Beyond Breathless

The elevator doors slid open with a discreet whoosh, and Jamie walked the sensible gray carpet, down cubicle alley to Walter’s office. Her eyes stayed glued ahead, the better to ignore the knowing looks shooting in her direction.

“McNamara, how did it go?”

Jamie stopped and turned to face a cheerful intern, Sanji Dykstra. Sanji was both genuine and happy, a breed apart from the usual blood-thirsty crop of Ivy Leaguers betting their fortunes at a brokerage house.

His round, coffee-colored face and brown, guileless eyes would doom him to failure in the industry, but he had less than eighteen months to graduation, and she didn’t have the heart to crush his dreams.

Jamie shot Sanji a thumbs-up. “I’ve got him just where I want him,” she answered, and continued the long, solitary walk.

Then another head popped up from the alley. A blond, coiffed one, with hair way more manageable than the traditional McNamara do.

“What happened to your hose, Jamie?” asked Lindsey Feldenberg, another intern, not quite as guileless as Sanji.

“A cat jumped on my leg. Very weird. Probably a reaction from some chemical fumes in the area. Made it freak. Nasty business. I had to ditch the hose. Torn to bits,” she ended.

“I don’t see any claw marks,” Lindsey said, blinking her big, blue eyes, but her voice was ice cold. “Nothing but lily-white skin.”

Lindsey didn’t like Jamie, and she’d made it very clear from the first day. Jamie was the competition and Lindsey thought she could outperform her. Lindsey had even told her that while calmly sipping from her coffee.

As an intern? Ha. When pigs fly.

Jamie had kept her mouth shut, but Lindsey’s constant innuendo’s were starting to draw blood.

“My skin is very thick. Claws don’t leave marks.”

Lindsey looked like she might argue, but then realized the uselessness of that action, and sat down with a slightly muffled, “Bullshit.”

Jamie smiled sweetly. “Gesundheit.”

Walter’s office loomed ahead like the dark basement in a horror film. She considered running back to her desk for the spare set of hose she kept in the bottom drawer, or possibly a sharp pencil to stab in her eye, but she’d gotten this far, and Lindsey, the eagled-eyed wonder would make a big to-do, and Walter really didn’t care if she walked around in a bathrobe as long as she brought in the deals.

Helen, Walter’s secretary, guarded the heavy paneled doors with a Fort Knox-like zeal. She was five years from retirement, and had been Walter’s secretary since he started. With her tight gray curls and trembling mouth, she could have worked in a bakeshop, or been someone’s kindly grandmother, but when crossed, Helen grew long, wicked fangs and could outglare even the nastiest nasty.

Which was why Jamie loved her.

“Afternoon, Helen. He asked for me to stop by when I got back.”

“Yes, dear. He’s on the phone with the auditors. Be careful. He’s in a particularly foul mood today.”

Damn, damn, double damn. “You told him the meeting got cancelled?” asked Jamie.

Helen nodded. “Hit him right after lunch with the bad news, just like you asked.”

“Thanks for helping,” Jamie answered, then took a deep breath, preparing to wrestle the lion in his den. After a quick run-through of all possible excuses, she opened the door, entering the world of high-luxe.

The vice presidential offices at Bond-Worthington were old-school. Mahogany paneling, the requisite trophy wall littered with degrees, and padded leather chairs that both rocked and rolled. A VP at B-W wouldn’t be caught dead with an art print or a family photo, or any bit of evidence to indicate you didn’t eat, breath, sleep and ruminate solely for the firm. There were rules on Wall Street, and Jamie had learned early on to follow them to the tenth decimal place.

“Afternoon, Walter,” she said, shooting for cheerful and confident. She seated herself in front of his desk with one tiny rock of her chair to convey the necessary arrogance.

Walter harrumphed. You could judge his emotional well-being by the way he cleared his throat. Low and guttural was bad. Clenched teeth and a tick meant the coast was clear. Today’s forecast was afternoon storms. He peered out over silver-framed rims, just as a vice president of Financial Opportunities should.

“You let me down, McNamara. Failed me. I needed you to go out and hit a long ball, instead you stood at the plate while Newhouse threw you three breaking balls. Some other execs, you might have been able to stare them down, but Newhouse is one tough cookie.”

“I know, Walter. I’m working to get on his calendar again.”

