Aching for Always (5 page)

Joss glanced at the cash flow statement.
$63K
, the scribble read.
This may be the time to go all the way.

Oh, fudge.

“Hey,” Rogan said cheerily. “What's up?”

“I'm here with a request.”

“Oh.” He nodded, replacing the smile with a more guarded look, and made his way to the desk.

She stared at the weather beacon, gathering her courage. The red glow began to pulse.
A change is coming, that's for sure.
“I need another loan.”

“Oh, Joss.” The words bloomed with disappointment, and he sunk into the chair.

“I—I know it's a lot to ask.”

“How much?”

“But we have a big order from the California school system coming in next month, which is usually one of our biggest of the year, and I know we'll be okay after that.”

He gazed at the keyboard in front of him, more, she thought, out of embarrassment for her than anything else. He'd insisted she stay on to run the map company,
and Joss wondered if he regretted his decision. “How much?” he asked.

She took a breath. “Sixty-three thousand.”

He leaned forward, elbows on desk, fingers laced, and ran his thumbs back and forth across his lips, considering.

“I wonder,” he said softly, “if you should think about closing.”

“No,” she said firmly. “We'll be fine once this quarter is over.”

“I know you want to honor your mother, but I really think there's a way through Brand Industries' acquisition of the Brand O'Malley name that—”

“No. Please. The company stays open. I'm willing to discuss how.”

He sighed. “I don't think I can do this. With all due respect, it's a bad bet, and I couldn't sell the board on it. Too hard.”

Joss met his eyes and smiled. Pleading was not sexy. Being confident and direct with a business-person-to-business-person frankness—
that
was sexy.

“I'd like you to think about it.” She'd made it a point this morning to put on her sexiest bra. It was a demi in beige and blue that lifted her breasts up like two scoops of French vanilla ice cream and ended just before her nipples began. Rogan was a very old-fashioned guy—the big surprise when she'd first met him. A little flash of ice cream. Perhaps a peek at some unskirted thigh. He'd be toast. The board would be hard, but let's face it, he'd be harder.

That was about the one advantage women had in the business world. Men didn't always think with their frontal lobes. Anyone who'd ever dated a man knew it.
And when the thought process did its little dance out the frontal lobes and over to the basal ganglia, it left a trail of mush in its wake.

She put the cash flow statement and her phone on the edge of Rogan's desk, stood up and leaned over to examine his desk clock. Waaay over. It was an ugly, ornate thing he's said his old girlfriend, Daphne, had gotten him. It managed to be both gaudily antique and tethered by a power cord—the worst of both worlds. She could feel herself shaking.

She had never done this before. It wasn't her operating style. But if this was all it took to keep the company afloat, in the overall scheme of things, it wasn't too much to ask. Business was business. Some people had the marbles. Some people wanted the marbles. Unless you could think of a way to swipe some marbles for yourself, you wouldn't get to play.

She could hear the
tick tick tick
, and even though she wasn't looking, she could feel his gaze reach all the way to her navel. The tenor of the room changed, as did the cadence of his breathing.

“I think,” she said, giving him a smile, “you can convince them.”

He had the good sense to blush. Rather a charming thing, if you thought about it. The little spots of color on his cheeks were the first step in the mush process.

“I-I could probably try to convince them.”

Could you, now?
Joss examined the clock for another long moment, then unbent and dropped in her seat.

“But . . .”

“But?” She blinked sweetly.

“But,” he said, leaning forward in earnest, “it seems to me that for sixty-three thousand dollars I could expect a little more.”

“What?”

“Open your blouse.”

He said it in the same tone as if he'd said, “Hand me the scissors,” or “Let's review the Ryneman numbers.” Joss had to replay it in her head to ensure she'd heard it right.

“I-I—”

“I'd be risking my reputation,” he said convivially. “Why shouldn't you risk yours?”

