Читать книгу Blame It on the Blackout - Heidi Betts - Страница 8

Lucy Grainger tapped softly in warning on the front door of Peter Reynolds’s town house, then used a key to let herself in. Gathering the morning mail and paper from the foyer floor, she made her way past the den that held her office to the large kitchen at the back of the house. Setting the paper and mail alongside her purse on the island countertop, she started a pot of coffee and began clearing away some of last night’s mess.

It wasn’t her job to clean up after Peter. He did have a housekeeper, after all, who dropped by once a week to do laundry and dishes and relocate some of the dust that settled on miscellaneous surfaces. But Lucy was so used to taking care of him that it seemed only natural to move a few dirty dishes to the sink or throw away a near-empty carton of milk that had been left out of the refrigerator too long.

From there, she walked back toward the front of the house, up the stairs, and down the short hallway that led to Peter’s bedroom. He might have slept in, especially if he’d been up late working on some computer program or another. Or maybe he’d simply forgotten to set his alarm clock—again. But his bed was empty, the sheets tangled and nearly stripped off the mattress.

Only one place left to look. Lucy eased the bedroom door closed and walked across the hallway in the opposite direction to Peter’s home office.

Less conservative than the den, Peter liked this room because it was small, private, and casually decorated to his personal tastes. Which basically meant unadorned walls painted periwinkle-blue with white trim, a three-part desk taking up one whole corner, and low tables of sliding file drawers lining the remaining three. Every available surface was filled with assorted computer equipment, ongoing work projects, and Peter’s collection of original Star Trek action figures.

Inside, the computer tower hummed softly from its home on the floor, telling her she was right about Peter’s location. With one arm folded beneath his head, Lucy’s boss slept hunched over his cluttered desk. He wore an old gray T-shirt and plaid boxers, his sandy-blond hair ruffled and sticking up in places—probably from all the times he’d run his fingers through it in frustration during the night.

Lucy’s own fingers clenched at her sides as she fought the urge to flatten those spiky spots or slide a palm down the strong curve of his spine.

She sighed. This was the problem with working for a man she had half a crush on. The line between employer and potential lover got blurrier by the day.

But only for her. Peter didn’t see her as potential lover material. Most of the time, she didn’t think he saw her as a woman at all.

As a secretary, an assistant, the person he ran to when he needed just about anything, yes. But as an attractive, interested, flesh-and-blood woman? He’d never glanced up from his computer screen long enough to notice.

Then again, that was one of the things she loved about him—his passion for software design and starting his own company from the ground up. He was brilliant and already had corporations from around the world calling him to help work bugs out of their systems or simply get things running more smoothly. But what he loved most was designing his own games and programs, and that had been his focus for the past two years, ever since she’d started working for him.

Reaching past his sleeping form, she collected several empty cola cans scattered over the desktop and on the floor. He drank too much of this syrupy stuff, especially when he was busy and became nearly obsessed with a particular project.

Two of the aluminum cans slipped from her grasp and rattled as they bounced against each other on the way to the carpeted floor. The noise startled Peter and he shot upright. Blinking sleepily, he looked around as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He rubbed a hand across his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

“A little past nine. How long have you been working?”

“I started after dinner. Around six, I guess.”

Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and stretched. His knuckles nearly grazed the ceiling as he raised his arms high above his head and stood on tiptoe. The posture puffed out his chest and showed the taut, well-defined muscles of his calves and thighs.

A ripple of awareness shot through Lucy, but she pretended not to notice.

“I was working on that GlobalCon glitch. It took me longer than I expected, but I think I took care of the problem.”

She moved to the wastebasket near the door and dumped the soda cans in, making a mental note to recycle them later. “So those were billable hours you spent last night. What time did you finish?”

“Damned if I know.” He scratched a spot on his chest and yawned again. “The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was about 3:00 a.m.”

She nodded, wondering if GlobalCon and all of Peter’s other clients realized just what a bargain they usually got with him. Sure, he was expensive, but he was also the best. And since he rarely remembered to log the times he began and ended his work for them, the bills she sent were generally best-guess estimates.

“Why don’t you go lie down for a couple of hours. You look exhausted.”

The grin he shot her swept right down to her toes and curled them inside her plain navy pumps.

