Читать книгу Cover Me - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 10

WHEN I JERKED AWAKE, sunlight was streaming through the crack in the curtains of the hotel room and Sam’s warm breath bathed my shoulder blade. I enjoyed two seconds of blissful afterglow until panic seized me like a giant hand, squeezing the air out of my lungs. What time was it? I bolted upright and a tiny tequila bomb exploded inside my head. I carefully raked the hair out of my eyes, searching for a clock. Next to me, Sam moaned and reached out an arm—presumably for me. I put a pillow under his hand, and he seemed content to pull it close and fall back into a dead sleep.

So much for being irreplaceable.

Holding my head, I left the bed, trying not to disturb him, and trying not to shriek in my mounting fear that I was probably late for work. The air-conditioner vent was blowing like an arctic breeze—I was naked and freezing and my thigh muscles screamed from overuse as I limped around the room looking for my watch, my underwear and my mind. What had I been thinking to spend the night with a stranger in his hotel room? I felt like a…dirty girl.

I found my watch on a table under a pile of clothes, and nearly swallowed my tongue—I had ten minutes to dress and get to work on time. Helena would have my head.

I scooped up the pile of clothes and my bag that doubled as briefcase and purse, then sprinted into the bathroom, closing the door behind me before flipping on the light. I stared blinking into the mirror, horrified at my reflection—my blond hair stood on end and my eyes were mascara-rimmed. Worse, with my kiss-swollen mouth and heavy-lidded eyes, I looked as if I’d just had the best night of sex in my life.

Which was true.

Except my swollen lips and heavy eyes were actually manifestations of the allergic reaction that had claimed my body—they perfectly complemented the hives raised on my neck and chest. I was allergic to big Sam, big time.

While I ran enough water in the sink for a quick wash up, I tried not to dwell on the image of Sam’s bronze body wrapped around mine, and the amazing things he’d done to me. Granted, not dwelling was easier said than done considering that sitting on the sink vanity was the cardboard cylinder that held the cast we’d made of Sam’s…you know. Hardened flesh-colored silicone seeped from the end of the cast impression, and I was dying to see how the dildo had turned out, but getting ready for work took priority.

I downed aspirin from my handbag and willed it to kick in quickly. With soap and a washcloth, I gave my body a quick once-over, then rummaged in Sam’s leather toiletry bag for deodorant. The sporty scent might raise a few eyebrows, but it was better than the alternative. I pulled makeup basics from my purse, and applied it all in record time, then squirted perfume on my wrists. The hives were itching like crazy, but I knew scratching would only make them worse.

I pulled my haphazard hair back into a twist and secured it with the only clasp I could find in my purse—a banker’s clip. It would have to do until I could grab something from the prop room at work. Then I sorted through the clothes with dread in my stomach. If I showed up wearing the same clothes I’d worn yesterday, I might as well wear a sign that read I Got Laid Last Night. I opted not to wear the same pair of panties, reckoning that my pantyhose would be enough of a barrier between me and my slacks for decency’s sake. But my blouse was stained with makeup from yanking it over my head last night, and I hadn’t worn a jacket.

I eyed the closet next to the shower and peeked inside to find a beautiful tan-colored suit, white dress shirt, and geometric tie hanging under plastic. I was surprised because Sam didn’t seem like the suit type—he’d told me he was a doctor visiting from out of town, but hadn’t Jacki said to assume he was lying? I had certainly lied, as instructed, including telling him my last name was Moore.

With murmured apologies, I slid the dress shirt from the plastic, shrugged into it, rolled up the sleeves, secured it wrap-style, and tucked it inside my navy slacks. I used the geometric tie as a belt, then glanced into the mirror. Not bad for a ten-minute session—as long as no one looked too closely.

I stuffed my makeup bag, blouse and panties into my bag and prepared to dash out the door when I remembered the “cast.” Since I’d never see Sam again, I was definitely taking that souvenir with me. But when I hefted the cardboard cylinder that held the hardened cast, I realized it was too heavy to lug around and would take up too much room in my bag. So I slipped my fingers under the mound of silicone at the base of the cast, and after a couple of tugs, pulled out the dildo with a pop.

I gasped. Granted, the kit had said the dildo would be lifelike, but…damn. It was indeed an exact replica of Sam’s finest physical asset. A splendid springy, firm, flesh-colored replica that brought tingly memories flooding back to various parts of my body. I had lucked out when I’d chosen Sam as the “caster.” This baby was going on display in my china cabinet.

