Beyond Breathless
Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my Dad, always frugal, never cheap

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Coming Next Month

1

JAMIE MCNAMARA STOOD on the street outside Grand Central Station and shook her head in disbelief. Two million commuters were sharing the same miserable situation. Stranded, stuck, marooned in Manhattan.

Why today? Of all days. Why not tomorrow, when Connecticut really didn’t matter?

“It’s not an insurmountable problem,” said a deep, ear-tickling voice behind her, obviously not privy to the rage that was precariously close to boiling over inside her.

Insurmountable. Yeah, right. Like she could just walk the ninety-five miles from Grand Central to Stamford—in Jimmy Choo heels, no less. Not in this lifetime.

Jamie whirled around, partially to condemn the smug voice, but there were parts of her—devious, womanly parts, that wanted to see if the face matched the vocal chords.

“Thank you for that bit of blind optimism,” she said, caught by the serious, dark eyes. Almost black. Then she noticed the suit, the leather briefcase, the same gray jacket that had nearly run over her earlier as she’d dashed for what was the last running train.

Very hot, but very rude.

Just her luck. People talked about the luck of the Irish, but you never heard about the luck of the Scottish. That’s because they didn’t have any.

The dark eyes flickered over her again. Efficiently, like an accountant jumping right to the bottom line. Jamie felt a slight flush and then mentally flogged herself for the lapse in confidence. She was classically tailored, buffed and polished herself. “Study hard,” her mom used to tell her. “There’re women who coast by on their looks. We’re not them.”

“Excuse me,” Jamie said, brushing past the tightly muscled frame. The suit didn’t hide his physique; it magnified it, as only a good custom job can do.

Italian wool, too. Probably Sergei Brand. Then she realized what she was doing and stopped, reminding herself she was currently in a man-free phase, which sounded much more acceptable than “my last boyfriend married my secretary, Amber.”

Todd had whined continuously about her work hours, but not to Jamie. Oh no, he spent his quality time on the phone with Amber. She’d ask him “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he’d said. Jamie read the engagement announcement in the New York Times before he had the guts to tell her in person. That’d been nearly two years ago and she’d restricted her relationships to mostly non-existent since then.

The old anger erupted inside her, flowing through her like hot liquid goo. Jamie elbowed the suit’s briefcase, not quite an accident, and jumped right into the Forty-second street traffic, fighting all the other commuters for the six cabs that were currently on duty. She raised her hailing hand, stepping in front of a mousy touristy type.

“We should split a car,” the suit said, stepping into traffic with her.

Jamie’s hand lowered. A cabbie—occupied, of course—honked for her to move, and she jumped back to the curb, before taking another long look at the suit.

Split a car?

It was a fascinating suggestion because it couldn’t be economic reasons that prompted the invitation. Clearly she and he shared the same financial echelon. It could be practicality, two strangers needing to find a way out of the city when a power outage stopped mass transit.

But what if the reasons were more carnal? Good, old-fashioned lust.

Thoughts of lust during business hours wasn’t Jamie’s standard operating procedure; business was her ruling passion, but she felt the dizzy pull of—him.

It was rash, it was spontaneous. It was thrilling.

Briskly—because she’d already had three cups of coffee—she gave him an efficient once-over, starting at the spit-polished wingtips, then over long, long legs, up past lean hips, beyond the ogle-inducing broad chest and shoulders, taking note of the tiny dimple in the left side of his mouth, before finally coming to stare into those dark, velvety eyes.

Just her luck, the one time she felt a spark, the dark eyes were distinctly sparkless. Instead they just looked puzzled.

Jamie dismissed the moment of fantasy and sighed.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“New Haven. You?”

“Stamford.”

“It would make sense,” he said with a curt nod.

He seemed polite, logical, with that extra quotient of testosterone that fluttered her insides.

Jamie didn’t need fluttered insides today, or any day, so she started to tell him no.

But those eyes.

Intense, sexy, and slightly geeky. Those eyes currently held her tongue in check.