Risk and reward. The seesaw of business. There was a certain primitive poetry to it. At this point her task was to find the balance point. Her father, while never the best of role models, had schooled her well on this. “It's not personal,” he'd said. “It's a game. And unless you can remove your emotion from the battle, you're never going to win.” Of course, removing emotion was one thing. Removing one's blouse was quite another.

When she shifted, the diamond on her finger glinted and she nearly said no, but then she spotted her mother's beloved map—the one that had started it all—on the wall where it had hung for twenty years. Her mother had worked so hard for so long to get Brand O'Malley off the ground. She'd poured her heart and then her health into it, and had endured a marriage that appeared, at least to Joss, to be far from ideal. Joss loved maps, and she'd worked hard to master the business behind them. She could almost hear her mother's sigh of happiness whenever she ran her fingers over a newly printed one. Was her mother's dream for this company going to die with
Joss? No effing way. Time to put her business acumen to work.

She lifted her trembling hand and loosened the buttons.

“And open, please,” he said.

“Your admin is sitting outside.”

He pressed a button on his phone. “Pat?”

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Close the door, will you. I don't want to be disturbed.”

Joss sat frozen while Pat stepped into the office behind her, no doubt thinking the meeting was about liabilities and outcomes, which, come to think of it, wasn't far from the truth. Pat closed the door. Rogan leaned back in his chair.

Joss had at least imagined this possibility. It would have been foolish to entertain this strategy without having done so. But she'd been so certain Rogan would stop at a certain, albeit not purely innocent, level of flirtation.

She spread the silk.

His irises widened. It was a biological effect he couldn't hide no matter how skilled he was—or perhaps one might say
one
of the biological effects. The trick was going to be teasing that effect as far as it would go under her control without triggering a biological apocalypse. She was reminded of the men about to set off the first experimental atomic explosion in 1945 who were “pretty certain” it wouldn't destroy the earth's entire atmosphere.

She wondered about Rogan's next move. She also wondered if anyone in the Gulf Tower had binoculars.

He gave her a crooked smile and said, “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“No, actually. I'm trying to meet payroll.”

“It's a pretty effective strategy.”

“I would hope so.”

Her cell vibrated. The sound of a text. She cut her gaze to the display. It was from Di.
R
U
DOING
IT
?

Rogan pointed to the clasp between her breasts a tiny pearl dangled from. “Does that little thingy there open it?”

“It does.”

“Would you mind . . .?”

More than life itself. But this was the balance point. “I wouldn't,” she said, leaning slightly forward, “but it seems to me that's something you'd rather do yourself.”

He made a dry, choking noise.

“And all it takes,” she said, “is a quick call to Charlie.” Charlie was the president of the Brand Industries board. “Just to let him know the plan.”

This was it. If he talked to Charlie, he'd be committed. Rogan licked his lips.

“May I?” He gestured to the clasp with an earnest look in his eye. “Just a touch?”

Bless his mother. He'd been raised to be polite. He'd once told Joss he'd attended etiquette classes throughout grade school. She pulled her chair closer to the desk and nodded.

He brought his hand to the metalwork, slipping his forefinger under the clasp and letting his thumb brush the swaying pearl. He tugged slightly, measuring the tension.

“Oh, Lord,” he whispered.

The electricity in his touch surprised her. She breathed in the sandalwood on his skin.

“Charlie,” she reminded him, though the way her voice faltered, she wondered if he understood.

“Right.” He picked up his cell and pressed a couple buttons. Then his eyebrows went up and he hit the keyboard quickly. “Oops. Wrong number.” He made a nervous laugh.

Joss was glad to see he was nervous, too. This wasn't exactly a stroll through the Nordstrom handbag department for her.

He tried the call again and held up a relieved finger. “Ringing.”

She nodded and looked into the twilight. The weather beacon flash had changed to something else—a tiny shower of sparks. She wondered if the building manager knew he had a problem.

Rogan leaned forward. “Charlie—Oh.” He put his hand over the receiver. “Voice mail.”