“Nah. Now that I’m up, I might as well get showered and dressed.”

Peter in the shower. Now there was an image she needed floating around her brain the rest of the morning. As though he didn’t already keep her wide-awake most nights.

“Besides, I want to call GlobalCon and let them know I took care of their problem, then see if I can make any more progress on Soldiers of Misfortune.”

Soldiers of Misfortune was Peter’s latest obsession, a virtual guerilla warfare game with enough blood and guts to keep adolescent boys entranced for hours. Lucy tried to work up a modicum of outrage for his perpetuation of teen violence, but she played the games herself from time to time and had to admit they were fun. And so far, she hadn’t snapped and committed any acts of mass destruction.

Careful not to touch him, she moved around the office, collecting the rest of the clutter from Peter’s long work night. “Don’t forget to try on your tux and see if it needs alterations before tomorrow night.”

Halfway out the door, he froze. Twisting his neck just far enough to look at her, he asked, “What’s tomorrow night?”

“The City Women benefit against domestic violence. You’re giving a speech and receiving an award for your support of the organization and donations of refurbished computers to local battered women’s shelters.”

He’d spent weeks upgrading old systems so women who were trying to escape unbearable situations could train for new jobs to support themselves and their children instead of feeling forced to return to abusive husbands.

His eyes closed, chin dropping to his chest. “Damn, I forgot. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get out of it,” he said, shooting her a hopeful expression.

She bit down on a smile, not wanting to encourage him. “Not unless you want to disappoint hundreds of grateful women and children.”

With a sigh, he rested his hands on his hips. “Fine. But I’m going to need a date.”

A stab of pain hit her low in the belly. Followed quickly by envy and regret.

Peter had dated hordes of beautiful, successful ladies. Models, actresses, news anchors, real estate agents… He was handsome, funny, charming, and—though he was still striving to build his software company into one that would rival the best of the best—wealthy enough to catch a single girl’s attention.

Lucy told herself it didn’t hurt to see him with all those other women. Except when she came to work in the morning and discovered them still in his bed, or just leaving, or found a stray pair of panties while cleaning up between the housekeeper’s visits.

“I’ll go through your Rolodex and see who might be available.”

A minute ticked by while Peter stood in the doorway and she lifted the now-full plastic bag from the metal trash can.

“No,” he said, startling her. “I don’t feel like putting on a show for someone who just wants to be seen with the great Peter Reynolds.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure the City Women will understand if you attend alone.”

“I have a better idea,” he announced, turning around to face her. “You can come with me instead.”

He said it as though he’d decided to have chicken for dinner over steak, and Lucy couldn’t help but feel like the feathered creature unfortunate enough to be dragged to the chopping block.

If he’d meant it as a real invitation, if he’d even once looked at her as though he wanted her on his arm for the evening because he was attracted to her, she might have considered it.

Oh, who was she kidding? She’d have jumped at the chance and prayed he didn’t lose interest before the main course.

Shaking her head, she gathered the edges of the garbage bag together to keep the items from falling out and headed for the stairs, brushing past him with barely a millimeter of space to spare. “No, thank you.”

“No? What do you mean no?”

His voice, raised in surprised indignation, followed her down the steps. As she rounded the newel post and headed for the kitchen, she noticed he was hot on her heels.

“Lucy, you can’t possibly mean to leave me to my own devices. I’ll drown in a sea of shiny, happy people. You know how much I hate crowds and public speaking.”

“You should have thought of that before you agreed to be there.” She set the trash from his office on the countertop and began separating it into the plastic recycling bins set in one corner.

“God, that coffee smells good,” he murmured, tossing a longing glance at the pot that had just finished dripping. “Look, I can’t go alone. I need you with me. There are going to be some very important people in attendance. People who could turn into future clients or help get Reyware and Games of PRey off the ground. You’re my assistant. You know our software programs and intentions for the company almost as well as I do. And no one works a room like you do. People love you.”

When she didn’t respond, he continued, sounding more desperate by the second. “Consider it in your job description. I’ll pay you overtime. You can take the appointment book and set up a dozen meetings with potential backers for the next month.”

Ah, yes. She was, indeed, his assistant. And if he was making this into a work-related affair, then she had no choice but to go with him.

