Blame It on the Blackout (2 page)

She shrugged out of the lightweight jacket that matched her dark blue skirt, tossing it over the banister and leaving her once again in a soft white blouse that showed off her feminine attributes to perfection. It didn't help that he could see the outline of her black lace bra through the gauzy material, either.

Peter's blood thickened and a lump of temptation formed in his throat. But a moment later, he tamped down on both, refusing to let his mind wander a path he had no business exploring.

Lucy was a beauty, no doubt about it. From the moment they'd met, when she'd first interviewed for the
job as his personal assistant, he'd been fascinated by the silky fall of her long ebony hair, the smooth complexion of her porcelain skin, the bright, sharp blue of her doe-shaped eyes.

Of course, there was no chance of anything happening between them. Peter had long ago put a mental block on the possibility of building a relationship with any woman, let alone one who worked for him. God forbid he turn out like his father…. He had too much in common with the old man already and had no intention of making a wife or children as miserable as his father had made his mother and him.

But he'd hired Lucy in spite of his attraction to her, simply because she was the best damn applicant on the list. She typed, took dictation, had a phone voice that could make a saint fall to his knees, and knew her way around computers almost as well as he did.

So, if he found himself staring at her ripe red lips most of the time while she spoke, or taking an unnatural number of cold showers after she'd gone home for the day, he had no one to blame but himself.

Dressed now in a clean pair of tan chinos and dark green polo shirt, he noticed the curve of her mouth and wondered what she found so amusing. Lord knew he was in too much physical pain to mimic her contented smile.

“I hope you still think it was a good idea to make me go with you tomorrow night once you see your credit card statement.”

That gave him a moment's pause, but then he shrugged. The tissue paper in several of the boutique bags rustled with the movement. “How bad could it be?”

Her brows shot up. Holding a hand out like she expected him to shake it, she quipped, “Hi, let me introduce myself. I'm a woman with
carte blanche
to charge anything I want on a man's account. I also happen to know your net worth. Any questions?”

He chuckled. Her sense of humor had always been machete sharp, but that was just one more reason he enjoyed her company.

“Remind me to have a couple of drinks before I open the bill,” he returned. “In the meantime, how about a little fashion show?”

Eyes wide, she shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Come on,” he cajoled. “I want to see what I paid for.”

Furry, multilegged caterpillars wiggled inside Lucy's stomach as she considered Peter's request. The last thing she wanted to do was attend tomorrow night's charity benefit with him, and the next to the last thing she wanted was to model her new evening gown before she absolutely had to.

But—whether he knew it yet or not—he had spent quite a lot on the fancy ensemble, and if he wanted an advance viewing, she supposed it was only right to give it to him.

He must have read the indecision on her face because
he started up the stairs without her. “You can use my bedroom to change. And this way, I'll know what color corsage to order.”

“Corsage?” With a roll of her eyes, she began to follow. “Peter, we aren't going to a high school prom.”

He swung around at the balcony railing and flashed her the unwitting, thousand-watt smile that made her teeth sweat. “Too bad. It sure would be more fun than what we have to endure.” Then he spun back and walked into the bedroom.

When Lucy arrived, the bags and boxes he'd carried up for her were scattered atop the chest at the foot of his bed. Peter rubbed his hands together and gave her a friendly wink before moving back toward the hallway.

“Give me a yell when you're ready. I'll be in my office.”

The door closed with a soft click, leaving her alone beside Peter's bed…and Peter's mattress…and Peter's pillow. The covers were still rumpled from the last time he'd slept there and it took a great deal of effort not to throw herself across the bed and inhale his scent from every fiber of the tan, five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. She ought to know, she'd bought them for him.

Sad, that's what she was. Pathetic and sad and unworthy of being a member of the female race. What other twenty-nine-year-old woman spent her life mooning over an unattainable boss? A clueless man who never looked twice at her…at least not the way a man should look at a woman.

Other than throwing herself down on his desk and screaming, “Take me, big boy!” she'd done everything she could think of to let Peter know she was interested. From the time she'd started working for him two years ago, she'd tried to drop hints that his advances wouldn't be unwelcome. She'd worn her skirts a little short and her blouses a little low. She'd worn a dozen different perfumes, trying to find one that would pique his interest. She'd worn her hair up and down, short and long, straight, curly, braided…She'd leaned close while they talked and fabricated excuses to interrupt him while he worked.

