Hot Under Pressure

First published in 2001, KATHLEEN O’REILLY is an award-winning author of more than twenty romances, with more books on the way. Reviewers have been lavish in their praise, applauding her “biting humour,” “amazing storytelling” and “sparkling characters.” She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one indestructible goldfish. Please contact the author at [e-mail] or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.

Hot Under Pressure

Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For booksellers everywhere. Stacey, Anne, Elsie, I’m looking at you.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

1

ASHLEY LARSEN climbed over the family of three, mumbling “excuse me,” but honestly, in the wide-bodied jet, there was no elegant way to get to her seat with her dignity intact—especially since darling little Junior kept poking her in the rear and laughing maniacally. All the while Mom tried to pretend that nothing was amiss.

Little booger.

With a tight smile plastered on her face, Ashley climbed over the skanky-handed hellion, and then plopped into her seat with a relieved sigh. She hated the five seats in the center aisle. What designer thought that was a good idea? Especially on a day like today, when the direct route to her seat was blocked by the sweet little old lady who wanted to stuff the three-foot antique lamp into the overhead compartment. Patiently, the flight attendant was explaining how honestly, truly, cross her heart, the baggage handlers would treat the fragile piece with care. Stubbornly, the little old lady wasn’t buying it for a minute, and Ashley wished her all the luck in the world. Thank God that was over; now on to the real death-defying feat—preparing for takeoff. After a slow count to three hundred—twice—she pulled the plastic bag from her carry-on and then pushed the suitcase back under the seat in front of her. Furiously she kicked off her travel shoes with some previously unleashed aggression, and then donned fluffy pink bunny slippers. If she was going to die in the air, she wanted to be with at least one thing close to her heart.

Ashley hated flying. Her sister Valerie called it her Erica Jong moment, but it wasn’t sex that Ashley was afraid of, only moving through the skies at supersonic speeds, a gazillion feet off the ground. Physics had never been her best subject, and besides, she knew there was something seriously wrong with the concept. However, she hated the idea of being a slave to her fears, so, as a survival mechanism she had created her flying ritual. Every month, when she took off from O’Hare airport on her latest buying trip, she meticulously followed the same pattern to maintain sanity. Whatever worked.

Soon everyone was seated, the antique lamp was stored below and the flight attendant droned the standard disclaimers about pulling away from the gate in ten minutes. Just as Ashley had properly prepared herself for takeoff, another passenger made his way down the aisle, claiming the one remaining empty seat in the airplane. The one between Ashley and Mr. and Mrs. American Family, who were futilely trying to keep Junior amused. Now they decided to resume their parental responsibility. Couldn’t they have done it earlier, when he was playing pin-the-sippy-cup on Ashley’s butt? No.

Pointedly, Ashley stared out the window because she wasn’t normally a rude person, but air travel brought out one hundred and one demons in her, none of them Emily Post-like. Valerie said that the buying trips were good for her. That the only way to conquer a fear was to tackle it head-on. Valerie could be a total pain, and one day Ashley was going to stop listening to her sister’s advice. But not today. Today she needed the ritual.

A hard thigh brushed against hers, and she jumped.

“Sorry.” The voice was deep, husky and appropriately apologetic. Okay, there was another reasonable, sane human being on this flight. Ashley turned and the polite smile froze.

Hello, hot man.

His trousers were an off-the-shelf-khaki, his shirt, a nicely mussed crisp white, which, on most men would scream copier repairman, but here…it was like newsprint veiling a diamond. Yes, sometimes clothes made the man, but sometimes, the man made the clothes.

After logging thousands of air miles, she’d traveled next to perfumed matrons decked in crystal-encrusted fleece, overly large seat huggers, squeegee businessmen who thought she looked lonely and, yes, a veritable cornucopia of families from hell, but never, never, had she actually sat next to a man with a nice smile, wonderfully wicked hazel eyes and a lovely, lovely body that begged to be unwrapped.

Ashley swallowed.

“Not a problem,” she said, and then promptly looked away.

Come on, Ashley. Flirt a little. Pep up your game. Give him the goofy smile. Guys like that.

It was Valerie’s voice. The first time in three years that Ashley had felt heat between her legs and she was listening to an imaginary lecture from her younger sister. Not anymore, no way, no how.

“I didn’t think I was going to make it,” said hot man, continuing to converse with her.

Ashley was torn between wanting to converse with hot man and sinking farther down into her seat and hiding her bunny slippers, but alas, it was impossible in the sardine-like conditions. “And you made it,” she said, giving him the goofy smile until she realized what she was doing and promptly stopped.

“After running the four-forty through Terminal two. The next flight to L.A. isn’t until tomorrow at six, and I just want to get this over with. You ever feel like that?”

“Always.”

