The CEO's Fantasy (The Billionaire Bachelors Series) (3 page)

What kind of asshole would he be if he read it? If he used it to get her where he wanted her?

The kind Ms. Anonymous readers think you are.

Instead of succumbing to that temptation, he’d started watching the damn clock in the mornings, timing his arrival so it would coincide with hers. He tortured himself with fantasies while he soaked in her scent, occasionally giving in to harmless small talk to hear her voice until the elevator reached accounting and she left him.

He never thought he’d come to loathe the non-fraternization policy he’d implemented the day he took the job. It was the one thing that held him back from pursuing her.

That and the thought that she might not be what he’d imagined her to be. As interested in him as he was in her. As passionate as her swaying hips, rebellious curls and curious green eyes implied.

But what if she was?

Could he do what Henry advised? Break his own rule? Take a chance on dating again, one of his employees no less, and to hell with the fallout?

Dean’s only other option—to maintain his personal and professional status quo indefinitely—was untenable.

Something had to give.

The elevator was going
up
.

That had to be the cherry on top of the most dramatic exit Sara had executed in her thirty years on the planet.

“Well, hell.” She sighed and shifted the heavy box in her arms, uncomfortably aware of the raspberry soda drying down her back. She didn’t dare glance at the mirrored walls along the small moving room. It was one of
those
Fridays.

Perfect.

She could take comfort in the fact that today’s events would live on in infamy at the water cooler on the twenty-third floor of Warren Industries. At least until Monday afternoon.

The Clown Catastrophe. That’s what they would call it. Mainly because Terry Anne, the woman who’d worked at the desk across from her since Sara started the job two years ago, had a thing for collectibles. Specifically clowns.

Smiling clowns. Sad clowns. Bear clowns. Ballerina clowns. Scary, strange Stephen King clowns that followed you with their painted, beady eyes and plotted your demise.

Sara had seen those damn things in her sleep for years and they’d been the start of all her trouble today. Or more accurately, accidentally knocking one of them on the floor with the stack of files she’d brought to her desk had started it.

She’d already been in a mood. Her day had started without its usual pick-me-up, aka the company’s owner, Bossy McHotpants, joining her in the elevator. She’d spent ten floors wondering why she hadn’t seen him at all this week when she knew he was in the building, and the other thirteen chiding herself for thinking about him at all.

Then she’d been passed over for the special projects spot she’d been angling for in order to escape life in the beige accountant cube, and given the workload of the two men who’d been assigned to the projects instead.

Hence the pile of files set down a little too roughly, which cracked the clown and set her own personal Rube Goldberg hell into motion.

When the collectible fell, Terry Anne had let out a scream that was impressive enough to belong in one of those late night horror movies. That terrifying noise was followed by the wail of a mother who’d just had her baby thrown out the window. She should have been an actress. And Sara, of course, was cast as the villain. Every accountant on the twenty-third floor stopped what they were doing and turned to watch the show.

Sara closed her eyes and rehashed the episode in her mind. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything about the clowns or office space or professionalism. And perhaps she should have walked away to clean up when Terry Anne had gestured defensively with her open bottle of raspberry soda and coated Sara’s white blouse and neck with the sticky, sugary liquid, causing half the room to gasp with barely suppressed glee.

And yes, she definitely shouldn’t have broken more of Terry Anne’s collection in response while telling her that she desperately needed to get laid and stay off the Home Shopping Network. That had been a mistake.

She’d never been in a slap fight before. But when Terry Anne smacked her cheek with the palm of her hand, Sara’s had come up of its own accord to pay her back in kind.

It was more satisfying than she’d ever admit out loud. Even under torture.

