Tongue-tied

She eagerly reciprocated, accepting his kiss with a ferocity that made it damn hard for him to keep control. She kissed with the passion he’d tasted back in the diner. Hot, needy. A flower turned inside out, opening herself and her desires fully to him.

He nipped her neck and she groaned. He proceeded farther, tracing her collarbone with his lips, kissing and licking a path along her silky skin. He tasted her sweat, her fragrance…And when he reached the opening of the front of her dress, where every single pearl-size button was demurely fastened, he knew her clothing made a liar out of her. Those fastenings were a front, showing a woman seemingly tight, contained when he knew damn well that underneath this dress was fire and passion. He pulled away, his fingers lingering on the button.

Her gray-green eyes glinted with need as she leaned back, the movement releasing his hold on that single button. For a moment, she simply watched him, her shoulders pressed against the door, her hips thrust forward ever so slightly. Then, slowly, her hand moved up her dress, flat-palmed, sliding over her torso, up between her breasts, until she gently touched the top button which she rolled seductively between her fingers, watching him watching her.

He never thought he’d lose it over a button. But at this moment, he was in such erotic pain, it took all his willpower not to tear that damn rayon number off her.

She undid the button, slowly. Her lips moved, almost imperceptibly, and she whispered something….

He could barely hear through the blood roaring in his ears. He positioned his head close to her mouth, straining to hear her breathy tones.

“More,” she whispered. “More…”

“Oh, God, yes.” The soft ache in her voice fired his need. He gently pulled her hand off the button, then lifted her arm and pressed it against the door, pinning it over her head. He fit her other hand into the held one. With his free hand, he took his sweet time undoing the second button…gently pulled back the material to expose her skin.

He sucked in an appreciative breath. Her skin was pink and alabaster, just as he’d imagined. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, then opened them.I shouldn’t take it further.

As though picking up on his thoughts, she arched her back, thrusting her breasts against him. Such a natural, primitive gesture, almost innocent in its desire. And when she moaned his name, softly, he lowered his head and kissed the skin exposed at the opening to her dress. She tasted silky against his tongue. Smelled erotically sweet, like ripened fruit.

With a guttural groan, he undid the third button with his teeth, playing with the hardened button, imaging it to be her taut nipple. Opening the top of her dress wider with his free hand, he slid his tongue over the white lace that skimmed the top of her bra, gliding his lips over the soft mound of one breast, then the other…

A prolonged, scratchy sound fractured the moment.

Robin? Was he hurting her?

Johnny reared back and looked into Robin’s surprised expression.

Another scratchy, tormented sound. Accompanied by a heaviness on one of Johnny’s feet.

He quickly glanced down at a chubby cat, covered with more fur than he thought possible, perched on his right foot! The cat looked up, opened its mouth and emitted another long, scratchy me-e-e-e-o-ow.

With a groan, Robin sank down, her body still plastered against Johnny’s, and scratched the cat on its head. “Otto, why aren’t you inside your own home?”

Johnny held his breath, his body aflame. Robin had spoken, fluently, which moved him. Obviously she knew this furry feline very well—it probably belonged to one of her neighbors. But in the back of Johnny’s mind, he had a crazy hope that maybe her fluency was because she felt more comfortable with him.

Robin lifted the rotund cat and cradled it into her arms. Nuzzling its head with her chin, she scratched it behind its ear. The cat closed its eyes in bliss and purred so loud, it sounded like an engine chugging to life. Damn, he knew just how that cat felt right now.

“You can stay with me tonight, you silly thing.” Offering a slight smile to Johnny, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. She took a deep breath, her back to Johnny, hugging the cat tightly against her. Now was her moment.Ask him inside. Let him stay the night, too.

Damn, she was shaking just thinking about Johnny being inside her home, touching her, kissing her…savoring a night of love…something she’d never done with any man. Romps in the back seat of her hometown boyfriend’s car ended after a few hours, so she’d never known what it was like to have a man hold her the entire night. She could only imagine the sensation of her and Johnny’s bodies curled around each other, all night long, then watching the next day dawn on their new relationship as lovers.

