Kissing Under the Mistletoe (15 page)

“I get paid to make Gabe’s troubles go away,” Jordan continued, “and Marc is always in trouble. So I have two days to clean house, which makes me your boss. Again.”

“Woo hoo,” Regan deadpanned. “Because that worked out stellar for me the last time.”

“
I
am an excellent boss. And you’re still here, aren’t you?” Jordan held up a finger in warning. “But don’t you dare address me as Mrs. Schultz. It makes me sound divorced.”

“You are divorced.”

“Yes, well, it also implies I wear Ann Taylor and starch.” She shuddered. “Now that we’re done with the heart to heart, can I say thank heavens you’re here. You
hable français
, right?”

“Oui,” Regan played along, chuckling. She couldn’t help it. Jordan was fast becoming one of her favorite people. She was straightforward, told it like it was, and made no apologies. She had also brought over a casserole the other night, along with a set of bath toys for Holly. Not to mention that her life was like watching some bizarre afternoon talk show unfold.

“Cute. Now, can you put this on and get to the front desk in”—Jordan thrust a garment bag at Regan in a panic,
eyes bugged as she took in the chaotic lobby—“well, ten minutes ago?”

Regan eyed the reception-desk uniform.

“I know, not an Isaac Mizrahi.” Jordan looked at the black nylon skirt and rayon blouse and grimaced. “Not even his Target line, but we work with what we’re given, right?”

Jordan now studied her with the assessment of a fashion-consultant-slash-critic. Regan took the bag but couldn’t help feeling that she too was another project where Jordan felt she was forced to work with what she was given.

“I have two days to get you out of the dungeon and into management.”

“Management? Are you serious?” Her world just got so much better.

“That’s my goal. So don’t be late. Don’t piss off any more DeLucas. And don’t let Marc charm his way under your skirt.”

Regan wanted to ask if the same rules applied for the oldest DeLuca, then remembered Isabel and changed her mind.

“Now, be a doll and strip.” Jordan looked around at the clusters of irritated customers. “Well, not here. But what a crowd you’d draw. All those uptight Frenchies over there would hand over their best foie gras and forget that their reservations have somehow vanished and the wine convention they thought they were here for is actually scheduled for next week.”

“How did that happen?”

“Because Marc has a tendency to hire personnel based on their bra size rather than their organizational skills. Which is why he’s in Vegas and I’m here. And I need to get someone with brains in management so I can get back to DeLuca Wines and do
my
job, which is where you come in.”

Jordan pressed her palm on the small of Regan’s back and maneuvered her through the lobby before shoving her into an office. “Five minutes. Go.” She clapped twice and disappeared, the door slamming dramatically behind her.

Oh boy. Not just any office. Marco DeLuca’s office.

A massive mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, staring her down. It was dark, imposing, and besides the stack of unopened mail, it was meticulously arranged. It was also intimidating. The kind of desk that people get fired at.

Over the past few years, Regan had learned a lot about desks with regard to their owners. And this was one desk she wouldn’t want to tangle with. There it was, two weeks until Christmas and not one decoration or Christmas card was in sight. In fact, the only evidence of softness was the small collection of wire-framed photos that sat on a bookshelf at the rear of the room.

After skimming her fingers along the edge of one, Regan picked it up. The photo was at least twenty years old and screamed of the childhood Regan had always dreamed of. Two loving parents, an army of happy, dark-haired boys and a smiling little girl with auburn curls—all in red and green and all standing around Randolph.

“Stupid deer,” Regan mumbled, placing the photo back.

Stepping out of her shoes, she peeled down her cleaning-lady polyester dress, draping it on the back of Marco’s chair. She tugged her undershirt over her head and was reaching back for the skirt and blouse when a low sound of male appreciation came from the doorway.

“Need help with that?” Gabe leaned against the doorjamb as Regan spun around, the uniform slipping to the floor. Left with nothing but red lace and embarrassment for cover, she scrambled to hide all of her girly parts. Problem was, she had more girly parts than hands.

He took in her complicated updo, the little tattoo peeking out, and incredible bronze skin. Regan was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He had no idea why she was here, but as long as she stayed in nothing but that red lace, he really didn’t care.

“No,” she snapped.

“You sure about that? Mine cover more area.” He held up his hands as proof. Regan’s eyes went narrow, clearly telling him what she thought of his suggestion.

Gabe shrugged. Maybe she was right. She had a whole hell of a lot of curves. Then again, he never backed down from a challenge.

The don’t-mess-with-me scowl on her face told him the answer was no. Too bad, because for the past seventy-two hours Gabe had spent his days figuring out how to get her in his bed, and his nights creating his own Dirty Jar versions of how things played out between them. They usually ended with him and Regan in a sweaty, tangled heap on her kitchen counter. Sometimes in his shower. But always with her screaming out his name.

A slow grin took over his face. Tonight, she’d be wearing Christmas red in those dreams.

Leaving the door ajar, Gabe took a step forward and Vixen backed up.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He rounded the desk, and before he could even touch her, she’d picked up her clothes and darted around the other side.

“You
know
what! And can’t you see I’m getting dressed?”

“Why? You look perfectly fine to me.”

She rolled her eyes at the way he said
fine
. Or maybe it was how he took his time observing exactly how she was dressed. Either way, when he sat himself down in the chair, she gave a dramatic huff and turned away from him. She yanked on her uniform as if she was trying to break some world record for quickest dresser. Not quick enough that Gabe didn’t get a chance to fully take in her backside, which was almost as impressive as her front.

He zeroed in on her ass and found himself wavering. Before he could stand by that decision, he’d need time to compare and contrast the two. A lot of time.

“Seeing as this is my brother’s office, I think I’ll make myself at home.” Hands behind his head, he plunked his running shoes on top of the desk and leaned back.