Finally, when nothing seemed to catch his attention, she'd given up. A girl could only take so much humiliation, and her breaking point came the day she'd arrived at work to find another woman, half-dressed, leaving Peter's room. Her theory that he must be gay had been shot all to hell, and she'd vowed then and there never to make another move on him.

Unfortunately that pledge didn't keep her eyes from wandering over his well-muscled form, or her heart from skipping a beat when he said her name in that low, reverberating voice of his.

Not for the first time, she thought about quitting. She really should. She was talented, good at her job, and could probably find another position anywhere in the city within the week.

But she liked this arrangement. Despite the personal misery she suffered on a daily basis, Peter was a great
employer. She believed in what he was doing and enjoyed being a part of it.

Besides, what other boss would spring for a gorgeous new evening gown and accessories that she would probably never have occasion to wear again?

Lifting items from their bags, she began to peel out of her practical skirt and blouse, ignoring the skittering of awareness that skated down her spine when she realized she was standing half-naked in the middle of Peter's bedroom. If only he were here with her, and she was stripping down to her skin for something other than an impromptu fashion show.

Instead of bothering with the fancy undergarments she'd purchased to go with the dress, she remained in her normal bra and panty hose, and simply slipped the gown on overtop. She did trade her plain pumps for the black, glitter-covered velvet stilettos, though.

Sweeping her hair back off her shoulders, she left the bedroom and crossed the short, carpeted hall to Peter's office. She stopped in the doorway, leaned casually against the frame and watched his fingers fly over the keyboard.

“So,” she said, catching his attention. “What do you think?”

P
eter glanced up from the computer screen, wondering why she hadn't called for him when she was finished. He'd have gone over to the bedroom to see her new dress instead of making her come all the way over here.

And then his brain stopped functioning altogether. Every thought in his head flew out his ears as he stared at the vision before him.

He slid the wire-rim glasses from his nose to get a better look, but she still looked stunningly beautiful. Her hair fell about her face in an ebony curtain and the red satin of her gown, overlaid with black velvet in an intricate flowered pattern, brought out the rosy tint of her alabaster skin.

And that was just from the neck up. From the neck down, she made his eyes sting, his mouth go dry and his nerve endings sizzle.

He'd always known Lucy had a fabulous body. All the straight skirts and tailored jackets in the world couldn't hide that. But this dress, with its spaghetti straps and scallop-edged bodice, high-slit skirt and the three to four inch heels that made her legs go on for eternity, brought out every nuance of her drop-dead figure.

His gaze drifted over the generous swell of her breasts, the slim line of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips, and up again. Her ice-blue eyes met his and for the first time in his life, he found himself at a loss for words. Speechless, when he'd thought that was something only movie stars suffered because a script called for it.

After several long seconds of complete, utter silence, Lucy interrupted his total lack of thought and started blood flowing back to his brain.

“What?” she asked, glancing down at herself as though something was wrong with the awe-inspiring concoction she was wearing. “Don't you like it? Should I take it back?”

“No!” he yelped, too fast and too loud. Taking a breath, he tempered his tone and added, “It's perfect. I was just…”
Admiring the view…thinking sinful thoughts…looking for a way to get you out of it…
“Thinking of all the heads you're going to turn tomorrow night. We may have to beat men off with a stick.”

Her cheeks colored prettily and she lowered her eyes for a moment. “Thank you.”

“You won't have any trouble stirring up interest for Reyware in that outfit.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. What was he thinking, effectively equating her attending the charity soiree in that dress to prostitution?
Hey, Luce, how about fixing yourself up and coming to dinner with me so you can give new meaning to “pressing the flesh” and drum up a little financial support for my personal corporation?

Lord, he felt like a pimp.

And he knew his comment hurt her because she lowered her head and traced invisible designs on the carpet with the toe of her shoe.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he cursed silently. “That didn't come out right,” he tried to apologize.

She raised her eyes to his, dark and shadowed, and offered a weak smile. “I know what you meant.”

No, she didn't, but he couldn't think of a way to further explain himself without making matters worse.

“I'd better go change back,” she said, letting her gaze slide away from him again. “Before I get stained or torn or wrinkled.”

He could think of a couple of things he wouldn't mind doing to tear or wrinkle her gown. And he'd happily pay for another when they were finished.

