Together for Christmas (47 page)

Because so far, all she’d done was tour the shop, the chocolate-making kitchen downstairs, and the several makeshift offices upstairs, and already Natasha could see that Torrance Chocolates needed help. They had plenty of drive, heart, and inspiration, that was true; but their transition from mom-and-pop shop to burgeoning corporate power player was clearly overwhelming them. At the moment, they were short of staff, space, and direction. To manage those things, they needed
her
.

Jimmy Torrance and the rest of his staff might not know it yet, but the smartest thing they’d ever done was choose Natasha from among the dozens of (curiously bodacious-looking) applicants she’d seen during the open interviews last month.

In fact, it occurred to her, most of those applicants had looked a lot like the woman who’d been doing the horizontal desktop tango a minute ago. They’d been made up, perfumed, and dressed to attract. They’d worn superhigh stilettos and trendily flat-ironed hair. Most inexplicably, they’d been unable to say the name of their potential future boss, Damon Torrance, without giggling and trading giddy, girlish glances with each other.

All in all, the experience had been a lot like interviewing for a job as head groupie for a rock band. Which, in retrospect, made Natasha wonder why Jimmy Torrance
had
chosen her. Because while she did have her share of vanity—and her very own flat iron, lip gloss, and high heels—what she didn’t have was the kind of va-va-voom necessary to hold the attention of a rock star . . . or the corporate equivalent of one.

Not that she cared about that too much, Natasha reminded herself. She didn’t need nonstop reinforcement of her own attractiveness. Especially not now and especially not at work.

As the daughter of parents who’d both held down more than one job on several occasions—just to make ends meet—Natasha understood the value of hard work. She’d made it through high school and graduated from community college and then UCSD, all while working full-time to pay her tuition.

This was her chance to kick off her career, and Natasha wanted to succeed. Admittedly, she was starting at the bottom, but still . . . she was only twenty-four. She was here. She was
in
at a growing company. Unlike her competition, she hadn’t had to outfit herself in sexed-up “office attire” like a hot-to-trot fugitive Victoria’s Secret model to make it happen, either.

Speaking of hot-to-trot . . .

Natasha gave the office-hopping Lothario a second look. He was probably only a couple of years older than she was, but he’d made her first day at Torrance Chocolates memorable, that’s for sure. She wondered if he made the rounds of
all
the offices and
all
the different desks, or if he’d come in here solely for the spectacular view—which, in hindsight, had only been improved by the addition of
him
, looking all shirtless and muscular and dark-haired and intense, doing his thing in the middle of it.

Either way, she doubted this particular incident was his first time getting lucky at work. Whoever he was, he had that aura about him—a quality that made people want to be close to him. Looking at him more carefully now only confirmed Natasha’s initial impression: this was a man for whom things came easily, whether those things were women, good times, or success.

Speaking of success . . .

Where was her
über-
impressive new wunderkind boss? She wasn’t going to be working as a direct report to Jimmy Torrance, Natasha remembered as she watched Mr. Desktop considerately shield his paramour from view so she could get dressed. She was going to work for Jimmy’s son, the famously titillating Damon Torrance, who’d been curiously absent from the hiring process.

He’s pretty easygoing about these things,
Jimmy had explained with a nonchalant wave.
He’ll be happy with my choice.

Natasha hoped Jimmy was right. As she watched the now-dressed woman scoop up a notepad, a pen, and several glossy issues of
Oceanside Living
from the credenza, she further hoped that whoever worked in this office wasn’t too attached to their desktop calendar. Because although Mr. Desktop hastily gave it a sideways shove to straighten it, the calendar looked wrecked. The only way to extract any useful information from it would be to read and interpret the butt prints. Everybody knew that, in the Internet age, butt-based cryptanalysis was a dying art.

Finally, the door shut behind the woman. Silence descended on the office, emphasized by the low crash of the surf outside.

