Читать книгу Risky Business - Jane Sullivan, Jane Sullivan - Страница 9

RACHEL WESTOVER GOT OUT of the elevator on the thirty-eighth floor, then turned and backed through the glass door of Davidson Design, dragging two large shopping bags along with her. If this day got any worse, she wouldn’t be able to stand it.

She’d realized this morning as she was leaving for work that she really could use a couple of new sweaters and a few other things if she intended to go to a ski resort for the next four days. So she’d ventured out for an early lunch hour, fought the crowds at both Ann Taylor and Express, stood in line next to a woman with a screaming baby, paid far too much for everything because she had no time to shop for a bargain, then took a cab back to her office driven by a guy who didn’t know the meaning of the word brake.

But at least now she was ready for the retreat. Four days of skiing in Silver Springs, courtesy of the big boss, Walter Davidson. The man liked to promote a “one big, happy family” feeling among his employees, and occasional employee/spouse retreats were his way of making that happen. Rachel had never been very comfortable in social situations, particularly those which she was forced to attend, so she wasn’t looking forward to this one. Unfortunately, turning down such a generous invitation would make her look ungrateful. And with the new project manager position opening up, she definitely didn’t want to appear that way.

The receptionist, Megan Rice, an animated little redhead with big brown eyes, peered over her desk.

“Hey, Rachel. Have fun shopping?”

“Not in the least.”

“Aw, come on. It’s always fun to spend money.”

Not for Rachel. Saving money was fun. Spending it was painful.

The phone trilled. Megan punched a button on her console, answered it, then routed it with another touch of her fingertip. Most companies had done away with call-routing receptionists and gone to voice mail. But Walter Davidson insisted on maintaining the personal touch, and Megan manned the central nervous system of Davidson Design with astonishing proficiency. She greeted visitors, did overflow word processing and generally took up slack wherever she found it. But despite her obvious competence, there was something about her that had always made Rachel feel just a touch uneasy.

Maybe it was the barbed wire tattoo on her upper arm that occasionally peeked out from under her sleeve. Maybe it was the glint in her eyes that said she always knew way more than she was saying. Maybe it was the phone calls she made sometimes to somebody named “Blade.” But for one reason or another, Rachel had come to suspect the truth: lurking behind those big brown eyes was the heart of a hell-raiser.

And now the hell-raiser was smiling at her.

Under normal circumstances, Megan’s smile was just a smile. But today was Rachel’s birthday. Megan was the self-appointed celebrant of all birthdays on the premises, and she accomplished that duty in ways that struck fear in Rachel’s heart. Rachel hated people making a fuss over her. But when it came to birthdays, Megan went beyond fuss and edged right into human torture.

A bouquet of black balloons.

Candles that wouldn’t blow out.

A six-foot rabbit belting out a singing telegram.

A T-shirt that read, I’m Not Old, I’m Chronologically Challenged.

“Any messages for me?” Rachel asked.

“No,” Megan said with a smile. “But I have something for you.”

Oh, no.

Rachel glanced quickly over one shoulder, then the other. She saw nothing suspicious, but that didn’t mean a thing. It could come from anywhere at any time, so she had to stay on her toes.

“Please, Megan,” she said. “I know it’s my birthday, but—”

“Hey, calm down, will you? It’s no big deal.”

That hardly made Rachel feel better. Megan thought a dancing chimpanzee was no big deal.

“Please,” she said imploringly. “Just tell me…” She took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “Just tell me it’s not a stripper.”

Megan looked horrified. “You’re kidding, right? A stripper? Would I do something like that?”

The answer was an unqualified yes. A stripper. A guy with a boom box and a G-string beneath his tearaway pants, ready to bump and grind his way through a routine that would make Madonna die of embarrassment. Everyone would come out of their offices to watch the show, and she’d have to tolerate it or look like a bad sport.

That Walter allowed such behavior amazed Rachel. But it was just one more expression of his core ideology: the employees who played together stayed together, and if a few practical jokes masquerading as birthday surprises enhanced that mood, he was all for it.

Rachel sighed inwardly. What had happened to workplaces where people were stuffy and uptight and gave out birthday cards with rhyming verses that weren’t dirty limericks?

Then Megan reached for something underneath her desk, and Rachel braced herself.

“Here you go,” Megan said, and set a cupcake on the counter. Rachel held her breath, eyeing it warily. A cup-cake? Surely there was more to it than that.

“Lighten up, will you?” Megan said. “It’s way too small for a stripper to jump out of.”

True.

Rachel let out the breath she’d been holding. Well. That wasn’t so bad. A nice, conservative cupcake topped with white frosting and a single pink candle. That she could deal with.

“I know you said you didn’t even want a cake,” Megan said, “but everybody needs a cake on their birthday. Even if it’s a little one.”

“Well…thank you, Megan. I appreciate that.”

Megan motioned to the end of the reception desk. “And those roses are for you, too. They came while you were out to lunch. Aren’t they something?”

