Taking Care of Business

Taking Care of Business

Kathy Lyons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

One night, my fiancé had a huge project due at work that required a ton of data entry. Because I loved him, I agreed to help. We finally got it done at 2:00 a.m. when, flushed with elation, we realized that we were alone in a huge office building. And given that he worked in an electronics firm, my mind quickly danced through a zillion gadget and gizmo fantasies.

I will never tell what exactly happened that night, but suffice it to say that I had much more imagination than stamina. I will also confess that we did not resort to raiding the lab. Turns out there’s a lot you can do in an office that has nothing to do with high-end electronics!

So there you have it. My deep, dark secret: I have office fantasies. Thankfully, I was able to put some of them to paper in Taking Care of Business. It helps that I modeled my hero after my own special geek of a husband, a man with more integrity than sense, more heart than hunkiness. Hopefully you’ll fall in love with him as quickly as I did.

Sincerely,

Kathy Lyons

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Copyright

1

THANK GOD FOR COFFEE, James Samuel Finn thought as he reached for his triple venti latte.

“I made it extra sweet,” said the barista with a smile. “You look like you could use it this morning.”

Sam gave her a rueful smile as he dropped a generous tip in the jar. “At least I got the project done.”

“Good for you,” she quipped as she turned to the next customer.

Yes, Sam thought as he took that first glorious sip. Good for him, but more importantly, good for his company. He’d stayed up all night putting together the prototype, hence the celebratory latte. He just had time to polish up the presentation, change out of his lab coveralls, and make it to the board meeting at ten. And didn’t he just feel like the genius inventor that everyone thought he was.

“Get out of the way, you old bat!” bellowed a cabbie. “You’re blocking the road!”

Sam started, looking up from his drink and blinking rapidly against the bright sunlight. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the problem. An older woman, probably in her seventies, was trying to parallel park an old Crown Victoria. The thing was too big for downtown Chicago parking spaces, and the woman was too short to see well over the dash as she inched her way into the spot. Meanwhile, traffic was backing up behind her, led by one extremely irate cab driver.

“Come on, lady. You shouldn’t be driving, and you know it!”

“That’s enough!” Sam snapped as he stepped forward. The woman needed help, not insults. He stepped out into traffic, completely blocking the cab who was now trying to squeeze his car around hers. The bastard started cursing up a blue streak, but Sam ignored him. Instead, he gestured for the woman to roll down her window.

She did, and he gently began directing her into the parking spot. It wasn’t that hard. Once she had someone else’s eyes to rely on, she relaxed and the car slid easily into place.

“Oh, thank you!” she breathed gratefully. “The parking garage was full, and I didn’t know what else to do! I never come out into the city, but my grandson fell and broke his teeth, and this was the only time the dentist had available. Usually my daughter …”

She rambled on, obviously still upset. Meanwhile, the cabbie finally streaked past, throwing more insults as he left.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said as he waved to the eight-year-old in the back seat. “Those guys give Chicago a bad name.”

“No, no,” the woman said as she finally killed the engine. “He’s right. I should get a smaller car, but we can’t afford it. And this old monstrosity has been with me for twenty years.”

Sam’s tired brain kicked into gear as she got her grandson out of the car and headed toward the dentist. She was a perfect candidate for his prototype. He’d designed a strip of sensors that attached to anything—robot, wheelchair, massively old car—and gave a beautiful display that anyone could read. There was even a state-of-the-art verbal interface. Making a sudden decision, Sam popped open his cell phone and called Roger, his best friend and CFO.

An hour later, the grandson’s teeth were done, Sam’s coveralls were streaked with street grime and engine grease, and the Crown Victoria had his brand-new prototype attached to its body. He’d even rigged a dashboard attachment for the display.

“See,” he explained to Mrs. Evans. “You won’t have any problems maneuvering out of the parking spot now. You can see right on the display exactly how far you can move.”

