Just Toying Around… Page 11

  Ah, hell, Nick silently argued with himself. He frowned as indecision tore at him. His hand hesitated on the zipper. This would probably be his only chance. What if she didn’t tell him her real name? What if she left, walked out of his life forever, and he had no way of ever finding out who she was?

  If she wanted you to know, she’d tell you, his mean-spirited, smart-assed conscience argued reasonably.

  Shit. Nick couldn’t argue with reason. With a defeated sigh, he set her purse back down, careful to make sure that he placed it right where he’d found it.

  The phone rang. Before it occurred to him that this was Desiree’s line and she might not want him to answer it, Nick had already lifted the receiver and uttered a greeting.

  “What’s she doing downstairs?” Ron hissed angrily. “I thought I told you to keep an eye on her. I swear, Nick, you are really blowing this. If you don’t—”

  Nick blinked. “Have you lost your mind?” he bit out, glancing nervously toward the door. He set a hand at his waist. “Why are you calling me on her phone?”

  “Her phone?” Ron repeated blankly. “I dialed your room.”

  “No, you didn’t. This is Desiree’s room, you idiot!”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you answered it,” Ron replied, as though this mistake couldn’t have been potentially disastrous. Couldn’t have ruined everything up to this point. “From here on out, you’re going to have to shadow her. You can’t let her put one more bad review on that Web site. What’s she doing downstairs without you?” Ron wanted to know.

  “She had to go down and tell someone goodbye,” Nick growled. “Look, Ron. Your plan won’t work and I’m having to improvise here. Just give me some time.”

  “What do you mean my plan won’t work?” Ron asked. “I’ve told you I know she doesn’t have the experience to critique. If she doesn’t have the experience, then she shouldn’t be doing the job.”

  “Whether or not she has any experience doesn’t change the fact that your products suck, Ron. I tried them. They’re awful.”

  “They don’t—” Ron began.

  “Yes, they do,” Nick insisted. “Instead of worrying about the reviews, you need to be worrying about improving your products. Making changes that will benefit—”

  “I can’t do that without funds, big brother, and if I go bankrupt as a result of her reviews, there won’t be a product line to improve.” Ron paused. “She has got to be stopped. Bottom line. Make it happen.”

  The line went dead.

  MEG BADE Mr. Liggett of Bedroom Fantasies, Inc. goodbye. His company’s product line was top-notch. Liggett made sure that his products were first-rate, guaranteed customer satisfaction and had the best e-business in the market. In addition to being business-savvy, he had impeccable manners and always sent a thank-you when she critiqued one of his toys. She mentally harrumphed. Ron Capshaw could learn a lot from Liggett.

  Meg didn’t know what had prompted the thought exactly, but the guy had really rubbed her the wrong way. She’d only done her job, what Foreplay had paid her handsomely to do. It wasn’t personal. With luck, she’d be able to avoid him for the rest of the show.

  “Did Ann ask you about dinner tomorrow night?” Marcus wanted to know as they made their way through the lobby back to the bank of elevators.

  Meg nodded. “Yes, she did. Tomorrow night is fine.”

  “Good,” he replied jovially. “I’m looking forward to picking your friend’s brain.” He paused. “Ann tells me that you have concerns, that perhaps he might embarrass easily.” Marcus smiled reassuringly. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll finesse him.”

  Great, Meg thought, forcing a wobbly smile. If the penis ring comments were Kent’s way of finessing they would be in for an excruciatingly long dinner. She hummed noncommittally instead of framing an inane reply.

  Furthermore, something in the way he’d lingered over the word finesse in regard to Nick gave her pause.

  Marcus wore a mysterious little smile and rocked back on his heels. “He certainly is a fine specimen,” he commented lightly. “No wonder your reviews are always so prompt.”

  “My secret’s out,” Meg trilled, her unease growing. Marcus’s keen interest in Nick’s opinion suddenly took on an altogether different meaning. She bit her bottom lip as a particularly disturbing thought surfaced. Meg’s eyes widened fractionally as she glanced at Marcus’s innocent profile. Nah, Meg thought. No!