As quickly as that image entered his mind, he shut it down. Lucy turned, heading back to his bedroom, and
there was enough testosterone swimming around in his veins at the moment to watch her walk away and enjoy every elegant, long-legged stride.

But that was as far as it could go—watching. Lucy wasn't one of the women who snuggled up to him at parties and made it clear they were hoping to spend the night in his bed.

As much as he might wish differently, he couldn't use her to scratch this itch that was suddenly driving him crazy. She was his assistant, and he hoped a friend. Those were two things he wasn't willing to risk.

Worse than that, though, Lucy wasn't a woman he could walk away from in the morning. She would always be here, working for him, helping him to market his software designs and computer know-how, and filling the holes in his own personality with her award-winning people skills.

Dropping into his desk chair, he sent it spinning and watched the blue of the walls swirl around him. What a mess. He should have hired a man to answer the phone and open his mail. He sure as hell wouldn't be having this problem then.

But Lucy was the best, and he honestly wouldn't want to work with anyone else, no matter how hard it was to ignore her presence.

If he started something with Lucy, there would be no one-night stand, no casual roll in the hay that could be forgotten and ignored ten minutes later. She wasn't that kind of girl.

And if she wasn't
that
kind of girl, then she was the other. The forever kind, with visions of marriage and children and picket fences dancing in her brain.

That kind scared Peter to death. He'd decided long ago never to let a personal, romantic relationship cloud his acumen for business.

His father had tried to have both and failed miserably. Oh, his company was a smashing success, but his marriage might as well have been a house afire. He'd spent all his time at the office, put all of his energy into deals and negotiations…while Peter and his mother were the ones to suffer.

Peter had seen the anguish in his mother's eyes. The slump of her shoulders, the air of dejection she carried when her husband disappointed her yet again with late nights or canceled plans.

And Peter would be damned if he'd burden another woman with that type of lifestyle, the way his father had burdened his mother. Especially a woman he cared for.

Marriage, family, happily ever after…they weren't for him. His entire focus was on building his business and designing software to rival the competition. Which meant he had little or no time to devote to a relationship.

Even if he did…even if Reyware and Games of PRey were well-established enough to relax a bit, to go out and enjoy a healthy social life…he still wouldn't.

For Peter, it was all or nothing. He could concentrate all of his efforts on business, or he could concentrate all
of his efforts on finding a wife and starting a family. He couldn't do both. And for now—probably for the next ten or twenty years—he chose to concentrate on his work.

It was a damn shame, though. Spending a few hours in the sack with Lucy might just have been worth losing time on a project or two.

 

The night of the charity event, Peter arranged for a limousine to pick Lucy up at seven o'clock. That gave her two and a half hours to get home from work, shower, change clothes, fix her hair and do her makeup.

It probably shouldn't have taken her half that long, but she wasn't used to attending high-priced dinners and fancy fund-raisers. And the thought of going with Peter, perhaps being mistaken for his latest bit of arm candy, had her stomach in knots.

Her apartment, only a few blocks from Peter's town house in downtown Georgetown, was small, but served its purposes. She'd bought several paintings from a local art gallery and framed some pictures of her family and friends to decorate the otherwise sparse white walls. Small area rugs added color to the brown pile carpeting, and the African safari images on her full-size bedspread made her room feel—in her opinion, anyway—wild and exotic.

And, of course, there was Cocoa, her beautiful, long-haired calico cat, who always rushed to the door to greet her, but ran from anyone else.

“Hello, baby,” she cooed, heedless of the hairs covering her skirt and jacket as she swept the cat into her arms. Cocoa began to purr and nudge Lucy's chin with the top of her head.

“All right, all right. You're hungry, I know.”

As was their habit, she set the feline on the kitchen table while she opened a can of Deluxe Dinner and chopped it up into bite-size pieces on a platter with pastel pawprints and Cocoa's name painted in flowing script.

“Enjoy your liver and chicken,” she said with a kiss to the top of the cat's head. “I have a big party tonight and need to get ready.”

Every item she intended to wear to the benefit lay strewn across her bed, for fear she might forget something. After a quick shower, she rubbed moisturizer into her steam-warmed skin and dabbed her pulse points with her favorite perfume. Then she blew her hair dry and began the painstaking process of getting dressed.

