Читать книгу Too Hot To Handle - Barbara Daly, Barbara Daly - Страница 8

“YOU NEED TO GET LAID.”

Dumbfounded, Sarah Nevins stared across her desk at Macon Trent, congenital nerd and, as the guy who kept the computers up and running at Great Graphics! her most essential employee. Otherwise, she’d fire him on the spot.

“Don’t hold back, Macon,” she said, forcing her lips into a tight little smile. “Just be blunt.”

“As blunt as you were with Ray just now?”

Sarah’s steady gaze wavered. “What exactly did I say to Ray?”

“You told him his copy for the RemCom brochure sucked blood from chickens. It was not your usual management style.”

Sarah sank her face into her hands. “Where is he? I have to apologize.”

“He’s in the rest room crying.”

“Okay, as soon as he comes out.” She rocked her head from side to side. “I don’t know what made me do it.”

“You aren’t like the Sarah we keep working for in spite of our miserable paychecks. How long has it been since you went out with a man?”

Sarah raised her head to glare at him. “Macon, that’s even worse than asking a woman how much she weighs.” He needed contact lenses, a personal shopper and a lengthy session with Miss Manners.

“Oh. Thanks for the tip.” His reflective pause was brief. “I think your last date was about a year and a half ago. With our cardstock salesman.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Our former cardstock salesman.”

She gritted her teeth. Even Miss Manners would find Macon a challenge. “I didn’t like his yellows. He took it personally.”

His other eyebrow winged upward. She gave up the fight. After a deep, mood-changing sigh, she said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should start looking around for a new relationship.” She, at least, had some manners, some delicacy of expression. But she wouldn’t be looking for a relationship, she’d be looking for a man, somebody to satisfy the needs only a man could satisfy.

“Don’t do anything foolish.”

“Do I ever?”

“Not at the office.”

“Not anywhere. I’ll meet a man through friends, or find a bonded carpenter or plumber. A union man with credentials.”

The search and capture wouldn’t be too difficult. Her standards were reasonable and easily met. He should be clean—drug-free, disease-free and addicted to daily showers, deodorants and promising toothpastes—and lacking a record of abusive behavior. Other than that, almost anyone would do. She wasn’t looking for a man to share her dreams, make her rich, raise her consciousness, enhance her knowledge or give her a home and children. Many years ago when she was young and hopeful, she’d wanted those things with Alex—Alexander Asquith-Emerson—and she still felt that if she couldn’t have them with him, she didn’t want them.

“Sarah…” Macon seemed to gather up something within himself as he leaned forward. “These days the world is a dangerous place for women. Maybe I could fill the current void. You and I know and understand each other, and all I feel for you is the deepest respect. No strings. No promises except my promise of total discretion. I could get you over your rough spot.”

Today was apparently going to be studded with shocks, so she might as well get used to them. Sarah gazed into his eyes, seeing nothing there but an earnest need to help her out, and as magnified as Macon’s eyes were behind the Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses, you could pretty much see whatever was there. But he’d given her an opening to say something to him she’d been wanting to say for a long time, if she could get her mind off her own problems long enough to grasp the opportunity.

“Macon,” she said with great solemnity, “I am deeply flattered by your offer, and I’m tempted to accept it. You have no idea how attractive a man you are.”

He actually could be, if it weren’t for those glasses, his depressing sartorial choices and a haircut that looked as if he’d done it himself. She rarely noticed Macon’s looks. She was too dependent on his genius.

“That’s what my landlady tells me,” Macon admitted. “She’s always after me to buy clothes, get a better barber.”

Any barber. “Listen to her,” Sarah said. “A few outside changes would give you self-confidence. Personally, I’m extremely fond of you just as you are. But I have made a vow not to have sex with my professional colleagues. You saw what happened with the cardstock salesman. When I rejected his yellows, I lost his reds, the best reds on the market.” She sighed, still stung by the loss. “Most people have a religion to guide them,” she added for good measure. “That’s mine.”

Macon nodded, apparently not at all hurt by her refusal. “It’s one of the things I respect you for. Just thought I’d make the offer. Save you time and hassle.”

“I really appreciate it, but you deserve something more.”

“Oh, come on, Sarah.”

