B
RIANA CLOSED
her eyes. Not that it changed anything. They were trapped in a pitch-black elevator, and she couldn’t see anything whether her eyes were open or shut.
But closing her eyes was an automatic response to the passion roaring through her system. She wanted to hold it to her, shut it in tight, let it bubble and boil behind her eyelids.
She wanted Patrick to kiss her and keep on kissing her.
She’d wanted it for weeks.
But she’d never imagined anything could feel so good.
So lost was she in the sensations of his lips moving on hers, his hands in her hair, his body hard and muscular beneath hers that she almost forgot her purpose. The one thing she’d strived for in the two months she’d worked here.
Her purse had tumbled from her shoulder when Patrick had thrown them both to the floor. Hanging on to a thread of sanity, she groped around and found her bag. Slipping a hand inside, she automatically identified objects. The rectangular smooth item was her wallet, the flat metal object was…no, that was her cell phone. Her fingertips continued to search even as desire built within her.
Ah, there. Larger, wider, metal. Her tape recorder.
With a moan that was only half-feigned to cover the click, she pushed the On button.
Now they had Patrick.
That handy, high-powered tape machine was going to record a lot of inappropriate behavior in this elevator—moaning and sighing. Kissing noises, for sure. If she was lucky, words of lust and carnal intent. She intended to record the entire incident. No one could call it sexual harassment—she was an adult and at the moment couldn’t be more consenting—but the tape would damage Saint Patrick, as her uncle derisively called him, and his credibility.
Naturally, she had no intention of actually having sex with Patrick—not to help her uncle achieve his revenge, anyway.
In fact, if it were anyone else who’d told her that Patrick had manufactured the lies that had cost her uncle—Councilor Cecil Thomson—the mayor’s office, she wouldn’t have believed him.
Her uncle had been Briana’s biggest fan since her own parents were killed in a car accident when she was five.
She owed her upbringing, food, clothes and shelter to her mother’s sister, Aunt Shirley, and her husband, Uncle Dennis; they’d given her a loving home and brought her up as their own.
But it was her mother’s brother, Cecil, and his wife, Irene, who had financed her education, gymnastics instruction and piano lessons, even a couple of trips to Europe. And the extras that her legal guardians couldn’t afford for her.
Her aunt and uncle back in Ohio had given her love and security when she was so lost and alone. From them
she’d learned the values of hard work and frugality and the importance of honesty and loyalty. But Briana had had to share them with their own children.
Cecil and Irene had no children, so they always said Briana was like their own daughter. And there were times, she had to admit, when she’d cheerfully have changed her guardianship from the good, decent Dennis and Shirley to the charming and successful Cecil and Irene. Cecil was a big man with a bluff manner and a hearty laugh. He treated her like a princess and she adored him. She’d often wondered if she’d inherited her love of politics from him.
Briana had no interest in running for office, but the behind-the-scenes machinations of government fascinated her. And she’d discovered that small-scale government allowed her better scope for her talents. She could really make a difference. Cecil had guided her career, helping her attain the position of city manager in a small Midwest town.
Uncle Cecil had worked hard as a Courage Bay councilor for years. Of course, he had a full-time job as a banker, but she knew he got a lot more pleasure from politics than from banking. After the last mayor left office in disgrace, Uncle Cecil had discussed his plans with her to run for mayor himself and she’d eagerly offered to fly out and help with his campaign.
He’d chuckled. “Honey, I’ve lived in this town all my life. Managed the biggest local bank, served on council. There’s nobody even running against me but a cocky young firefighter whose campaign donations couldn’t fill his fireman’s hat. When I’m mayor, I’ll hire you as city manager.”
But the call she’d received just a couple of weeks later hadn’t been to tell her of his victory, but to warn her not to believe the lies that were being spread about him.
“That lying weasel fireman didn’t have a hope. Not a goddamn hope of winning enough votes. So he and his cop buddies cooked up a story. I won’t dirty your ears with hearing it, but let me tell you, the opposition’s underhanded tactics have destroyed my chances. Worse, your aunt Irene was devastated.” His voice had wavered as he told her the last part, and her heart went out to him. She knew how much he loved his wife.
