DrillingDownDeep (3 page)

All at the same time.

It was all he could offer himself as an excuse as he came,
hard, against his stomach and hers. Not even in her. After a minute, she pulled
back, a wide smile on her face.

He was still panting as she tugged the condom off, petting
him softly through the aftershocks. “And next time, you can make me lose
control.”

He smiled and flipped her over so she was spread out
underneath him on the couch. He reached for another condom. “
Game on.”

* * * * *

Vanny glanced at the orange sunrise through the panoramic
windows as she moved quietly to collect her clothes and put them back on. She
had no clue as to why she had taken it so far last night.

Two minutes into the penthouse, she already had what she’d
come for—his files on the Transcoastal deal downloaded to the portable computer
snug in her purse. It wouldn’t have been much trouble staying another few
minutes at most and then slipping the iPad back on to the bench next to his
jacket on her way out. She even had a pat explanation ready for cutting
out…that she’d changed her mind. She wanted to work it out with her husband,
blah,
blah, blah
.

But instead, s
hit
, it turned out he had great taste
in music and she’d let the sexy beat and the even sexier man coax her into
dancing for him, not to mention stripping for him. And then she’d gotten so
carried away with how hot he was, they were together, that she actually fucked
him. She’d never intended it—she swore she hadn’t—sleeping with the enemy and
all. But nobody would ever know. It would be her own private fantasy.

Making Michael Reynolds lose control.

And having about five or six orgasms in the bargain.

She slipped the iPad out of her purse onto the bench and
ventured out into the morning, leaving Michael Reynolds sleeping, none the
wiser.

She had some files to deliver.

Michael waited a few minutes after he heard the outer door
close and then reached for his cell, dialing his second in command on the
Transcoastal deal, his best friend from college Jeff Fischer.

“Hey,” he said when a sleepy voice answered. “Can you hand
the phone to Jeff?”

His pal had the ridiculous habit of having whatever girl he
was seeing at the time answer his phone if he was in bed with her. Poor bastard
was still in love with his ex-wife and undoubtedly hoping it was her on the
other end and that she’d be jealous. A wasted effort in Michael’s opinion.
Tiffany Fischer was a heartless bitch.

Jeff came on the line with an impatient, “What?”

“I thought you might be interested in knowing that I think
Transcoastal just made their move.”

“Oh?” He sounded a little more awake. “What happened?”

“Let’s just say those fake files we planted on my iPad are
probably winging their way right now into the hands of the lazy management of
our current target.”

“No kidding? The ones on your iPad? I thought they’d sneak
somebody in to your office computer and get them that way.”

“No. The iPad was the smarter move these days since I carry
it around with me.”

“They have somebody steal it or what?”

“Not exactly.”

It was halfway through the night when he went out to collect
his cell from his suit jacket pocket—intending to text his assistant that he
would miss the scheduled morning meetings,
Shelly
having worn him out—when
he noticed the iPad was not on the bench where he’d left it. Feeling a little
smarmy, he checked his hook-up’s purse and sure enough there it was, in a side
compartment with a nice little portable computer right next to it, perfect for
downloading files. She must have not had a chance to slip it back out again.

Shelly’s long trip to the bathroom at the beginning of the
night took on a different cast. He thought she’d been getting up her nerve,
when all the time she had just probably been figuring out how to work the
download. God knew he and Jeff hadn’t made it very hard to find the fake files.

It was a precaution they took on a lot of their deals. Sort
of a decoy. Sometimes the other side was sleazy enough to end up with the
misinformation and sometimes they weren’t. It was fine with him either way. If
they were dirty enough to try to steal the files, then Reynolds Industries was
not above benefitting from the misdirection. But if the other side wanted to
play fair, he did too. No big deal either way.

Usually.

Of course he’d never had another side send somebody to fuck
him for the files. It was a novel approach and, other than the incredibly hot
sex, he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“They sent somebody. A woman. She sort of…” He considered
it.

“What? Give? Come on. Who was she?”

Being one to always offer too much information on that
score, Jeff was perpetually hoping that Michael would reciprocate.

Not happening.

He laughed. “It doesn’t matter who she was. Just wanted to
let you know where we stood on the deal. I’ll see you tomorrow when you fly
in.”