This day was warming up to be incredible. After a hard workout, which had done nothing to help his growing problem, he’d stopped by Marc’s office hoping to find an employee file on the latest disaster of the Napa Grand—the events coordinator who had a thing for dirty martinis and propositioning the wrong guy. Instead, he’d found his favorite new employee wrapped in Christmas red.

The polite thing would have been to give her a heads-up that she had company. But then she’d dropped trou, and he’d been rendered stupid. Because that was the only word that could sum up why he would willingly walk into a room
containing a half-naked woman who he couldn’t sleep with but couldn’t stop thinking about sleeping with.

“Then, I’ll go,” Regan said, turning around and slipping the blazer over the untucked blouse. She grabbed her clothes, palmed her shoes, and, without another word, swept by him. Her eyes were shimmering. With anger or hurt, he wasn’t sure.

Gabe cursed himself, stood, and stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. “Hang on. That was rude of me.” He reached in his pocket, plucked out a quarter, and offered it to her. Then he thought about all of the places he’d imagined her naked and emptied his pockets on the desk.

Instead of a smile, when she looked up her eyes were on fire. “I met Isabel today.”

“Okay.”

“The one you took to the Christmas party.”

He still had no idea where she was going with this. Then her face scrunched and his gut rolled painfully.

“You kissed me, Gabe. And you’re dating another woman.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said, hating the hurt in her eyes.

“That’s what they all say.” She looked at the floor.

“Not me.” He curled his finger around her chin and lifted until he could see those baby blues through her lashes. “I have never cheated and I never will. It’s not who I am.” She still didn’t look convinced. Not that he blamed her, if all she had to judge his sex by was Richard. “Isabel and I dated very briefly, several years ago. The week before the party, ChiChi told me I should take Isabel. In front of Isabel. I wasn’t going to be rude and say no. So we shared a drink,
I danced with you, drove her home, and with a kiss on the cheek said good night. She’s called a few times, but I told her I wasn’t looking for anything permanent. End of story.”

“Oh,” was all she said, but he could tell that she believed him and was now feeling silly.

“Yeah, oh.” He cupped her face. “And, Regan. I didn’t kiss you the other night.”

“Yes, you did,” she argued. He loved it when she tried to argue with him.

“No, I didn’t.
This
is a kiss.” He gave her a hard, quick smack on the lips. God he loved those lips. Had been fantasizing about them all week.

“And
this
is what
we
did.” With that, he covered her mouth with his, surprised when she didn’t knee him in the nuts and instead kissed him back.

He started out slow, nibbling her lower lip and taking his time to thoroughly explore every inch of her mouth. She made a sexy little noise in the back of her throat, her shoes hit the floor, and then her hands were on him. They slid around his middle, her nails digging into his back, and when they dropped down to his ass he was lost.

Lost track of time. Who he was with. Hell, somewhere between her hands digging under his shirt and raking up his back, and him doing the same, only exploring her front, he forgot they were standing in the doorway of his brother’s office, in clear view of anyone passing by, making out like two horny teenagers.

With a groan, he eased back, just enough that they could catch their breaths, but their foreheads and noses still touched.

“Can you see the difference now? Because if you’re still confused I can show you again.”

Her fingers fisted in his hair and she pulled him to her, obviously wanting another demonstration of the distinct difference. So he showed her. Twice.

“You smell good,” she whispered, nuzzling his neck.

“I smell like the gym,” he chuckled. She nuzzled deeper. “Besides, anything is a step up from your apartment.”

“It’s not the gym, you smell like—” She stopped, pulling back enough to level him with a look, but she didn’t move out of his arms. “We promised not to do that again.”

“I never made any such promise.” He kissed her nose. “Because making a promise I have no intention on keeping is a waste of time, Vixen.”

“We can’t...this won’t...I have to get to work.” She looked at him horrified, like she’d blown it, like she was about to get screwed. And not in a good way. “I work here. I was going to tell you. And then I saw...I should have called you and told you.” When she exhaled, her breath was so weighted and shaky that it left him unbalanced.

He took in her starched white shirt, which had somehow come undone again, black pencil skirt, matching blazer with the hotel logo embroidered on the lapel, and smiled. “Kind of figured.” He wanted to ask who she had seen but knew better than to push. He’d find out later. “It’s okay, Regan, ChiChi told me the day you were hired.”

Which was ridiculous, since Marc had been the one to come up with the idea of hiring Regan as a way to keep an eye on her, then slyly mentioned the opening to ChiChi. Gabe hadn’t been a part of it, but he also hadn’t stopped
it. He figured Regan needed a job and was too stubborn to let him help her. What he didn’t know, until that morning when Jordan had called him, was that his dickhead brother had given Regan a job as a maid.

“She also told me that if I were to upset you in any way, she’d pull out the wooden spoon.”

That got a smile out of her and Gabe felt his chest relax.

“To spank you?”

“No, to bake me a fruitcake.”

“So, when Marc gets home he isn’t going to fire me?”

Did Regan really think that after last weekend he’d allow that? He still didn’t have a solution that made everyone happy, but he was working on it.

“We’re not going to cause problems for you, Regan.” He tucked her hair, now a rumpled mess tumbling around her shoulders, behind her ear. “That, I can promise.”

She showed genuine surprise at his confession. God, he felt like shit.

When they found Richard, he was going to kick his ass for breaking Abby’s heart. Then kick it again for hurting Regan. Then he’d kick his own ass for doing equal damage to her life. And maybe Marc’s ass while he was at it.

First they had to find the bastard. And what sucked was that his brothers still believed that the only reliable lead they had was currently looking up at him with those big lapis eyes. If his brothers were right, and his gut said that they were, where did that leave him and Regan?