After a couple of appreciative strokes, I shoved the homemade dildo into my bag, flipped off the light, and opened the door as quietly as I could. In the semidarkness, Sam was still snuggled up to the pillow. I conceded a stab of desire just looking at his long lean body in the twisted sheets. The chemistry between us had been magical, but I knew that the intensity of our lovemaking had more to do with the fact that we’d never see each other again than with any kind of kismet. Besides, the unbearable itching on my chest was proof enough that my body would be in a constant state of chaos if I spent any time at all with the man.

Still…the romantic in me wanted to believe that our one-night stand was better than any one-night stand in history. I had the overwhelming urge to push the hair off his forehead and kiss him goodbye, but gave myself a mental shake. I did, however, recall what Jacki said about leaving a memento. I needed my earrings to look halfway put together, my bra didn’t have an embroidered flower, and I didn’t own a garter belt.

But in my bag I had a pair of pink imported French panties that had held Sam’s attention for quite a while before he’d removed them with his teeth. The expensive un-dies seemed like a fair trade for the dress shirt.

I dropped the panties on the side of the bed I’d slept on, glanced around to make sure I had my belongings, and walked to the door as soundlessly as I could. I looked back at Sam’s sleeping form and experienced a twinge of regret that I hadn’t shared enough information about myself or found out enough about him for us ever to connect again. And even though it was probably against the rules, I blew him a wistful kiss.

I wasn’t very good at this one-night-stand business.

And I was late for work. I took the elevator to the lobby and dashed through it with my head down, sure that everyone knew what I’d done. I walked faster and faster, which only brought into play more and more muscles that I’d overworked last night and aggravated my booming headache. And apparently Sam liked heavy starch—the collar of his shirt chafed my neck, and the fabric was wreaking havoc on my hives. Some part of me, though, felt as if I deserved to be miserable after what I’d done. Mind you, I’m not a virginal prude, but deep down I still wanted to believe that sex was a special, intimate experience with emotional fallout. To realize that I had so enjoyed the purely physical encounter left me questioning what I knew to be true about myself.

I hailed a cab and slid into the lobby of the Woolworth Building a mere fifteen minutes late, but I felt as though the day had started without me. My nerves clanged and I wondered what Helena had manufactured for me to do today to make up for the fact that I’d left early yesterday. Fridays were notoriously busy so that those who would be working over the weekend could get the assignments that they had to complete for Monday morning. I wasn’t surprised when I walked into my closet-office to the tune of my phone ringing.

I set my bag on my desk and yanked up the receiver. “Kenzie Mansfield.”

“Well?” Jacki asked.

One side of my mouth slid back. “Well, what?”

“Well, how was the Eagle Scout?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you that message.”

“It was the safe thing to do. Did you spend the night?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“And how was it?”

“Great,” I admitted.

“You don’t sound too excited. Did he refuse to be cast?”

I glanced toward my bag where the lifelike dildo resided. “Uh, no, he was…up for the job.”

“And?”

“And it worked perfectly.”

“I’m going to order a kit for me and Ted as soon as I hang up.” She paused. “Why are you so glum—was he…petite?”

I laughed and dropped into my chair. “No, he was not petite. I’m just feeling out of sorts. My head is hammering, I woke up too late to go back to my apartment, I had to wear his shirt to the office—”

“You weren’t supposed to talk to him this morning!”

“I didn’t.”

“You stole the guy’s shirt?”

I mourned my pink Lejaby panties. “More like traded for it. Anyway…I don’t know, Jacki, it was really weird to sleep with this guy and just get up and leave, knowing I’ll never see him again.”

“Maybe you will run into him again.”

“He said he’s from out of town.”

“He probably lied. For all you know, he could work in the mailroom of your building.”

“Running into him would be even worse. How awkward would that be?”

“Pretty awkward if he has you arrested for stealing his shirt. Wait a minute—do you have feelings for this guy?”

I blinked. “No—unless itchy feelings count. I have hives.”

“That sounds attractive.”

“Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll be having any more one-night stands.” I fiddled with one of the buttons on Sam’s shirt. “I guess I want what you have with Ted.”

“And you’ll find it,” Jacki said. “Last night was just an exercise to jumpstart your social life.”

“I hope you’re right,” I mumbled.

“And look on the bright side—you have the guy’s silicone portrait to remember him by.”

I was minutely cheered. “I have to admit it’s one beautiful dildo.”

A shadow darkened my door and I looked up to see Helena standing there, holding a stack of file folders. Wondering how much she’d heard, I fixed my face into a serious expression and adopted a professional tone to pretend I was on a business call. “I’ll have to look into that and get back to you later.” I hung up, made a bogus note on scratch paper, then turned a sunny smile toward my boss. “Good morning.”