She pursed her lips.

“Charlie, it's Rogan,” he said. “I, ah, need to run a quick Brand O'Malley situation by you. I know the acquisition price has been agreed on, but a few things have come up. There's a request on the table for sixty-three more in the form of a thirty-day loan. Give me your thoughts.” He hit the End button and put the phone down.

She crossed her arms, carefully pulling the flaps of her blouse closed. “We've got a problem.”

“What?” The first hint of desperation broke in his voice. “I did it.”

“You forgot something. Your support.” Without Rogan's enthusiastic blessing of the plan, all Charlie had to do was say no. She began to button.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

“The thing is, it's hard to be a cheerleader for something I don't fully support.”

“Oh dear. I wouldn't want anything to be hard for you.”

She came around the table, seated herself on the desk and leaned back on her palms. The flaps slipped farther apart.

He closed his eyes. Evidently, he'd heard of the “remove emotion” trick, too. “Does the deal include touch?”

She knew he didn't mean the acquisition. “Um . . .” She swallowed. This was certainly more than she'd bargained for. She could see an employee of some nameless law firm or accountant's office gazing abstractedly out a Gulf Tower window. “Can you be more specific?”

He pursed his lips, considering. “Palms, fingers, cheek and lips.”

Oh. My. God.

“Palms, yes,” she said at last. “The rest, no.”

“Just palms, huh?” His cell started to vibrate, and he looked at the display. “It's Charlie. I have to tell you, I'm not feeling very enthusiastic.”

The phone buzzed, paused and buzzed again. He lifted his shoulders in a question.

“Palms and cheek,” she offered.

The third buzz and then the fourth.

“Fine,”
she said. “Palms, cheek and a single kiss.”

“Nip,” he corrected, and picked up the phone. “Charlie. Hi. You got my message?” He gestured for her to open her blouse. “It might inspire me,” he whispered. “Yeah.
It's a short-term thing. Thirty days, paid in full. How do I feel?” He lifted a brow in Joss's direction, waiting, and with a private growl, she reopened the flaps of fabric. “Well, sales are improving. There've been a couple very nice peaks today.” He gave her a broad smile. “And there's a big order coming in—a very big one, in fact. So, overall, I'm feeling pretty good about it.”

Bingo.

While he wrapped up the conversation, Joss picked up her phone and thumbed a reply to Di.
Not at all. Just a little lingerie action. Whew!

Rogan laid down his cell.

“Nice work,” Joss said. “But the only ‘big order' coming in is the one from the California school system, my friend.”

“We'll see.” He unfolded himself from the chair.

She braced herself.

He drew a finger from her belly to her sternum and flicked the pearl.

She gasped. It was as if all the current in the room were being driven through that single digit.

“I would love to get you out of all this,” he said.

She snorted.

He brushed the silk off her shoulders. It slipped like a breath of air down her bare skin. He brought his hands to the clasp and unlocked it. The fabric, released from its binding, spread slowly, and he traced the soft rise below.

She inhaled sharply and fought to distract herself by admiring his patience. He seemed to understand the enhanced value of a delayed reward. Unhappily for him, it would be the key to her victory.

“Oh, baby,” he said. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy looking at your breasts?”

“Classy. Does that work on all the g—”

He pushed the wire and lace aside, and Joss's ability to speak vanished.

Remove the emotion.

“They're magnificent,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He stood up, opened her knees and inserted himself carefully between them. His suit was the finest Italian wool, but even Armani couldn't have planned for the tailoring challenge Rogan was suddenly facing.

Slowly, he brought his palms over the tips of her nipples. Back and forth, he moved. Just the barest touch. A ball of heat rose between her legs.
Biology
, she told herself.
Just biology.

He tucked her hands behind her again, palms on the desk. Her breasts poked skyward. He brought his face to a nipple, and rubbed his bristled cheek across it.
This
, she thought nervously,
is how you lose the earth's atmosphere.