Jimmy cleared his throat. The mystery man didn’t speak, leaving Natasha plenty of time to notice that in addition to behaving in an undeniably chivalrous manner toward the woman, he’d also tried to compose himself by dragging on his shirt. But that effort was largely ineffective. He’d buttoned his shirt crookedly, he still seemed . . .
distracted
somehow (probably by thoughts of all the workplace exhibitionist sex he was missing out on), and his dark wavy hair, while doing a very good job of framing his handsome, sharp-nosed, stubble-jawed face, looked all bedheady and messy, too. It was way too easy to imagine him actually lolling around sexily in bed, Natasha thought, which definitely spoiled the whole “I’m hard at work” effect.

Evidently he hadn’t gotten the memo that, these days, all the cool guys gunked up their hair with gel. Even her husband, Paul, who’d been a hard-core flannel-and-grunge guy when they’d met, now looked like a runaway member of ’N Sync. It could have been worse, though. He could have developed a thing for those velour tracksuits or the loud shirts worn by TV poker players.

Natasha was sick to death of poker. If she never saw another green baize table with sunglasses-wearing card players around it—on TV, in a movie, or at a party—it would be too soon. In fact, she didn’t even know why poker was so popular.
American Idol
she understood. Kelly Clarkson really was talented; she’d deserved her win. As current pop culture phenomena went, even the merging of J.Lo and Ben Affleck into “Bennifer” was easier to tolerate. As a matter of fact, Natasha was kind of rooting for them both. At heart, she was a die-hard romantic. She
wanted
true love to conquer all. So when it came right down to it . . .

Suddenly, she realized that Mr. Desktop was watching her. There was no question: He’d caught her daydreaming on the job. It was a good thing
he
wasn’t her boss, Natasha told herself with a stalwart lift of her chin, because she didn’t think she wanted a supervisor who could read her so easily. She definitely didn’t want one who looked quite so . . .
fascinating
while he did it.

No wonder he’d successfully seduced a woman on a desktop. In broad daylight. With strangers wandering the halls outside. Mr. Desktop had some kind of remarkable give-it-to-me mojo—some kind of you-know-you-want-to appeal that would have softened even the hardest of hearts. Or opened even the most tightly crossed legs. Not that
she
wanted to open
her
legs, but still . . .

Vividly, Natasha imagined
herself
on that desk, crumpling the calendar with her own nearly naked booty, having her shirt unbuttoned and her neck kissed, with her breasts heaving and her thighs parting as she pulled Mr. Desktop closer and closer. . . .

Too late, she understood. “
You’re
Damon Torrance.”

Chapter 2

Damon’s eyes gleamed, brown and full of mischief. “Guilty. And
you’re
my new assistant.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry about . . . before. It was all my fault. Sometimes I get carried away.” His smile looked unrepentant, full of blatant resolve to besmirch that very same desk ten minutes from now if he had the chance. Probably he would. Contritely, he put his free hand over his heart. “I promise I’ll try to reform while you’re here.”

He made it sound so temporary. “While I’m here?”

He seemed abashed. “Your predecessors haven’t lasted long.”

“Oh.” Wondering why that was, Natasha accepted his handshake. As she did, an unmistakable jolt crackled through her. It felt real. Electric. Her knees weakened. She wanted to stare. She
did
stare. Damon Torrance was different when his focus was centered on you, she realized. His eyes, his face, his shoulders, his mouth . . . even his nice white teeth all seemed ridiculously interesting. “Why is that?” she asked, striving not to steer his hand to her breast. Oh God. Had she really just thought that? What was the
matter
with her? She slapped on a casually inquisitive look. “Is the work difficult?”

“Not really.” Damon shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

She couldn’t quit gawking. Reluctantly, Natasha slipped her hand from his grasp. Sex appeal rolled from him in dizzy waves. It broke along the shore of her determination not to be wooed, then crested again. It was a good thing she’d armored herself with a prim suit, worn her hair in a strict ponytail, and gotten used to tamping down her more . . .
inventive
side while at work.

Well, technically she’d gotten used to tamping down her inventive side everyplace these days, in every circumstance—mostly to make way for Paul’s inventive side to flourish, since he needed it to make a living and she didn’t—but still . . . she’d been smart to play it cool for her first day at work.

“The truth is, my assistants all leave because I sleep with them,” Damon explained, appearing unbothered by admitting it. “Sometimes they fall in love with me. Sometimes I fall in love with them. It never lasts. I’m kind of fickle.” Another grin. This one seemed thoughtful . . . and maybe 10 percent devilish, besides. “But that won’t be a problem with you, Natasha.” He turned. “Right, Dad?”

