Читать книгу Special Delivery - Riki Kaye - Страница 4

Megan steeled herself before pushing through the revolving doors into the downtown skyscraper. Up ahead, waves of white-collar professionals surged toward her, like business-suited ants swarming from their high-rise nest in search of noonday sustenance.

As Megan weaved her way through the throng, every eye in the place seemed to follow her. She felt virtually naked in her short-shorts and tank top. Nowhere to hide—not even behind her long auburn hair, which was stuffed under her Vincenzo’s Pizza ball cap. Even the guard at the security desk spent more time goggling at her figure than checking out the pizza box in her hands. But at least he let her pass.

She headed for the bank of elevators. There was only one open car—well, “open” was a relative term. The elevator was full to bursting with men in dress shirts and power ties, talking about everything but work. As Megan pulled up in front of them, the conversation abruptly ceased, leaving fourteen slack-jawed gazes fixed squarely on her.

They know I’m not a delivery girl—it’s written all over my face. I am so gonna get thrown out of here.

Not enough room in there anyway. Problem solved, right? Megan backed away—

As if prompted by a collective unconscious, the guys all squeezed farther back into the car, creating a space a scant two feet square. En masse, they beckoned. “C’mon…! Plenty of room…! See…?” Then they waited, eager as pups, practically drooling.

No way to refuse now. With a polite smile, Megan carefully shoehorned herself into the proffered spot. One glance at the floor buttons told her she didn’t have a prayer of reaching them. “Sixty-two, please,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, nervous.

The guy nearest the panel pushed 62. “Damn,” he said good-naturedly. “I’m on twenty-five.”

Megan ducked her head to conceal her scarlet blush. “Better luck next time,” she said demurely.

“What kind of pizza?” another man asked.

“Three-cheese garlic chicken with herbs and caramelized onions on a pan crust.” Megan thought her reply was a little rushed, but no one seemed to notice. A few guys even made yummy sounds. Maybe the delivery-girl act was working after all.

She turned to face the elevator doors as they slid shut. To make room for the pizza, she was forced to lean back, subtly pressing against the group. There was a soft exhalation from the man behind her, and she felt the tickle of his breath on the back of her neck. She focused on the numbers over the doors, watching them light up one by one. Fifty-nine floors to go.

This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, hands down. What the hell am I doing here, anyway?

Thirty-eight hours earlier

Michael was nodding off over dinner. At the rate his head was drooping over his plate, Megan figured he would crash-land in his beef béarnaise any second now.

She jumped up and came around behind him, taking his shoulders just in time. He jerked back to full wakefulness, then chuckled, chagrined. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

Slipping her arms around him with a soft giggle, she pulled him to his feet. “Time for bed, sleepyhead.” She blew out the candles on the dining table, then steered him toward the bedroom, holding his hand as she would a sleepy child’s.

“But I don’t wanna go,” he protested. “I’m a ball of fire!”

Hmm, maybe there’s still some potential here after all, Megan thought. “We’ll discuss that when we get to the bedroom.”

Michael pouted. “Lately it seems as if we’re not doing much with each other except saying goodbye or good night.”

“The price of being indispensable,” she smiled.

“This work schedule won’t last forever.” Michael stifled a yawn as he plopped down on the bed. “It’s just that the board of directors is champing at the bit for me to finish this library project, and there’s a lot do yet. The good news is, they’re really excited about my designs.”

As she knelt to untie his shoes, Megan sighed theatrically. “I hope they know how lucky they are, having you all to themselves, day after day…”

He took her hand. “You have to make the most of the opportunities life gives you, babe.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “So how long do you think you can keep this up?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Until I’m finished.”

Megan was reminded of a story she’d read in a French class back in college…some poor guy dying on a battlefield. Je suis mort!…I am finished! Terrific. Aloud, she said, “I’m glad you’re so important to them.”

As she slipped off his shoes, Michael watched her with heavy-lidded eyes. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder jersey dress that clung to her in all the right places and showed plenty of cleavage, especially from his angle. “You look nice tonight,” he said.

“Thank you.” She rose to her knees, leaning closer as she unbuttoned his shirt.

“Smell nice, too.”

“Maybe you’re not so sleepy after all,” Megan purred, secretly hoping. She felt awkward and self-conscious making the first move. She wasn’t normally the instigator of romantic interludes; she had always been too shy, preferring that Michael take the lead. But lately they rarely even had a chance to cuddle, much less make love.

Gently but firmly, she pushed him back on the bed, spreading his shirt open, running her hands down his muscular chest. She felt his soft gasp of pleasure. “Mmm,” he murmured. “That feels good.”

Hiking up her skirt, she climbed on top of him and leaned down for a kiss, tickling his lips open with her tongue. Groaning, he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, sending a tingle of desire flowing through her. She melted into his embrace as their tongues danced together.

His hands moved down, lightly fondling her ass. She ground herself enticingly against his groin as she planted tiny kisses along his jawline. When he didn’t respond immediately, she kept going, suckling his earlobe, then trailing her tongue down his neck to his throat. His hold on her relaxed, his hands slipping away…

Uh-oh, trouble in paradise. Megan pulled back to find that he had drifted off to sleep. Half of her screamed inwardly in frustration, urging her to shake him awake, while the other half wanted to be understanding and supportive, and let him be.

With a sigh, she climbed off of him. Another wild night bites the dust. She eased his legs onto the bed, then covered him up with an afghan.

She knew sleep would not be coming anytime soon, so she propped herself up against the headboard with her laptop and called up one of her clients’ Web sites, getting a start on the updates she had planned to add tomorrow. Her mind kept wandering, though, her eyes straying to the man asleep beside her. Finally she abandoned her work and sat back, watching the deep rise and fall of Michael’s chest in the darkness.

I can do this. I can deal. Sacrifice is part of what makes a marriage work, right? But I miss making love with my gorgeous husband.

Before she married Michael, Megan had been a virgin, such an innocent that she didn’t even know what an orgasm felt like. The breathtaking sensation of taking flight on the wings of sweet ecstasy, being overwhelmed by it, screaming with the sheer delight of it…he had introduced her to that, and so much more. He had shown her that sex wasn’t merely a joining of bodies, but an unending discovery of sensual joys and emotions she never knew existed. Now she couldn’t live without it. She enjoyed it. She craved it. And oh, how she ached for more.

The elevator stopped on the thirty-first floor. Megan watched the doors open.

I should bail now, while I have the chance.

Two men squeezed past her to exit.

I’m not moving. Why am I not moving?

Another man boarded.

It’s now or never. Here I go…safety is just two steps away…

The doors slid shut.

I must be totally nuts.

The new guy zeroed in on Megan immediately, his eyes roaming appreciatively over her curves as he maneuvered past her to get to the floor buttons. For the gazillionth time, she felt stripped bare. Sure, she had dressed this way on purpose, but for the benefit of only one man. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would be running this gauntlet.

Note to self: Kill Jeannie for talking me into this…

Twenty-four hours ago

Jeannie selected a fortune cookie. “Hon, this is way worse’n you think it is.”

Megan stopped picking at her lunch and regarded her best friend. “What, I’ll be psychologically scarred for life because I haven’t gotten any for three weeks?”

“Don’t you get it? This is just the beginnin’!” Jeannie declared, her concern bringing out her honey-magnolia drawl. “It’s only the reason my folks got divorced.”

Megan dropped a chopstick. “Divorced?”

“Dad was a workaholic,” Jeannie explained. “Gone before dawn, not home ‘til dark, workin’ weekends, always tired. He an’ Mom hardly ever did anything together, an’ they never talked—”

Megan winced. “This is just like Michael…”