He smiled, then immediately frowned, the wicked hazel eyes glancing politely to the aisle.

Married. Must be. Or attached.

Subtly—unconsciously—Ashley’s eyes drifted, which she hated, to his left hand. She wasn’t on the make, she wasn’t interested, she didn’t need a man. She wasn’t even thinking about being on the make, no matter how much Valerie nagged her. But that didn’t explain the little heart-thud when she noticed there was no ring.

You’re a wimp, Ashley.

As she contemplated her own human needfulness, the stewardess pulled out the life vest to demonstrate the life-saving effects of the floatation device. Ashley imagined the floatation device bobbling alone in the ocean, her hands aching with cold from the water of the Great Lakes, her face dimming to a pale blue, her lungs weakening ever so slightly. Her hand locked onto the armrest because she knew that Lake Michigan had an ambient temperature of fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in April, which didn’t sound too bad, but she’d seen that damn Titanic movie. She didn’t want to live it.

“First flight?” asked hot man, the nice smile returning, which did have the unexpected effect of calming her fears…somewhat.

“No, sadly, I became a platinum passenger last year. I’m merely a coward at heart.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the hazel eyes flickering more toward green—a warm, earthy green that did more to distract her than a muscle relaxant ever could, and reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in a long time.

“Don’t be. It’s a family trait. Yellow-bellied, lily-livered Larsens, that’s us.”

He smiled again, and she felt the tell-tale heart-thud again. She unlocked her gaze from the captivating green of his eyes, and drifted to where Junior was most likely planning his latest nihilistic techniques.

Ask his name.

No.

It’s only a name, a polite introduction. Not an invitation to the mile-high club.

I don’t care. Shut up, Valerie.

I’m not even here.

I know. I swear when I get back on land, I’m going to see a therapist. It’s the only answer.

Don’t be a wimp, Ashley.

I’m very self-aware. I’m a wimp.

Why do I even try?

Because you’re sadistic, and you revel in my pain. It makes you feel superior.

I’m not even here.

“Don’t talk to me,” muttered Ashley, wondering if hearing her sister’s nagging meant that she was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The wind was certainly blowing in that direction.

“I’m sorry?” asked hot-guy.

“Oh, not you. I hear voices.”

His brows rose—charmingly, of course. He really had a great smile. It wasn’t a full-bodied smile, just a quick rise on the right side of his mouth where his mouth smashed headlong into a tiny dimple. “Part of the phobia?”

“No, my psychotic sister. Do you have a psychotic sister?” she asked, firmly believing that everyone should have a psychotic sister.

“No.”

“You are so lucky. I always thought a brother would be cool. As long as he doesn’t nag.”

“Your sister nags?”

Ashley nodded. “Like a mother.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing again, and she noted how rare it was to hear a man apologize. Jacob had never apologized. Not once.

Right at that precise moment, Junior stabbed hot man in the hand with a particularly lethal twisty straw, and he yelped, his hand diving toward the armrest, trapping hers in a death grip of pain.

Ashley yelped, too, Junior laughed hysterically and Mom politely looked in the opposite direction, as if all were right with her world. Muscle relaxants could do that to a person.

Hot man’s hand lifted from hers, and Ashley’s normal blood flow resumed. He looked at her, the hazel eyes no longer wicked—now they showed true fear. About time he appreciated the seriousness of their situation. Four hours next to the toddling terror of the skies, who was now demanding macaroni and cheese, obviously oblivious to the plebian limitations of airplane food.

“He just broke out from the pen,” Ashley whispered confidentially. “Wanted in four states. I saw his mug on the post office wall.”

Hot man leaned in close and she could feel the whisper of his breath.

Ah, yearning loins, aching to be filled. Thy name is lust.

Shut up, Valerie.

“Stabbed you, too?” he asked.

“Nope. Butt-fondling in the third degree.”

“Really?” He grinned. “A mastermind of crime with discriminating taste.”

He’s flirting with you, Ashley. That’s definitely flirting.

Shut up, Valerie.

“So, why’re you going to L.A.?” asked Ashley, flirting in return. “Vacation. Business. The fresh air?”

“Business,” he answered, kicking his feet toward the computer case in front of him. “I’m a business analyst. You?”

“Buying trip. Clothes.”

His eyes raked over her, noting the bunny slippers, and she felt the twinge again. The loins were definitely starting to yearn. “You like to shop that much?”

