Pillow Talk

She waved back. With all the enthusiasm of a turkey in November.

He wanted the preliminary third-quarter figures? Fine. She printed out a copy of the spreadsheet that she’d put together, took a cup of coffee and made her way to his office.

His door was open, so she didn’t bother to knock. She noted that he had been given one of the bigger offices, bigger than hers. Petty, very petty, but still it ticked her off. Jessica put the paper down on his desk and turned to leave.

“Miss Barnes, just a minute. I have some questions,” he said, the hint of some genteel Southern up-bringing in his voice.

Of course he had questions. Jessica pulled up a chair and took a sip of hot coffee. That improved her mood significantly. She hadn’t been sleeping well recently. Mostly worrying about her job, but every now and then those steamy dreams reared their prurient heads. Those were the ones that made her nervous.

She slid an inch away from him. Not that it helped. She could still smell his cologne, could still feel his warmth, even from where she sat. Just to be safe, she slid an inch farther.

As if he knew her thoughts, Adam turned his head and looked at her.

She smiled in return, a smile that wasn’t going to reach her eyes, but she was determined to make the effort. Be professional.

Then he fired off his questions. How comfortable was she with the European prospects? Did they consider the number from the telecommunications sector viable? Each time he asked, she answered, confident of the data.

At long last, he leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “You do a great job.”

She nodded her head, acknowledging the compliment. She had worked her rear off to get where she was. At last she had found a place where she belonged, a place where she could do something good. It was easy to do a great job now. “I’ve been at Hard-Wire since the early days of the product plan. I don’t want anything to happen to this company.”

Her nose began to tickle and she held up a finger, before eventually the sneeze erupted. He handed her a tissue.

“Like the possible acquisition.” It wasn’t a question.

She stuffed the tissue in her pocket, stalling more than anything. There was a time for honesty and a time for tact. Carefully she studied his face, his cool eyes expressionless. Eventually she shrugged. Honesty was her style. “Yes. JCN is too big and cumbersome. Hard-Wire will lose its competitive edge. The speed to market.”

“But JCN can give you the brand name and stable image you need.”

Jessica stiffened her spine. She had heard the rationale. “We shouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“Probably not, but I’m interested in why you’re so opposed. Everyone else is walking around with a satisfied smile, planning for that new car they’re hoping to buy.” He took a pen and tapped it on the desk, the sound carrying in the quiet room. “Sounds like a disconnect to me. Maybe you see something that JCN doesn’t.”

Jessica stood, coffee in hand. Retreat was the best solution. “I’ll leave now.”

“Before you go, I’ve got one more thing.”

“What?”

“Our bet.” He pulled out a thick, leather-bound volume. “I’m assuming you’ll believe the U.S. government?”

She hedged, staring at the defeat he held in his hand. “Not always.”

“There.” He opened the book to the bookmark and ran one finger down to the middle of the page. She edged behind him, trying to ignore his cologne, trying to pretend she wasn’t studying the thick dark waves that settled so nicely against his neck. “Seventy-five percent of those people who are married have never been divorced. People who’ve been divorced tend to get divorced again. It’s a common misinterpretation of the actual facts.”

When he turned in his chair, she realized she was closer than comfort demanded. His arm brushed against her leg, just a touch, probably an accident. An accident that nearly spilled her coffee. She took a long, steadying breath. Easy, girl.

“I owe you a dollar. I don’t have one with me, but I’ll make sure you’re paid before the end of the day.”

His smile turned sly. “You can owe me.”

She wanted to be offended. She wanted to step back and play the outraged female. But her nerve endings had plans of their own. Still and frozen, she was determined to persevere. “You win this round, Taylor.”

For a moment his eyes softened. “You like to win, don’t you, Barnes?”

She’d lost one too many times in her life. “Everyone does.”

Then the shutters fell, the softness was gone. “A class act knows when to throw in the towel, too.”

He meant Hard-Wire. He meant preparing for the inevitable. But for her that meant defeat. First they’d have to pry the office badge from her cold, dead hands. She sneezed. “I’ll take the next round.”

The arrogant man shrugged. “If there is a next round.”