You need to get to Connecticut. He’s right.

Weak, very weak, McNamara.

Her insides fluttered again, she nodded. “Okay.” She held out her hand. “I’m Jamie. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Andrew,” he said. His hand touched hers briefly. Nothing too personal. The handshake was crisp, businesslike.

Andrew. The name fit. Strong, intelligent, steadfast.

He spoke again, and embarrassingly, it took her ten seconds to realize he wasn’t speaking to her. He was speaking into the wireless earpiece hanging low next to his mouth.

It was a nice mouth, if you were a woman who noticed the male mouth. Jamie usually didn’t, but this bottom lip belonged to a man who would never spout poetry or renegotiate a deal. Firm, decisive, driven.

Just like her.

For a moment, Jamie let herself relax. Her mother had always said she was too driven, that she’d have a heart attack before she was thirty-five. Maybe, but at least Jamie would know that she had tried. She had plans, goals, ambitions, and she could get there, heart attacks notwithstanding.

In Manhattan, you had to be hard, driven, and relentless in order to make it.

And sometimes, you needed a reward.

Jamie fished in the briefcase, finding the inside pocket that held her secret stash. She broke off the tiniest of pieces, just a bite, just a hint, just a taste, and popped it in her mouth while no one was looking.

The milk chocolate sugar rush washed over her, and she closed her eyes in bliss.

Oh, God, that was good.

Immediately the cravings struck again, but some of her mother’s lectures were too deeply ingrained, so with a look of longing, she closed her briefcase, and put it away.

But tomorrow was another day.

They waited on the crowded sidewalk, frustrated commuters surrounding them, until finally Andrew tugged at her arm. She followed him to the south end of the block, past an interminable line of occupied cabs, hurrying pedestrians, and honking cars.

Eventually he stopped at a car and her mouth gaped.

Car was a euphemistic term only.

This monstrosity was a white Hummer limo that was as close to tacky as a black velvet Elvis.

The big chrome wheels trimmed in gold, the endless line of doors, the tinted windows—it screamed of junior proms or drunken women flinging their bras out of the roof.

Oh, God, he was in the music business.

A neat little man emerged from the driver’s seat and then opened the passenger door. “Continental Cars, at your service.”

“This?” Andrew asked, and Jamie was relieved to hear horror in his voice.

“It’s all we have, sir. Cars are in big demand now since the trains aren’t running.”

Jamie averted her gaze from the vehicle, the block-long engineering defect making her corneas burn.

“Maybe a Town Car?” Andrew asked the driver hopefully.

He shook his head. “We’re fresh out. Take it or leave it.”

Andrew looked at Jamie, a question in his eyes.

She wanted to flee, alligator-trimmed heels poised in a northward position, but instead she weighed her options, her sensible side telling her to call Newhouse and reschedule.

Newhouse.

Now there was a name to pull her right into a Hummer.

It’d taken her three months, fourteen phone calls, and three Powerpoint presentations to get one heel in the Newhouse door.

A lesser woman would have abandoned the situation, put a minus in the credit column and walked away, but the prize kept her in the game. Newhouse was one of the few software companies to not just survive, but thrive during the tech bust, and now they were rolling in cash. Cash that needed to be strategically invested because the bread crumbs that their current firm was earning for them were pitiful. Bond-Worthington could change all that, and Jamie, the top client-relations rep at the firm, was the one assigned to recruit them. To date, it had been an uphill battle. But Jamie was made of tough stuff.

The name Jamie McNamara meant nothing to Newhouse and his Gorgon of a secretary, but they would soon learn…

Assuming she could get to Connecticut before lunch.

She took another look at the vehicle and tried not to shudder.

Hummer limos were for sleazy account managers, girls gone bonkers, and South Beach.

She didn’t like this ostentatious hulk of metal on wheels, but the Newhouse account was calling. If she had to ride in a Hummer limo, well, suck it up McNamara, there are worse things in life.

She took a deep breath and nodded, echoes of a porno soundtrack spinning in her head.