Jimmy Torrance frowned. “I hope not, son.” Astutely, he glanced at Natasha. “He’s right. He
is
fickle. This thing with the journalist was just the latest in a long line of—”

“Come on. I already explained that. All my fault.” Damon held up his palm, good-naturedly diverting the conversation. “Anyway, I won’t be having those problems with Natasha.”

“You won’t be?” Perversely, she felt stung. She also felt idiotically enamored of the way he said her name.
Natasha. Nataaasha.
She could have listened to him say it all day. All night. Over and over and—just in time, she got a grip on herself. She shook her head. “No,” Natasha announced in her most forceful, definitive tone. “You won’t be.” A beat. “You won’t be having any problems wanting to sleep with me because . . . ?”

“Because you’re married.” Damon raised his eyebrows, appearing surprised to have to explain himself. “A man’s got to have his principles. Mine involve Pop-Tarts, kung fu, and not screwing around with married women.”

At her undoubtedly openmouthed expression, he laughed.

“Especially
happily
married women,” Damon added, “which
you
qualify as, if that enormous hickey on your neck is anything to go by.” He leaned nearer. With a conspiratorial whisper—and a cheerful wink—he added, “Make-up never works to hide them. Especially on blondes, like you.” He nodded at her shoulder-length blond hair, then gave the rest of her a swift, masculine, thrillingly appreciative perusal. Natasha had the unmistakable impression he’d seen
all
of her . . . and approved wholeheartedly, too. Damon’s gaze whipped back to her hickey. “Just hold your head high and forget about it. That’s all you can do.”

That sounded like the voice of experience talking. Aghast, Natasha flung her palm over her neck. She’d forgotten about her hickey—and for one brief nanosecond, she’d forgotten about being married, too. But now that Damon had pointed it out, her marriage came rushing back to her. So did her ability to use her brainpower for more than swooning over her new boss.

Of course
she didn’t want Damon to want to sleep with her.
She
had principles, too! While they didn’t involve junk food or martial arts, they did involve avoiding infidelity.

No matter what.

“Wait a minute. I didn’t tell you Natasha was married.” With endearing old-school politeness, Jimmy swerved his gaze away from her telltale hickey. “I didn’t even give you her personnel file—not that you would have read it if I had.”

“You didn’t have to tell me. I guessed.” Damon gave her a speculative look. “You’re a newlywed, right? Just back from your honeymoon? I’d say you went to . . . someplace sunny. Acapulco? No, wait.” He snapped his fingers. “Cancun, right along the coast.”

This time, Natasha
knew
she was staring openmouthed. “I haven’t even unpacked yet. How did you . . . ?”

“Your wedding ring. And your glow. You’re glowing.”

At that, she beamed. She probably was glowing. Because of
Paul,
Natasha reminded herself. Because of her
husband
.

“My husband is an artist. A painter,” she felt compelled to say. “He’s very talented. He was especially inspired by Mexico.”

“Mmm.” Obviously, Damon was too busy practicing his Twenty Questions-style guessing game to give too much thought to trivialities like husbands. Or their unique artistic inspirations. “The pattern of your sunburn was a dead giveaway.” Damon nodded at the neckline of her suit. “If you weren’t so buttoned up, it would be even more obvious.”

It was a good thing she was “buttoned up.” Otherwise, Damon’s apparent X-ray vision would have left her feeling even more exposed than she already did. As though the imprint of her teeny honeymoon bikini was imprinted on her skin—and technically it was, only in reverse—Natasha crossed her arms over her chest.

“Besides, you didn’t have to give me Natasha’s personnel file, Dad,” Damon went on blithely . . . the same way he appeared to do everything. “Brittney in HR was
dying
to do me a favor.”

Jimmy sniffed. “I’ll just bet she was.” He shook his finger at his son. “This is why I hired a new assistant for you!”

“Right. And your insistence on doing that is why I went along with it.” Damon tossed his father a plaintive look—one the elder Torrance seemed to miss. “I want to make you proud, Dad.”