Their supervisor had been no help. “These things happen” was one of his favorite phrases whenever a conflict arose, and today was no different. He hadn’t fired her
or
Terry Ann, despite the physical altercation. He hadn’t compared all the times Sara had worked late and her consistently stellar performance reviews to the weekly complaints Terry Anne lodged against her fellow employees and all the times she was late because her cats/aunt/cousin/cousin’s step uncle/favorite grocery store clerk was sick and declared Terry Anne had to go. Instead he’d offered a compromise—Terry Anne would pay to have Sara’s shirt professionally cleaned and Sara would replace the missing pieces of the clown collection. They would agree not to officially file complaints, would both apologize for the things they’d said, and then they’d go back to work, better friends than before.

Her supervisor was a wuss.

And Sara couldn’t do it. Oh, she could apologize, and maybe swallow her pride and go back to her desk for the day coated in pure cane sugar and raspberry food coloring…but she just couldn’t replace those damn clowns. She wouldn’t spend another two years feeling their accusatory stares as she hunched over her small desk across from them.

The realization made her decision easier. Despite her supervisor’s panicked suggestion that giving two weeks notice would be the smart thing to do, she’d quietly found a box and packed the few personal things she kept at the office.

Fuzzy slippers to wear under her desk. A small plant so she wouldn’t forget there was a world outside. A stress ball she could squeeze instead of Terry Anne’s head. Her collection of postcards filled with beautiful black-and-white photography that she’d sigh over when she had lunch in the building’s peaceful atrium, her second favorite part of the day.

When she carried her box toward the elevator, she’d had the sensation of being in a scene from
Norma Rae
or
Jerry Maguire
. She’d half expected a slow clap to mark her epic exit, but she shouldn’t have. Accountants, as a rule, had no sense of humor. Everyone had simply watched with unblinking, mildly curious stares as she stepped inside. As the doors closed, no one even waved goodbye.

She was so busy fuming she hadn’t noticed she was going up instead of down.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

There were only forty-two floors in the building. When she saw the number thirty-nine light up she started to panic. Quitting her job didn’t worry her, being labeled a clown killer didn’t worry her...but the sudden realization that she could be on her way to
his
office, where his secretary and assistant were usually stationed like guardians at the gate? It would be weird if she
wasn’t
a little tense.

She’d only been there twice. Once when she’d been sent up to personally deliver a file after her supervisor screwed up and brought the wrong statistical analysis report to a meeting, and once for the annual review—which had given her hours of good, solid drooling-over-the-boss time. In both instances, she’d been seduced by the smile of welcome she’d sworn was in Bossy’s hazel eyes. She’d also managed to say something off color and inappropriate enough to earn a warning glare from the kind but formidable Mrs. Grandholm.

Sara never knew when to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t very accountant-y of her, but other than her obsession with numbers, not many things about her fit the mold. Maybe it was because she’d worked two jobs for so many years, as a waitress and then as a party host for a very lucrative sex toy manufacturer, while saving up to pay for school. Spending time with normal open-minded people gave her an affinity for things like colorful clothing, chaos and boisterous laughter. Spending evenings discussing kinky positions and demonstrating “marital aids” gave her an affinity for, and an admitted preoccupation with, sex.

Accountants hated chaos and—at least in her office—rarely mentioned the S word unless it was about who was having it with their boss.

She supposed it was a good thing she was going to miss this year’s review. In five weeks another accountant would be standing between the delicious Mr. Warren and his dragon lady, and that one would probably refrain from wondering aloud who’d created the unmistakably phallic statue in the lobby, or asking for a second piece of Mrs. Grandholm’s triple fudge decadence, which she’d brought for the review, because it tasted “like warm, rich make up sex in her mouth.”

She adjusted her box so she could hold it in one arm while trying to straighten her stained, clinging shirt with her free hand—but it was pointless. She was a mess. And, unlike every other time she’d gotten on the elevator since the day she began working for the company,
up
was the last direction she wanted to go and
he
was the last person she wanted to see. Not when she looked like this.

Dean Warren was the “he” in question, otherwise known as Bossy McHotpants. He was the second-generation billionaire, philanthropist and walking sex god of all of her wildest, raunchiest fantasies. The first time she’d seen him step into the elevator, she’d had the sensation of falling.