Andrew held open the door, and before she could change her mind, Jamie climbed inside.

ANDREW BROOKS HAD a conference call in ten minutes and idle conversation wasn’t his forte, but thankfully, the woman didn’t seem to expect him to talk. Instead, she pulled out a copy of the Wall Street Journal and began to read.

He nearly smiled, because he knew just how she felt. People got in the way of productivity. Always wanting to ask him advice, or talk about a hot date, or worse yet, analyze Survivor. Survivor: The Wall Street Edition, that’s what they needed. That was one game that Andrew would win. Every time.

The limo was hideous, red leather seats and the ceiling was covered with sparkling lights that blinked on and off. He thought there was a pattern, but was afraid to discover what it was.

He glanced over at “Jamie,” wondering what her story was. She was tall and sleek, clad in a dark suit that was almost masculine in its severity. But those black shoes…

He had an odd compulsion to talk to her, find out where she worked, what she did, what corporate prize resided in Stamford.

He pushed back the purple curtain over the window, saw the endless line of gridlocked cars, and sighed. Not a good day for heading to Connecticut.

Not a good day for heading anywhere.

Their lead insurance analyst in New Haven had scheduled a lunch meeting to discuss the impact of the flattening bond market. A two-second phone call could have rescheduled the whole business, but then he had bumped into the sleek dark suit, the curvaceous body, and the stiff blue eyes, and he couldn’t resist. His brother would have leered, his sister would have cheered.

Andrew was just intrigued.

So what was it in Connecticut? He didn’t think she was meeting a boyfriend or a lover. Ten in the morning was too early for social obligations and there wasn’t any softness about her, any excitement in her eyes. And although he wasn’t big on fashion, he didn’t think that women wore pinstripes on a date.

“Job interview?” he asked, because she seemed nervous, her eyes straying every now and then to her briefcase.

She peered at him over the financial page. “Excuse me?”

“In Stamford,” he said. “Do you have a job interview there?”

She shook the newspaper page to straighten it out. “No,” she answered, and then continued reading, dismissing him.

He checked his watch. Another six minutes until his call. “Business meeting?” he asked, trying again.

This time she lowered the paper. “Yes,” she answered, just as the limo jerked to a halt.

Andrew thumped against the back of his seat.

“Sorry, sir,” said a voice over the loud speaker. “The Triboro is backed up tight. Want me to try the Deegan?”

There were cars stretched out over the bridge and beyond. Nothing was moving. Not the air, not the brake lights. Andrew pressed the speaker button to talk. “An accident?”

“No,” said the voice. “Just the entire city thinking a power outage is a great way to gain a four-day weekend.”

Jamie leaned forward, and he caught a whiff of perfume. “Can’t he go faster?” she whispered.

Andrew pressed the talk button again. “Do whatever’s fastest,” he said, knowing in his gut that he could’ve flown to Connecticut and back in the time it was going to take them to travel forty-five miles. He didn’t have the heart to tell her, though. She looked like she could chew nails, but no way was that getting them across the bridge.

“Whatever you say, sir. If I hear any updates, I’ll let you know.”

The voice cut out, leaving Andrew and Jamie alone.

“Do you think I can be in New Haven in an hour?” she asked.

“Truth or lie?”

“Lie,” she said without hesitation.

“Sure. Without a doubt.”

He watched as she reached a hand around, kneading the tendons at the back of her neck. Her arm lifted her breasts under the fitted suit jacket, and his eyes flickered down. Only for a minute. But she caught him and lowered her arm.

“I have a call,” he said briskly, exorcising the lust from his mind. “Do you mind?”

She looked relieved. “No, go ahead. Do what you need to.”

It wasn’t meant as an invitation, but the image of her, skirts up, flashed in his head. A subliminal message that came and went. Andrew frowned, and spoke into the telephone headset, commanding the phone to dial the Chicago office. He’d always been a little claustrophobic, and, trapped in the car, even if it was forty feet long, was messing with his head.

