Drop Dead Gorgeous (25 page)

Putting her coffee down, she squared her shoulders, knocked on his door and opened it.

“I don't recall saying come in.”

With the light streaming in through the window behind him, his arms folded over his chest and his hands dark against his white shirt, he reminded her of Buddha. He wasn't granting her an audience. She closed the door behind her, then leaning against it, she flicked the lock in place.

He heard the faint sound. “What are you doing?”

Madison looked at the couch, and the slow pump of her blood increased fractionally. With a few steps forward, she stood opposite him with her hands on the back of his leather guest seat. She pointedly ignored the fact that Richard had been in her office. “We have to talk about yesterday.”

“We already decided last night that it was a mistake.”

“You decided it was. That's not the same thing.”

His lips bleached. The overhead lights reflected off his glasses. “All right. Unlock the door and we can discuss it.”

She moved around his desk, trailing her finger along the dark wood, turning until she stood on his side of the desk, right in front of him. His breath quickened in the silence. Her flesh went all goose pimply. Her hands were suddenly cold, and her rings slipped around on her fingers. She didn't know if she could do or say the things she'd concocted in her mind.

As she inched closer, T. Larry rolled back. She leaned down to grab the arms of his chair. “Let's leave the door locked so we won't be interrupted.”

He swallowed with effort. “I'm glad to see you're wearing more appropriate clothing, but didn't you wear that skirt Monday?”

She looked down, her hair falling forward, the ends brushing his belt. “It's the only one I had left…I mean, that was long enough.”

The pulse thrummed visibly at his throat. He was barely hanging on, despite the almost neutral quality of his words. “Perhaps you should shop this weekend.”

She pulled her gaze to his and pursed her lips in a pouty little smile. “Don't you want me, T. Larry?”

Behind his glasses, his eyes went wide and dark. His mouth worked, but she'd robbed him of speech.

Very good. “You said you wanted me the other night at mini golf.”

“I got over it.”

She lifted one leg and set her knee beside his on the chair. He jerked. “Are you sure? It didn't feel like you'd gotten over it yesterday when you had me on your lap.”

His hands went to her arms, but he neither pulled her in nor pushed her away. “Yesterday I was insane. I apologize. It won't happen again.”

She might have believed him except for the tremble in his touch and the uniquely hot male scent rising off him like a mind-altering vapor. Madison pulled at her skirt, slid her knee along the chair, then straddled him before he had a chance to act.

“Jesus Christ, Madison, what are you doing?”

She wriggled on top of him, adjusting her legs and skirt in the tight fit between the arms of his chair and his thighs. He groaned. “T. Larry, it feels like you want me.” She pressed down on the issue for proper punctuation.

His hands flexed convulsively on her arms. “Madison,” rasped past his vocal cords.

“You said I should forget about Richard. I have.”

“Then why was he here?”

Ah, she had him. “He just showed up. I told him to leave.”

His eyes got all smoky hot. “What about the flowers?”

Wonderful reaction. She smiled. “I'll throw them out.”

“It doesn't matter to me.”

She knew by the set of his lips that it did. But enough about Richard and his flowers. This was about T. Larry and her. “You said I should give you a chance. I will.”

“It's impossible. This is the office. We're breaking all the rules.”

She smiled brightly, shaking off his touch to loop her arms around his neck and lean closer. His hands fell to her hips and settled there, clutching, kneading, stroking.

“I've only got a week until my birthday. T. Larry, you're my only hope.”

“Couldn't you fall in love with Bill?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. He torments Harriet. I couldn't love a person like that.”

“What about Zach?”

She rolled her eyes. “He can't even look me in the face when he asks for a peanut butter cup. I scare him.”

“You scare me, too.” His hands worked the flesh of her hips, sliding down to cup her bottom, then up her sides to the swell of her breasts, setting off the most delicious little tingles. “Don't you know anyone else who can help you? A friend of one of your brothers?”

She smiled, then swooped in to rub her nose against his. “Nope. Just you. And it's your duty since you made me tell Richard I couldn't see him anymore.”

“I can't.” He sounded half-strangled. “I really can't.”

“Maybe you should try kissing me.”

His grip fell once more to her hips, his eyes closed, and the lower half of his body surged against her, perhaps involuntarily. Oh yes. Oh goodness. Her panties and the material of her skirt were barely any barrier against the hard ridge of his penis.

“God, Madison Avenue. Jesus.” The words nothing more than a groan on his exhale.

She put her hands to his cheeks. “What did you call me?”

“I…” Eyes the color of smoke, he stared as if for a moment he couldn't remember who she was, who
he
was.

“You called me Madison Avenue. You gave me a nickname.”

Jumbled words croaked from his lips. He swallowed, then tried again. “I did?” He blinked, a little of the muddle fading. “I mean, yes, I did.”

“Oh, T. Larry. I can't tell you how much that means to me.” It meant he wasn't immune. It meant he didn't think yesterday was a mistake after all. She kissed him full on the lips, leaving behind a red smear, then climbed off his lap.

“Where are you going?”

“To my desk. If I stay on your lap, we're definitely going to violate rule number five all the way.”

He spluttered.

“Besides, I didn't bring any protection.”

He choked and turned an apoplectic shade.

She peeked in the bathroom, rolled her lips to smooth her lipstick. “You better wipe my lipstick off your mouth before anyone sees it.” She blew him a kiss. “And if you want, you can drive me home tonight and we can discuss it some more.”

