Beyond Breathless

“Sound Design. Gross receipts last year over forty-seven billion.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, quirking one brow.

“The speaker company,” he answered in his flattest, most monotonous voice.

“Forty-seven billion?”

He nodded. “Price per earnings of nine point seven. Low. Hold recommendation.”

“You’re a broker, I assume,” she said, eyes sparkling, one lip curling up in that cocky half smile that was going to haunt him for days.

“Sort of,” he answered, omitting that he actually managed a half-billion-dollar hedge fund that he turned a neat twenty-one percent annual profit for the last five years, beating the market average three times over.

“Fascinating,” she replied, the mischievous light dimming from her eyes. Definite progress.

One of Andrew’s most valuable skills in the fight against ties that bind was the ability to bore a date to death when he wanted to dump ’em.

Worked every time.

“Sergei Brand,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Your suit. Sergei Brand. Number one maker of semi-custom. Breakout sales in the late nineties when they limited their inventory to only smaller, boutique-type tailors and cut off the big department store chains altogether. Sales climbed thirty-seven percent in the first year, and then tapered off to a blazing twenty-three percent for the next three years.”

Andrew’s heart stopped. Cardiac arrest at the age of thirty-six. “Are you in fashion?” he asked helplessly.

“Wall Street,” she told him, casually studying her nails.

Holy, Alan Greenspan.

“Oh,” was all his razor-sharp wit could come up with.

Then she looked up, her face poker-steady, but the light blue eyes were saying something entirely different. “Next year’s market outlook?” she asked coolly. The words were a gauntlet, a threat…a turn-on.

So this was a game to her? Two could play at that, and Andrew’s smile turned predatory. “Slow in the first quarter, but gaining speed in the second, and third, and then a slight downturn in the fourth.”

She licked her lips, and he followed the provocative movement with his eyes. “Nope. First quarter is fast out of the gate.”

“What about the January affect?” he asked, his voice huskier than normal.

“Not a factor. Gains in the entertainment sector will outpace all others,” she said, one flirtatious thumb absently caressing her throat, a slow up and down motion that his whole body was following with avid attention.

His mouth opened, a high school caliber proposition sat on his tongue. And then he remembered his age, his college degrees, his supposed maturity. “What makes you say that?”

“The American consumer is ready to play.”

She was wrong, and he knew it. “Disagree,” he argued.

Furiously she shook her head until one wayward lock of hair fell loose from its rigid confine. The minx was toying with him, until his instincts honed in for the kill.

“The burgeoning consumer market is too crowded,” he continued. “Everywhere there’s distraction. More, more, more, everything pounding at the brain like a hammer. Eventually there’s steam, billowing smoke. Before the year is out it’s gonna implode because a consumer can only take so much before he erupts. It’s Krakatau, Vesuvius, Mt. St. Helens. Mark my words, it’ll blow.”

She leaned forward in her seat, one stocking-clad knee inches from his own. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. “That same stress will force the consumer to increasingly turn to things to take their mind off economics, politics, foreign affairs, and the price of oil. They’ll need to wind down, relax. TV, movies, gaming, the Net, those are the only things large enough to fill the void,” she said, her gaze locked with his, and his brain flickered off. His hands itched to pull the ponytail loose. His fingers curled, aching to follow the line of her throat, finding out what lay beneath the demure suit jacket. And his cock, well, his cock didn’t need an instruction manual. No, all current thinking was going on below the waist.

God in heaven, she was seducing him.

JAMIE PERCHED ON THE EDGE of her seat, waiting. She loved to debate, any excuse to argue, and Andrew was her biggest challenge yet. She felt primitive, carnal and exquisitely female.

Yeah, okay, admit it.

She was turned on.

She’d never felt this pull of animal attraction. The hard, dark eyes were no longer hard. The spark was definitely there. And that firm mouth kept luring her gaze, the pounding of her heart matching the telling pulse between her thighs. The soft cotton of her bra rubbed unbearably against her breasts. It was exhilarating, freeing…

Titillating.