And what would that relationship be? Maybe he had no intention of spending the night, and she’d wake up alone. Was there a girlfriend in the picture? There was definitely no wedding ring, but Johnny had always been good—no, make that dynamite—with women. Maybe he was playing the field, and she’d be just another woman in his menagerie….

Only when Otto squirmed in her arms, emitting an irritated meow, did Robin realize she was squeezing the poor cat to her chest, holding on to it like a furry life raft.

Instead of worrying, she needed to cut short tonight’s visit. She wished she could grab a piece of paper and write, “It’s happening too fast…let’s take our time, figure out what’s going on between us…” But instead she just stood and stared at him, her eyes growing moist with all the pent-up needs and emotions storming within her. Maybe he’d return…but she knew she shouldn’t count on it. This was, after all, an unusual reunion.

Johnny stared into her eyes, which glistened with emotions that confused him, and wondered what to do. He, who prided himself on knowing just how to read and play people, especially female people—digressed into an awkward teenager, unsure what his next step should be. Was she taking the cat and Johnny inside for the night? He felt a gut-deep yearning like he hadn’t experienced in years as he wished, damn near prayed, that he got visiting rights, as well.

Robin held the cat close, and for a moment, Johnny hated that cute, furry creature. So close to Robin’s silky, flower-scented skin, cuddled and cooed over.

Getting what Johnny wanted, bad.

A twittering sound came from somewhere behind Robin. She looked over her shoulder, then back to Johnny. “I—I have a bird.”

He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Instead, after a funny little shrug of her shoulders, she blinked rapidly—yet despite her nervous gestures, he swore he read that look in her eyes. Swore she wanted to ask him inside.

“G’night,” Robin mouthed and shut the door.

Well, he couldn’t have sworn that was going to happen.

Johnny remained standing on her doorstep for what seemed a small eternity, half tempted to meow pathetically like Otto in the hope Robin would reopen the door and take pity on him.

Right. I know how to read and play people. I’m standing outside a woman’s apartment in the middle of the night, contemplating doing animal impersonations so she’ll open the door. He heaved a lungful of cool air, willing the chilled air to temper his fierce physical need. Willing himself to get his head on straight even if his body was out of control. It’s sweet Robin Lee, he reminded himself.Take a step back, buddy. Take it easy. Get to know her better before you jump her bones. Maybe he’d call her over the next few days. They’d visit. He’d talk to her…well, try to. Ask to see some of her writing. Ask to see pictures of her family.

The sound of a car cruising down the street reminded Johnny about the light-rail. He flicked his wrist, checked the time. The rail had stopped running a good hour ago. He needed to find a taxi or bus so he didn’t end up walking all the way back to Cherry Creek. With tremendous effort, he turned and headed down the stairs, remembering how Robin had clutched that poor cat so hard, its eyes were damn near bulging.

Johnny chuckled under his breath, recalling the image. And what had her last words been? “I have a bird.” He crammed his hands in his jacket pockets, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. He’d stood on his share of ladies’ doorsteps, but never had one of them said that before closing the door.

“I have a bird,” he whispered under his breath, hunching against the cool evening breezes, relishing a passing scent of lavender. “I want one, too,” he murmured. “A Robin.”

3

“CHRISTINE SLAYTER to see you, Mr. Dayton.”

Johnny sat in his leather swivel desk chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of lofty Denver skyscrapers against the distant jagged Rockies. He’d just been enjoying the view, taking a moment to savor the world outside work—something he rarely did anymore—and now he had to deal with Christine. It was like he’d been soaring through the clouds and now he’d crash-landed.