“But when, McNamara? When?” He got up and stood at the window, pointing to the view of the Statue of Liberty. “See that? That’s New York. Priciest real estate in the continental U.S. And do you know how we can afford a view like this? Performance, performance, performance. Our team is the best, Jamie. We deliver every time we step up to the plate. Every time. You’re at the plate. You need to deliver.”

Jamie cleared her throat, low and guttural. “Got it, boss. The power outage—”

“Admit it. You got caught with your pants down.”

She jerked forward, her conscience working overtime. How could he possibly…Then she relaxed. Of course he didn’t know that it wasn’t her fine Italian wool pants that had been down, exposing the tightest butt her hands had ever explored.

Instinctively, her hips rolled forward.

No, no, no.

“We must prepare for all contingencies,” Walter continued. “Do you know how many times the power has gone down in the city? Two point three annually since 1970. Two contributing factors. Weather and construction. Look at that April sky! Not a cloud in it, but hear those jackhammers pounding away?”

Jamie nodded, mainly to humor him. On the thirty-eighth floor, they heard nothing but the occasional whistling of the wind. It wasn’t time for semantics.

“Construction. Why do you think we keep a backup generator in this building? Our clients count on us; they expect us to be here day in, day out. 24/7. At Bond-Worthington, we anticipate a market movement before it happens. Before it happens.”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Jamie swallowed and continued to nod, trying to listen, needing to listen, but instead little scraps of memory played in her head.

Andrew.

There was such uncontrolled heat, such—wickedness in their lovemaking. She felt a giggle rise in her throat. It was like a soap opera or something. Jamie had neat, orderly sex, not wild monkey sex.

Primly she crossed her legs tighter.

But that didn’t stop the tingles.

“Don’t let it happen again, McNamara.”

Guilty as charged.

Jamie looked up and met Walter’s paternal gaze. She was his protégée, his pet, and a morning mambo in a Hummer wasn’t going to do anything to advance her career. Hell, at thirty-two, she was well past the optimal dating age, well past the morning mambo age, too. No, her path was well-defined and well-trod. She wouldn’t disappoint. She placed her feet firmly on the floor and stood up, ramrod straight.

“It’s not going to happen again, sir.”

He gave one curt nod. “Knock him dead, McNamara.”

And with that, Jamie walked out, leaving all the tingles behind her.

4

SUZIE Q WAS ONE OF New York’s most exclusive gentleman’s clubs. The girls were legendary for their movie-star looks and machine-gun breasts, but Andrew ignored the undulating skin, instead choosing to stare into the murky gold liquid of his beer.

The day had been entirely wasted. Instead of analyzing the first quarter figures for Nikolson-Ploughing Pharmaceuticals, he’d stared at the numbers, remembering the awed expression that had flashed through Jamie’s eyes as he’d moved inside her.

And after work, he’d thought he could catch up. Wrong, the memories were still there, and for the first time in longer than he could recall, the stock market wasn’t so fascinating. Spending a Friday night at some bachelor party, burning a few more brain cells seemed justified. Besides, due to the lucky condom souvenir from Kevin’s bachelor party, it seemed preordained. When Jeff had showed up at his door, he shrugged and went along like a happy, sated lemming.

Sated being the optimal word. This morning with Jamie was probably the pinnacle of his sexual career, a conquest to file away under the heading Top Ten Best Ever.

Damn, he’d been good.

His body twitched in appreciation.

There’d been this electric connection with Jamie. Something he hadn’t felt in so long, he’d thought it was dead. She’d made him feel—primal, a masculine instrument of phallic proportions, created for the sole purpose of pleasing his mate.

Sure, Andrew was used to pleasing women, but they only saw the image—rich, single, not too shabby in the looks department. Andrew could be impotent, and women would throw themselves in his direction because the package was something they wanted.

But not Jamie.

He smiled, remembering the feel of her full breasts in his hands. Now that—

“Earth to Andrew.” Jarred out of the steamy fantasy, Andrew looked up, and found his brother staring at him curiously. “There’s only one thing that can put that drunken leer on your face, bro. A ten percent uptick in the market.”

Jeff was three years younger than Andrew by birth, but light years off in emotional maturity. With proper guidance and a firm hand, he’d probably wise up—in another forty years.