All because he was indulging in a little monetary give and take. The electric shock was zooming straight to her head, among other places. She felt invincible, Xena, modern-day warrior princess, ready to turn Newhouse and his cow of a secretary into toast. With only a snap of her fingers, Jamie would have the poor man down on his knees, begging to sign on with her firm. But first things first.

There was another man she wanted down on his knees.

And she was looking right at him.

“CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING?” Andrew said, although he didn’t know what he would ask.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Jamie…” he started.

“Yes,” she said again, leaning in closer, until he could smell her. The last lingering of her perfume, the fibrous aroma of summer wool, and the hint of musky desire.

He closed his eyes, breathing her in.

“Jamie,” he tried again, but then suddenly he didn’t care anymore. All he cared about was touching her, exploring her. Andrew pulled her over and into his lap. He had a tremendous need to kiss that crooked mouth, and so he did.

He usually had more finesse, but his quick wits had slowed to a drugging crawl, and his body moved with a will of its own. Her lips were soft, pliable, open for him, and his tongue shot inside. She climbed closer into his lap, her hips toying with his cock, until he was ready to beg for mercy. His hand flew to the buttons on her blouse, working one, breaking two, and exposing a wonderfully proper, cotton bra.

“We shouldn’t,” she murmured in a voice that only egged him on, and then she sighed against his neck, pressing warm kisses there, her tongue playing in his ear.

“We should,” he answered. His hand moved to the fastening on the back of her bra, and he unclasped it in one try, which was a new record for him, last made in eighth grade at PS 117, when Erica Haberman cornered him in the boy’s bathroom.

He pulled the white cotton fabric to one side, exposing a pert, rosy nipple. He took it in his mouth, pulling, tasting, feasting. She moaned again, her head falling back, exposing the creamy white throat that had started it all.

His erection pulsed and strained against her. He wanted to touch flesh. He had to touch.

His hand reached down between her legs, finding a silky set of panty hose and he broke through easily, pushing one finger inside her.

She bucked on his lap, and he heard another moan. Deeper, longer. His.

Her hands clasped his shirt, first for support, and then her fingers worked to release the buttons, and she pulled it free, running her hands up and down his chest.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said.

He pushed her back against the long, bench seat, and slid the sensible dark skirt down her legs.

“I know,” he murmured against the creamy skin of her stomach. “You have beautiful legs,” he continued, not because he thought she had beautiful legs, but because he had never been so taken over by a woman before. He didn’t act on urges, he was the master of steely self-restraint. However, the close confines with her were killing him. He met her eyes, expecting to see the same odd, reckless urgency, but instead he found something that could have been nerves.

Nerves.

Cold reality intruded. What the hell was he doing? Andrew stopped the skirt-sliding because they were in a Hummer limo. Relative strangers.

For God sakes, they were in the financial industry.

“I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hands from her skirt, but he wasn’t a complete fool. They hovered nearby—just in case.

He waited, perched like a lion guarding his prey, his breath uneven. If he had more scruples, he would have moved back to his seat, but he couldn’t. Her look, half tailored, more than half mussed, entranced him. The jacket loose on her shoulders, the blouse pulled aside, exposing the firm swell of her breasts, one nipple coyly poking out, just to tempt his fingers, his mouth.

In a Hummer, for God’s sake…

JAMIE COULDN’T SPEAK even if she wanted to because her heart was pumping too fast. She wasn’t impulsive, she was strategic, but she’d never considered sex like this before.

Fast, furious. If he wanted her to fling her bra out of the roof, she was just turned on enough to do it. Anything to bring that taut mouth back to her breasts, anything to keep those glorious hands between her thighs.

And there he was, his dark eyes glazed with lust.

For her.

In that moment, she considered the wisdom of having a one-morning stand with a man she’d just met.

But he had gallantly offered her a ride to Connecticut.

“Ride” being the key concept, prompted her more cautious self.

He’s no Casanova, she argued back. He was either an award-winning actor, or he was as appalled by what was happening as she was. Overcome with passion, she thought with a romantic sigh. She’d never overcome Todd with passion before; their matings were planned, scheduled, and scripted. This exuberance of passion from her was new. Maybe this was a rebound response?