He wished to God he’d never made her a vice president—she seemed to think that meant he liked her more then he really did. But, as his advisors kept reminding him, it made good business sense to give her the title—it was an incentive for her to continue delivering projects under budget, with minimal carcasses in her wake. She was like an imperious queen in that sense—when a project faltered, she went hunting, looking for someone to blame. And inevitably, that person met a gory death—which in business parlance meant she fired the poor bastard on the spot. So far, Human Resources and the legal department had found legitimate backing for Christine’s infamous firings, but even Johnny knew that Christine couldn’t keep going this way. She would calm down with a bigger, better title—or so she’d whispered to him right after the promotion.

He mistrusted words—those spoken in meetings or whispered in his ear. Robin’s expressive eyes flashed in his mind—he trusted what he saw there more than any hollow assurances.

His thoughts returned to Christine, who waited outside his door. Despite her overachiever mentality, he regretted approving that damn promotion because ever since then, Christine had let him know repeatedly that she was available for more. Much more.

But he was also personally to blame for that headache.Never, ever kiss a woman after two martinis. Women like Christine took such slightly inebriated overtures to mean there was hope. Forget that it happened a full year ago, the result of a long day’s work that turned flirtatious after a few drinks…an overture that went from hot to cold within seconds. For Johnny, anyway.

Blowing out a gust of air, he turned his head slightly toward the intercom. “Thanks, Shelia, let her in.” Shelia’s physical appearance reminded him of that English actress, Judi Dench. Mature, professional and punctual Shelia had organized his work, and often his life, since he founded OpticPower five years ago.

The door opened with a swoosh and in blew Christine, dressed in one of her designer suits—this one so purple, he imagined her as one of the irises in that Van Gogh painting. An iris topped with blond-streaked hair and a too-toothy smile. “Good afternoon, Jonathan.”

His butler William called him Mr. Dayton, like most OpticPower employees. Christine and her peers called him Jonathan. No one had called him “Johnny” in years…until last night. For a moment, he could even hear Robin’s voice, soft and full of surprise, when she’d stepped outside the diner and found him waiting.

He watched Christine swagger toward him, a quasi-masculine movement that looked funny on her scrawny frame. She eased herself into one of the leather guest chairs that faced his desk, and slowly sat down. Her face was overpowdered, caking in the lines around her mouth. For a moment, he wondered where those lines came from. Couldn’t be from laughing.

Never breaking eye contact, she crossed one leg slowly over the other, a move obviously intended to give him a flash of her black satin garters.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the finer attributes of womanhood—or the flash of skin against lace or satin—but being inappropriately manipulated, whether by words or gestures, was one of his hot buttons. Although he hadn’t felt manipulated last night when Robin slammed down that coffeepot and zeroed in for a kiss.That was a gloriously spontaneous act, full of passion and want….

“You seem…distracted.” Christine looked peeved.

“I was…going over some figures in my head.” A very luscious, curvy figure. “You wanted this meeting—what’s up?”

A look of hurt shadowed Christine’s eyes. Straightening in her seat, she said crisply, “It’s the Nexus project. Teresa sidestepped the end-to-end test and now we have a noncompliant test process on a critical delivery.”

Johnny leaned forward on his desk, hands folded in front of him. “It’s not like Teresa to bend rules—”

“Brad repeatedly put up roadblocks, so she was forced to create her own test environment.”

Sometimes managing managers was like running a day-care center. Not that he’d ever done that, but he sure as hell could after being CEO of OpticPower. Teresa was a senior manager, as was Brad, and yet their ongoing squabbles were hurting a critical project, which in the long run, could hurt the company. And Johnny’s priority, always, was to protect the company. “You undoubtedly have a plan.” Christine always did. Slap a long black wig on her, and she could be that cartoon character Natasha, Boris’s manipulative, conniving sidekick.

She leaned forward, planting an elbow next to a carved wooden mask that sat on Jonathan’s desk. He’d bought it on a trip to Africa several years ago because he liked its mythological story, how tribes in the Congo believed it transformed its wearer into the “Wise Protector and Healer.”