“I own some boutiques,” she spoke, the words stumbling out of her mouth like pebbles. She’d bought the stores as a post-divorce present to herself, but what had been an impulsive plan to reinvent her life, hadn’t quite blossomed as she’d hoped. As a kid, she loved to shop for clothes, loved to put together outfits that seemingly didn’t belong, but then somehow worked. Unfortunately owning four disjointed clothing boutiques required more than stylish élan. Ashley’s business sense hadn’t magically appeared as Valerie had believed, and a good eye for color and style couldn’t compete with designing ads and balancing the budget. In fact, in the past few months, usually when she was paying the bills, she thought about selling the stores, worried that she couldn’t cut it. It was when the rent got raised for the second time in as many years that she worried she was like some people on those television reality shows. Thinking they could sing, but when their mouths opened the world’s worst sounds emerged, and the home audience is sitting there wondering why the heck these types ever, ever had the wonky idea that they belonged in the limelight.

There were certain similarities.

Ashley’s smile fell, the plane moved slowly back from the gate and she felt the familiar lurch in her stomach.

“Scared?”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Ashley, and she would. Business problems, personal problems, fashion problems, in the big scheme of things, they didn’t amount to much that couldn’t be overcome. In the end, Ashley was a survivor. When she was working on a new store window—surrounded by encouraging mannequins draped in subtly fitted, beautifully crafted, casual couture—the dream returned. She could do it. All she needed was to keep the faith.

She gave hot man a weak smile, and he covered her hand, a grip that was supposed to be comforting.

If you’d only twitch the thumb, a tiny caress…

Shut up, Valerie.

He had large hands, warm hands, with long, long fingers that looked so full of possibilities.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” The engines start to roar.

Quickly she took out the air-sickness bag.

Just in case.

DAVID MCLEAN hadn’t been excited about a side-trip through Chicago to see his brother. Ex-brother. Chris had lost any claim to family bonding after he’d slept with David’s wife. Yeah, nothing like a little wife-sharing between brothers. Four years, and it still pissed him off.

Still, in the face of pink bunny slippers and shoved in close quarters with a young psycho in training, David felt something unfamiliar tug at his face. A grin. Yes, that was definitely a grin.

The woman was just nervous enough to be unthreatening. He liked her. Her hair was dark, nearly black, and she had soft brown eyes and a nose that was too big to be called pert. But it gave her a little something extra—character. And she had a nice mouth, plump lips that were always held slightly parted, like a kid viewing the world for the first time, or a woman in the beginning throes of climax.

There was something stirring in his khakis—trouble. Sex held the whip hand, and turned men into stupid dogs. Like, for instance, Chris. And Christine. When he first introduced his future wife to his brother, all three of them had laughed about their matching names. The day he had found them in bed together, the laughter had stopped.

He shot a furtive look at the bunny slippers.

“I’m David,” he said, carefully displacing thoughts of Chris and Christine.

“Ashley.”

“Are you from Chicago?”

“Born, bred and will most likely die here as well.”

“Cubbies fan, aren’t you?” It was there in her eyes, that sort of lost hope, winning seasons long denied. Idealistic dreamers—a rarely seen species that was going to naturally select itself into extinction.

She winced. “I know, it’s pathetic, isn’t it? Are you from Chicago?”

“New York.”

“Ah, home of the Yankees.”

“What can I say? I live in New York. We always back the money team.”

“Sad to be bought so easily.”

He shrugged, and looked out the window. The plane had stopped moving toward the runway. They were returning to the gate.

Immediately Ashley noticed. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Her finger jammed at the call button, just as the captain came on the speaker, his voice Prozac calm and soothing, which only made her more nervous.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had a slight mechanical issue. Nothing to worry about. I’m going to pull us back to the gate and have the mechanics check things out. We’ll have a short stop where you can disembark, if you choose. However, you will need your boarding pass to reboard.”

“We’re not flying?” she said, and he noticed the relief in her voice.

“We’re going to fly,” answered David, wanting to reassure her, but more importantly, he needed to get to L.A. The sooner he left Chicago the better.

“I’m not taking off my slippers,” she answered. “They can’t do that to me.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure it won’t be long,” he told her, not his usual brutal honestly, but he suspected there was normally more color in her face, and if bunny slippers made her happy, who was he to take them away?

“What sort of mechanical problems do you think we’re stuck with? I was on a flight to Miami when they thought the landing gear was hosed, but it turned out fine.”

“Let me tell you about the time that I was flying to Houston. The engine blew…” Her eyes shot up four sizes, the pale color bleached to a ghostly hue, and he clamped down on his tongue. Hard. Okay, David, great going here. “Sorry. We landed fine. They have back-up engines, so if anything fails…” He realized he wasn’t helping, so wisely he decided to shut up.

Damn. He liked talking to her. Normally he pulled out his computer and worked through flights, but this afternoon had left him feeling unsettled. Two weeks ago he had told his ex-wife that he would be in Chicago for a meeting. He would finally see them. But then he’d arrived at O’Hare and the city of big shoulders closed in on him.

He shouldn’t have called them. Christine had said she was pregnant—oh, joy!—but in the end, David lied, leaving a message saying that his meeting had been canceled and he wouldn’t be stopping in Chicago after all.