Jeff grunted, probably turning to fuck whatever
Tiffany-replacement he had with him before Michael could even hang up.

And it
didn’t
matter who Shelly had been, he told
himself firmly. Some private eye maybe with a very specialized M.O.

A small dark circle on the white pillowcase caught his eye
and he touched his fingertip to it. A colored contact lens.

He picked it up and stared at the dark-brown disk on the tip
of his finger for a minute and then, annoyed, shook it off.

It was just a contact lens, for God’s sake, not some glass
slipper.

Shelly-whoever was no Cinderella.

And God knew he was nobody’s Prince Charming.

“Has he even gone through the fucking safety training?”

Mick O’Malley sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow before
putting his hard hat back on. “He doesn’t have to. He’s the CEO, Vanny.”

“Has he ever been on a rig before?”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t want some asshole puking all over me as soon as he
sets down.”

“If you think anybody at Transcoastal has the balls to make
their new boss get in that salt-and-pepper shaker of a tester, you’re nuts.
Like they’d really want him to puke in front of
them
while it flips up
and down, just so he doesn’t do it on deck. I don’t think so. Not to mention,
from what I understand, nobody makes Michael Reynolds do anything. He gives the
orders.”

“Great. Just the kind of moron I want traipsing around on a
three-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar rig.”

“Since he bought this rig, and every other rig Transcoastal
owns, I guess he figures he can do whatever the hell he wants with it.”

“Not while I’m on it, he can’t.”

“Look, just relax. He’ll probably take a ten-minute tour and
make the helicopter wait for him and that’ll be that.”

“But he claims he wants to spend the night, right?”

“So they say. I think when he gets a load of the
accommodations he’ll flit on back to his penthouse at the Houston Four
Seasons.”

“Where are you even planning on putting him? It’s not as if
there’s a guest suite on board.”

“If he wants to stay, he goes in a driller cabin, just like
everybody else. Luckily, we got one empty.”

She scoffed. “Good. That’ll be the end of that.”

“And until then you let bygones be bygones, Vanny. You said
you could and you got medical expenses and a family that—”

“I know,” she snapped. “Believe me, I know.”

“Good. Make sure you do because this is no time to be
showing anybody that temper of yours.”

“Why do
I
have to show him around?”

“Because it’s your job, goddammit. He wants a tour of this
rig and that means as the safety officer, you’re going to give it to him. By
the book, missy.”

She smiled. “Don’t call me ‘missy’, old man.”

He smiled as well. “You’re awfully worked up about this,
Vanny.”

“You have no idea.”

“It’s really an honor, if you want to look at it that way.
Who’d think we lowlife roughnecks would get a chance to meet the new CEO of the
whole company face-to-face?”

“Not me. That’s for sure,” she muttered.

The cacophony of the approaching helicopter cut their
conversation short.

Despite her one-night stab at corporate espionage, Reynolds
Industries—a huge conglomerate with a reputation for gobbling up other
companies and chewing them over thoroughly before they spit some of them
out—had purchased Transcoastal Drilling anyway. She never should have let that sleazy
in-house lawyer Crable talk her into doing what she did in the first place.

Not that he had talked her into the hot sex, of course. That
had been her own little impromptu payback. He’d merely suggested that Michael
Reynolds had a weakness for good-looking women and that whatever she could do
to get copies of his plans for Transcoastal might be favorably looked upon by
the current management. Crable had as much as said that if she helped in this
way to try to keep the company independent, Transcoastal might reconsider their
decision to fire her dad.

So she’d dyed her long curly blonde hair brown, straightened
it and picked up the contacts. Since her natural tan had faded from a six-month
stint drilling in Alaska, the pale, dark-haired Shelly didn’t look anything
like the usually tanned, blonde Vanny in the first place. By the time she got
through with adding the heavy makeup, the two women were unrecognizable as the
same person and Shelly got down to business.

Unfortunately, like all the other bullshit that the suits
had slung at her as she tried to defend her father, the promise from Crable had
been, er, bullshit. At least the asshole had gotten fired in the shake-up and,
thanks to Mick O’Malley, she hadn’t.

Here was hoping that once Michael Reynolds stepped off that
helicopter that didn’t change.