Andrew took a long draw on his beer, mainly to shake off the remaining memories of the morning. “I can appreciate the female figure just as much as any man.”

“Only if she’s wearing a calculator. Wake up and smell the cheesecake, bro. We’re in the land of Bacchus & Boobs.” To prove his point, Jeff pointed to the main stage where a perfectly proportioned Barbie doll was grinding against a pole, her bare breasts sliding up and down, up and down, up and—

Okay, Andrew wasn’t dead.

“It’s a nice place,” he offered lamely.

“Are you completely insane?” Jeff signaled for the waitress. “You need to live, Andrew. You’re going to die, and they won’t be able to shoot embalming fluid inside you, because your blood turned to stone a long time ago.”

“One of you is all this family can afford.”

“Because I’m a slave to the lure of the feminine mystique? That’s totally unjustified.”

“Actually, if all you did was look, I wouldn’t be worried. One of these days, you’re going to hook up with the wrong girl and parts of you are going to start falling off.”

A waitress came up to Jeff, climbing into his lap as if she belonged there, or at least could be rented for a fifteen-minute interval.

“You’re ancient, Andrew,” he continued without missing a step. “These are the best years of our lives, and you’re throwing it all away.” As Andrew watched, Jeff slipped a twenty in her G-string and the waitress stroked Jeff’s cheek, her hand drifting down to his lap.

“Drinks?” she asked.

“Two shots of Jagermeister.”

Alarmed, Andrew started to protest. “Oh, no.”

Jeff flashed him an evil grin, as the waitress wiggled back to her feet. “Oh, yes. In fact—” He patted one sculpted butt cheek “—make it six.”

She brushed against him, a flirtatious shimmy of silicone. “Whatever you need, honey. Just call.”

A mere four shots later, Andrew had developed a new appreciation for his brother’s Bohemian way of life. That was the beauty of the public relations business Jeff was in—they didn’t make shit, but by God, they knew how to have fun.

Jeff pointed a swaying finger in the groom-to-be’s direction, some doofus in a brown shirt that Jeff had called Peter when they had first come in. Said victim was currently enjoying a lap dance from Trixie, Dixie, something “ixie.”

“Andrew, how old are you?”

“Thirty-three, no, thirty-six. Definitely thirty-six.”

His brother stared balefully. “And when’s the last time you got laid.”

Andrew didn’t hesitate to reply. “Eleven-seventeen a.m. On the Connecticut turnpike.”

And for once, Jeff Brooks, legendary media spin-master, had no words. Eventually his mouth closed, and Andrew’s glow only increased. “I don’t believe it. You can’t have sex while driving. I’ve tried. Doesn’t work.”

“Can in a limo.”

“A limo?”

“A Hummer,” murmured Andrew, pleased that for once, his exploits could be bandied about in locker-room talk.

“Nah. I don’t believe it. You’ve been reading Penthouse again, haven’t you?”

Andrew crossed his heart. “Swear. We both needed to get to Connecticut, the trains were shut down. I gave her a ride.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“A Hummer?” Jeff lifted his glass. “I have sold you short all these years. Damn, bro. What else have you been holding out on?”

“Lots,” lied Andrew, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Who was she?”

“Can’t name names,” answered Andrew, though he might be drunk, he was a gentlemanly drunk.

“Model?” was Jeff’s first guess, because he couldn’t comprehend a woman off the runway.

“Wall Street.”

Jeff just shook his head, letting a dancer slip into his lap. “Give us a kiss,” he told her, and the redhead complied. When she had withdrawn her tongue from Jeff’s tonsils, Jeff’s fuzzy gaze returned to Andrew. “I don’t believe it.”

Andrew just shrugged.

“Was it good?”

“Five stars.”

“Five minutes,” scoffed Jeff.

“Try ninety, little brother.”

The dancer looked at Andrew with new and more appreciative eyes. Andrew flashed her a grin. Let her dream.

“You are lying your ass off.”

Andrew shrugged and lifted another shot glass. “Don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said, before sending the shooter down his throat. He put a fifty in the redhead’s G-string. He’d regret it in the morning, but right now he felt like a king. “Buy yourself a drink.”

She made a move to climb into his lap, but he waved her off. “Save it for the ones who really need it.”

She looked a little miffed, and then walked away.

“Why did you do that?”

“I just saved you a thousand bucks, Jeff.”

