery man didn’t speak, leaving Natasha plenty of time to notice that in addition to behaving in an undeniably chivalrous manner toward the woman, he’d also tried to compose himself by dragging on his shirt. But that effort was largely ineffective. He’d buttoned his shirt crookedly, he still seemed . . . distracted somehow (probably by thoughts of all the workplace exhibitionist sex he was missing out on), and his dark wavy hair, while doing a very good job of framing his handsome, sharp-nosed, stubble-jawed face, looked all bedheady and messy, too. It was way too easy to imagine him actually lolling around sexily in bed, Natasha thought, which definitely spoiled the whole “I’m hard at work” effect.

  Evidently he hadn’t gotten the memo that, these days, all the cool guys gunked up their hair with gel. Even her husband, Paul, who’d been a hard-core flannel-and-grunge guy when they’d met, now looked like a runaway member of ’N Sync. It could have been worse, though. He could have developed a thing for those velour tracksuits or the loud shirts worn by TV poker players.

  Natasha was sick to death of poker. If she never saw another green baize table with sunglasses-wearing card players around it—on TV, in a movie, or at a party—it would be too soon. In fact, she didn’t even know why poker was so popular. American Idol she understood. Kelly Clarkson really was talented; she’d deserved her win. As current pop culture phenomena went, even the merging of J.Lo and Ben Affleck into “Bennifer” was easier to tolerate. As a matter of fact, Natasha was kind of rooting for them both. At heart, she was a die-hard romantic. She wanted true love to conquer all. So when it came right down to it . . .

  Suddenly, she realized that Mr. Desktop was watching her. There was no question: He’d caught her daydreaming on the job. It was a good thing he wasn’t her boss, Natasha told herself with a stalwart lift of her chin, because she didn’t think she wanted a supervisor who could read her so easily. She definitely didn’t want one who looked quite so . . . fascinating while he did it.

  No wonder he’d successfully seduced a woman on a desktop. In broad daylight. With strangers wandering the halls outside. Mr. Desktop had some kind of remarkable give-it-to-me mojo—some kind of you-know-you-want-to appeal that would have softened even the hardest of hearts. Or opened even the most tightly crossed legs. Not that she wanted to open her legs, but still . . .

  Vividly, Natasha imagined herself on that desk, crumpling the calendar with her own nearly naked booty, having her shirt unbuttoned and her neck kissed, with her breasts heaving and her thighs parting as she pulled Mr. Desktop closer and closer. . . .

  Too late, she understood. “You’re Damon Torrance.”

  Chapter 2

  Damon’s eyes gleamed, brown and full of mischief. “Guilty. And you’re my new assistant.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry about . . . before. It was all my fault. Sometimes I get carried away.” His smile looked unrepentant, full of blatant resolve to besmirch that very same desk ten minutes from now if he had the chance. Probably he would. Contritely, he put his free hand over his heart. “I promise I’ll try to reform while you’re here.”

  He made it sound so temporary. “While I’m here?”

  He seemed abashed. “Your predecessors haven’t lasted long.”

  “Oh.” Wondering why that was, Natasha accepted his handshake. As she did, an unmistakable jolt crackled through her. It felt real. Electric. Her knees weakened. She wanted to stare. She did stare. Damon Torrance was different when his focus was centered on you, she realized. His eyes, his face, his shoulders, his mouth . . . even his nice white teeth all seemed ridiculously interesting. “Why is that?” she asked, striving not to steer his hand to her breast. Oh God. Had she really just thought that? What was the matter with her? She slapped on a casually inquisitive look. “Is the work difficult?”

  “Not really.” Damon shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  She couldn’t quit gawking. Reluctantly, Natasha slipped her hand from his grasp. Sex appeal rolled from him in dizzy waves. It broke along the shore of her determination not to be wooed, then crested again. It was a good thing she’d armored herself with a prim suit, worn her hair in a strict ponytail, and gotten used to tamping down her more . . . inventive side while at work.

  Well, technically she’d gotten used to tamping down her inventive side everyplace these days, in every circumstance—mostly to make way for Paul’s inventive side to flourish, since he needed it to make a living and she didn’t—but still . . . she’d been smart to play it cool for her first day at work.

  “The truth is, my assistants all leave because I sleep with them,” Damon explained, appearing unbothered by admitting it. “Sometimes they fall in love with me. Sometimes I fall in love with them. It never lasts. I’m kind of fickle.” Another grin. This one seemed thoughtful . . . and maybe 10 percent devilish, besides. “But that won’t be a problem with you, Natasha.” He turned. “Right, Dad?”

  Jimmy Torrance frowned. “I hope not, son.” Astutely, he glanced at Natasha. “He’s right. He is fickle. This thing with the journalist was just the latest in a long line of—”

  “Come on. I already explained that. All my fault.” Damon held up his palm, good-naturedly diverting the conversation. “Anyway, I won’t be having those problems with Natasha.”

  “You won’t be?” Perversely, she felt stung. She also felt idiotically enamored of the way he said her name. Natasha. Nataaasha. She could have listened to him say it all day. All night. Over and over and—just in time, she got a grip on herself. She shook
her head. “No,” Natasha announced in her most forceful, definitive tone. “You won’t be.” A beat. “You won’t be having any problems wanting to sleep with me because . . . ?”

  “Because you’re married.” Damon raised his eyebrows, appearing surprised to have to explain himself. “A man’s got to have his principles. Mine involve Pop-Tarts, kung fu, and not screwing around with married women.”

  At her undoubtedly openmouthed expression, he laughed.

  “Especially happily married women,” Damon added, “which you qualify as, if that enormous hickey on your neck is anything to go by.” He leaned nearer. With a conspiratorial whisper—and a cheerful wink—he added, “Make-up never works to hide them. Especially on blondes, like you.” He nodded at her shoulder-length blond hair, then gave the rest of her a swift, masculine, thrillingly appreciative perusal. Natasha had the unmistakable impression he’d seen all of her . . . and approved wholeheartedly, too. Damon’s gaze whipped back to her hickey. “Just hold your head high and forget about it. That’s all you can do.”

  That sounded like the voice of experience talking. Aghast, Natasha flung her palm over her neck. She’d forgotten about her hickey—and for one brief nanosecond, she’d forgotten about being married, too. But now that Damon had pointed it out, her marriage came rushing back to her. So did her ability to use her brainpower for more than swooning over her new boss.

  Of course she didn’t want Damon to want to sleep with her. She had principles, too! While they didn’t involve junk food or martial arts, they did involve avoiding infidelity.