He began to speak, trying not to look her way. She took her own cell out of her briefcase and dialed, holding it up to her ear.

She wasn’t overtly pretty, no argument there, but there was something so controlled inside her, a pressurized spring, tightly wound. Andrew’s brother and baby sister always said he was too tightly wound. That he needed to relax and get a life. One way to relax would be to pry apart those tightly wound thighs and bury himself inside her.

“Andrew?”

He jerked back into the conversation. “Repeat that, please?”

And so the boring meeting went on. He had a life. A successful, fulfilling, organized life. But it was another kind of fulfillment, sexual fulfillment, or lack thereof, that was currently tenting his pants. He took a pad of paper from his briefcase and laid it strategically across his lap.

Just in case she noticed.

She hung up on her call, putting her cell away, and pulled out a notepad of her own.

Tinny voices buzzed his ear, the words making less and less sense.

All he could think about was the one white pearl button that was three inches below her throat. Such a small, sensible button.

Andrew had the oddest desire to take the white pearl button between his teeth and pull. Just like Everest—because it was there.

THE CAR WAS STARTING to heat up. Not from the warmth in the air, but the tension. He was having a normal, mundane conversation that Jamie had heard many times before. An assortment of numbers, buzz words, and run-on sentences that permeated corporate buildings across America, yet every time she heard that voice, it was like a shot of tequila straight to the brain. The car was going to her head. Jamie didn’t even like tequila.

She tried to concentrate on the paper in front of her, but his eyes were feasting on her throat, making him impossible to ignore. After a futile struggle to remain calm, she finally put the notebook away. She crossed her legs, uncrossed her legs, before settling herself with both feet planted firmly on the floor.

There was no reason to be nervous. She’d graduated Summa Cum Laude with all of three dates. She scared men off, mainly because take no prisoners ran in her family. A genetic trait that appeared when an army general mated with a dentist.

But this one…

Andrew.

There was something about him that called to her. Something besides the immaculate Italian wool suit. Something, well…earthy.

It was new and exciting, and to be fair, new and exciting didn’t happen to Jamie very often. Nothing happened to Jamie very often, which was probably her own fault, but this feeling inside her, this tiny bubble of passion, was better than chocolate.

Much better than chocolate.

Her hand moved to her throat, and his gaze sharpened.

With one tiny flutter of her hand, his eyes had narrowed, and she heard the quiet, indrawn breath. A primitive thrill pumped through her system, a feeling usually reserved for corporate IPOs and the year-end bonus. Quickly, her hand dropped to her lap.

Just as quickly, the hunger faded from his eyes, and she watched as he scribbled efficient notes on the yellow lined legal pad in front of him.

She crossed her legs, trapping a thrill between her thighs.

A moment gained, a moment lost.

Her fingers drummed impatiently on her tightly crossed legs and his gaze locked on her hand. Realizing what she was doing, she stopped.

The tension in his face relaxed and he shot her a smile of gratitude.

And he had lots of reasons for gratitude. He hadn’t been chewed out by Newhouse’s warden of a secretary, only moments ago, saying that “A cut power line is no excuse for tardiness.”

Being a woman in the financial industry wasn’t easy. A lot of men either wanted her to be a secretary or a willing vassal for their penis, never an equal.

A man like Andrew wouldn’t need to prepare like she had for one of the most ambitious deals in the history of Bond-Worthington Financial. No, he had looked happy as a clam while chatting away about margins and puts. Probably because he had a blond secretary with plasticized implants. Probably named Amber.

A tiny sigh escaped from her lips.

He was attractive, he was successful, he was a man, she reminded herself, even though parts of her were already tantalizingly aware of that fact. But what did that matter? Because of today, she was probably going to lose her deal, and she never lost a deal. She would face the walk of shame back at the office, having to explain to Walter why she couldn’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound, why she couldn’t start an electrical-powered locomotive, and God only knows that she couldn’t stop bullets with her chest, much less traffic.