She studied his face. Anxious dark eyes were watching her, not forcing her into something she didn’t want to do, not even coaxing her into something she didn’t want to do. Damn.

Dark, crisp hair coated his chest, tempting her fingers. He tempted her. His mind was sharp as a tack, yet he was chivalrous, and okay, built.

On the other hand, he was a man. A man who belonged to that rare three percent of the gender who would never coax. Instead he would let the woman choose her own poison, relieving him of all conscience and responsibility.

God, that meant he was probably in upper management.

The scintilating thought was enough to push her one step closer to the edge.

Slut, screamed her proper side.

Delicious, said the other.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked him, preparing to forsake the whole experience if he wasn’t prepared. If he said, “yes,” it would be fate, because he didn’t look like a man who carried a condom in his wallet.

Anxiety pulled at her nerves while she waited for his response. Behind her back, her fingers were crossed, because deep in her heart, she wanted her sensible half to lose.

“UH,”HE ANSWERED.

“That’s a ‘no,’” she announced with regret in her voice, raising herself on her elbows, the shirt lapels sliding closed.

Sadly he shook his head, but then he remembered something. A mere figment in the back of his mind. The night of Kevin’s wedding reception.

Did he still have it?

He fished out his wallet, and snapped it open, and there he found the gold coin inscribed with “Kevin and Marlene, 6/15/2005.”

He blessed his old college roommate in that moment. “A wedding souvenir.”

“Fate,” she murmured.

“Indubitably,” he said, and ripped the top off his salvation. “You’re sure?” he asked one more time because he wanted her to be.

She gave one definite nod, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

In less than two heartbeats he was inside her.

Damn.

Andrew froze, reliving the thrill of being surrounded by woman. His whole body burned with pleasure, and he took a moment just to feel. She was tight, wet, fitting him like a glove. Her eyes clouded with emotion, soft and welcoming. Then her thighs moved, tightened around him, and all the softness disappeared. This was fire, heat, the same hot flame he was feeling.

Slowly he began to move inside her, testing her depths, seeing what she liked, discovering what she loved. There was only one condom, so this was a one-time offer, and he wanted to make it last forever—or at least the two hours that it took to make it to Connecticut.

3

WHAT HAD SHE DONE?

Jamie struggled into her clothes, the post-orgasmic passion cooling to her normally level-headed nature. The hose were beyond repair, but if there was a drug store near the Newhouse building, she might have time to get new ones.

Studiously she avoided looking at Andrew, difficult to do in the confined space of the vehicle, but with a stubbornness born to a fifth-generation Scot, she managed.

He was already shrugging into his shirt, the neatly starched linen not quite so proper anymore. Secretly she admired the strong lines of his chest. He didn’t look like the gym-rat type, but those pecs weren’t iron-on tattoos, either.

Ever since she had set foot in this awful car, she’d been off her game. Maybe it was the car, maybe it was him, maybe it was the way he sparked her pulse, touched her skin, kissed her like a sexy, desirable female.

The last shimmers of passion were still glowing inside her, which couldn’t be allowed because she had a huge presentation in…She checked her watch.

Ten minutes ago.

Jamie rubbed the back of her neck, trying to rub away the disappointment, too. It didn’t work.

“I should call you,” he said, and her panicked gaze collided with his.

“Please don’t assume,” she started, and then trailed off miserably. Somehow the situation would have been easier if the sex had been mediocre, or even better, awful. But nooo…

They had had great sex.

In a Hummer.

And what if he’d ruined her sex life forever? What if she was destined—cursed—to only enjoy cheap, tawdry sex with complete strangers?

It was a nightmare of stupendous proportion.

“You don’t want me to call? You’re involved, aren’t you?” he said, and to her ears, he sounded relieved.

Quickly she nodded. A white lie, but lies were made to get people out of jams.

Her cell phone rang, rescuing her from further conversations or recriminations.

“McNamara here.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. McNamara, but Mr. Newhouse will be unable to wait any longer for your meeting.”

Her gaze shifted to her briefcase, boring through it, letting all her tensions narrow into one tight beam. She pushed away all thoughts of hunky guy and mangled hose, letting experience and twenty years of educational instruction whip her into shape.