 

L
AURENCE'S MOUTH
still hung open two minutes after she'd closed the door. Maybe it was longer, maybe less, he couldn't think enough to be sure.

She was forward. She was outrageous. Those characteristics had never bothered him. He'd never been her victim before.

There was no way on God's green earth he was driving Madison Avenue home. Why had he called her that anyway? Because he'd been dreaming about her last night, and he'd called her quite a few things, Madison Avenue being only one of them.

His intercom chirped.

“Did you take care of that…problem yet?”

Her voice managed to scramble his brains again. “What?”

“My lipstick on your dipstick. I mean, mouth.”

Ah God, that image. He scrubbed at his lips. “Why?”

“Harry Dump's here to see you.”

“Christ. Why didn't you tell me we had an appointment?”

“You didn't. He just showed up.”

Not now. His mind was not in functioning order. “Then tell him I'm not here.”

“T. Larry, you better see him.” He didn't like the sound of her voice. She lowered it to a whisper. “He's not alone.”

“Who's with him?”

She didn't answer for at least ten seconds. “Mr. Dilly-Dally.”

Laurence sighed. Did the timing really matter? He'd have to face Dump at some point. What was Zach doing with that Appeasing Harriet Plan? And why the hell wasn't Laurence himself putting this problem down as his number one priority instead of getting up Madison's skirt?

Who the hell was Dilly-Dally anyway?

“Give me five minutes.” He rolled from his chair like a man twice his age and dragged himself into the bathroom.

Madison was all over him, from the red lipstick on his mouth, to the sexual flush on the top of his head, down to the noticeable bulge in his trousers. She'd been right about one thing; if she hadn't climbed from his lap when she did, he'd have abandoned every rule in the management handbook.

Laurence wiped her off as best he could, but her flowery scent clung to his clothes.

He opened his office door.

Mr. Dilly-Dally was as tall as Harry Dump was short and as thin as the lawyer was wide. The cut and quality of his pin-striped suit was far above that of Harry's. A diamond pinkie ring in the shape of a horseshoe winked on his finger. His cologne reeked of an expensive department store. Harry was drugstore bought and paid for from the cardboard belt to the two-dollar spice of his aftershave. So what were two such disparate characters doing in his office?

Harry Dump's hand, when Laurence shook it, left his palm coated with a slime of perspiration.

“Mr. Dilly-Dally.”

In sharp contrast, the other man's grip was dry and cool, his voice cultured, a hint of Brit. “It's William Daily, sir.” Looking down his long angular nose, he perused his palm, then wiped his hands together as if to erase the bit of Harry's DNA that had transferred in Laurence's handshake.

“Please excuse the mistake. Madison's hard of hearing.”

“Perhaps that would explain it.” A hint of distaste still populated his tone.

“Won't you both sit down?” He started to raise his hand to the two chairs opposite his desk, then remembered Harry's bulk and pointed to the couch instead.

“Don't mind if I do.” Harry perspired his way to the sofa, and sank down, with slow side-to-side movements, into the corner.

The same corner seat where Laurence had held Madison just yesterday. Harry Dump, through no fault of his own, defiled it.

Laurence had done all the defiling himself, to his everlasting shame.

Daily took the matching chair, forcing Laurence to sit on the couch at the opposite end to Harry. Neither carried a briefcase, standard lawyer garb. Harry's eyes danced. Around his chin, the flesh bubbled with excitement.

Laurence had a very bad feeling, and it wasn't indigestion. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Daily, after hiking his pants and crossing his legs at the knees, let Harry do the talking.

“We've come to suggest a settlement.”

Laurence stretched his arm along the back of the sofa to appear relaxed, cool and calm. “Then you should have made an appointment so that my lawyer could attend.”

“Oh, I don't think we need your lawyer for this, Larry.”

“The name is Laurence, and I don't make deals without my legal advisors.”

Harry's lips twitched. “Perhaps you'll want to think about making this one after you hear what Mr. Daily has to say.” He extended a plump hand to the other man.

Daily retrieved a small notebook and a pair of gold reading glasses from his expensively tailored suit pocket. He made a production of perching the glasses on the tip of his nose, opening the notebook and finding just the right page.

“At approximately two o'clock yesterday afternoon, as I was eating my cheese and tomato sandwich—” he raised his eyes to meet Laurence's “—thin-sliced wheat bread, of course—” then lowered his gaze once more to the page “—I happened to glance out my window on the twenty-second floor to the neighboring building.”

The feeling that suddenly gripped Laurence certainly wasn't indigestion. A mixture of fear, anger and disbelief overcame him, a need to do violence to someone, anyone, yet a strange immobilization of his muscles. As if his body hoped and prayed his ears wouldn't hear what his mind knew was coming.

“I observed a couple rather flagrantly displayed on a black leather chesterfield—” he glanced at the sofa beneath Laurence's buttocks “—quite similar to this one, I believe.” His mustached lip twitched like a mouse's whiskers. “It appeared to me they were involved in some sort of sexual congress as the man's hand was up the young lady's—”

“That's enough.” Laurence stood. How the hell had the man seen? The angle of the sun had been all wrong, the—did it matter? The real question was how the hell he and Harry Dump had found each other in less than twenty-four hours. “What is it you want, Dump?”

“It's Doomp.”

Laurence leveled him with a malevolent gaze. “I repeat, what do you want?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars in settlement of Miss Hartman's suit—”

“Of which you get two-thirds.”