He was clearly as out of her league as he was out of her tax bracket. Men who looked as if they’d stepped out of a GQ magazine rarely went out with anything less than a Victoria’s Secret or the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition—and Sara didn’t rank any higher than the TV Guide.

She could have sworn that once or twice she’d seen something in his expression that reminded her of interest. Desire. But even if she had, as the owner of the company, he was off limits as well. Officially and unequivocally forbidden.

It was a trigger word for her. Anybody who knew Sara knew that, while she had some wonderful qualities, she had a hard time resisting a dare, keeping her thoughts to herself and staying away from things that were forbidden. But she was a professional. About this anyway. Even if it weren’t against company policy, it was a personal line she’d always promised herself she wouldn’t cross.

Don’t lie. If he offered, you would cross it in a second, and you’d be naked while twirling flaming batons and singing the national anthem.

Dean Warren was the signature at the bottom of her paychecks, she reminded herself firmly, ignoring the graphic image. And now, he wasn’t even that. If his wickedly talented and sadly imaginary doppelganger visited her in the shower until the hot water ran out, or slipped under the covers with her to personally deliver her monthly bonus until she begged for mercy… Well, that was between her and her overworked vibrator.  Oh, and her other new favorite toy—the one that had been worth the week’s worth of groceries she’d paid for it to take some of the pressure off her old faithful.

Just thinking about that oral sex simulating gadget made her squirm, now in even more of a hurry to get home than before. It was exactly what she needed to forget this day. She would spend the weekend with it, extra batteries and her favorite ice cream, putting herself into a self-induced sugar/climax coma. And now that she had time, she might take her friends up on their repeated offers to go out dancing. She needed an outlet for all this career-enforced sexual repression. In other words, she needed the S word.

She shifted again and it was one time too many. A stream of swear words started escaping from between her lips as the bottom of her box opened up and everything in it landed on her feet. “Fuck.” She dropped to her knees, her skirt tightening around her thighs as she lunged for her stress ball and scooped up a handful of dirt from the potted plant. “Son of a dog, mother fucking bit—”

Ding.

Don’t let him be there, she silently begged the universe. I’ll never kill a clown again.

Sara looked up and sighed in relief as the doors opened on the forty-first floor. In the space of a racing heartbeat she noted the fact that the front desk was unmanned and no one was waiting to step in. That was strange. Good but strange. Could she be this lucky? Or did someone up there just really love porcelain figurines?

And then she saw Mrs. Grandholm walking out of his office, Mr. Warren right beside her.

Nope. The universe hated clowns as much as she did.

The doors started to close and Sara willed them to move faster, giving her the ride down to stuff her things back into the wilting box and retain what was left of her pride.

He looked up suddenly and shattered her hopes with three words. “Hold the elevator!”

Office manners too deeply ingrained to resist, she put out her free hand and stopped the doors from closing. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. She could do this. It was just like any other day she had to share the elevator with the sexiest tycoon alive.

Sure it was.

Mrs. Grandholm’s voice sounded closer and seemed to agree with her silent sarcasm. “Ms. Charles? What on earth are you doing on the floor? And
what
happened to your blouse?”

She felt him kneel beside her. She hadn’t opened her eyes but she knew it was him because of the way he smelled. Delicious. Memories of all the times she’d stood behind the lean, six-foot-two CEO when the elevator was full filled her mind. While she enjoyed those rare moments when it was just the two of them and he’d say good morning or ask about the weather, she had to admit she liked a full elevator even better. She didn’t get to hear his sensual baritone, but if it was crowded, she’d move closer to him than she would ever dare if they were alone. How many times had she leaned in and breathed in that clean scent that reminded her of the forest and sex and him?

And sex
with
him in the forest…or anywhere he wanted.

God, she was a stalker in the making. She needed to rein in her imagination and inappropriately overactive libido.