“Of course there will be. Good day, Mr. Taylor.” She turned to leave, slamming the door behind her.

JESSICA’S 11:00 A.M. staff meeting dragged on forever. She couldn’t wait to escape the confines of the building, and lunch with Mickey would go a long way to reestablishing her peace of mind.

She hoped.

When she made it to the small burger place just outside the Loop, Mickey was already seated. After they ordered, the talk was innocent and free of Mickey’s mind tricks. They discussed her new project at the research lab, the Cubs, and made plans for the weekend. Just when Jessica started to relax, blitzkrieg began.

“You’re uptight, J. More so than usual. It’s Taylor, isn’t it?”

Jessica chose the easy answer. “He’s the enemy, Mick. JCN.” Her voice fell soft. “They’d eliminate my position. Strike that—they’d eliminate the whole finance department.”

“You don’t know that. Besides, the stock options would help you weather the storms.”

Jessica knew she’d make a little money on a buyout, but that was small comfort. She wanted VP. And her experience wasn’t strong enough to be VP at anyplace but Hard-Wire. Being without a job, talking to headhunters, networking. The whole process put a huge rock in her stomach.

And made her sneeze. She searched her purse for a tissue.

Mickey held up a French fry, analyzing it before popping it into her mouth. “I don’t think you should go out with him.”

“Why not?”

“Office romance. Bad for your image.”

Jessica knew that. Seeing Adam personally, in any capacity, on a date or in his bed, could end up a CLM—career-limiting move. “I know,” she said, still dwelling on the “in his bed” image.

Mickey snagged another fry. “Bet he’s a jerk.”

A jerk? Those misty green eyes of his weren’t full of jerkiness. Every now and then he lowered his shields and she saw something else. Sadness? “Not really. He seems more remote than anything.”

“Maybe he’s from New York. That would explain it.”

“No. He’s from somewhere in the South. Can’t figure out where.”

Mickey drew a double helix in the ketchup. “The South? New York would have been better. Your allergies would go ballistic.”

Jessica sneezed. “Thank you, oh brilliant one.”

“Hey, I call ’em like I see ’em.”

“What would you do? Would you gamble your professional image on a question mark?”

“J, there are two sorts of men in the world. Ethyl alcohol and nitric acid. The ethyl alcohol is a steady reliable fuel, doesn’t burn clean, but it always burns. When you need to get there, positively, in three days—ethyl alcohol. And then there’s nitric acid. It won’t always fire, but when it does? To the moon, baby. You’ve got to make the decision: alcohol or nitric.”

Jessica pulled the tissue through her hands. “I’m getting too old for nitric acid.”

Mickey shrugged. “Your decision.”

“There’s not one good reason I should go for it.” She had thought about it for some time. Fourteen days to be exact. Hot sex, although tempting, was not rational or logical given the situation. So why was she still thinking about it?

Mickey’s laugh was the evil laugh of a mind reader. “I can see it’s pointless to argue. You want him? Do him.”

“No, no, no. I don’t need the additional stress.”

“Yes, I can see you’re the picture of relaxed self-contemplation.”

Jessica buried her head in her hands. “Forty-seven days and then he’ll be gone. I just have to resist him for forty-seven days.”

“How long has it been?”

“Fourteen.” Her nose tickled, giving her its own opinion. One, two, three. Ha-choo.

“Then you might as well throw in the towel now, because I’m figuring within another week, you’ll either be having a seriously good time with Mr. Taylor, or else you’ll be buried alive under a mountain of shredded tissue.”

Jessica stared at the little bits of paper that were littered across the table like broken dandelions. The histamines had won.

SOMETIMES Adam drove to the high-rise office park on Monroe that housed Hard-Wire, sometimes he took the El. On the long assignments, he kept his car with him. The car kept him from getting lonely.

Lonely. His mom would have a field day with that. He could just hear her.

You wouldn’t be lonely if you’d just settle down. All that travel, one of these days your plane is going to crash and then where will you be?

“Up in heaven with you, Ma,” he answered aloud. An automatic reply.

