Maliciously Obedient Part 14

Wanting more.

"Ahem," he said, half-word, half a throat clearing. Their eyes locked and again she was drawn to the verdant green, how brown his hair was, a glint of silver at the temples today. Pushed against his body, her shoulder and a.s.s could feel how rock-hard his abs really were, body a wall of muscle that began to move to right her. He wasn't in a hurry, though, and was she imagining that he was drinking in her scent, too? The way he tilted his head at her neck and took a deep breath made her wonder.

Not wonder a hope. Were those arm muscles so taut not because he was supporting her as he put her back on her feet but because he was working hard to restrain himself? Could the heat emanating from his chest as she twisted, pus.h.i.+ng one hand against him to stand, come from desire? As her face flushed and her stomach fluttered, their eyes connected.

Intense and serious, Matt's chest expanded and contracted, their breathing in sync, unrushed but at a near-pant, attraction a.s.serting itself a like it or not.

Oh, how her body liked it, her hand reluctant to pull back, to stop feeling the heat of him, to end the flesh connection.

What was she doing?

"What are you doing?" Matt echoed her thoughts, a quizzical frown on his face.

"I was just, uh," she stammered. Think, Lydia. Think! "I was leaning against the door to fix my shoe, and you opened it, and then...abs." And then abs? AND THEN ABS? Did she really just say that?

"Abs." A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth, the outer edge of his eyes, little folds making him suddenly look younger, tousled, casual and free. An extraordinary s.h.i.+ft from his uptight, alpha-male self, the effect was disconcerting. Intoxicating, even. More like she remembered him in her apartment, casual and kind.

"Abs....olutely! I absolutely fell over." Lame, lame, lame, and they both knew it, but Lydia would take lame over aroused and mortified any day.

He just nodded, backed out the door, and whispered, "Black."

"What?"

"I like my coffee black. And, preferably, with water in it." As he closed the door and she swore she heard him chuckle, the sound a rich baritone of genuine emotion that made her just find him more appealing.

Oooooo! That man.

Two minutes later she set a cup of coffee on the ground in front of his closed door. Two tablespoons of coffee grounds with cold water mixed in. She returned to her desk and sent him an email: Dear Matt, Your coffee is outside your door.

Best, Lydia Seething, she opened a new window on her computer screen. Economize? A trip to Detroit, huh?

Oh, she'd show him how well she could economize.

"Jeremy?" Fingers flying fast on her keyboard, she looked up to see a familiar face. He grinned, and she smiled back, instantly comfortable and casual. Some quality in him did that; it was hypnotic.

"Lydia! You remember me?" He seemed simultaneously surprised and nonchalant, dressed today in a nice tan polo, jeans, and Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.

Way better that the Beetlejuice getup from the ball.

"You're kind of hard to forget." She held her hand up to indicate his height.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his face animated and a was she imagining it? a a bit overly-fake. His hair was a mess of waves and those soft, brown eyes invited her to smile.

"I work here!" she answered, smiling. "What are you doing here?"

That stopped him cold in his tracks. "My friend M a uh, Matt works here." Gazing at her, he added, "Your eyes really are speckled a the colors are intoxicating."

Pulse racing, she held his look. Familiar warmth flooded her belly, c.l.i.t beginning its light cha-cha-cha of arousal. No! You're attracted to Matt, her mind chided. No! You're attracted to no one, the feminist in her roared. Career over c.l.i.t.

"You know Matt?" she whispered, finally breaking a growing tension she couldn't name, but that felt a h.e.l.l of a lot like extreme attraction. What was a high roller like Jeremy doing hanging out with Matt, of all people? Maybe there was more to her knew boss than she'd suspected. The resemblance to Michael Bournham was uncanny. Her earlier suspicions that he was related roared back.

Lydia stood and beckoned Jeremy to come closer, which he did, a lascivious grin on his face. This guy didn't hide his attraction, and it was quite pleasant, oddly enough. Nothing condescending or creepy. He struck her as one of those rare guys who simply enjoyed women.

Which just made her panties hot and wet, d.a.m.n it.

"Is Matt related to Michael Bournham?" she blurted, desperate to stop being one big, sensual nerve.

Choking, he pulled back, a strangled laugh braying out of him. Just then, Matt walked over to her desk, a look of utter outrage and consternation twisting his features. "Jeremy? What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" A quick look at Lydia, then at Jeremy, his eyes wider as he looked at the man, transmitting some kind of message she didn't understand.