But she didn’t have to make it easy for him.

Turning from the recycle bins, she leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You won’t be so impressed when I show up in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to a high-priced charity dinner.”

Relief washed over Peter’s features and he slapped his hands down flat on the marble island as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. “Not a problem. I’ll take care of everything. Or rather, you’ll take care of everything, but I’ll foot the bill. Here…”

He reached back, as though digging into a hip pocket, then realized he was still in his boxers. Shaking his head, he rushed to assure her. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a credit card. I’ll get you two credit cards. Buy whatever you want.”

Then he came around the island, reached her in three long strides, and wrapped her in a hug tight enough to crush her ribcage. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He punctuated each adulation with a kiss to her temple.

Lucy’s knees grew weak and she let her eyes drift shut as the heat of his body seeped through the thin material of her white blouse, short navy skirt and stockings.

Oh, sure. She could spend the evening with this man and remember it was nothing but business. No problem. And maybe after performing that small miracle, she’d practice turning water into wine.

Peter slugged back his sixth cup of coffee since Lucy had awakened him this morning and punched the computer mouse to send the cache of e-mails he’d composed in the last half hour.

He was learning that it wasn’t easy taking care of himself. She’d only been gone two and a half hours, but she was usually around during the day to answer the phone and come when he called, so he was finding it difficult to carry out his normal routine.

He’d finally given up answering the telephone when it rang every five minutes, and was now letting all calls go directly to voicemail. Lord knew Lucy would be better able to deal with the messages when she got back. And even though she often went through his electronic mail for him, forwarding only those that required his personal attention, today he’d done it himself. He wasn’t completely helpless, after all.

The snail mail, however, was a different matter. No way was he going anywhere near that pile of paper cuts. Lucy would let him know if there was anything he needed to see.

From his office upstairs, he heard the front door open and a wash of relief poured over him. Thank God. Now he could lock himself in his room and concentrate on his real strength—program design—instead of dealing with the other odds and ends of getting through the day.

Crossing his office threshold, he stopped on the second floor landing and watched as Lucy struggled to close the door while balancing assorted shopping bags and boxes in both arms.

Looking up, she spotted him and blew a stray strand of straight black hair out of her face. “You could offer to help, you know.”

“Oh. Right.” He spent more time with computers than people, and Lucy would be the first to point out that he sometimes lacked social graces. But the minute she called him on it, he rushed into action, bounding down the stairs and grabbing up her entire load.

“Sorry about that. It looks like you had luck shopping, anyway.”

She shrugged out of the lightweight jacket that matched her dark blue skirt, tossing it over the banister and leaving her once again in a soft white blouse that showed off her feminine attributes to perfection. It didn’t help that he could see the outline of her black lace bra through the gauzy material, either.

Peter’s blood thickened and a lump of temptation formed in his throat. But a moment later, he tamped down on both, refusing to let his mind wander a path he had no business exploring.

Lucy was a beauty, no doubt about it. From the moment they’d met, when she’d first interviewed for the job as his personal assistant, he’d been fascinated by the silky fall of her long ebony hair, the smooth complexion of her porcelain skin, the bright, sharp blue of her doe-shaped eyes.

Of course, there was no chance of anything happening between them. Peter had long ago put a mental block on the possibility of building a relationship with any woman, let alone one who worked for him. God forbid he turn out like his father…. He had too much in common with the old man already and had no intention of making a wife or children as miserable as his father had made his mother and him.

But he’d hired Lucy in spite of his attraction to her, simply because she was the best damn applicant on the list. She typed, took dictation, had a phone voice that could make a saint fall to his knees, and knew her way around computers almost as well as he did.

So, if he found himself staring at her ripe red lips most of the time while she spoke, or taking an unnatural number of cold showers after she’d gone home for the day, he had no one to blame but himself.

Dressed now in a clean pair of tan chinos and dark green polo shirt, he noticed the curve of her mouth and wondered what she found so amusing. Lord knew he was in too much physical pain to mimic her contented smile.

“I hope you still think it was a good idea to make me go with you tomorrow night once you see your credit card statement.”

That gave him a moment’s pause, but then he shrugged. The tissue paper in several of the boutique bags rustled with the movement. “How bad could it be?”