Pretty words never worked on me. I raised you, boy. I taught you everything you know.

He laughed at that and took a right-hand turn into traffic.

Cancer had buried his mother two years ago and it was only now that the sadness was starting to give way. He liked driving in the car and feeling as though she was there. Some days when the loneliness hit him hard, he talked to her aloud. Just like in Psycho. Which didn’t worry him as much as it should. But he kept the secret to himself because he knew nobody else would understand.

Of course, now his conscience sounded just like his ma. At least he’d always assumed it was his conscience.

The cell phone beeped and he looked at the caller ID to see if he wanted to be available. Vanessa Green.

He let it go for two rings, weighing the pros and cons. Strategic potential versus lack of synergy. Finally potential won out and he pushed the button. “Adam Taylor here.”

“Adam, it’s Vanessa. How are you?”

“Doing great. Glad to hear from you. How’s the weather in L.A.?”

“Fabulous. Listen, I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I wanted to get that title that you were recommending.”

Title? Geez, what had he said? “Oh, yeah. Listen, I’m in the car. Can I call you from home? Need to check my shelves. I’ll get the publisher as well.”

I didn’t raise you to lie, either.

“Not now, Ma.”

“What was that?”

Adam slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “Sorry, Vanessa. Just a little late-afternoon fatigue. I’ll call you this evening, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Adam.” Click.

Nope. Vanessa wasn’t it. He’d taken her out once about three months ago, and although she had the right requirements, the core product seemed off in some way.

He knew what he wanted. A sweet young thing who wanted 2.5 kids and a garden out back. Somebody who understood the concept of home and staying firmly planted in one place.

He had wandered around the country for so long, assignment to assignment, the idea of coming home to one woman, one family sounded like his own personal paradise.

The house had been an impulse buy, a two-story Victorian that he painted when he was back in Alabama.

Now he just needed to find someone to share it with.

An SUV pulled in front of him and he slammed on the brakes. The Porsche slid to a halt and Adam swore under his breath.

“Sorry, Ma. I forgot.”

This time the voice in his head didn’t reply.

3

AFTER WORK, Jessica always jogged on the path that ran along the lake. Two miles on a normal day and three miles when her thighs got extra dimply, which was usually after having dinner with Cassandra, who liked her desserts.

Today was a good Wednesday. No crisis at the office, the weather was a perfect sixty-five degrees, and the runner in front of her had the most motivating physique she had ever had the sheer pleasure of running after.

Somewhere between mile marker number two and mile marker number three she realized the identity of that motivating physique.

He was right ahead of her. He was going to win. She picked up her pace. Not many people could beat her on a quarter-mile sprint, and she prayed Mr. Adam Taylor wasn’t one of them.

Time for round two.

Her feet pounded against the caliche track as she found her rhythm. She began to gain on him, noticing the efficient way he moved. Very smooth.

The powerful muscles worked in his legs, and his back flexed as he ran, making it look easy. His torso was bare, the better to be ogled, my dear.

Jessica stumbled, more caught up in leering than concentrating on the track in front of her. That just made her mad, so she kicked up to the next gear.

“Afternoon, Adam.”

He glanced over at her, his eyes taking in her sports bra and shorts. “Afternoon.”

“You’re pretty good.”

“Ditto.”

He matched her pace and they ran on in silence, bounded by the skyscrapers of the city and the still waters of Lake Michigan. She concentrated on keeping her breath even and slow.

“How far do you usually go?” he asked, not even winded.

“Five,” she answered, sneaking an extra gasp. “You?”

“Five.”

“What’s your time?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.

His gaze flicked in her direction. “Fifty-five is the usual. I can shave off eight minutes when I’m concentrating. You?”

He had stepped right into her trap. “I can beat that.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a report that I need to turn in before morning.”

“Chicken?” She pulled ahead.

“Now you’re just talking trash.”

She didn’t reply except with vaguely unprofessional, yet extremely satisfying, clucking noises.

He pulled alongside her. “That is such a pretty ass. Seems a shame to watch you lose it.”

“You think so, farm boy?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Care to bet on that?”