Michael had spent the entire one-and-a-half-hour helicopter
ride from Houston to the offshore oil rig gazing out the window and ignoring
most of what his guide said to him over the headphones. He should be reading
the latest Transcoastal projections on his iPad or commandeering the helicopter
radio to pester his assistant Miss Prentiss since his cell wouldn’t work out
here,
something
at least.

But he didn’t feel like it. His sister Samantha’s wedding
had set him off. He didn’t know why. He attended weddings all the time, several
of them his father’s, although lately it had usually been a second- or
third-married pal giving it one more try at the altar. Weddings usually didn’t
affect him much at all, unless there was a bridesmaid or friend of a friend who
caught his interest. Then the only possible effect was some mindless sex, his
favorite kind, although he hadn’t had much of that lately either. The dark and
mysterious Mrs. Shelly had left a bad taste in his mouth on that score.

And now he had this odd, unusual melancholia.

His flighty, beautiful, good-hearted baby sister was in
love. He even liked the guy, her groom, though that was conditioned on the
man’s hopefully-any-day-now retirement from Interpol where he was an undercover
agent.

So why should any of that disturb him? And “disturb” wasn’t
quite the right word anyway. More like
envy
.

But shit, that was worse. He was never getting married. And
as to falling in love, he hoped for his sister Samantha’s sake, it existed, but
personally, he’d never seen it.

“You’re going to be shown around the rig by Vanny Donald,
the rig’s safety officer.”

The words permeated Michael’s consciousness over the noise
of the helicopter all around them, even with the headphones. He turned to Bob
Roberts, the chief financial officer of his newly acquired oil drilling
company, and said through his own microphone, “Oh? I assumed you’d be showing
me around.”

“I’m afraid not. Policy requires it be the safety officer.”

On the verge of pointing out that as CEO and majority
shareholder, he was the one to make policy, not be dictated to by it, he
stopped himself in time. No need to ruffle feathers just yet. He and
Transcoastal were in what he liked to think of as the honeymoon phase, speaking
of weddings. They were getting to know him. He was getting to know them.

Before he weeded out the inevitable incompetents and fired
them.

“In fact, once I drop you off and introduce you, I’ll be
heading back. Rigs and I don’t exactly mix. I get seasick after about ten
minutes.”

Michael didn’t comment. Seasickness had no bearing on the
man’s financial abilities, so he didn’t fault him for the weakness. The sorry
state of the balance sheet was another matter though. Roberts would eventually
have to answer for that. But now was not the time.

“Look, there it is!”

After miles of sea interrupted only by the tiniest white dot
of a yacht, the oil rig
Treasure Driller
rose out of the waves like some
mammoth Lego creation. And that was exactly what it looked like at a distance
from the air. A toy set of orange and gray Legos linked together in the kind of
complicated maze that he and his younger brothers had liked to build behind
their father’s back, with bridges and towers and platforms.

Damien Reynolds had disapproved of game-playing activities
that didn’t teach his oldest son the ways of the world. Michael’s father
preferred he play with prospectuses and after a while, he just drifted away
from his brothers’ Lego endeavors.

He wondered if Samantha and Vik would have kids. He wouldn’t
mind a nephew or a niece to whom he could give a set of Legos… Maybe build a
miniature of the sight before him with the kid.

The thought took him by surprise since he generally avoided
minors of all varieties like the plague.

The helicopter dipped closer to the rig in preparation for
landing.

“Now as you may recall,
Treasure Driller
is the rig
that’s had a few
incidents.
Nothing serious, but it gets written up.
Very much by the book and all that.”

“Yeah. I saw the reports.”

“Well, then you know that the perpetrator responsible—a
disgruntled long-term employee as I understand it—has been discharged and we’ve
been assured that’s that. So the problem’s been taken care of.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Michael muttered, not directly
into the microphone.

“What?” Roberts asked.

“Nothing.” Something about those reports on the safety
accident involving valve levels didn’t jive. Not familiar enough with the
industry as yet to put his finger on it, Michael nonetheless had a gut feeling.
And he always trusted his gut.

The helicopter set down on the large white pad on the top
deck of the rig. By the time the propellers stilled, he and Roberts had taken
off their headphones and unbuckled their seat belts. Michael reached behind him
for his briefcase and single bag, but the pilot offered to grab them and bring
them out.