With one hand, she pulled her hair back into the ponytail with a single hard twist and a tight snap of the rubber band. Her ritual complete, all brain cells now back on line and fully functioning.

“Sandy, I can you call you Sandy, can’t I?” She recrossed her legs, confidence flowing back in her veins. “I don’t need much time today. We can reschedule into thirty minutes rather than the previous hour. Don’t let me down, Sandy. And you know what? Maybe I can repay you with dinner tonight. I bet you know all the best places, in fact—” she whipped out her online Zagats, fingers flying “—there’s a fabulous little French place I’d love to try, La—”

“Finis, Ms. McNamara. Mr. Newhouse is already overbooked this afternoon and this morning’s power mishap in the city has only made things even more impossible.”

“Impossible, as a word, is highly overrated, Sandy. You sound stressed. Have you been to the day spa up in the Berkshires? If you’d like, I can set you up—”

“Hold, please, while I get the other line.”

“Of course,” purred Jamie, talking to dead air. She noticed Andrew watching her, measuring her job performance and her trampled pride kicked in. She flashed him a confident smile and began to speak into her cell, in low, overhearable tones.

“He is? Perfect! I think we can arrange to discuss that as well. And the new offerings, too? I’m sure he’ll be very pleased. B-W believes in the highest services available.”

She waited three beats.

“Of course we’re available for whatever financial needs—”

“Excuse me, Ms. McNamara, were you speaking to me?”

Sandy the Gorgon had returned.

“Another call,” Jamie snapped, her face heating up, refusing to look in Andrew’s direction. “About that later appointment. Maybe fourish?”

“Mr. Newhouse is unavailable. I don’t know how to be more direct.”

Jamie pitched her voice low. “Just ten minutes after lunch. I don’t need much time. And he really needs to hear what I have to—”

“Perhaps I wasn’t being clear.”

At that, Jamie’s stomach curdled. She glanced out the window, the rolling hills of Connecticut whizzing by. Too little, too late.

“I’m only ten minutes from the office,” she tried, hoping that the steno-taking Gorgon had a heart.

Sandy the heartless Gorgon hung up.

“Problem?” asked Andrew.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said with a tight smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sensing that maybe her year had just been shot straight to hell, and thinking that one apology, accompanied by a sexy, yet insightful regard would make it all better.

What a chauvinist.

“It’s certainly not your fault,” she answered, although she wanted to blame him. She wanted to blame ConEd, the Metropolitan Transit Authority, and possibly the entire planet, because first and foremost, when it came to business, Jamie never lost.

“I could try and reschedule my lunch plans,” he offered, still trying for helpful and Boy Scoutish, which only increased her anger.

“Look, I don’t need your help. I don’t need your assistance. I don’t need your pity. I’m a Wellesley grad, you know. Summa Cum Laude,” she added, because she needed to assert herself—regain her footing.

“What a surprise,” he said, so innocently she was immediately suspicious.

When a Boy Scout turned snarky, it was time for a rethink. “I’m sorry. It’s been an awful day,” she offered, rubbing her neck, working to ease the perpetual ridges of tension.

He raised his eyebrows, his dark eyes holding something more than a spark. Now they held a memory. The squishiness in her thighs bloomed anew.

Bitchy as she felt, she wasn’t completely vile. “No, that part was nice.”

Slowly he bowed his head. “My vanity thanks you.”

“Somehow I don’t think your vanity needs it.”

“Strokes are always…” He covered his eyes. “Strike that.”

His discomfort struck something within her, because she felt it, too. Carnal overtones were still thick and heavy in the air, a new experience for Jamie, an experience that made her want to clutch her briefcase to her chest. It was her crutch, she knew it, she admitted it, and she wasn’t going to loosen her grip.

Her fingers itched to get a bite of chocolate from her briefcase, but he would see it as a weakness, so she made a fist instead.

“Can you have the driver let me off at the train station in Stamford?”

“You’re just going to sit and wait until the trains are running again? At least let him take you back to the city.”