“Why, it’s just like on those fancy new cars!”

Sam nodded. The system was actually a great deal more powerful than what was in new-model vehicles, but that wasn’t important to Mrs. Evans. All she cared about was that she’d be able to park with confidence now, even in her huge Crown Vic.

“We’ll be in contact in a few weeks to find out how it’s working out for you,” he said as she started up her car. Then he stepped back and watched her maneuver out of her parking spot like a champ. She was halfway down the street when Roger finally spoke up.

“You realize that equipment is worth far more than her car.”

“We need real-world testing,” he answered as he took a sip of his latte. Damn, it had gone cold. He’d been so hurried trying to get the prototype installed before Kevin’s teeth were done that he hadn’t drunk his latte. Now it was ice cold.

“Yes,” Roger concurred, “but we need to test it in harsh environments like a NASA test center or a deep ocean oil rig.”

“Chicago city streets are a harsh environment,” Sam shot back.

“Yeah? And what are you going to show to the board in …” Roger glanced at his watch. “In less than an hour?”

Sam grimaced as he threw away his latte and headed into the office building, Roger trailing behind. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll think of something.”

“This isn’t the time to be taking big risks, you know. Did you look at the last spreadsheets I sent you? Not just opened the email, but actually read it?”

Sam nodded absently as they entered the building. Usually, he’d go to the back service elevator, especially since his coveralls were covered in grime. But a vision in yellow swept past him, and Sam’s libido took control. Instead of turning left, he swung right to follow the woman. Or maybe he was just trying to ditch Roger.

Unfortunately, his right-hand man was not so easily distracted. “I’ve put together a slick package to distract the board,” he was saying, “but they certainly have read the spreadsheets, even if you haven’t. Please tell me—”

“Who’s that woman?” Sam asked, tilting his head toward the vision in a flowing yellow sundress. It wasn’t just the dress that made her stand out. It was her smile and the way she walked—all confidence and positive outlook. Given that she was surrounded by dark suited office stiffs, she stood out like the sun on a dreary day.

“What?” Roger frowned at his friend. “Aren’t you dating Cindy?”

Sam shook his head. “Broke up six … er, seven months ago.”

“Really? Why?”

Sam shrugged. The same reason he’d stopped seeing Marty and Josie and Tammy. “She wanted James S. Finn, multimillionaire, not plain old Sam.”

Roger snorted. “That’s because Sam dresses in coveralls and smells like engine grease.”

Sam didn’t answer. He was too busy maneuvering so that he could get into the same elevator as the woman in yellow.

JULIE THOMPSON WAS DRESSED for battle. Not in armor or anything, but in a bright yellow sundress and sandals that made her feel sexy, beautiful and beyond brilliant. In this outfit, nothing could stop her. Not an ad campaign that refused to come together. Not rent coming due on both her minuscule apartment and her office space on the seventeenth floor. And certainly not poor Harry, a young lawyer on her floor, who was buried under three huge boxes of folders.

“Goodness, Harry, doesn’t the law firm have a dolly for stuff like this?”

Harry gave her a sad laugh. “Why have that when you can force the first-years to lug the crap?”

They were standing in the elevator alcove, waiting their turn. She could tell by the bags under his eyes that the guy hadn’t gotten much sleep. And if his rumpled suit was anything to judge by, what little rest he’d gotten had been in these clothes.

“Come on. How heavy can it be?” she asked as she reached forward and lifted off the top box. “Umph!” Heavy didn’t even cover it. Apparently, the law firm made the first-years lug files weighted with lead.

“Don’t do that—” cried Harry, but Julie was already shaking her head.

“I’ve carried much heavier stuff. Trust me.”

He gave her a grateful smile as the elevator dinged. “You’re the best.” Then they both waited as the people in front of them maneuvered into the cramped lift.