"Oh, just in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in to visit my old friend," he replied, his words fading with the Doppler effect as Matt grabbed his forearm and marched him rapidly into his office, the door nearly slamming.

What the h.e.l.l was that all about?

"What the h.e.l.l was that all about?" Mike demanded.

Jeremy shrugged. "You've been ignoring my texts for days, and I wasn't going to resort to," he shuddered, "voice mail, so here I am." For a guy who lived in thrift shop clothes, his friend was remarkably well-put-together today. His jeans were actually unstained and was he wearing socks? Unreal.

Furious, Mike lowered his tone, nearly hissing. "If you blow my cover, Jeremy, so help me a "

"Or what? You won't take me to prom?" Jeremy laughed. "I evaded her question about how I knew Matt Jones." Smirk. "I figured Matt's a smart guy. He can come up with an answer."

Sigh. "You're here to make trouble?"

"I'm here to give you one last chance to go with me to Thailand. I'm booking the plane tickets for two weeks from now."

Mike made a sound of disgust. "You know I can't go. This reality television show is still filming." Why did Jeremy do this to him constantly? Luring him away from responsibility, dangling fun in front of him like some toy he could see but never play with. There was a strange sort of cruelty to it, even if Mike were fully aware that it was his own decision not to partic.i.p.ate in the revelry and antics that was most destructive.

Live a little?

Not until he'd conquered the world. Or, at least, the Board of Directors.

"We could invite Lydia," Jeremy ventured, his voice carrying a slightly lilt, as if throwing out a light-hearted suggestion instead of positing an international tour of hedonistic threesome bliss.

Mike's jaw ached from stress. This was worse than Jonah's c.r.a.p, largely because this sounded like something he wanted.

"So you did come here to scout her out. Again." Mike's nostrils flared and he kept his breathing steady with great effort. He'd decided he was done with her, so why did this bother him so much?

Narrowing his eyes, Jeremy studied him with those brown orbs that could read people like a CIA operative sniffing out a double agent. "You're falling for her!" he said loudly, slapping his thigh. "Holy s.h.i.+t, Mike."

"Matt!"

"Matt," Jeremy repeated, lowering his voice.

"She's no Dana," he growled, his body hot with need and anger.

Jeremy stood, frowning, and help up his palms. "I can see that. And I can see you won't be joining me, Mike."

"Matt!" they said in unison.

Knock knock. "You guys OK in there?" Lydia's curious voice made Mike glare, hard, at Jeremy, who just bit his lips to suppress a laugh.

"We're fine," Mike shouted back. Pausing, he waited for more.

Nothing.

"You're living in some dream world, Jeremy. Give it up."

"Give up what, exactly? The idea that you'll actually let yourself live? Stop driving yourself crazy acquiring more and more and more? How many magazine covers? And Dianes? And Lydias are enough before a "

Grabbing Jeremy's bicep, he squeezed hard enough to make the taller man flinch. "Don't talk about her like that!"

"I didn't know you were so protective of Diane."

Mike laughed in spite of himself, releasing his friend. "We're never going to agree on this one, Jeremy."

"I agree she a " he pointed to the door " a is something special."

In silence they both stared at the back of the door, like watching a well-formed, curvy a.s.s that wasn't there until Jeremy said, "If you won't go to Thailand, how about Pad Thai for lunch right now?"

"Deal."

"Was that Jeremy going into Matt's office?" Krysta asked, her voice heavy with surprise. Today she wore a bright red, form-fitting silk sweater and black pants that made her body look better than Lydia had seen in years.

"Are you losing weight?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Krysta blushed, completely distracted now. Lydia didn't want to answer her question just yet a she was still trying to figure out where to put her reaction to Jeremy in her emotional shelving system. "If I am, I don't know how much. I started swimming and biking a few weeks ago."

Krysta was about as athletic as Honey Boo Boo's mother. "You what?"

An eyeroll greeted her. "I know, I know."

"Some cute guy you met has you doing this?" Impossible. Krysta would have mentioned it.

Shaking her head, Krysta sighed. "No. I just decided I needed to get out more and just move. Plus," she whispered, leaning in to Lydia's face, "it reduces my anxiety."