“Does it always have to be about money? I can take care of myself. I’m an adult.”

“Only according to the laws of the great state of New York.”

“You just don’t want to admit we don’t need you anymore.”

Andrew frowned, the alcoholic haze dimming some. The fleeting panic abated as he realized his brother wasn’t serious. “I paid for your rent,” he said to remind his little brother about the rules of order in the family hierarchy.

“Not in the last six years.”

Andrew frowned into his shot glass. “I paid for your college. Harvard. Stanford. Good places, not cheap. You could’ve picked a state school, but no…”

“I paid you back.”

But not the interest, thought Andrew to himself.

Jeff read his mind. “I’ll write you a check. What do you say, five percent interest fair? Hell, I’ll give you eight,” he offered quickly.

Andrew attempted to smile. “Keep it. Consider it a gift,” he said, not because he was overly generous, but because he couldn’t give up that last hold over his family.

“Tell me about the mystery woman.”

“Not much to say.”

“She’s a dog?”

Andrew’s head shot up. “Bite your tongue. Not flashy, but she’s got something. Sexy, but in an understated way.”

“Stacked?”

Andrew used his hands, thinking until he got Jamie’s size right.

Jeff slapped him on the back again, and Andrew held onto the bar to keep from toppling. His head was starting to spin, the hangover already starting, and who knew what sort of trouble his brother could get them into.

“We should leave,” Andrew said. “I’ll have to break out the credit cards if we stay much longer.”

“You, using a credit card? It’s one of the Four Signs of the Apocalypse. We definitely should leave.”

“Are you calling me cheap?”

“Did you send flowers to the mystery woman? Or perfume or lingerie?”

“She’s not the type.”

Actually, Jamie McNamara defied a type. Yeah, she was hard as nails, but when she got the “oh, shit” call, he’d watched her in action. Pushy, but not obnoxious. Resolved even after her butt had been wirelessly kicked from Connecticut to California and back. Still, she got over it. She had picked herself up, brushed herself off, and sashayed away, never missing a step. Hell, Andrew had employees that couldn’t do half that. No, she was one in a billion, and the sex had been one in a billion, too.

Maybe Jeff was on to something here.

Jeff looked at his brother through the empty shot glass. “Not the type? All women are the type.”

“Not this one.”

“You should at least send her something. An abacus.”

Andrew frowned.

“That’s a joke,” his brother said.

“What would you send her?” Andrew asked, because the more he thought about it, the more he realized his brother was right.

“Lingerie. Classy, but sexy. Not slutty. Women like it when you don’t think like a man. Classy is about as far as you can go and still be labeled sensitive.”

“No lingerie. Bad idea.”

“Chocolate. Or a spa treatment.”

A spa treatment? Andrew remembered the way Jamie kept rubbing her neck. A massage wouldn’t be a bad idea. His hands flexed, thinking of the bare, ivory shoulders, knotted with tension. He’d start with the neck, then work his way down…

“A professional,” Jeff interrupted.

Andrew locked his hands away. “I knew that.” If he gave her a gift, simply as a gesture to indicate his gratitude for…no, strike that. Gratitude was all wrong. “Thinking of you,” he murmured. “I need something that says ‘thinking of you.’”

Jeff shook his head. “Mistake, Andrew. I know the female mind. It’s a dangerous bear trap, jaws open wide, one wrong move and—BAM!” Jeff clapped his hands together. “You’re history, never to experience sex in a Hummer again.”

“Can we move past that?”

“You were the one bragging about it.”

“I wasn’t bragging.”

“You’re still the one who brought it up.”

“Only to prove my point.”

“You still brought it up.”

Andrew rubbed his eyes. “We can’t be related. It’s impossible.”

“Give me a break. I’m tons better than Mercedes.”

Andrew latched onto the subject of their sister with relief. “Have you talked to her recently? She never returned my call from Tuesday.”

“She’s probably still pissed because you didn’t cosign for that apartment.”

“She’s twenty-five, she should be able to manage her own things. Anyway, the place was a dump, way overpriced, and there’s no grocery within twenty blocks.”

“You checked it out?”

“Of course.”

“Can’t cut the cord, can you?”

Andrew got up. “Can we leave?”

“What are you going to give the Hummer Honey? Tell me and then we leave,” answered Jeff, sticking to his bar stool like glue.