“Brad’s got to go,” Christine said, gazing intently into Johnny’s eyes. “He’s not a player, he’s a problem. I want to replace him with Scott, who works seamlessly with Teresa. It’s the only way we’ll get the test situation resolved and back on track.”

A pungent scent, like spicy orchids, assaulted Johnny’s nose. He recognized the French scent, but most women dabbed it on their skin. Christine must have poured the stuff on. He wondered if she always sloshed on perfume when in the killing mood. “How long before the test can get back on track?”

“A week.”

She hadn’t even paused to breathe before that quick response. Oh, yeah, Christine had already planned this, down to the last gory detail. He mulled it over for a moment. He had no real data on this situation, but then he wouldn’t. He hadn’t built this multimillion-dollar business by micromanaging every single management employee—he’d built this monumental success by focusing on the big picture. And by protecting its vested interests and employees. His stomach knotted. If only he’d been half as successful protecting his own family—a family for whom he’d been more the father than his own dad had been.

“I’d like your buy-in,” urged Christine.

Of course she did. It gave her license to kill. Johnny had dealt with these power plays before—he’d give his response just the right spin.

“Before you can Brad, talk to him. He’s a valuable asset—let’s try to make the situation work before losing a key player.”

Christine’s eyes widened. “I said he’s not a player, and yet you used that word—” She immediately pursed her lips and Johnny realized where those lines around her mouth came from. “I know what you’re doing. You’re saying one thing, but thinking something else. And no one can ever figure out what that is because you’re—” She pursed her lips again.

“Don’t stop now.”

She tugged at the lapel on her jacket, and Johnny noticed the new Rolex on her wrist. Probably treated herself to an expensive bauble after the promotion. No way was she going to say the wrong thing, although she’d admitted enough by her overreaction. He scratched his cheek, mainly to hide a smile that threatened to break. Must be tough being a newly promoted vice president these days.

She dropped her hand into her lap. “I was going to say,” she said, infusing her voice with phony goodwill, “that you’re inscrutable, that’s all. Actually, that’s an admirable trait. We shouldn’t be able to read your thoughts. What kind of CEO would that be?”

A stupid CEO. He’d learned long ago that business was like playing cards—best tactic was to always keep a poker face. “You don’t like my not immediately agreeing with your plan of action?”

She paused. “What kind of vice president would I be if I liked you saying ‘no’ to me?” That phony tone again.

“Actually, I don’t think you like anybody saying ‘no’ to you.” It was a dig, but she deserved it for flashing that garter. “Please give Teresa’s feedback to Brad,” Johnny instructed. “After that, if he and Teresa still can’t work together, you and I will talk again.”

Christine nodded, halfheartedly, and stood. But she didn’t move. Instead she stared at the mask on his desk.

“I’ve never understood why you like that…ornament.” She looked around the room. “Everything else in this room is elegant, sophisticated.” Her gaze traveled across the strategically lit gray walls, the charcoal couch under the oil painting with bold slashes of color, his polished oak-and-chestnut desk. Then her gaze returned to the mask, peering at it as though some hideous little creature had crept into this sanctuary.

Johnny leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “When no one’s in here, I put it on and dance around the room.” The horrified look she gave him was worth the ridiculous comment. He straightened. “On your way out, please ask Shelia if she’d order in lunch. The usual.”

Christine was still staring at him as though he might start dancing any moment. Then she turned and walked briskly to the door, but stopped abruptly when she reached it. “Oh, by the way,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “there’s a dinner tonight. Len’s department is celebrating the release of several products—care to go?”

Len ran the global products division, and Johnny was fully aware they’d hit their release schedule ahead of time, with customer satisfaction high. He’d already ensured every employee in that division got a little extra thank-you in their next paycheck.

But that thank-you didn’t extend to being Christine’s date. “I have another engagement. Give Len and his team my best.”

Christine hesitated, her tiny eyes glinting with the unvoiced question “what engagement?” Despite his determination to maintain an even countenance, Johnny caught himself smiling at the thought of seeing Robin again. Because at this instant he suddenly knew he really did have an engagement, even if the lady didn’t know it yet.