As this was a huge downtown high-rise, that was a ton of people. Amid the suited professionals from one firm or another, she also caught sight of one of the bigwigs from the robotics firm on the top floor. He was standing next to a janitor or something. The guy wore dirty coveralls and had a dead leaf caught in his hair. Whatever he’d just been doing, it hadn’t been easy. Still, he looked cute even with the grease stain across his forehead. And with his sleeves rolled up like that, she could see his muscular forearms. It was silly to notice a guy’s forearms, but she did. And she liked the way he smiled at her.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” murmured Harry as he pushed his way into the elevator.

“Maybe we should wait,” Julie suggested. There really wasn’t room for everyone plus the boxes.

Harry flashed her a look of apology. “I’m kinda late. Let me just take the box—”

“No, no,” Julie returned. “You’ve already got the other two. We’ll all fit,” she said hopefully.

It was hard maneuvering herself and the huge box of files in. She turned around to face the front, apologizing to an accountant from the fifth floor as she jostled him. Harry had managed to somehow push their floor button, so Julie tried to back up enough to allow the doors to close.

It was a tight fit. It was a really, really tight fit, and she ended up backing into the guy in coveralls. She knew because she could feel the heavy cotton against her backside. Then the accountant elbowed her, shoving her even farther back. She stumbled. Not badly. Hell, both of her legs could be broken and she would be still standing upright in this cramped space. But it did force her bottom to bump hard against …

Oh my! That wasn’t a zipper she felt pressed hot and hard against her rear. That was coveralls-guy getting a very human reaction to her pressed against him. She ought to feel mortified. She ought to feel embarrassed for them both. Especially since there was nothing either of them could do, crammed together the way they were. All she could do was stand there pressed against his erection.

What to do? What to do? She didn’t know, but for the first time in months, she stopped thinking about her company slowly going belly-up. She stopped worrying about how she would pay her next bill or drum up her next contract. Her entire mind was absorbed with feeling a strange man against her backside. A well-endowed strange man.

And in that moment, a bizarre sense of daring hit her. After all, no one could see what was happening. They were shoved into the back corner, completely anonymous and yet completely intimate. Without her even planning it, biology took over. She allowed herself to drop a little farther back onto Mr. Coverall, and then she squeezed. Yup. Right there. She squeezed him for all she was worth.

She heard his gasp of shock and had to work to cover her smile. Good lord, had she just molested a perfect stranger? Apparently so because as the doors pulled open, she felt an answering pressure from him. Was he thrusting against her? Oh. My. God! She was both excited and appalled by the situation. And turned on like she hadn’t been in months.

And then, damn it, the ride was over. They had arrived at the seventeenth floor. Julie stepped forward because she had to. She didn’t even dare look behind her to see his face. Was his as red as hers? Was what they’d just done written on the blush that she knew was staining her cheeks?

She followed Harry to the law office, handed off the box to another first-year, and then headed to her own suite. Web Wit and Wonder was her very own advertising firm, started with best friend and brilliant graphic artist, Karen Wilson. Unfortunately, it was going under. That was why she’d worn this dress today. So she could bolster her confidence as she tackled one last bid for a contract. Except now, all she could think about was Elevator Man and how she’d.

“Good morning!” called Karen as Julie entered their office suite. “I brought muffins …” Her voice trailed away as she looked at her friend. “And my, don’t you look flushed today.”

Hell. There was no fooling Karen’s eagle eye. “Um. Yeah. I think I need some coffee.” Julie set down her purse and went straight for the cappuccino machine. Everything else in their office was stripped down to the bare essentials. But this lovely thing was an office-warming present from her parents. Sadly, that hadn’t been all they’d given her. They’d also loaned her money to start the business. And if Web Wit and Wonder didn’t get a new contract soon, that debt was going to go unpaid.

“Come on, Julie. What happened?”

Julie sighed. She knew she’d never get to work if she didn’t tell her friend the truth. “It’s no big deal,” she said. “Just, well, something happened in the elevator.”