  Meg said a quick goodbye and exited the elevator on the fifth floor, leaving Marcus to make the climb to his suite solo. She puzzled over his curious behavior and dismissed her suspicions as ludicrous. Chalked her misgivings up to an overactive imagination.

  Despite the fact they’d prepped for the dinner, Meg couldn’t help but be a little ill-at-ease about tomorrow night. Nick knew the merchandise, but other than the Shiver Cream, he clearly didn’t have any interest in ever using the other stuff.

  The Shiver Cream.

  Her insides quivered with delight at the mere thought of it—of what he’d done with it.

  To her.

  She relived the sensation of having his finger trail down the side of her neck, the fan of his breath, the feel of his lips as he’d nibbled at her. Her body quivered with renewed desire, her feminine muscles clenched in anticipation.

  When he’d planted his big hands on her hips and rocked against her, thrust his tongue in her mouth, she’d simply come apart. Shattered. The sensation hadn’t been like anything she’d ever experienced. It had been utterly blissful, without blemish and strangely, she couldn’t imagine ever sharing anything so indescribably perfect with another person. Meg slowed as she neared her room, finally letting a truth she’d attempted to bury beneath layers of lust and physical attraction surface.

  Nick Devereau was special.

  She’d known it from the get-go, had been inevitably drawn to him from the beginning. Something about him compelled her, drew her like a lodestone. Yes, she wanted him, had wanted him from the first moment she’d glimpsed his thrillingly large frame. But it went deeper than that.

  Meg had never been prone to sentiment, never longed for a mate the way many of her friends did. She supposed her feelings stemmed from the residual impact of her first so-called love. Meg smiled without humor. The hurt, anger and humiliation. She’d lost her scholarship and had had to work doubly hard to make her career mark. There had never been a great deal of time left for romance, and by the time she realized it, she’d grown too accustomed—too independent—to care that she was the only single person in a party filled with couples. After that hard lesson, having someone to share her life with hadn’t been a priority. She’d filled her life with a select few friends, was close to her family and she worked. A lot. She’d learned not to be lonely in her aloneness. Meg’s shoulders sagged with an invisible weight.

  But she would be lonely now. She knew it. Could feel the beginnings of a void starting to swell deep in her chest.

  The sound of Nick’s smooth, decadent voice sounded through the door, drawing a reluctant smile. So he talked to himself? Shouldn’t be an endearing habit, but she found the discovery adorable all the same.

  Forcing her somber thoughts aside, Meg rapped on the door. She’d left her key card in her purse.

  Her purse.

  Meg quailed. She’d been gone for at least ten minutes. Plenty of time for him to check out her license, memorize her credit card numbers and scan her check register. Of all the imbecilic things for her to do! A litany of curses streamed through her panic-seized mind.

  Thankfully, reason returned before he’d made it to the door. Nick had money of his own—he was an attorney, for pity’s sake. Her credit cards and checkbook were safe.

  It was her identity that had been jeopardized.

  Meg wrestled for composure and managed to summon an overly bright smile by the time he opened the door.

  “You’re back,” he murmured warmly.

  That silky baritone made her knees go weak. She peered closely
at him, trying to determine if she could read anything in those marvelous heavy-lidded orbs. If he’d practiced any sort of deception while she’d been gone, he certainly hid it well.

  God, she hoped he hadn’t! She wanted him to be different. To be trustworthy. She was almost sick with dread and worry and, for reasons which escaped her, had attached an unreasonable significance to whether or not he’d taken the opportunity she’d foolishly given him and gone through her purse.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Meg apologized. She stepped around him and made her way deeper into the room. Everything seemed to be exactly the way she’d left it, including her purse.

  Until she looked more closely. The zipper lay an inch from closed.

  Meg closed her eyes as nausea clawed its way up her throat. She was so disappointed—a painfully familiar sentiment—that she couldn’t even be angry. Just sick.

  Nick—completely oblivious to her bitter regret—had followed her in and sat down on the end of her bed. He thumbed through the pay-per-view movie guide.