“I’m serious about this. And what I want you to do—” She got up, came around the desk and sat on the arm of his chair. “What I want you to do,” she repeated softly, “is go out and find someone who will love you romantically as much as I love you as a friend and colleague. Somebody who will appreciate all those qualities that make me love you. Maybe even—” she put her hand under his chin and tilted his head up until his eyes goggled directly into hers “—maybe even somebody who wants strings, something permanent.”

She had him mesmerized. His lips parted. “Why are you so sure you don’t want something permanent yourself?”

She let go of his chin and stood up. He’d surprised her again. She felt uneasy, fidgety. “Maybe I just can’t see past you,” she said in a sexy growl he couldn’t possibly take seriously.

In fact, he laughed. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Just…” He was grave again. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Absolutely.” But not in the way he imagined. She had no fear for her physical safety. All she had to protect was her heart.

THE NEXT MORNING was no different from the last month of mornings. Sarah woke up hot and restless, exhausted from fighting her way through dreams that swirled her into a spiral of desire, then left her floating in limbo, just short of reaching the pinnacle of release. The sheets were damp and tangled. Her nightgown, nothing more than a cream silk slip, felt clammy as she shrugged the slender straps off her shoulders and let it fall to the bathroom floor.

In the shower, she moved the faucet from hot to warm to cool. As she ran nervous fingers through her damp hair, feeling the curls spring up with a life of their own, she felt fresher, but not better. The heavy, swollen sensation persisted, making her feel dull and lethargic.

Coffee should help.

It didn’t.

Clothes. Sarah reached into the sea of black that filled most of her closet and drew out a pair of slim capri pants, a tiny, tight tank top and a jacket that looked as though someone had shrunk it, as it was short in the sleeves and short in length.

She frowned at her reflection in the mirror, her mood darkening. What she needed was a splash of bright color. She exchanged the black pants for an identical pair of khaki-colored capris and took a second look at herself. Yes. Very jolly. Practically festive for downtown Manhattan.

She put large gold hoops in her ears and her entire collection of gold bangles on her right arm. They clanked dully in rhythm with her black mules as she traveled the crumbling, tip-tilted New York sidewalks—half of the long crosstown block to Sixth Avenue, then a dozen short blocks uptown—to her office in Chelsea. While she walked, she faced up to her problem.

Those bothersome dreams hadn’t been wild and crazy fantasies. They’d been wild and crazy memories, memories of Alex.

Macon was all too right. It was once again time to find a man to dull those memories.

Just a man, that was all she needed. She’d start looking for prospects this very weekend. She only hoped her staff wouldn’t move on to greener salaries before she found one.

ALEX EMERSON STROLLED aimlessly north through Soho after lunch in Tribeca, crossed Houston and made his way up to Washington Square. Encouraged by the warmth of mid-May, joggers trotted around the perimeter of the park and dog owners ignored the No Dogs Allowed signs to toss Frisbees to ecstatic black Labs and golden retrievers. In the center of the park near the fountain, hot-dog vendors were doing a land-office business.

The hot dogs smelled great, but he’d already eaten a couple of times today and would have to eat a couple of times more. He had several hours between the long but productive business lunch at Arqua, which he’d just left, and drinks at the Plaza’s Oak Bar with yet another set of potential investors in the venture capital company he ran out of San Francisco. Drinks would be followed by a long, expensive and, he hoped, even more productive business dinner in a quiet corner of the elegant restaurant Jean-Georges near Lincoln Center.

Doing business was a fine way to spend a spring Saturday as far as Alex was concerned. Work was the only arena in which he felt comfortable. When he was at home in San Francisco he worked. When he traveled to New York or London or Taipei, he also worked. It was only during the little breaks between work that he felt on edge, jittery, bothered, too aware of the needs of his body and the permanent sense of loss in his heart.

Walking helped a little. Running would have helped more, but it would have meant two additional clothes changes and a shower before his five o’clock appointment. Too much time wasted. Suddenly bored with greenery, he headed west on Waverly Place toward the untidy bustle of Sixth Avenue. A couple of blocks north he crossed the street to get a closer look at the library, then went to the corner to wait for the walk light.