David didn’t like being a coward. He never did—except for this.

The pregnancy had stung. Not that he wanted Christine back, but it irked him that she preferred his brother, that fidelity wasn’t part of her vocabulary, and that he, a man who evaluated million-dollar business opportunities on a daily basis, could do so poorly when picking out wife material.

“I know of a little knockwurst place in Terminal One,” he blurted out, because he didn’t want to sit here sulking over the social implications of having a nephew birthed by his ex-wife. Bratwurst and sausage were so much more appealing. Then he glanced down at her feet. “Oops. Never mind.”

“Down by Gate B12, between the ATM and the security check?”

“Yeah, you know the place?”

“Heh. I eat there all the time.” Her mouth parted even more, drawing his eyes. Trouble stirred once more. “There are few things to get me out of my bunny slippers, but knockwurst and blown engines will do it. Let’s go before junior scarfs down another chocolate bar.”

2

HIS NAME WAS David McLean. His hair was a rich brown, cut conservatively short, but it suited him, suited the all-American, man-most-likely-to-know-how-to-fix-a-car-engine allure. Yes, he’d never model like one of those designer-wearing scruffy-jawed man-boys, but there was something about him that fascinated her. He was curious and intelligent, asking questions about everything, yet not so willing to talk about himself. Eventually she discovered why.

He was divorced and his jaw clenched like a vise when he’d mentioned it, so it wasn’t one of those “parting as good friends” situations.

The restaurant was quiet and dark, the wait staff moving efficiently and effortless, and the large, overstuffed booths were conducive to divulging confidences to perfect strangers.

“It’s not easy, is it?” she asked, thinking of her own divorce. Two weeks of wounded pride, several weeks of sorting out the finances and understanding what was whose and five months of awkward questions and well-meaning advice from friends. But then Ashley woke up one cold December morning and she knew she would be okay. Not fine, not great, but she was going to live. It was while in that fragile state that Valerie convinced her that she should do something radical with her life, live out her dream and buy a chain of four small Chicago boutiques. Start fresh.

“Not going that well?” asked David, when she told him what she did.

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. You don’t have the joie de vivre that a lot of small business owners get when things are breezing along.”

“You see a lot of small business owners?”

“Oh, yeah. From Omaha to Oahu. Kalamazoo to Klondike. I’ve seen a lot.”

“Oh.”

“Owning your own business is a lot of work. I sit on the sidelines and tell people how much their business is worth, how much it’s not worth, what they are doing wrong, and recommend whether our investors should go all in or not. My job is the easy part. After I look over the operation, talk to a few customers and suppliers, I go plug some numbers into a spreadsheet, and then I’m on to the next business, the next opportunity.”

“I used to be an insurance claims appraiser.”

His mouth quirked, amused, and she cut in.

“Don’t say it. I know. I have the insurance adjuster look.”

“Nah, not an insurance adjuster. Maybe bookstore owner or candy maker. Something more personal.”

“I think that’s a compliment.”

“It is. You’re too cute for the insurance business. So why fashion?”

Cute. He thinks you’re cute.

He’s from New York.

Who cares? Take a chance, Ash.

For a second she met his eyes—a little more bold than usual. “I want to prove something. I want to take a plant and nurture it, care for it, water it and watch it bloom.”

He snapped his fingers. “Florist. I can definitely see that in you.”

She began to laugh because if he ever saw her plant shelf, he would be rolling on the floor, too. “No florist, sorry. I wanted to do something that I could master. Something challenging. I was stuck, and I needed to prove that I could do something different.” It was nearly Valerie’s post-divorce speech verbatim, but Val had been right. Ashley had just neglected to tell her sister that last key point.

“And fashion is challenging?”

Ashley nodded. Men really had no idea. It had taken her two hours to decide on the yellow gypsy skirt, the perfect pale green cotton T-shirt and a kaleidoscopic glass-bead necklace. The outfit had vague Easter-egg overtones, but worked nicely with her hair, and best of all…no wrinkles when traveling.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

He sat back from the table, his eyes tracking to the bank of departure monitors nearby. “We better go back to the tarmac of terror.”

“You’re anxious to get out of here?” she asked, noticing the slight jaw-clench again. That, and the disappearing smile.

“No. It’s fine.”

Yeah, she’d seen that movie, too. Knew the ending. “Denial, much? Don’t worry. It’ll get better.”

His gaze met hers, and the warm green was analytical hazel once again. “Has yours?”

“Oh, yeah,” she lied. It hadn’t gotten worse, but it hadn’t gotten better. Instead she was stuck in this post-divorce limbo where she had no knowledge of how to proceed, and no inclination to leave the comfort of her own solitude.

“So when’s the last time you went out?”