He laughed. “What are we playing for now? I would love to see you in a little, black—”

“No.”

“Spoilsport,” he said with a heated look that indicated he was still off in fantasyland.

Jessica almost lost her stride. “It’s got to be something more meaningful.”

“Sex can be meaningful. Great sex can be life-altering.”

She snorted in a completely unfeminine manner. “You are such a man. Loser buys dinner.”

“Cooks, not buys.”

“And a chauvinist, too. I bet you can’t cook.”

“You can’t even begin to imagine.”

“You’re just trying to get me alone.”

He clutched a hand to his extremely well-formed, sweat-glistened chest. “Gee, she sees right through me.”

“Buys dinner. Public place. Ready?” She shot forward before he could reply. “See you at the finish line.”

They kept even for three miles, but the fast pace started to get to Jessica. He didn’t look winded at all, chest pumping in even rhythm. Was he slowing his pace just to let her win?

That demeaning thought got her through another one and a half miles. By the time they reached the last half-mile marker, Jessica thought her heart was going to explode. Still she ran, concentrating on putting one foot forward. Finding the zone.

Adam started to pull ahead. Two lengths, then three.

No way.

She blocked out everything. This was the man who thought he could beat her. Had already beaten her once. Not again in this lifetime. She focused on nothing but his black silk running shorts covering his mighty fine—

Stop it, Jessica. Her pace picked up.

The final marker loomed ahead, the shadowy clump of trees and the water fountain that sparkled like a desert oasis. Almost there.

She fell in beside him.

He pulled ahead.

No.

Not just no, but hell no.

Adam took the lead.

He smiled at her, slow and sure. A victory smile.

Calling on every ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, leaving him behind.

He almost caught her, but she was determined.

There it was.

One more length.

She felt his breath hot on her back. Still she ran.

There.

There.

She zoomed past the marker, two strides ahead of Mr. Hotshot. “There.”

He came to a stop next to her, and she was grateful to see his bare chest pumping wildly, the sweat dribbling down between sharply-defined pecs. “You are good,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Jessica forced herself to look away.

“In all things, Taylor.” She leaned against the tree, sucking much-needed air into her starving lungs. The world spun four times before it righted itself once more. She swept a hand through her hair, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

His thumb brushed against her lower lip. “You missed a spot.”

Her lashes drifted down, and she fought the urge to taste him. A frightening thought. Instantly the warm touch was gone and she stepped back into reality. “You owe me dinner.”

“You beat me, Barnes. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”

For a second he sounded pleased, as if he had planned the whole thing. Suspicion tainted the moment. She stood, hands on hips, and studied his face. He looked exhausted and tousled, in a “hey baby, come jump me” kind of way. Once again, she felt the taste of victory. And it was sweet. The suspicion was gone. “717 West Patterson, apartment 2285. Think you can remember that, Taylor?”

“Don’t underestimate me, Barnes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

JESSICA PUT her key in the lock to 87 Spruce Avenue, turned the latch and pushed inside. Home. Her mom shouted a greeting from the kitchen, followed by the familiar rapid-fire barrage of requests. Set the table, chase the cat from the back bedroom and bring the clean laundry up from the basement. Jessica breathed in the ever-present aroma of fabric softener and cinnamon. Yup. Definitely home.

The family homestead in the southwest side of the city had been built proudly in 1937 by her grandfather, Elijah Barnes. An extra bathroom had been added on when Jessica was born, the attic had been finished when her brother Patrick turned seven, and four years ago her father had added a one-car garage to keep the snow off the 1987 Buick. For Jessica, it was the only home she’d ever known.

After carrying out her orders, Jessica made her way into the kitchen where her mother whisked from stove to sink to counter and back, faster than the eye could follow. There was never a wasted movement; she never stopped the way Jessica did, wondering what it was she intended to do.

Diane Barnes was a woman who kept a spotless house, was happiest when her children were nearby and had never met a casserole she didn’t like. From an early age, Jessica had known she was not her mother’s daughter. When Jessica had lived at home, they had fought almost every day. Her mom didn’t understand a career woman, and Jessica believed housework was one of the original eight plagues of Egypt, but because the Bible had been written by a man, it never got included.