“You’re late.”

“I…was caught in traffic. Sorry.”

Helena squinted. “Is that a banker’s clip in your hair?”

I stood and pointed to the files. “Something I can take off your hands?”

Helena gave me a suspicious look, then nodded and handed me the files. “Could you please take a look at these circulation reports and have a summary for me by this afternoon?”

I blinked because I didn’t realize the word please was in Helena’s vocabulary. “Sure, I’ll have a report for you ASAP.”

Helena started to go, then turned back. “Kenzie, did you enjoy your time off yesterday?”

I smiled at her cordial tone. “Yes, I did.”

“Is there anything you’d like to…share?”

My throat constricted. Was it that obvious that I’d recently crawled out of a strange bed and sponged the sex off my body before donning stolen clothes and sliding into the office late? “I…no.”

She gave me another wary once-over, then turned and strode away. I was shaking when I rummaged in my desk drawer for an antihistamine tablet. Helena could be a demanding boss, but I admired her and wanted her respect. I didn’t have to consult a shrink to know that I had some kind of maternal projection complex where the woman was concerned. On the other hand, having a moral compass in one’s life wasn’t such a terrible thing.

I was a bad, bad girl.

But I’d had a good, good time.

In fact, I could still feel Sam’s hands on my body, the rough texture of the calluses on his broad fingers—one of the reasons I’d doubted his story about being a doctor, although I couldn’t argue on the subject of his dexterity. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to relive his kisses and his attention to detail—James had never made love to me like that.

Of course, James and I had never had a one-night stand. Maybe men simply performed better during one-night stands without the pressure of a repeat performance hanging over their heads. In fact, there was probably a woman out there who’d had a one-night stand with James and sat in her office with her eyes closed, fantasizing about his freakishly small hands.

Or maybe not.

The break room was on the other end of the department, but I dragged myself over there to fill a huge insulated mug with strong, hot coffee. The milk container in the mini-fridge was empty, so I braved the brew straight. My spirits lifted, though, when I spotted a lone powdered sugar doughnut on a plate. My stomach howled and I wondered if Sam had ordered room service.

“What are you smiling about?”

I turned to see April Bromley coming into the room, smothering a yawn. My hackles raised. April was the executive assistant to the creative director, Ron Castle, and she was always trying to usurp what scrap of authority I had. She was a dark, exotic goddess and was not above using her considerable curves to further her ambitions. We didn’t like each other, and we didn’t hide it.

“I’m smiling because I love my job,” I said sweetly.

“So do I,” she returned just as sweetly. “But I could never do your job, Kenzie—I don’t like dogs.”

A flush climbed my face as a triumphant smile crawled over hers. Apparently word of my stint as a dog-sitter had reached the water cooler.

April grabbed the doughnut I’d had my eye on, took a bite, and shrugged prettily. “I need energy for the meeting that Ron asked me to sit in on this morning. If we need any copies made during the meeting, I’m sure Helena will buzz you.”

I looked for something to buzz her with, but she’d already flounced out. Ooh! That woman knew how to push my buttons, knew that Helena never invited me to sit in on the creative meetings. And since I had to write that summary report, this morning didn’t seem like a good time to hint for an invitation.

That’s why I was shocked when about thirty minutes later, while I was elbow-deep in circulation reports, Helena called and asked me to sit in on the creative meeting.

“You’re one of my most valued employees, Kenzie. It’s time that you became familiar with what the other departments are doing.”

So Helena was feeling guilty about the dog-sitting gig—good. I could only imagine the look on April’s face when I walked into the meeting, but I tried to keep the elation out of my voice and still sound conscientious. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Ron is finalizing the cover for an upcoming issue.”

A sore spot with Helena—after several incarnations, she still wasn’t happy with the cover look for Personality. From my perspective, finalizing a cover was one of the more interesting steps in producing a weekly news magazine. Still, I manufactured a thoughtful noise. “That sounds great, but I’d like to finish the summary report first.”

“Oh.”

Helena was caught off guard—she thought I’d be frothing at the mouth to join the meeting. I was, but she didn’t have to know that.

“The meeting will last until noon. Join us in the west boardroom when you can.”

“I will.” I hung up the phone feeling pretty pleased with myself and at least a birthday wiser. Helena was definitely treating me differently today. Maybe last night had been a turning point for me—a bon voyage of sorts to my immature fantasy of what the world was like. Goodbye multiple orgasms, hello functional sex. So long French panties, hello sensible underwear. It was time to advance my career, and find a marriageable man.