“Don’t call her that.”

“If I had a real name…”

“Hell will freeze first.”

“Okay, but you need to send her something. That coupling was a monumental achievement in your life, a shining light in a love life that was previously best described as ‘blah.’”

“Ass.”

“Send her something.”

Andrew slapped a fifty on the counter. “Let’s go before I bankrupt myself. Give the victim, uh, the groom, my regards.”

“Who?” asked Jeff, a confused, slightly drunk grin on his face.

“Peter? Remember?”

Jeff nodded. “Oh, yeah.” He lifted a hand and waved in the general direction of everyone.

There was something rotten in this joint, and it wasn’t the gin. “There never was a bachelor party, was there?”

“I lied.” Jeff threw an arm around his older brother. “Just practicing a little quality family time.”

“Freeloading. That’s what you’re doing. At two hundred bucks an hour.”

“I love you, man.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Go to hell,” he said, with the very best familial overtone. But he did owe his brother something; Andrew needed to find the perfect gift for one Jamie McNamara. Unfortunately, he had no idea what that perfect gift would be.

SATURDAY MORNING, ANDREW AWOKE with a large hangover and the firm belief that someone was pounding a hammer inside his head. He rolled over, trying to bury his head in a pillow, but instead he rolled off his own couch.

Damn.

This was all his brother’s fault.

If not for Jeff, he wouldn’t have had God only knows how many shots, he would have made it all the way to his bed and gotten a perfectly marvelous night’s sleep—weaving elaborate fantasies around Jamie McNamara, her long legs, tight rear, firm, gravity-defying breasts…

Okay, he probably wouldn’t have gotten any sleep, but at least his head wouldn’t sound like a construction site.

Cautiously, he tried to stand, but something kept pulling at him. He opened his other eye and realized that his currently still-attached tie was stuck between the couch cushions.

Jeff was really going to feel pain for this. Andrew wasn’t exactly sure how, but an innocent, honorable man shouldn’t have to suffer this much from alcohol.

He unknotted his tie and threw it over the nearest chair. He looked down at the wrinkled shirt and pants, but there were more important problems to address.

Namely his head.

Aspirin. That was what he needed. He took two halting steps toward the bathroom and realized the pounding wasn’t coming from his brain, it was coming from outside in the hallway.

Andrew flung open the door, only to be greeted with an empty space. Then the hammering began again.

Two doors down.

A young guy stood at the door, curly-haired in torn jeans and a rocker-chain snaking out from one pocket.

The guy looked up and quickly looked away.

Andrew scowled.

From the far end of the hallway, another door opened and Estelle Feldman peered over her security chain. The octogenarian resident of 43B had occupied the place since the early sixties, or at least that’s what George the doorman had told Andrew.

Old Lady Feldman glared at the door pounder at 43C, then hmmmmppphed before slamming her door closed—hard. The shot echoed inside Andrew’s head.

He closed his door, wondering why everyone had to be up at seven thirty on a Saturday morning. Actually, Andrew was normally up at five thirty on a Saturday morning, and if hadn’t been for all those shots…

Damn it, Jeff, he thought, applying blame where it belonged. Squarely on Jeff’s shoulders.

He plodded into the bathroom, popped four aspirins, and then made some extra-strength coffee.

At some point in time, he was going to have to work.

But then he collapsed back on his couch, putting the pillow over his head, letting the aspirin work its magic. The cottony fabric was plump and reminded him of Jamie’s breasts. He smiled and pulled the pillow closer.

At some point in time, he would go back to work. However, Andrew calculated that there were at least three hours of elaborate fantasies that he’d missed out on.

Right now, he intended to make up for it.

BRIGHT AND EARLY MONDAY morning, before the rest of the suits arrived, Jamie found a small package on her desk. Glimmering silver wrapping paper, trimmed with an overlay of flowers, and a red velvet bow. Elegant, but the outer covering didn’t give her a clue about what was inside, who had sent it, or where it came from.

Never one to stand around and contemplate the issue, she dove right in, fingers flying. Jamie loved surprises, loved the thrill of opening presents, mainly because no one in her family was impulsive. Christmas and birthdays were about the only time when a plan wasn’t created, discussed, implemented, and then followed up by the requisite postmortem critique of how they as a family could do better.