  “Did you read the journal?” Meg asked, and congratulated herself. She sounded almost normal.

  “Yeah, I read it. You’re organized.”

  Meg hummed impatiently. “Yeah. Did you go through my purse?”

  His oh-shit expression, combined with the fact he didn’t readily look up didn’t inspire comfort and inclined Meg to assume the worst. She cursed under her breath. Her knees buckled with defeat, forcing her to plop down on the bed as well.

  “No, I didn’t go through your purse,” Nick said soberly.

  Meg held up her hand. “Save it, Nick,” she sighed. “The zipper isn’t closed.”

  “I didn’t go through your purse,” he repeated adamantly. “I almost did. Even picked it up. But I couldn’t do it.”

  “Couldn’t?” Interesting term, Meg thought, finally working up the courage to look at him. She admired the fact that he hadn’t outright denied everything, that he’d admitted to at least thinking about going through her purse. That took character.

  “Couldn’t,” Nick repeated as his sincere gaze captured hers. He traced a comma on her cheek. “Because if you wanted me to know your real name, you would have told me.” He shrugged. “I don’t like it—in fact, I hate it—but I’ll respect your wishes.”

  Relief lifted the droop from her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He tipped her chin up for a sweet, lingering kiss. “Now how about that movie?”

  “Sure.”

  Nick ordered the movie, flipped off her bedside light and motioned for Meg to come and lie beside him on her bed. She did, snugly settling her head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart resonated beneath her ear. A sigh of pleasure—of pure contentment—seeped past her lips. It was as though this niche beside him had been carved out especially for her. That this moment—their meeting at this time and at this place—had been predestined. That was a Desiree Moon thought, but Meg savored it all the same.

  Since luck had never been her friend, perhaps destiny had decided to intervene on her behalf. A thought struck her.

  “I heard you a little while ago,” she murmured.

  He tensed. “What?”

  “A little while ago. Before I came in. I heard you talking to yourself. Is that a habit or an undisclosed psychosis?” She chuckled softly.

  She felt him sigh and he nuzzled her more firmly against him. A barb of heat struck her belly. “I have no undisclosed psychoses,” he told her, chuckling under his breath. “I was on the phone. Are you going to do this through the whole movie?”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk.”

  His shirt rasped her cheek as she smiled. She smoothed her hand over his chest, marveling at the muscle beneath. “Is that your way of telling me to shut up?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of telling you to shut up. That would piss you off.”

  Meg laughed. “Well, there are other ways of keeping me quiet.”

  He stilled. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like what?”

  Meg worked a couple of his buttons loose from their closures, slid her hand across his abdomen. “You still owe me one.”

  10

  SHE WAS AT IT AGAIN, Nick thought darkly as he fastened his cuffs. That low hum he’d grown to hate over the past three days buzzed through the wall, straight to his eardrums where the tune raked against his fraught nerve endings and made him want to howl with frustration. Morning, noon and night, he heard it.

  On and on and on.

  She never moaned like she’d done for him, but Nick’s sadistic imagination nonetheless supplied those sweet mewls of pleasure for him. The button he’d been attempting to fasten came off in his hand. Nick swore, shrugged out of the ruined shirt and prowled to his closet for a replacement.

  Take last night, for instance. They’d gotten sidetracked as soon as the movie had started because he owed her one. A self-satisfied grin curved his lips. He’d paid her back and then some before the night had been over. Nick had never had so much fun being sexually frustrated. They’d kissed, cuddled, stroked and petted until he feared he would expire. Or explode.

  Desiree could lead him to the brink of orgasm with nothing more than the slide of her tongue up his neck. A few bold caresses of those small capable hands. She’d pulled out that Shiver Cream—the most aptly named stuff in the world according to Nick, by God—and they’d emptied it by night’s end. It was the most fun Nick had ever had without actually having sex. He led her to orgasm twice—knew it—and yet less than ten minutes after their connecting doors closed Nick had heard it.

  The damned vibrator.

  He’d been so shocked he’d almost unmanned himself with the toilet seat lid.