She told Karen it all. Everything in glorious detail so she could relive the thrill of it. She’d never been someone to go for anonymous sex, much less today’s weird elevator fondle, but there was something so thrilling in what she’d done. As if she were suddenly scandalous or incredibly daring. It had just been a butt squeeze in a full elevator, but right then, she felt like she’d walked on the dark side. And Karen, bless her, found it just as exciting.

“You have to do it again!” Karen pressed.

“No!” Julie countered. “Besides, how could I?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I get crammed into elevators all the time. You just have to keep an eye out for your guy and make sure to—”

“What I’m going to do is focus on this campaign. Our proposal has to be perfect.”

Karen paused a moment, then huffed in disgust. “Fine, fine. All work and no play makes you a dull girl.”

Julie bit her lip, wondering just how much of the dollar and cents her artistic partner understood about their company. “Um, you know, I was going over our books last night and the picture—”

“I know,” Karen interrupted, holding up her hand to silence her friend. “Well, I don’t know the exact figures, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Julie nodded. There was nothing more to say to that. Except, perhaps, that they would get through this. “We’re going to put together a kick-ass proposal. We’re going to be brilliant.”

“And we’re going to win this contract,” Karen echoed with confidence. “I just know it.”

2

Seven weeks later …

“WE DIDN’T GET THE contract.” Julie stared at her laptop, her mind going numb. “We didn’t get it.”

Across the desk, Karen sighed and set down her sketchbook. Neither one of them had to say what they were thinking. They were both far from home, buried in debt, and as of five minutes ago, their company was dead. Bankrupt. Belly-up. Finito.

“This should have worked,” Julie said as she fell back in her chair and stared at the ceiling tiles. “I think and breathe advertising. You’re the best graphic designer there is. And together we know the internet like the back of our hands. We should be buried in accounts, not.” Dead broke.

Karen released another heavy sigh. “Yeah, okay, so this campaign didn’t work. It was brilliant, they’re idiots for not hiring us, but now we have to move on. So, what’s next?”

Julie didn’t answer. She didn’t have the heart to tell her best friend that after two years of scrimping and sweating and bleeding, she just didn’t have it in her to try again. She’d put everything into this last pitch: heart, soul, and her last borrowed dime. They’d failed anyway. They hadn’t gotten the account.

“My dad’s started a new bowling league,” she said, still talking to the ceiling tiles.

“In Nebraska?” Karen snorted. “You hate Nebraska!”

She hated starving, too. And being homeless. Which she would soon be since she couldn’t pay any more rent on her tiny apartment or on this cramped office space.

“Come on, Julie. Usually you’re the one with six more possibilities lined up, just in case. So what’s next? What have you got up your sleeve?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Absolutely nothing. We’re done.”

Karen was silent for a long time, clearly absorbing the finality of that while Julie tried hard to not think of returning to Nebraska, suitcase in hand. How did she tell her family that her plan to make it big—the one she’d talked about since she was twelve years old—had ended up in a huge pile of debt?

“Okay, I’ve got a new plan,” Karen said firmly. “I think you should get laid.”

Julie lifted her head to stare at her friend. “What?”

“I’m serious. You’ve been working nonstop for months. Years, even. Too much tension stops the flow of qi.”

“What?”

“Your energy, your power. And nothing else opens up the qi like a good—”

“Karen! You can’t possibly think that sex is an answer to bankruptcy.” There. She’d said the word aloud.

Her friend shook her head. “We’re not closed yet. We’ve got almost a month left for you to think of something brilliant. But you won’t think of anything with your qi all clogged.”

Julie didn’t answer. Her friend was being silly as a way to lighten the mood. It was sweet really, but some things couldn’t be changed regardless of her state of qi.

Karen leaned forward, dropping her elbows onto Julie’s desk. “When was the last time you saw Elevator Man?”