Ah. The flowers. They’d arrived. And they were something, all right. Just the kind of flowers sent by a man crazy in love with his wife.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Jack is very sweet. I’ve told him time and time again that flowers are a silly waste of money, but he won’t listen.”

“Too bad he couldn’t make it back to town for your birthday.”

“He tried to catch a flight out, but he couldn’t. It’s along way from South America, you know, and the access is pretty bad. He has to take a flight whenever he can get one.”

Megan rested her chin on her hand. “Wow. It must really be tough to have your husband gone all the time.”

Rachel let out a theatrical sigh. “I do miss him.”

“Easy to see why,” Megan said with a smile. “He’s gorgeous. Well, his picture is, anyway. Are we ever going to get to meet him?”

“Sure. Someday soon. I promise.”

Actually, the real answer to that question was Not in a million years. But Megan didn’t know that. Neither did anyone else at Davidson Design. And they never would.

Megan flicked a lighter and lit the candle on the cupcake. “Go ahead. Make a wish.”

That was easy. Rachel closed her eyes, then blew out the candle.

Megan leaned in close and whispered, “You wished for the promotion, didn’t you?”

Of course she had, but she didn’t particularly like Megan pointing it out.

Ever since her firm had won the bid to design a glitzy new hotel in Reno, she’d been evaluating her chances to become project manager. Her only real competition was Phil Wardman, a man with far less experience and technical ability than she had. But he had something she didn’t. Phil happened to be one of those backslapping, buddy-buddy kind of guys that Walter Davidson just loved. They talked sports, sometimes even played golf together, and more than once Rachel had seen them going out to lunch. Personally all that familiarity made her uncomfortable. After all, what did any of that stuff have to do with a person’s ability to do a job?

Over the next four days at the ski resort, she hoped to tip the scales in her favor, finding subtle ways to suggest to Walter that she really was the best candidate. In the end, she had to trust that any sane person would promote someone with qualifications over someone with schmoozability.

“Actually,” Rachel told Megan, “I wished for my husband to make it home in time to come on the retreat with me.” She sighed again. “But I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

“Maybe next time.” Megan punched a button to answer a call, staring pointedly at Rachel. “And then we’d actually get to meet him.”

Rachel smiled indulgently, then, gathering up her shopping bags, the flowers and the cupcake, went into her office. She deposited the bags on the floor and placed the roses on her desk—one dozen American Beauty roses that had cost way more than she ever should have spent. But they were exactly what her sweet, loving husband would have sent her.

Her sweet, loving, imaginary husband.

Rachel sat down in her chair and traced her finger over the wedding ring on her left hand, which contained a stone just big enough to be impressive, but small enough not to be ostentatious. They could do wonders with cubic zirconia these days. Unless somebody pried it off her finger and held it under a jeweler’s loupe, nobody would ever suspect that it wasn’t a real diamond.

And then there was the photograph, the one she and Jack had asked a passerby to take of the two of them on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. She’d had the photo enlarged, framed it and placed it on her credenza. And because she’d created just the right profession for Jack that explained why he was rarely in town, nobody got suspicious as to why they’d never met him.

The ring, the photo, and a flower delivery every once in a while—that was all it had taken for everyone here to believe that she was actually married.

Okay, so it was a little deceptive. But the moment she’d heard of the job opening at Davidson Design six months ago, she’d wanted it desperately. A small firm with a hot reputation—what better place to make her mark? Then she’d gotten word through the grapevine that Walter Davidson had a strong preference for married job candidates, a qualification that was a little difficult to acquire on short notice.

So she’d faked it.

In the end, she’d gotten a job she loved, and Walter Davidson had gotten a talented, dedicated architect, who was going to help him put his small but growing firm on the map. Nobody was hurt. Her plan had worked perfectly.

She sighed. Okay. There was one tiny little glitch. She’d underestimated the way she would feel every time she looked at that photograph.

She turned slowly and stared at it, playing back in her mind the one night she and Jack had spent together. She remembered every moment of it—every kiss, every touch, every whispered word in the dark. He’d made her feel as if she were somebody else entirely—a hot, wanton, reckless woman who never met a sexual position she didn’t like, a woman who would throw modesty and respectability and good behavior to the four winds and engage in a hedonistic sexfest that would have made a Roman emperor blush.

And it had scared the hell out of her.

She remembered with painful clarity how she’d felt when she woke before dawn and realized what she’d done. Fortunately she’d had the good sense to walk out of that hotel and leave temptation behind. Just thinking about that night made her cheeks flush with embarrassment. What kind of woman has wild, breathless sex with a man she doesn’t even know? Repeatedly?

A woman who can’t resist a handsome face and a gorgeous body. A woman who lives in a fantasy world instead of reality. A woman who’s not in complete control of her life.

She’d tried to tell herself that she’d felt some kind of connection with Jack after the day they’d spent together, a meeting of minds and not just bodies. Finally, though, she came to her senses and realized she was just deluding herself. Such self-deception was nothing more than an excuse to justify her outlandish behavior.