From that vantage point he watched shoppers cram their way into Balducci’s, a specialty grocer, while others emerged, burdened and visibly harassed, from the exits.

His New York business acquaintances occasionally sent him gift baskets from the place. They sold several things Alex was crazy about—the most thinly cut smoked salmon in town, fresh cream cheese, a lemon tart that had had a walk-on role in one of his dreams and boxes of chocolate-chip cookies that were close enough to homemade to fool somebody like him, whose mother wasn’t into cookies. He should go in, buy them out of those cookies and surprise his staff with them on Monday morning.

It really would be a surprise. He wasn’t what you’d call a chocolate-chip-cookie kind of boss.

As this thought went through his mind, a woman came out of the shop carrying two of the distinctive green-and-white shopping bags. She set them down for a moment to set a brown leather handbag more firmly over her shoulder. She was reed-slim in narrow jeans, the dark-blue ones Alex had decided must be the fashion this spring. A loose white shirt floated over her arms, barely touching her body down to her waist where she’d tucked it in. High-heeled sandals added four inches to her already considerable height.

She was an extraordinarily striking woman. He felt drawn to her, a stranger, as he rarely felt drawn to the women who decorated his life as fleetingly as the bouquets of fresh flowers Burleigh routinely ordered for the round foyer table in Alex’s Pacific Heights home. Just seeing her there gave him an oddly familiar surge of desire to penetrate a softness and warmth that felt too real to be a figment of his heated imagination.

She turned directly toward him for an instant, and he saw with the crystal clarity of cherished memories the fine skin, the blond hair that floated in the same ethereal fashion as her shirt, the generous mouth. His eyes opened wide. His lips parted. He breathed a single word.

“Sarah.”

And then, as she took off like the Concorde, as comfortable on those high heels as if they’d been sneakers, he came to life. He couldn’t shout her name. Men like him didn’t shout women’s names in public places. They didn’t follow women up the street, either, but this was Sarah he was following, and he could not, would not, let her get away.

HURRYING NORTH, Sarah congratulated herself on how well the weekend was going. The evening before, she’d had drinks at the latest trendy bar—those ratings could change overnight—in Chelsea with Rachel and Annie, two friends from work. She’d chatted with an appealing man, an actor with a charming smile and high hopes, who’d auditioned the day before and had just gotten a callback.

A man for whom she had high hopes.

They’d agreed to meet for breakfast at a coffee shop in the West Village. He’d arrived with his lover, an equally appealing—but jealous—man.

However, while she waited for him, she’d shared the sports section of the Times with a better prospect, a lawyer with one of the city’s large firms. They’d exchanged cards, and she fully expected to find a message from him on her answering machine when she got home. In the meantime, she’d prepared herself for whatever the evening—and the next morning—might bring.

Balducci’s stocked a plentiful array of hors d’oeuvres and prepared foods, and she’d bought enough to manage dinner in case going out suddenly lost its charm. This afternoon she would make a dessert—a hazelnut torte, perhaps, or a flourless chocolate cake, or both.

She swung right onto Twelfth Street. Her bags also held bagels, smoked salmon, cream cheese and juice from apparently rare and valuable grapefruit, judging from the price. She would check the answering machine, then put her purchases away. Then, with everything in a state of readiness, she’d slip out onto the fire escape to let the sunshine and cool breeze arouse her to fever pitch. Her sixth sense told her the lawyer would be up to whatever level of passion she chose to demand of him.

She’d reached her building and started up the walk when she heard, “Sarah!” She froze, unable to move, unwilling to turn around. Her imagination was playing tricks on her, ugly, painful tricks. She heard footsteps behind her, and filled with dread, she slowly spun to face Alexander Asquith-Emerson, all grown-up.

“Sarah.” He sounded out of breath. “It’s Alex. Saw you coming out of Balducci’s. It was just too amazing a coincidence.” The rush of words coming from his mouth, a mouth that quirked up at one corner in an all-too-familiar way, suddenly halted.

Inside she was quaking so violently she was sure it showed on the outside. His hair was as thick and dark as ever, and his shoulders were broader in his well-tailored navy blazer than they’d been when he was eighteen. His eyes flashed dark, mysterious messages as they always had. An ache rose through her body that recalled the past even as it demanded recognition of the present.