Briana was furious. “How could anyone destroy a man’s reputation and his marriage over a municipal election?” she’d cried, tears of rage almost choking her.
“They’re lies, honey. All lies. I would never do…never do that to your aunt.”
Of course, the minute she’d gotten off the phone with her uncle she’d started searching the Internet. It didn’t take her long to access the electronic version of the
Courage Bay Sentinel
, the town’s daily newspaper.
The paper had printed an old arrest photo of a man, supposedly her uncle, being booked for public lewdness. In fact, the twenty-year-old incident suggested her uncle had been caught having sex with a prostitute in a public place.
A man who would treat his niece with such love and generosity and who’d always had a close and loving relationship with his wife wouldn’t do such a thing. Briana was sure of it, and if her uncle insisted the paper had printed lies, she believed him.
The next day, when she was calmer, she’d called him and suggested he sue the paper for libel and the
police department for…well, she wasn’t certain of the law, but there was obviously gross wrongdoing there, as well.
He’d heard her out, and then, in a voice that sounded old and defeated, said, “There’s a record there, honey. It’s false. I know it and you know it, but there’s no way to prove that. O’Shea—” he spat the word “—with his connections to the police, could easily pull this off. They’ve faked that photo and the arrest file, but it would be my word against theirs. I’ll only hurt your aunt more by trying to fight their lies.”
“But…but the prosti—the woman involved. Surely she’ll testify on your behalf.”
“She might, if she hadn’t died more than five years ago. She was a drunk. Drove her car off the road.” He laughed mirthlessly. “They set me up pretty good.”
“This isn’t right, Uncle Cecil. There must be something we can do to stop this injustice. Tell me. I’ll do anything.”
At the time, she’d had in mind letters to congress to initiate some kind of internal inquiry within the Courage Bay police department, getting the media involved, but her uncle stopped her. “I’ll only make a fool of myself if I try to fight these boys. No. I’ll never be mayor now.” He sighed heavily and in that moment she knew how much becoming mayor had meant to him. “But revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. Your support means the world to me, honey. I’ll let you know when I need you.”
And two months ago he’d done just that. Patrick O’Shea, the man who’d beaten her uncle by a landslide at the polls, needed a new administrative assistant. Her uncle was chuckling with glee at his perfect plan to arrange for the new mayor to be forced to resign for the
same reasons as the former mayor. “As soon as he makes a pass at my beautiful niece, we’ve got him.”
Although Briana was happy to do almost anything for her uncle, she wasn’t at all keen on the idea of tempting a man sexually to destroy his political career. “I’m a feminist, Uncle Cecil. This sounds like something from the fifties.”
“Darling girl, I’m not asking you to seduce him. If he’s the moral saint he pretends to be, then nothing will happen. You’ll do the job, I’ll naturally make up the salary difference between your current salary and this one, and in, say, six months, if he hasn’t acted inappropriately or made a pass at you, then we drop it.”
Briana hadn’t felt nearly as confident. But she did want to help her uncle, and she’d wanted to move to California, where she felt there were better employment opportunities, for a long time. “And if he does make a pass?”
“We’ll have the tape to the media faster than you can say Monica Lewinsky.”
“I’ve always pictured myself more as the Hillary Clinton type.”
“Of course. You’re bright and ambitious. You’ll go places. But I know you’re also deeply concerned about justice, and hate dirty politics. I’m offering you a chance to see justice done, and one ugly political wrong put right.”
She bit her lip. She didn’t like the plan. Didn’t want to bring a man down. But she owed her uncle her loyalty. And he was right about her love of justice. Besides, if her new boss was an honorable man, he wouldn’t make a pass at a female employee.
But if Patrick O’Shea was an honorable man, he never would have faked evidence against a decent, good person like her uncle. She’d do what her uncle asked in the name of justice and family loyalty, help clear up some civic corruption and then move on. With her work record, glowing letters of recommendation from former employers and an honors degree in government studies, she wouldn’t have much trouble obtaining a challenging position, maybe in Los Angeles or Sacramento. Reluctantly, she agreed to Uncle Cecil’s plan.
