“Jamie.”
She shook her head. “Please, go.”
“Jamie, look at me.”
She didn’t want to. But she couldn’t help it. Her eyes opened to find him closer still, close enough for her to see the gold in his dark brown eyes.
“I was going to call it off,” he whispered. “Then I started thinking about you. By the time I got here, I’d changed my mind.”
“Why?”
He smiled, and her tummy got tight with a wave of desire. “There’s something about you.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I find out.”
“You don’t have to. The hell with Whittaker and her magazine. I don’t care what she says about me.”
“Neither do I. But I do want to spend the next two weeks getting to know you, magazine or no magazine.”
“I don’t see why. You’re a big-shot racing guy. You date movie stars. You live a different kind of life than me. Frankly, I’d bore you silly.”
“You let me be the judge of that.”
“What if I don’t want to see you?”
He leaned forward until their lips almost touched, pausing for an instant, and then he captured her lower lip between his front teeth. A second later, he let her go, only to steal her breath with a kiss, his soft lips on hers, his tongue teasing her mouth open. Her eyes fluttered closed and her arms moved from her chest to his back. With gentle pressure, he rubbed his chest against hers, sweeping against her nipples. Pleasure and heat flowed from her breasts down to her stomach, and then lower still. She squeezed her thigh muscles, but the feeling didn’t go away.
He did something terribly wicked with his tongue, thrusting it inside her, then pulling back, as if showing her what he wanted to do to her body. Goose bumps covered her flesh as vivid pictures came to mind. Him, naked—oh lordy—thrusting into her, making her scream.
She whimpered. He moved his lips from her mouth to her ear. “I’m going to explore every inch of you, Jamie,” he whispered, his hot breath making her shiver. “I’m going to know you better than you know yourself. And I’m going to give you pleasure you’ve never even dreamed of.”
Then he stepped away, and, before she could catch her breath, she heard the front door close.
When she got it together enough to walk, she went to the couch and took off the top of the gold box. Two dozen red roses were flared beautifully, the long stems stripped of any thorns. She picked up the small card lying to the side of the flowers: “Dear Jamie, I dreamed about us. You had roses. See you tonight, Chase.”
She picked up the box and brought it to her face so she could smell the flowers. His scent lingered, despite the sweet aroma of the gift. She could still feel his hard chest, his big hands, his soft, talented mouth.
Oh boy. She was in trouble. Bad trouble. She headed for the kitchen and a vase. Her first flowers, ever. And they were from a man who was from a completely foreign world, a man with enough experience to host his own radio sex show.
She put the box on the counter and stared out her window. The view from here sucked. It was just another building. And when she looked down, all she saw was a walkway where no one ever walked.
She couldn’t let him into her life, not even for a moment. He was dangerous. He did scary things to her body. To her mind. Given even the slightest opportunity, he’d find out. Even if he never touched her down there, he’d know. He’d see it in her eyes, feel it when she trembled in his arms. And if he found out—the rest of the world would find out, and where would she be then?
No one had ever given her roses before. Because no one had ever been close enough before. She’d been busy with school, with the radio show. She’d never dreamed things would happen so quickly for her, or so publicly. But they had, and here she was.
Whittaker was right. She was a fraud. The honorable thing to do would be to quit. But that would kill her. She’d never loved anything the way she loved her show, loved its callers. And she knew she was helping. Honestly.
There was just the one problem, the one that could ruin everything if it ever got out. The fact that she was, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, a virgin.
4
JAMIE GOT to the station a little after five-thirty. Determined not to dig herself in deeper, she had spent the day trying to figure out a way to extricate herself from this mess without ending up fired. Unfortunately, all the ideas she’d come up with so far required either some form of magic or breaking several major laws.
She stopped at the reception desk, where the night guy, Geoffrey, smiled broadly as he gathered her mail. Over six foot five and thin as a rail, the twenty-year-old had neon-orange hair and more piercings than her aunt Emma’s pin cushion. The pierced body parts were offset, of course, by tattoos ranging from the sublime (a perfect, tiny red heart at the base of his neck) to the ridiculous (Bart Simpson, bent over, pants down, eyes drawn on the buttocks).
She shifted her briefcase to her left hand as she took the unusually large stack of mail. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
His tone made her pause. So did his grin, which had widened dangerously, exposing the braces on his molars.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He arched his right brow. “Except that the switchboard has been lit up all day. I swear, girlfriend, Mr. Holt has a major woody over this little stunt of yours. Brilliant.” He crossed his arms over his Amazon. com T-shirt and idly fingered his nipple ring through the material. “And excuse the hell out of me, but could Chase Newman be more divine? I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you go out with him?”
He sighed. “If only.”
She shook her head as she headed toward her office. File cabinets on both walls made the hallway narrow, and if someone had to find a file, all traffic came to a halt. Oddly enough, in her time here she’d only seen a file drawer open once or twice. She imagined they were filled with old ad logs and personnel files.
It wasn’t until she neared her door that she heard her name from across the way. Elliot Wolf, the program manager, waved at her while he talked on the phone. Jamie sighed. Like the Energizer bunny, this nightmare kept on going and going and going….
“Sit,” Elliot said, then to whomever was on the phone he added, “Tonight at the Palm II. Ciao.”
She didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to talk. She was cranky and getting crankier by the minute.
“So,” he said, running a hand through his Brad Pitt hair, complete with dark roots. However, the likeness ended there. From the forehead down, Elliot looked eerily like a young Vincent Price, mustache and all. On the gaunt side, with a voice a little too high, he devoured scary movies like Raisinets, and his hobby, like Vincent’s, was gourmet cooking.
“Elliot, I have work to do.”
“I know. This’ll just take a minute. Sit.”
She obeyed, giving him a pained sigh in protest. She hated the chairs in his office. Leather and chrome, they tilted back, making it hard to get out of them again. But they looked chic, and Elliot loved chic. He’d decorated modern, with a very expensive, very ugly Chuck Close print dominating the room. He never had anything on his desk but his notebook computer, as clutter was one of his pet peeves. He had no such qualms about his secretary’s desk.
“Here’s the scoop.” Elliot perched on the edge of the credenza. “We’re running highlights of your shows for the next two weeks. Sound bites the other DJs