“Fuhgeddaboudit,” they said in Brooklyn. And, of course, she already had forgotten about it. A long time ago.

“Well. My goodness. After all these years. Alex Asquith-Emerson.” Her spine felt like cold steel. She was proud of it for holding her up so firmly.

“Just Emerson.” His full lower lip curved in a smile. “I dropped the Asquith. Too pretentious for the States.”

His face held an expectant expression that frightened her. “Well,” she said again, wishing she could bring her deceased vocabulary skills back to life. “It was good of you to go to all this trouble just to say hello.”

“I didn’t. Go to all this trouble just to say hello.”

She waited, unable to move toward him or away from him. The ache had traveled up to her throat, making it impossible for her to answer.

“I’ve been trying to find you for years, Sarah. And suddenly, there you were.”

He still had a faint trace of an upper-class English accent, and the rich quality of his voice had intensified with time. He had always been able to dissolve her with a word, merely her name spoken as only Alex could say it, but she was an adult now, immune to his manipulation.

“I’ve been here for the last five years,” she said. “I own my own company. A graphics design firm.” She wanted him to know she was in control of her own life and getting along just fine.

“I’m in and out of New York a lot. Wish I’d known you were here.” He went on rapidly. “Well, now that I’ve found you we must get together sometime. I’ve filled up this weekend with business, I’m afraid, and have to head back home after lunch tomorrow…”

Sure, Alex, business.

“…but I’m coming back next weekend. Have dinner with me Friday night?”

I’d like to have you for dinner Friday night, you bastard. She forced breath into her lungs, forced her lips to move. “Sorry, I’m busy Friday.”

“Saturday?”

“Busy Saturday, too. And I never go out on Sundays.” She hoped he’d felt the point of the knife she’d just jabbed into him. “But it was great to see you.” She turned away, longing for the safety and comfort of her own space, any space that didn’t have Alex in it.

“Sarah.”

The old deep, slow rhythm slowed her steps. She couldn’t help herself.

“Here’s my card. Call me if your plans change.”

She took the card, tried to focus on it. She saw a San Francisco address. “You went back to California.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother?” She let her gaze rest on his face.

His wry smile added a touch of reality to the painful dream Sarah floated in. “In England. In excellent health, as impossible as ever and slowly killing husband number five. And your aunt Becki?”

The flood of sorrow rose inside her, as it always did. “She died. Eight years ago, while I was still in school.”

“Oh, Sarah, I am sorry.”

“Well.” She gave him a bright, social smile as she gathered up her bags and started toward her doorway. She didn’t know what she’d do if he followed her, offered to help with the bags, asked to come in. He didn’t do any of those things. He just stood quietly, watching her.

“Enjoy your stay in New York,” she said over her shoulder.

She got up the steps and through the doorway, fumbling with her keys. She made it to the tiny elevator at the end of the hall, to her apartment on the fifth floor and at last, to solitude.

Then she cried.

ROOTED TO THE SIDEWALK, Alex found it difficult to bend his knees.

As he watched Sarah vanish into the town house, he felt as if his memories were burning him alive. Memories of the warm, silken feel of her stretched out over the full length of his body, or straddling him, clinging to his hair with her fingertips, or writhing beneath him, and finally lying quietly beside him, sated.

Suddenly edgy and needing to move around, he started slowly back toward Sixth Avenue. As soon as he’d officially reached adulthood and financial independence he’d begun searching for her, futilely trying to track her down through their mutual high-school friends, eventually surfing Internet telephone directories, state by state. She’d cut herself off, it seemed, vanished. He hadn’t expected her to do that. He’d imagined she’d be there when the time was right. And today, at last, she’d appeared as if by magic.

It hadn’t seemed possible. It still didn’t seem possible.

He reached Sixth, stepped out onto the street and held up his hand. A taxi swerved, crossed two lanes and pulled up in front of him.

He wished the meeting had gone better, been easier, more comfortable, had given him some hope of forgiveness, yet he felt almost relieved by her hostility.

It meant she still cared.

“Hey, buddy, you want a cab or not?”

Alex gazed blankly through the window at the man, then climbed into the cab and tried desperately to restore his interest in the business deal that had seemed so important an hour ago.