Her brows shot up. Holding a hand out like she expected him to shake it, she quipped, “Hi, let me introduce myself. I’m a woman with carte blanche to charge anything I want on a man’s account. I also happen to know your net worth. Any questions?”

He chuckled. Her sense of humor had always been machete sharp, but that was just one more reason he enjoyed her company.

“Remind me to have a couple of drinks before I open the bill,” he returned. “In the meantime, how about a little fashion show?”

Eyes wide, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on,” he cajoled. “I want to see what I paid for.”

Furry, multilegged caterpillars wiggled inside Lucy’s stomach as she considered Peter’s request. The last thing she wanted to do was attend tomorrow night’s charity benefit with him, and the next to the last thing she wanted was to model her new evening gown before she absolutely had to.

But—whether he knew it yet or not—he had spent quite a lot on the fancy ensemble, and if he wanted an advance viewing, she supposed it was only right to give it to him.

He must have read the indecision on her face because he started up the stairs without her. “You can use my bedroom to change. And this way, I’ll know what color corsage to order.”

“Corsage?” With a roll of her eyes, she began to follow. “Peter, we aren’t going to a high school prom.”

He swung around at the balcony railing and flashed her the unwitting, thousand-watt smile that made her teeth sweat. “Too bad. It sure would be more fun than what we have to endure.” Then he spun back and walked into the bedroom.

When Lucy arrived, the bags and boxes he’d carried up for her were scattered atop the chest at the foot of his bed. Peter rubbed his hands together and gave her a friendly wink before moving back toward the hallway.

“Give me a yell when you’re ready. I’ll be in my office.”

The door closed with a soft click, leaving her alone beside Peter’s bed…and Peter’s mattress…and Peter’s pillow. The covers were still rumpled from the last time he’d slept there and it took a great deal of effort not to throw herself across the bed and inhale his scent from every fiber of the tan, five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. She ought to know, she’d bought them for him.

Sad, that’s what she was. Pathetic and sad and unworthy of being a member of the female race. What other twenty-nine-year-old woman spent her life mooning over an unattainable boss? A clueless man who never looked twice at her…at least not the way a man should look at a woman.

Other than throwing herself down on his desk and screaming, “Take me, big boy!” she’d done everything she could think of to let Peter know she was interested. From the time she’d started working for him two years ago, she’d tried to drop hints that his advances wouldn’t be unwelcome. She’d worn her skirts a little short and her blouses a little low. She’d worn a dozen different perfumes, trying to find one that would pique his interest. She’d worn her hair up and down, short and long, straight, curly, braided…She’d leaned close while they talked and fabricated excuses to interrupt him while he worked.

Finally, when nothing seemed to catch his attention, she’d given up. A girl could only take so much humiliation, and her breaking point came the day she’d arrived at work to find another woman, half-dressed, leaving Peter’s room. Her theory that he must be gay had been shot all to hell, and she’d vowed then and there never to make another move on him.

Unfortunately that pledge didn’t keep her eyes from wandering over his well-muscled form, or her heart from skipping a beat when he said her name in that low, reverberating voice of his.

Not for the first time, she thought about quitting. She really should. She was talented, good at her job, and could probably find another position anywhere in the city within the week.

But she liked this arrangement. Despite the personal misery she suffered on a daily basis, Peter was a great employer. She believed in what he was doing and enjoyed being a part of it.

Besides, what other boss would spring for a gorgeous new evening gown and accessories that she would probably never have occasion to wear again?

Lifting items from their bags, she began to peel out of her practical skirt and blouse, ignoring the skittering of awareness that skated down her spine when she realized she was standing half-naked in the middle of Peter’s bedroom. If only he were here with her, and she was stripping down to her skin for something other than an impromptu fashion show.

Instead of bothering with the fancy undergarments she’d purchased to go with the dress, she remained in her normal bra and panty hose, and simply slipped the gown on overtop. She did trade her plain pumps for the black, glitter-covered velvet stilettos, though.

Sweeping her hair back off her shoulders, she left the bedroom and crossed the short, carpeted hall to Peter’s office. She stopped in the doorway, leaned casually against the frame and watched his fingers fly over the keyboard.

“So,” she said, catching his attention. “What do you think?”