Julie nearly choked. Gawd, she should never have told her friend about him. Especially since the elevator seven weeks ago had only been the first incident. They’d had approximately one anonymous encounter a week since then. And that was nothing compared to her nighttime fantasies. Who’d have thought that she would become obsessed with elevator sex? But she had. She didn’t know whether her fantasies were fueling her forays into the scandalous or the reverse, but whatever the reason, she’d been unable to stop herself from orchestrating increasingly sexual encounters with the hunky janitor.

Their second time had been in another jam-packed elevator, but this time she’d gotten in first. She hadn’t even been sure it was him except that his general height and build were the same. He was about six foot and lean in those blue denim coveralls. His hair was rich brown, all curly and shaggy, and his shoulders broad. As she’d stared at his dark, dark brown eyes, she’d wondered: are you him? Are you the first man to touch me in forever?

He hadn’t answered, of course. But he’d inhaled deeply, and she’d thought about her perfume. Was he smelling the sandalwood she liked to dab on her wrists? Or the minty herb of her shampoo? Did he know what she was thinking?

She’d smiled at him, then. Something in her had taken over and she’d flashed her best come-hither smile. He’d seen it. His gaze zeroed in on her lips. But he didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything. If anything, his eyes had gone impersonal and vague.

Her ego had crashed. This wasn’t her elevator man. Or if it was, he wasn’t interested in her. She had been stunned by the pain of that. The disappointment had cut deep, probably because she’d built so many erotic daydreams about him. She’d just been biting back a sigh when he reached forward to press the button for his floor.

Top floor. No biggie. Except on his way to the panel, he’d brushed across her right breast. It could have been an accident. After all, there were a dozen people crammed into the elevator. There was hardly space to breathe, much less reach for a button. But he had brushed her breast and her nipple reacted with a nearly painful point.

And on the way back from pressing the button, he’d done it again. Or perhaps she had “accidentally” pushed forward so that he had no choice but to caress her hard nipple. That was it for Encounter 2.

Encounter 3 came the next week, this time on the way down to the garage. Half-packed elevator, close quarters, but she’d been wearing a suit jacket so there was no accidental nipple brushing. But Elevator Man was nothing if not innovative.

He’d murmured, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as he maneuvered to stand right in front of her. Then he knelt down to open an access panel beneath the floor buttons. Everyone had shifted to accommodate him. Everyone, that is, except her because his position on the floor left his elbow pressed to her mons.

Oh, God, it had felt so good. Pressure. A circular rub. The garage floor had come too soon, and she’d been too chicken to stay. That night’s fantasy, however, had involved an empty elevator stuck between floors. It was only after encounters five and six that she migrated to a glass one at the top of the Eiffel Tower. She was pressed up against the glass while he did her hot and hard in front of the whole of Paris.

Yes, she was depraved, but perhaps that was the thrill of it. He was always polite, always gentle, and he stopped the moment the elevator did. But he made her feel like she was the hottest woman on the planet, like he couldn’t stop himself from touching her. She knew the shape of his body, the scent of his hair and the feel of his cock through a thousand encounters both real and imagined. And she couldn’t wait until it happened again.

And now, here was Karen asking for the details. “This last one was, um, the best,” she said, her face heating to crimson. “He stepped up behind me, pulled my hips back against his, and then …”

“Yes? What?”

Julie bit her lip. “His hand slid forward to, um, cup me. God, he has the best hands—big and strong.”

“Oh, my God! What did you do?”

Julie closed her eyes, unable to look at her friend in the face as she confessed this. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I just, well, enjoyed it.” But she’d thought about more. She’d thought about spreading her legs and giving in. She wanted to. She’d wanted to for weeks now, but she was too chicken. What if he told someone? What if he told a client? Of course, that wasn’t a problem now. There were no more clients—potential or otherwise. Meanwhile, she could still feel the imprint of his hand on her. God, it made her twist in hunger just thinking about it. It was a wonder she didn’t combust right here.