Briana hadn’t been thrilled about the part she was to play before she arrived in Courage Bay and interviewed for the job, but she was even less happy when she met Patrick O’Shea and felt her mouth go dry.
The man was gorgeous in an understated, rugged, pick-a-woman-up-and-carry-her-across-a-raging-river kind of way. He had black hair with a few silver strands beginning to show, and Irish blue eyes that could twinkle with amusement or turn a hard, cold pewter when there was trouble. When he gazed at her, his eyes darkened in intensity. He might not say anything, but she knew what he was thinking. She didn’t think seducing him would be much of a trial.
Men came on to her all the time. It was something she’d been used to since she was a teenager. With her Nordic genes and statuesque body, she was accustomed to male attention. However, it was unusual for her to respond as forcefully as she did to Patrick O’Shea. She was only sorry that someone she found so attractive should be so corrupt.
Of course, whatever his standards, she considered herself a woman of integrity. She wouldn’t make the
first move. It was up to him. But her tape recorder was always in her purse and the batteries fresh.
She’d discovered in the first week of working for the mayor that when he was out of the office, he sometimes made notes into a small personal recorder. Periodically, he’d give her the recorder and ask her to transcribe his notes, which ranged from budget issues to ideas for future speeches.
The recorder was common enough, and by the second week of her employment, she owned an identical one. She reasoned that if Patrick ever caught sight of hers, he’d naturally think it was his own. Not that she intended for him to notice she had a tape recorder, but she believed in covering all her bases.
In two months, nothing had happened.
Nothing that you could put on tape, anyway. Things like sizzling eye contact. A sudden rise in air temperature that had nothing to do with a faulty air conditioner. And a longing deep inside her that was as rare as it was potent.
Briana had never found herself in a worse predicament. She wanted Patrick O’Shea. She wanted to run her fingers over the rugged planes of his face, trace the shape of his ears, the scar that bisected one eyebrow.
Even though his next birthday would be his fortieth, he still had the lean hard body of an active firefighter. She knew he trained frequently at the gym with the guys from his former station.
She wanted to touch that powerfully built body. She had fantasies of coming together with him naked. Fantasies that shamed her because he was her boss and it was inappropriate for her to think about having sex with him.
The curse of her situation was that if he did make a pass, she’d know he was as hot for her as she was for him.
And if he made a pass, she’d also know that he was a hypocrite. A man who would make sexual overtures to a female employee after promising to act with squeaky clean ethics was beneath contempt.
But now here they were, in this dark elevator, and it was Briana’s body, not her brain, that was in charge. Still thrumming with adrenaline after their brush with death, she suddenly didn’t care much about ethics or campaign promises.
As his lips crushed hers, Briana responded helplessly, even as she wished deep down that Patrick had turned out to be a better man.
Five minutes. She’d give him five minutes. Enough time to get some moaning and groaning recorded. If he was like every other man she’d ever kissed, he’d try to get her out of her clothes.
She’d say no.
He’d beg her for sex.
And she’d have him. On tape.
The man is a hypocrite and a liar,
she reminded herself as Patrick’s lips found her throat and she tipped her chin to give him better access.
Five minutes.
She traced the shape of his eyebrow, noting the indent of his scar, then let her hands roam his face, his shoulders. His arousal strained against her, hard, seeking her softest parts, and she couldn’t stop the rush of longing.
Stuck there in the dark, suspended between floors was like being caught between reality and fantasy.
Patrick O’Shea was a bad man.
She knew it. He’d destroyed her uncle’s chances of ever becoming mayor of the town he’d served for a quarter of a century. Now, the minute they were stuck in an elevator together, he was jumping her bones. Intellectually, she knew he was a hypocrite and a liar. But the trouble was, her body didn’t care. Her flesh and blood responded to him in a purely physical sense that had nothing to do with morals or ethics, elections or earthquakes.
Well, earthquakes maybe, in their crudest “the earth moved” definition.