And he kept smiling, even as the door clicked shut.

“YO, DOTTIE, grab some java, make the rounds.” Al barked the order to the waitress, who stood behind the kitchen sink, sneaking a puff off a cigarette. On the chipped plaster wall behind her hung a red-and-white No Smoking sign.

Dottie blew out a thin stream of blue smoke. “Who died and made you boss?”

Al cocked one bushy eyebrow at Dottie. “It’s almost quittin’ time, and you need to finish your tables.” He gave his head a shake, as though he were talking to a petulant child and not a middle-aged waitress. “And put out that cancer stick. You know the rules.”

Dottie made a great show of stubbing out her cigarette, then shot a look at Robin. “Did Mr. ‘I Run the Show’ order you around last night, too?”

“Order her around?” Al snorted loudly. “I had to do more than that! She’s been eighty-sixed from serving coffee in the dining room!” He guffawed, then tossed a wink at Robin over his broad shoulder. “But that’s between her ’n me.” He swerved his gaze to Dottie. “Right now,you need to finish your tables.”

“I’ll finish you if you keep this up,” Dottie sassed back, checking her makeup in a small handheld mirror that she kept on a corner of the sink.

“I heard that,” said Al.

She set the mirror down. “You were supposed to.” Dottie crossed to the coffee machine, grabbed a pot and took her sweet time walking to the dining area—with Al watching her every undulating movement.

Robin wiped her hands on her apron, enjoying the show. Yesterday, after Dottie and Al had argued, Dottie had stormed out with a few choice observations about Al and his kitchen guerilla tactics. Robin thought she’d never see Dottie again and then Dottie had shown up for work today at 5:00 p.m. sharp—not her usual fifteen-or-so minutes late—acting as though nothing had happened.

But Robin would have had to be blind to believe that! Something had happened. Dottie wore a new short black skirt, tighter than what she usually wore, and her brassy blond hair was in a new curly ’do that gave her features a softer, sexier look. Robin had wondered what brought about the change in the older, tough-as-nails waitress…and got an inkling to her answer when Al sauntered into work wearing a freshly washed and ironed white shirt, a new pair of chinos and a big grin. Not only were both on time, Robin guessed they were starting to make time, too.

They still bickered and quibbled over everything, but now the exchanges had a teasing edge. Robin loved it—and also felt a bit envious. To use words that way must be absolutely divine. To verbally play with them, toy with them, seduce with them…Who needed sex shops? Robin glanced over the grill and saw Dottie heading back from the dining room, her red glossy lips smiling suggestively at Al the whole way. Poor guy. He was scraping his spatula across the grill double-time. Robin figured it was best if she left work pronto—that way, the two of them could close up alone.

But as she tossed her apron into the dirty-linen bin and grabbed her sweater for the walk home, Robin felt a pang of nostalgia. Here she was going home alone, the way she did every night. But last night, for a lovely, passionate interlude, she hadn’t been solo. She’d been part of a couple, the way Dottie and Al were tonight. The way the whole darn world seemed sometimes. Her mom often told her if she’d just stop shying away from guys, show them that she was interested, she’d have more beaus than Scarlett O’Hara.

What Robin felt her mom never understood was that it wasn’t about shying away—it was about speaking up. But because she was quiet with most people, they took it to mean that she wasn’t interested. That’s one of the reasons Robin admired Emily Dickinson. From what Robin had read about the famous poet, they were alike—quiet on the outside, passionate inside.

Robin’s mind flitted back to last night. Maybe her voice had been quiet, but her body had spoken volumes! And Johnny—the fantasy man of her childhood dreams—had heard every nuance. Words hadn’t been necessary. Their bodies had conversed and interacted in a way she never had with any other guy. She touched the top button of her white rayon dress, remembering how Johnny had suckled and nibbled that button—for a heat-drenched moment last night, she’d thought he was going to rip it off with his bare teeth, then devour her dress, her slip…

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