I suddenly felt very grown-up.

I pulled out my Palm Pilot and called up my to-do list for the following Monday. Using the stylus, I wrote “Start looking for a nice guy” on the screen, then stabbed the tiny enter button as ardently as possible, breaking a nail. Still, I was resolute.

I finished the reports five minutes before the meeting started, but I decided to wait another fifteen minutes before making my entrance. I lifted the lapel of Sam’s shirt and was happy to see that the hives had all but disappeared. After refilling my drum of black coffee, I gathered a fresh pad of paper and a pen, and walked to the meeting room.

A hum of voices floated through the closed door. I checked my clothing and smoothed a hand over my hair. My heartbeat was clicking away, and I prayed I could make at least one intelligent remark over the course of the meeting. I twisted the doorknob and entered as quietly as possible (I was doing a lot of sneaking in and out of rooms today), taking mental stock of the attendees—Helena, Ron Castle, April and a dozen others from production, photography, editorial and marketing. I claimed the closest empty chair, tucking myself in and turning toward the speaker, Ron.

He paused and gave me an inquisitive look akin to “What are you doing here?” A flush scorched my cheeks as all eyes landed on me. April smirked.

“Everyone knows my assistant, Kenzie Mansfield,” Helena spoke up. “I asked Kenzie to sit in because I’d like to begin exposing her to more activities in various departments.”

I circulated a respectful smile, stopping short of April, then Ron picked up where he’d left off.

“As I was saying, I think the hometown hero issue is going to be a big success in terms of attracting new readers—high-earning blue-collar workers who might not normally pick up a copy of Personality will be attracted by the all-American appeal of this issue.”

“The advertising department is on board,” offered Nita, the marketing manager. “Banks, insurance companies and car manufacturers are lining up for this issue.”

“The difficult part,” Ron continued, “was finding just the right person for the cover.” Then he smiled. “But I think we’ve found a winner—a volunteer firefighter from Jar Hollow, New York.”

“Where’s that?” Helena asked.

“It’s a speck of a town between Albany and Syracuse, genuine mom-and-pop stuff. This guy rushed into a nursing home fire and saved a dozen patients.”

Nathan from production snapped his fingers. “I heard about him on TV—the governor’s giving him some kind of medal.”

“The governor offered,” Ron corrected, “but the guy wouldn’t accept it. Said he was just doing what any American would do.”

“He sounds perfect,” Helena said. “Tell me he’s marginally photogenic.”

Ron glanced at his watch. “I’ll let you judge for yourself if he ever gets here. April, could you run down and check with the receptionist to see if Mr. Long has arrived? And while you’re at it, could you make an extra copy of the agenda for Kenzie?”

I wanted to cackle, but I schooled my face into a sedate expression. April’s eyes shot daggers in my direction, but she skedaddled like a good little go-fer.

“We’ll have some convincing to do,” Ron said. “This Long guy isn’t keen on all the attention he’s been getting.”

“Nonsense,” Helena snapped. “Everyone likes attention. He’ll do it.”

Since everyone knew Helena got whatever she wanted, the matter seemed closed. Ron and the marketing director then passed around alternative layouts for the upcoming issue.

“I think the configuration with fewer words is cleaner,” Ron said.

“It really makes the cover image pop,” Nita added.

Helena studied the new look, then slid the mock-up in my direction. “Kenzie, what do you think?”

The silence was profound, although no one in the room was more surprised by her question than I. Still, the fact that it was the first time I’d been asked in a public forum for my opinion did not mean that I hadn’t been saving up. I took a deep breath.

“The more words, the better—it makes the buyer feel as if there’s a lot of content. Mix up the fonts and colors to entertain the customer’s eye, but reduce the font size of the price so it seems insignificant. Using multiple colors for the magazine title would be a nice change of pace—maybe red, white and blue for this issue. Adopting an exclamation mark at the end of the magazine title could be an effective visual cue. And an occasional short-fold cover would be an attention-getter, not to mention adding premium space for advertisers.”

I exhaled into the hush of the room, but as I glanced from one bemused face to another, I fervently wished for a rewind button. “Or not,” I murmured.

The door opened, and as much as I disliked April, I was glad for her timely return.

“I found our cover model,” she gushed. “Everyone, this is Mr. Samuel Long.”

A well-suited man with hair the color of antique brass stepped in the room and flashed an engaging grin. My vital signs stalled. It couldn’t be.

Oh. But. It. Was.