He didn’t seem to understand that she had to leave this pleasure-cruise on wheels. The smell of sex, cologne and newsprint mingling together into a potent aphrodisiac was weakening her mind, and she couldn’t have that. This was an experience best forgotten, or if not forgotten, then at least filed in the “Mistakes I’ll never make again” folder.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“If it’s the cost, don’t worry. I’ll pick it up.”

Like she was some minimum-wage slacker. “I can manage my own finances, thank you.”

“Just a gesture, not a judgment on your earning potential.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not usually like that.” It was a lie. She usually was. Her nickname at the office wasn’t Porcupine for nothing. Her coworkers didn’t think she knew, but jokes spread, and one day she entered the break room one minute too early. Thinking fast on her feet, she pretended she didn’t hear—pretended her cell conversation was still going on.

She’d fooled them all, but she wasn’t sure she could fool Andrew. She pulled out her computer and began to work, shutting out Hummer limos, great sex, the uncomfortable dampness between her thighs, and Andrew. Well, not quite Andrew.

The quiet in the car grew to ear-blasting levels. The flick of fingers on the keyboard, the rustle of papers, and the sound of two people desperate to avoid a conversation.

Her in-box wasn’t even cleared when the driver announced they’d arrived.

“So soon?” she said, a poor joke, but she wasn’t feeling happy. Explaining to her boss about missing Newhouse wasn’t going to be easy. Rain, sleet, snow or power outages. Nothing would deter Bond-Worthington.

Until today.

Jamie pulled out two twenties from her wallet, not enough to cover her share, but it was all the cash she had on her. “You can bill me for the rest,” she told him, because she didn’t like debts, not to credit card companies, not to people.

“I can take care of it…” he started, but apparently noticed the militant gleam in her eyes. “So how do I get in touch with you?” he asked, trapping her neatly.

Reluctantly, she pulled out her business card, and he tucked it away in his breast pocket. “I won’t abuse it. Swear.”

“You’re a nice man,” she started.

He held up a hand. “Not the ‘nice man’ speech.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Then why don’t you want to go out?” he asked, a perfectly logical question, which told her he hadn’t bought her earlier “I’m involved” lie. He’d probably thought no man could be involved with such a bitch.

And if the dog collar fits…So why did he want to see her again?

She noticed the torn stockings lying in the corner and sighed, a very visual clue why he wanted to see her again. Now seemed the time to share the cold, hard truth.

“I watch one hour of TV every day, the national news and Lou Dobbs. I’m on a first name basis with the delivery man from Golden Noodle. I rarely see the sunrise because I’m already at work, and I don’t like chick-flicks.”

“You watch Lou Dobbs, too?”

“I’m not who you think I am—I’m not a woman who has sex in a Hummer with a stranger. At least not normally,” she muttered after a pause.

“You think that’s the only reason I want to see you again?”

She chose not to answer, instead lugging her briefcase out of the car. Andrew would be a hi-def memory. Something to tuck away into the ten most memorable mistakes she’d made in her life. In a Hummer.

With a regretful sigh, Jamie walked away. Mistakes were not to be repeated. Ever.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the world righted itself. The trains ran, and Jamie returned to Lower Manhattan. The elevator ride to the thirty-eighth floor of Two World Financial Center would have been easier with a knife sticking out of her gut. With each passing floor, Jamie’s dread grew by percentages unheard of in the financial sector.

A power outage was normally a valid excuse for dealus interruptus, but Jamie was senior client relations manager extraordinaire, the legendary sales specialist who brought in the infamous Joe Tableone because she knew exactly what forty-year-old bottle of Scotch he coveted. Thomas Harris Winchell III had been persuaded to try out Bond-Worthington for a year, simply because she promised he’d never go back—well, that and a free bump to their Platinum level of customer service. Three years later, he was still a satisfied Bond-Worthington client. No, when it came to client relations, nobody could touch Jamie McNamara.

But today there was no joy on Wall Street, because Mighty Jamie had struck out. Okay, so she was being overly dramatic, but the truth was that she’d been somewhat confident when bragging about her ability to bag Newhouse for the firm. Modesty never got you anything, but a seat at the back of the room.