“Okay, here we go,” Roberts said once they’d climbed down
from the helicopter. Two hard hats were emerging from a stairway, one short and
beefy and the other tall and slender.

The beefy one nodded at Roberts—no love lost there
apparently—and held out a roughened hand to shake Michael’s. “Pleasure to meet
you, Mr. Reynolds. I’m Mick O’Malley.”

“Mick’s the rig foreman,” Roberts explained as O’Malley took
the bags from the pilot. Michael was surprised that the obviously younger man
with him didn’t do the honors, but as he glanced closer he saw why.

“And this is Vanny Donald.” Although her hard hat was still
on, dipped precariously forward, Michael could nonetheless tell this close that
Vanny
was a woman.

She held out a hand encased in a work glove.

“Mr. Reynolds.”

No “pleased to meet you” from
her
as they shook
hands. No smile either. He couldn’t see much of her face under the shadow of
the hard hat at the angle she was holding her head, but he could see the
downturned edges of some surprisingly sensuous lips.

“If you’d like to rest first before I show you around—”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Donald. Or is it Mrs.?”

“Miss.”

“Fine then. We can start the tour, Miss Donald.”

“Sure. Okay.” She might as well have added “let’s get this
over with” as she turned away. For all the sucking up he was usually treated to
in the honeymoon phase, there was always a malcontent or two who wanted to show
the new boss they didn’t kowtow to anybody.

Rarely a woman though.

“I see you’re in good hands, so I’ll be on my way.” Not even
ten minutes, more like two, and Roberts was already looking green as the rig
swayed slightly. The pilot, not to mention Miss Donald, threw him a
contemptuous look. The pilot accompanied it with, “I have to use the head
first, if you don’t mind.”

“And don’t you want something to eat before you go?” Miss
Donald added with a slight smile.

The CFO’s hand went to the waistband of his trousers, as if
the mere suggestion might cause him to heave. “No, we better be on our way.
Michael, I’ll see you back at the office whenever you’re through here. Just
radio in when you want to be picked up. Jim,” he turned to the pilot, “I’ll
wait for you in the helicopter. Be quick about it.”

“Yes sir,” Jim murmured with a smile as the CFO scrambled
back. Miss Donald smiled as well and the two made eye contact.

“That’ll be all,” Michael snapped to the pilot, sharper than
he’d intended. He’d paid virtually zero attention to the guy from the moment
they were introduced, hadn’t even remembered that his name was Jim, but the
smile the man was sharing with Miss Donald annoyed Michael for some reason.

A pair of long-lashed green eyes snapped right back at him.
The woman’s, not the pilot’s. “He’s allowed to go to the bathroom first, isn’t
he? Or do you want him to just piss over the side?”

O’Malley shook his head, muttering something, and the pilot
hurried below with a guilty look as if not to be associated with the smart
remark.

There was an awkward silence that O’Malley rushed to fill.
“We’re a little rough around the edges out here, Mr. Reynolds. Don’t mind us.
Right this way.”

He hurried forward, and Michael followed without comment.
Although if he had made one, it would have taken the form of a reprimand,
lovely green eyes notwithstanding. He didn’t need an attitude along with his
walk-around. Regardless of whether it violated
policy,
as soon as they
were out of the wind of this deck, he’d be making sure he got a different guide
for the tour…at a minimum.

Miss Donald took up the rear as they went down the stairs.
“Put one hand on the handrail,” she instructed and he did so automatically.

“The rig can shift in currents, so until you get used to it
you got to keep hold of something most times, sir,” O’Malley noted over his shoulder.
“You seemed pretty steady on your feet up on deck though.”

“I’m used to being on the water.”

“You might be surprised,” came from behind him. “A rig isn’t
exactly like one of your cushy yachts. We feel the sea beneath us, not get
coddled from it.”

They continued through a narrow hallway.

“You’ve been on a number of yachts, have you, Miss Donald?”
he asked, hoping she was bright enough to pick up on the sarcasm.

Before she could respond, a voice came over the loudspeaker
wired into a corner of the passage. “O’Malley to the control room. O’Malley to
the control room.”

There hadn’t seemed to be any panic in the voice that
Michael could tell, but O’Malley stopped dead in his tracks. Michael barely
avoided bumping into him.