Hand over her heart, Lydia smiled. "Oh, I'm so glad. I know how hard it is for you."

Before Krysta could reply, they heard both men shout "Matt!" from his office. Exchanging a startled look, they both walked over to the door.

Knock knock. "You guys OK in there?"

"We're fine," Mike shouted back.

"Well, excuuuuse me for caring," Lydia muttered.

A quick glare at the door, then a look at her watch, and Krysta said, "Let's go get a coffee. f.u.c.k him."

"I almost did."

"Coffee will take your mind off him."

If she got two lattes, would it take her mind off Jeremy as well? The only way to know was to follow Krysta to Starbucks and hope.

Chapter Nine.

Flying coach? He did a double-take reading his ticket. He hadn't flown coach in thirteen years. Lydia should have known better; Matt Jones couldn't fly on the corporate jet, so he'd accepted the cattle call of ma.s.s travel, but coach was its own form of h.e.l.l. Business cla.s.s, at the very least, was what he expected.

Sn.o.b. That was his dad's voice in his head, and he had to laugh at himself. Fair enough. For a twenty percent spike in sales he'd fly coach.

Being seated in front of the only toddler on the plane meant he got a free vibrating ma.s.sage, to boot. Whee! Frequent flyer perk. He'd have to thank Lydia later. As he sank down into his seat, shoulders pinned in and muscles aching already in antic.i.p.ation of the cramped quarters, he buckled his seatbelt, one of the last to do so on the overbooked plane.

And then...warmth. Wetness. A distinct sense of something seeping into his a.s.s. Fumbling for the seatbelt, he unlocked it as fast as he could and stood, whacking his head on the luggage rack, right on the eye socket.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" he shouted. The flight attended eyed him warily. Great. Just what he needed. A good old visit with Homeland Security courtesy of TSA. He heard their coffee sucked, but the strip search would make any Bangkok prost.i.tute blush.

"Sir, is there a problem? A male flight attendant appeared as if conjured from thin air. Brow furrowed, the guy was burly and concerned. Not concerned for Mike's welfare, but rather concerned for the other pa.s.sengers.

The bouncer of the plane, basically.

Mike pointed to his seat. "It's soaked! There's some sort of liquid...on a " If he were a woman, he'd have shuddered. Instead, he clenched his fists and spoke through gritted teeth. "I just sat in something wet, something I didn't put there, and now my a.s.s is soaked."

Eyebrows shot up, the flight attendant clearly trying to fight laughter. He reminded Mike of younger version of Dominic, but with a more metros.e.xual look. Like a sleek, stylish gangster. The name tag read Anthony.

"Sir, I don't know what to tell you, but we're taxiing and federal aviation regulations require you to sit."

Private jets never had wet seats. Private jets never made him bang his head, or twist his thigh muscles into pretzels, or make him have conversations like this. Playing the role of Matt Jones was tedious enough, but now? Now he was getting angry. No cameras were rolling; the producers had simply told him Matt Jones needed to act like any other middle manager. And then Lydia booked him on this piece of s.h.i.+t plane.

With a wet a.s.s.

"You're telling me," he said in an increasingly angry voice, "that you expect a consumer to sit in a puddle of undetermined liquid, liquid that could be someone else's body fluids, body fluids that could transmit disease?" A few women sitting next to small children turned and gawked, eyes wide with alarm. The word disease did the trick.

He crossed his arms and locked his jaw. No way he was sitting down again in that spot.

Anthony picked up a small walkie-talkie attached to the wall and pushed a b.u.t.ton. Mumbled a few words. Turned his attention back to Mike. "We have no other options, sir, unless you want to go on a later flight."

No time. "So your clean-up crew dropped the ball and you expect me to completely rearrange my connecting flights, my meetings, and for my business to lose money because your business couldn't do the most basic of tasks?" A man and a woman in suits, obviously air warriors who flew frequently, did a polite clap.

All pa.s.senger eyes were on him and Anthony now. A small child pointed to Mike's a.s.s and said, "Mommy, did he have a problem going potty?" t.i.tters made Mike close his eyes and breathe carefully before he turned into a raging bull.

"Give the guy a better seat!" a man called out.

Mike cheered on the inside. He knew he had the goodwill of the pa.s.sengers on his side and the scales had tipped in his favor. They had to find him a new seat. Absolutely, or they'd look like a.s.sholes. This was a PR nightmare.