“Go on. What can it hurt?” Mickey said, completely practical.
Jessica popped another olive in her mouth and adjusted her sunglasses, the picture of aloof sophistication. She spoiled it all with a sneeze.
CHARLES WAS a stuffed-shirt prick, but Adam had learned long ago never to burn a bridge. They had worked together on the Symtheson-Hardwick buyout, growth in revenue: $4.7 million over five years, total jobs lost: 537. The consulting firm they worked for, Kearney, Markham and Williams, considered that a very good deal indeed.
On most days, Adam ignored the consequences of his work. He was a consultant. Get in, make recommendations, get out. He was good at what he did and life treated him right.
He sipped his champagne and glanced around for a beer. He’d never liked champagne, but always took a glass at social functions. Of course, most of it ended up watering the potted plants.
Charles caught his eye and Adam pasted a “How the hell you doing?” smile on his face. He had more friends than the president, every one his best buddy, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt the desire to talk with anyone about subjects other than the market, the weather or golf. Golf was the worst. He shot a seventy-three and hated the game.
He moved into virtual consultant mode and strolled over to where the happy couple was eyeing each other with pure rose-colored lust. Envy seared him, hot and fast. For a moment he dropped his guard, and thought about his house in Alabama. His empty house. He closed his eyes and counted to eleven. By the time he reached the end of the exercise, the consultant was back.
He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “You lucky dog,” he said, more truth than not.
The groom slipped an arm around his new wife. “Hands off, Taylor. According to the laws of this fine state, she’s all mine.”
First compliment the client and then on to more trivial topics. “And you picked a gorgeous day to marry a gorgeous woman.”
Annie blushed, and planted a soft kiss on Adam’s cheek. “Thank you, Adam.”
Charles lifted his glass. “Blue skies, my friend. All blue skies. Hey, I see you’ve been assigned Hard-Wire. Sweet deal. Read the report. Lots of opportunity for efficiency there.”
Translation: We could trim fifteen percent and the company would never miss it.
“Too early to tell,” Adam answered.
Translation: Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. Maybe twenty.
Charles nodded toward the far garden. “You met Jessica Barnes yet? She’s manager of finance there. She went to school with Annie. If you haven’t met her, you should let Annie introduce you. She could really show you the ropes.”
Translation: Play your cards right, two dinners and a movie, and you’ll get laid.
Adam turned and let his gaze linger on Jessica. Yeah, he knew her. She was one of the fifteen to twenty percent. Great legs, savvy and a dark glare that said never trust her with sharp objects nearby. Undo-mesticated and ambitious.
Translation: Trouble.
For two weeks, Adam had worked himself into a serious frenzy to keep from personalizing Jessica Barnes. Personalizing was a bad thing to do in his line of work. He avoided looking at her in meetings, and thought of her as her employee number—44713, never Jessica. But he’d be a stupid man not to realize that 44713 lit up buttons he didn’t even know he had.
Damn it all to hell, he’d never been stupid.
He watched her pick her way through the crowd, passing between pastel suits and wide-brimmed hats and men in dark tuxes. Today she’d worn neon blue. He’d spent more time than he liked to admit wondering what sort of clothes 44713 wore out of the office. Monday through Friday, eight to five, she was so tightly buttoned. Prim and proper, never a false step.
Except when she sneezed.
That brought a smile to his face. He pretended to sip his champagne and watched the sun beat down on her thick, brown hair. She’d let it slip down around her shoulders today. Adam normally liked blondes, but he’d never seen brown hair that caught the sunlight so well, or looked so temptingly touchable.
A man could weave fantasies that involved that hair.
She finally reached his side, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. Soft brown. Gold and green swirled together in darkness. “Hello, Taylor. I didn’t expect to see you here today. I thought you’d be at Hard-Wire doing inventory.”
He winced. 44713. 44713. It made his job easier. “Lovely day, don’t you think?”
“A good day for a wedding.”
“You know Annie?”
“School. You?”
“Charles is one of our auditors.”
“Imagine that. Small world.”
Too small. Way, way too small when he started having thoughts that involved one of his client’s employees. Thoughts of long sleepless nights in bed and hot showers that had nothing to do with hygiene.
Fantasies.
For two years a lonely reality had honed his expectation. He wanted a wife. A family. White-picket fences and apple pie.
Jessica Barnes—44713—was not potential wife material. Her potential was purely sensual, and he felt it oozing through every inch of her sun-kissed skin.
“Why don’t you come out to dinner with me this evening?” said the spider to the fly. The words were out of his mouth before he thought.
“Sorry. I’m tied up.”
The fly had brains. “Pity. Tomorrow?”
“Mr. Taylor, I don’t think it’s wise for us to consider anything more than a strictly business relationship.”
He completely agreed with her logic. In fact, he’d thought of it himself. However, something about her legs made logic impossible. “Ms. Barnes, you work for one company, I work for another. There’s no legal, moral or ethical reason you couldn’t have dinner with me. Unless that’s your choice?”
She didn’t even hesitate to skewer his ego. “Of course that’s my choice.” She turned to walk away from him, and he nearly dropped his glass. Her entire back was bare. Tan, smooth, with a long, long line that ran down from smooth shoulders and dipped low and lower still.
He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and traced one wayward finger down the delectable curve. Hands-on usually wasn’t his style: he’d always believed it was only polite to wait until you’re invited to touch.
But he’d never seen a back like that before.
She froze.
“Jessica.”
She didn’t turn, just stood there, flaunting all that silky skin. His mouth grew dry and his mind kicked in with all sorts of images that involved skin and touching. Mouths. Tangled legs.
“It’s only going to get worse,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“What is?”
“Seeing each other, every day, being polite and completely professional.”
Then she spun around. Stared up at him, those soulless glasses giving nothing away. “I can handle it.”
He almost argued with her, saying that he couldn’t. He, the consummate professional. The man who could finesse anything. But he didn’t. Now wasn’t the time.
A smattering of applause started in the crowd. They both turned to look. Annie and Charles made their way to the main table. “Hope they’re one of the lucky fifty percent,” she murmured.
“Actually, they only need to be one of the lucky seventy-five percent.”
The