What she couldn’t figure out, then, was why she’d spent a good portion of every day since wondering what it might be like to see him again.

She had to stop this. She had her career to think about. The last thing she needed was to get waylaid by thoughts of a man who had undoubtedly put another notch in his bedpost before she’d even left the hotel. And seeing him again was a moot point, anyway. It wasn’t going to happen. He was a thousand miles away in San Antonio. He could be her imaginary husband as long as she needed him to be, and nobody would be any the wiser.

And she would never have to be tempted by him again.

BY TWELVE-THIRTY, JACK HAD checked out four of the five architectural firms and come up empty. He’d found a few women named Rachel, but none that he recalled seeing naked in San Antonio.

The elevator doors opened on the thirty-eighth floor, and Jack stepped out. This was his last chance. If she didn’t work for Davidson Design, he didn’t know where to look next. He took a deep breath, opened the brass-trimmed glass doors and strode to the front desk. The receptionist, a bright, bubbly redhead with short, shaggy hair, held up her finger without glancing at him, asking him to wait as she answered one call after another.

Jack gazed around the room. Typical corporate look, with beige walls, modern art, leather furniture, track lighting. He decided he’d rather die and go to hell than be surrounded by this frigid atmosphere. At least hell would be warm.

And right in the middle of the ice box sat a leather-clad guy, his shirt open almost to his navel, with a neckful of silver chains and a couple of random piercings and tattoos. A boom box sat on the chair next to him. He leaned over and checked out his reflection in the coffee-table glass, patting a stray strand of blond hair back into place. He flipped his wrist and glanced at his watch, then tap, tap, tapped his fingertips against the arm of his chair.

“Hey, lady!” he called out to the receptionist. “I got a schedule to keep!”

The receptionist covered her mouthpiece and responded in a heavy stage whisper. “I told you it’ll be just a minute! Will you keep your shirt on? At least until I tell you to take it off?”

With a disgusted shake of her head that made her short red hair flutter, she tapped a button on her console, then finally turned her gaze up to Jack.

“May I help—”

Her mouth dropped open. She froze in that position, staring at him, her eyes as big and bright as a pair of flashlight beams.

“Dr. Kellerman?”

Doctor?

“I can’t believe it! You made it back!”

Made it back?

“Oh! Oh! You must be here to surprise Rachel!”

“Did you say Rachel?” His heart leaped with hope. “Late twenties, straight dark hair, blue eyes—”

“Well, of course!”

The woman yanked off her headset, tossed it aside and leaped to her feet, scurrying around the desk. “She’s not going to believe this. She’s simply not going to believe it. Oooh! What a wonderful surprise!”

She spun around and pointed to the kid in the waiting area. “You! Never mind! I don’t need you after all!”

The guy leaped to his feet, his silver chains jangling. “Hey! I’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes, and now you’re telling me—”

“I’ll send you a check!”

Before leather boy could protest further, the receptionist grabbed Jack by the arm and dragged him down a short hall, then stopped suddenly and pushed him up against the wall, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Okay. You stand here. Just wait here until I give you the word, okay?”

“I don’t get this. What are you—”

She put her fingers to her lips and shushed him, then held up her palm. “Just wait here. This is going to be so cool!”

This place was a loony bin. Or, at least, this woman was loony. And he was pretty sure the guy in the waiting room had a screw loose, too. What in the world had he walked into?

The receptionist pushed the door open and strolled into the office, downshifting her voice into a soft, professional tone.

“Excuse me, Rachel. Do you have a moment?”

“I’m really busy, Megan. Can it wait?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Megan said, her voice edged with excitement. “It can’t wait. Your real birthday present is here.”

Jack heard a gasp.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah. And you’re gonna love it.”

“No, Megan. I’m warning you. The cupcake was plenty. Don’t you dare do something weird. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare—”

Megan’s hand snaked around the doorway, found Jack’s arm, and yanked him into the office. The moment his eyes met Rachel’s, she leaped up out of her chair so suddenly that it rolled backward and smacked against her credenza.

Looking at her up close now, he knew. It was Rachel. No question about it.

Not that he would have recognized her by the clothes she wore. After the weekend they’d spent together, he would have expected to see her in something significantly more daring than the drab wool suit and buttoned-up white silk blouse she had on right now. Something brighter. Slinkier. Cut down to here and up to there. Something bold and carefree. Something that said, Come here, if you dare, instead of Don’t touch me if you value your life.

But there was a part of her she couldn’t hide behind those yards and yards of wool. Her eyes. He’d never forget those eyes as long as he lived, gorgeous ice-blue eyes that had kept him enthralled for hours on end.

But now they seemed to hold another quality. Surprise. No, not just surprise. Something more like…

Panic.

Megan patted Jack’s arm. “I’d have put a big red bow on him, but I was fresh out of ribbon. Happy birthday, Rachel.”