  And it was worse now, because he couldn’t help but wonder which one she was using. The Red Devil? Cupid’s Arrow? The Ebony Avenger? Nick’s jaw ached. The Stud? With its rotating tip and gyrating balls? He shuddered as a spasm of dread gripped him. The desire to say the hell with his honor was so strong, his need so great, that Nick could barely keep himself in check. He’d had to come up with some pretty ingenious foreplay to prevent them from crossing that invisible line he’d drawn.

  He wanted to make love to Desiree more than he wanted his next breath, and yet he couldn’t permit that to happen. He’d come here with a hidden agenda, had purposefully fostered a relationship with her in order to discredit her as a critic. Though he knew he couldn’t do that now, he was too deep into the ruse and too mesmerized by her to put an end to the charade. Sleeping with her, knowing that he’d been so deceitful, was simply more than he could permit. No matter how desperately he might want to.

  No matter how desperately she might want him to.

  And she wanted him, that was certain. Desiree had had an agenda of her own this week and she’d made Nick a key part of it. Nick couldn’t explain how he knew this, he just did.

  She wanted him, he wanted her and, because of his initial duplicity, neither one of them were going to be satisfied. No judge could have designed a more hellish punishment, Nick thought ruefully.

  Nick bitterly regretted ever picking up her purse. True, he hadn’t looked inside though the urge had been almost overwhelming. But the look of betrayal on her face… Nick’s gaze turned inward. The disappointment he’d glimpsed in those gorgeous green eyes when she’d thought that he’d broken her trust. She’d crumpled with despair, had been so dejected Nick had felt like the biggest jackass in the world.

  At some point in her life, Desiree had been hurt. Badly.

  The experience had told him one thing—he couldn’t hurt her.

  She could never know that he’d come here with the purpose of getting her fired. It wouldn’t matter that he’d been unable to see the mission through, only that he’d been persuaded to entertain the thought.

  As much for his own peace of mind as hers, Nick couldn’t permit that to happen. Call him a coward, selfish. Whatever. He swallowed. But he couldn’t ever let
her find out why he’d sought her out in the first place.

  A soft knock sounded at the connecting door, announcing Desiree’s unexpected arrival. Was he late? Nick glanced at the bedside clock. No. She was early. Probably nervous, Nick decided as he left the mirror and moved to the door. Probably worried that he wouldn’t remember which vibrator had the nuts. He chuckled darkly.

  “Hey…” That was all he could manage. The wicked grin he wore froze, then melted away. Several impressions hit him at once. Lots of skin, cleavage, slinky red fabric, sexy heels. He blinked, pulling it all into focus.

  Desiree wore her hair down, loose around her bare shoulders, the dark chocolate waves a little fuller than he’d seen it styled so far. Her makeup—which he’d noticed she applied with a light hand—looked the same.

  Except for her mouth.

  That carnal mouth, which kept Nick in a permanent state of arousal, was painted hooker red. Blood singed his veins as it shot to his groin. His mouth parched. Nick forced his tormented gaze from her lips, inventoried the rest of her delightful body and made an interesting discovery.

  She was color coordinated. Mouth, nails, shoes, dress. All hooker red. The dress was short, semi-tight, strapless and made of some mysterious fabric that looked thin as a butterfly’s wing. It managed to reveal a lot of skin, yet left plenty to the imagination.

  Nick instantly imagined her out of it.

  “Pop quiz,” she said. “What’s a butt plug?”

  Nick recoiled. “What?”

  “That’s not the look of a merry sex-toy critic,” she chided teasingly. Her eyes twinkled. “That horrified there’s-a-slug-in-my-soup face will give you away in nothing flat.”

  Nick huffed a derisive snort, crossed the room and lifted his dinner jacket from the bed. “If he asks me about a butt plug he’ll find himself flat on his back and minus a few teeth. No threat, just fact.” Nick cast her a grim sideways glance. “If my ass wore a sign, it would read Exit Only.”

  She cracked up. “A wee bit homophobic, are we?”