But Jamie liked being the star performer in the office. More importantly, she couldn’t live without it.

It was all she had.

No, life was definitely unfair. Her eyes looked at his. Deliberately, her hand rose to her throat.

Tossing caution to the wind, she unfastened the tiny button. It was a small, insignificant gesture, nothing overt or slutty, but for one slow second in time, she wanted to disrupt his manly existence, to explore this new feeling inside her, and right some of the injustices in the world.

He stopped talking.

Blinked twice.

Swallowed.

Mission accomplished.

2

IT WAS A SMALL HALF-INCH of flesh. Not golden tan, more like pale peach. Andrew valiantly attempted to keep up with the back and forth of the conference call, but failed. Instead he was mesmerized by the lure of naked skin.

It wasn’t cleavage or thigh. It was nothing but an uncovered throat.

God, he was losing it.

He dragged his eyes away from the sight of temptation and studied the lined paper in his lap, but the words blurred together. The voices in his ear buzzed like a mosquito on a summer’s day and he struggled to make out the words: “a marketing strategy to focus on old-fashioned honesty in our financial dealings.”

Okay, that made sense.

“Dave, do you think traders will really buy into that?” he asked, rather proud of himself for coming up with a halfway lucid contribution.

Even better, he could ignore her. He could ignore the raging hard-on that had blood streaming down from his brain to his cock. He could ignore the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in eight months.

Okay, that one he couldn’t ignore.

It explained much of his current situation.

He’d never been a New York playboy like his younger brother, Jeff, who chased after supermodels and party girls. Most of the women who Andrew dated were classy, but not clingy. Never clingy. The idiosyncrasies of a relationship took too much time, so by default the ones who lasted were the ones who made few demands.

Whatever worked.

His gaze traveled upward, leaving the relative security of the legal pad to skim over nicely turned breasts, past the lurid throat, and finally coming to rest on her face.

Jamie of No Last Name looked to be hell on wheels. A woman who threw you down on the bed, and…

No, no, no…

He’d seen guys in the office succumb to the lure of the velvet power of the p-whip, but not Andrew. Too many people were counting on him.

That thought helped gird the loins that were currently raging with lust.

But she was cute, although he suspected she’d kill him if he said it aloud. Certainly not cute in a kitten and babies sense—thankfully. Her brown hair was pulled back in an elegant ponytail, her light blue eyes were never still, blinking to one side then another…

…blinking mindlessly while he was pounding inside her.

The loins came ungirded.

Damn.

“Drew, do you have anything to add?” asked the voice in his ear.

He cleared his throat. “No, I think we’ve covered it. Thanks, everyone, for dialing in. It’s been a productive meeting.”

It was all bullshit, and Andrew didn’t usually go for bullshit, but there was a time and place for it, and when you’re currently having Technicolor fantasies about the woman sitting across from you in a tank of a limo—well, bullshit didn’t seem out of the question.

He snapped his briefcase closed with a bang that seemed obscenely loud. She looked up at him, and he saw a quick flash of panic. Somebody else was nervous, too.

Andrew stared out the window, away from the cold sweat of her gaze, and watched the cars inch forward at a snail’s pace.

Distraction. He needed a distraction.

He pounded on the speaker button. “Driver, how’re we doing?” he asked, like he couldn’t tell.

“Two hours to Connecticut. We’ve almost made it across the Whitestone, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said politely, and then heaved a breath. While he obsessed over the currently unclothed throat of the mono-monikered Jamie, the oxygen was turning thin—all at one hundred feet over sea level.

He needed to label her, use the brand like a wedge, because it was obvious that the three feet between the car seats wasn’t going to do it.

Urges, when unchecked, were a dangerous thing, leading to forgotten responsibilities, sloppily completed tasks, and poor credit scores. Andrew had deferred gratification his entire life; there were other things more important, namely food and rent.

Drew looked over at the object of his current urge, while considering extremely inappropriate behaviors. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and frankly, the state of his hard-on was about as desperate as he’d ever been.

“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.

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.

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