Jessica watched her mother for a moment, then felt guilty and began putting things away, simply so she could look busy. “How you doing, Mom?”

Her mother lifted a lid from the pot on the stove, stirring idly. “Same as always, Jess.”

“You should take it easy some. You look tired,” Jessica said, noting the way her mother’s skin looked more fragile than usual.

Diane shook her head in a patient manner, her short brown hair rippling with movement. “I’ve got too many things to do, and the days are only getting shorter,” she answered, setting a stack of plates in Jessica’s hands.

Obediently, Jessica trotted out to the dining table and laid out the plates, moving from place to place until the spoons were lined up exactly parallel with the napkins and the forks gleamed in the bright lights from the wall sconces that were fixed around the room.

The dining table had already been set up for Wednesday dinner, five settings. It was family night at the Barnes household. Her father, Frank Barnes, had the chair at the head of the table, but until the food was actually on his plate, he sat in his recliner watching the news, thinking of new names for the local aldermen.

Jessica poked her head into the den. “Pop, supper is almost ready,” she yelled.

From behind the back of his brown easy chair came a grunt of acknowledgment. It usually took a good three tries to get Pop to leave the chair, which was incredibly inefficient, but you couldn’t skip one or he wouldn’t leave. Jessica sighed.

The front door slammed, rattling the bay window in a precarious manner. Patrick was home.

At the ripe old age of eighteen, Patrick had moved out of the house and set out on his own. For two years he’d skipped Wednesday dinners, but about the time he turned twenty, White Castle burgers had lost some of their appeal and he’d developed an appreciation for a home-cooked meal. He was now twenty-five and thought he knew everything. Jessica knew better.

He took off his jacket and threw it on top of the coat tree in the hall. “Hey, Jess. Can you get me something to drink?”

“You been taking drugs, Patrick? Do I look like Mom?”

“More and more every day,” he said, pausing before he walked into the den to pinch her cheek.

Jessica smacked her fist into her palm. “I’m your older sister, I’m the professional in the family.”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

The front door slammed again. Not quite as loudly as Patrick, which meant that Ian was now home from class. He was shorter than Jessica by a couple of inches, but what he lacked in height, he said he made up for in wisdom.

He flung his jacket on the coat tree and shook his head. “Sis, you always let him get to you. The only reason he does that is to get you mad.”

It was the ultimate humiliation to get behavioral lessons from her baby brother. At least he was the scholar as well, which soothed her ego somewhat. Ian had spent three years in the local community college, trying out different majors to see if they suited him. Eventually he’d wandered full circle back to Business Administration and had just been accepted to Notre Dame.

Ian threw his backpack onto the sideboard in the dining room, but then their mother scuttled into the room and moved it into the hall closet, with nary a word of complaint. Jessica couldn’t believe her brother’s inconsiderate nature. “Would it have been so much trouble to put it away yourself? Don’t you think Mom has enough to do without having to pick up after you?”

“Heavy stress at the job, Jess?”

She glared at Ian and then she sneezed. “You couldn’t imagine.”

“Yeah, I can.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with possibilities. “I can’t wait.”

He looked so excited, so full of enthusiasm, and Jessica didn’t have the heart to enlighten him about the real state of affairs in the business world. Maybe she was turning into a cynic. More likely she was just scared.

Her mother called from the kitchen. “Jessica, would you find out what everyone would like to drink, please?”

“Sure, Mom,” she said, collecting drink orders and pondering a career in the field of hotel and restaurant management. By the time she had returned to her mother with the information, she had decided that the hospitality industry might be a possibility. And of course, she’d forgotten what everyone wanted to drink.

Ten minutes later they were all seated at the table, and her father said grace, the same blessing he’d said for all twenty-nine years of Jessica’s life. Short, to the point and sincere. Not fancy, but it was the Barnes way.

Dinner was never a quiet affair, although Jessica wondered what it was like Thursday through Tuesday when it was just her mother and father. Did they talk about the day or get silly, or was it just like tonight with her father buried in the news and her mother buried in the kitchen?