She started with the matching bra and panty set she'd bought to go with the red satin and black velvet gown before sliding on the black silk thigh-highs the saleslady had talked her into. Thigh-highs or stockings and a garter belt, the woman had assured her, were much sexier than panty hose.

Personally, Lucy questioned the need for sexy lingerie for a nondate with her boss. She could walk out to the limo naked and doubted he would spare her more
than a glance before once again burying his nose in his laptop.

With the expensive gown molding to every curve of her body, she swept her hair up and fixed it into a loose French twist at the back of her head. Makeup and jewelry came next, and she pretended not to notice the slight tremor in her fingers as she applied mascara and lipstick.

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, attending a charity event to raise money for domestic violence victims and hopefully stir up interest in Peter's company. Not a geeky teenager attending the home-coming dance with the captain of the football team.

Steeling her spine with renewed determination, she slipped into high heels, grabbed the tiny sequined clutch with little more than a compact and lipstick inside and headed for the front door.

A glance at the microwave clock showed she was five minutes early, but if she headed downstairs now, she could meet the limousine when it arrived instead of making the driver buzz up for her.

She gave Cocoa one last stroke as the cat continued to lick her plate clean. “Be a good girl. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

To her surprise, the limo pulled up just as she reached the double glass doors of her building. Draping a fringed black shawl around her shoulders, she went out to meet the car.

She half expected the driver to come around and hold
the door for her, but instead the door opened on its own. Her steps faltered as a foot emerged, followed by a leg, an arm and finally a head of sandy-blond hair. She'd thought Peter was simply sending a car for her, that she would meet him at the hotel where the dinner was being held. Now, it looked as though she would have to ride there with him. In the back of the limo. In close proximity.

He stood on the curb, waiting for her, looking like the California version of James Bond in his black tuxedo, and she had to remind herself to breathe, then put one foot in front of the other until she reached his side. He smiled brightly, letting his gaze slide over her as he reached out a hand for hers.

“If possible,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, “you look even more amazing tonight than you did yesterday.”

The compliment washed over her like a warm breeze, causing the corners of her mouth to lift.

And then, from behind his back, he produced a single long-stemmed red rose. “For you. I thought you might appreciate it more than a corsage.”

Although a small lump filled her throat at his thoughtfulness, she laughed. Peter could be incredibly charming when he wanted, but until this moment, she'd never been the recipient of that seductiveness.

She knew it wasn't real. He was only being polite for this one night because she was doing him a favor by accompanying him to the fund-raiser.

Still, for her, for now, it
was
real. And there was no reason she shouldn't enjoy it while it lasted. Soon enough—like first thing Monday morning—it would be back to work, back to their usual employer/employee relationship.

She lifted the bloom to her nose and inhaled its rich fragrance. “It's beautiful, thank you.”

When their eyes met over the top of the rose, she thought she saw something deep and meaningful flash across his features, but it was just as quickly gone—if it had been there at all.

Clearing his throat, he moved away from the limousine and waved an arm for her to precede him. “Shall we?”

She nodded, stepping into the plush rear of the limo. Peter slid in beside her and the car rolled forward.

“Would you like something to drink?”

A bottle of champagne, already open, sat chilling in an ice bucket on the opposite seat. He poured a few inches of the golden liquid into a cut crystal glass and handed it to her before filling a flute for himself.

Lucy wasn't much of a drinker, and normally she never would have started in the car on the way to an event where she knew she would probably consume even more alcohol. But tonight, her nerves were jumping like kernels of corn over an open fire. Maybe a few sips of champagne would calm them down.

“Thank you again for coming with me,” he said as the cool bubbles tickled their way down her throat. “I
already feel more relaxed about the evening than if I were going alone or with a practical stranger.”

If the majority of Peter's dates were “practical strangers,” he certainly cozied up to them enough to invite them in at the end of the night.

She took another gulp of wine to wash away the depressing thought. Peter's love life was none of her business. His personal life was none of her business. Only his professional life, filling the hours from nine to five, were any of her concern. And sometimes a slice of overtime, such as tonight. But other than that, he could do whatever he wished with whomever he wished, and it wouldn't bother her a bit.

“This isn't a favor,” she felt the need to clarify. “It's part of my job.”

“Yes, but you didn't have to come along. You could have said you were busy, already had a date, or just plain refused.”