Drop Dead Gorgeous (11 page)

She tried one more time. “Hello?”

T. Larry held out his hand. She gave the receiver over without a protest. “Who's there?”

He hung up, having no better luck than she had. “You did that on purpose,” he accused.

“Did what?”

“Had someone call right in the middle of my kiss.”

“Your kiss? It was mine, too.”

“I forced you. So technically it was mine.”

“You didn't force me. I wanted to kiss you.”

A smile grew on his face. Her knees almost melted. What had she just said? “Glad to hear that, Madison.” He backed away from her, smiling like a cat that lapped up a whole saucer of cream and wasn't lactose intolerant. “I'll see you Monday morning.”

He was out the door when she remembered. She ran to the top of her stairs. “What about the espresso?”

He stopped at the bottom, one hand on the banister, light shining on his glasses. A cat screeched, a trash can fell over. And T. Larry still smiled. “Oh, I think you've had enough stimulation for one night, don't you?”

 

H
ER NIPPLES SHOWED
in her nightie. Cheeks flushed, lips full, Madison looked as though she'd been kissed. Long and hard. She put her fingers to her lips and stared into the vanity mirror.

Who would have guessed? She'd known T. Larry had a tongue—he yelled at her enough—but that he knew how to use it like
that?

She put her hand automatically to the dresser top, searching for her hairbrush. Her fingers didn't find it. When she looked, it wasn't there.

She rose, the nightie swishing down her thighs to the tops of her knees. She must have left the brush in the bathroom.

What had possessed him? That comment about his lack of hair. Or the way she'd offered him Barbie. Madison understood now. She'd put a challenge out there. He'd taken her up on it.

Poor T. Larry. He didn't get it. She wasn't right for him. She was flighty, which had never been a bad thing in her book. She said whatever came into her head, and she'd never do a single thing he told her to. T. Larry craved complacency. She'd die if she was nothing more than content. He'd try to mold her into something she could never be. She'd stifle with his routines.

She'd have to slash her wrists. Of course, that wouldn't be necessary when she had a stroke after her twenty-eighth birthday.

Goodness, it was just a kiss, not a marriage proposal.

She found herself in the small bathroom, in front of the mirror, touching her lips. She didn't look merely kissed, but divinely kissed. There was only one way to view the situation.

If T. Larry's kiss took her breath away, Richard's had to ring bells.

Where was that brush? She opened the drawers and lifted the towels on the shelf above the toilet. In the front room, she looked in the side table drawer, then on the countertop that separated the kitchen. She searched everywhere, keeping her back to the window over the street, where she'd stood as T. Larry kissed her.

A nice kiss. But just a kiss. Really nothing divine about it, even if she
looked
that way in the mirror.

Back in the bedroom, she looked under the bed, finding nothing but a discarded bra—she'd been looking for that—and a few dust bunnies clinging to the carpet.

Darn. Her hairbrush was nowhere to be found.

W
HAT HAD
Laurence been thinking kissing Madison like that? He'd lost his mind. Some sort of mental fugue had overtaken him. He'd had an out-of-body experience.

The truth was much less palatable. Laurence had simply given in to the intoxicating scent of her and his irritation over her desire to see him date a Barbie Doll.

Still, his actions were unacceptable. He was supposed to protect her, not seduce her. However, if he didn't seduce her, how would she come to believe he was The One? That was mere rationalization for bad behavior. He'd wanted her. He'd acted on it. Kissing her had nothing to do with helping her get over her unnatural notion that she was going to die.

That kiss had disturbed Laurence's sleep and troubled his mind from the moment he'd succumbed to it. It fogged his brain when he'd sat in front of his home computer on Sunday. It made him fifteen minutes late leaving Monday morning, which caused him an extra half hour in traffic. He'd forgotten his appointment with Amy Kermeth, hadn't gotten his workout and had discovered the coffee machine was broken when he finally reached the office. The rest of the morning was no better. He couldn't forget Madison's filmy blouse draped across the coffee table or her panty hose and high heels on the carpet.

The three times he'd called her into his office, his mind's eye had stripped her naked, imagined the scent at the base of her throat, the color of her nipples…

He hadn't a clue what she was actually wearing.

The worst part was that he hadn't needed anything when he buzzed her, at least not anything work related. He'd gone insane. He'd lost control of his libido. He'd forgotten the Family Plan.

This was bad, very bad. A boss should never, under any circumstances, notice such intimate details about his employee. Madison deserved far more respect.

He'd unequivocally and irrevocably fallen in lust with Madison O'Donnell.

So, what could a fourth visitation really hurt? He was already doomed as it was.

He pushed his intercom button. “Madison, a minute, please.”

He'd need her for a lot longer than that, considering everything he wanted to do to her. But this time, he'd note her attire, and he wouldn't even think about the silky texture of her panty hose against his fingers.

“Draft a letter to…” He couldn't remember the name of the client, any client.

Her gauzy skirt, wrinkled by design, wrapped around her calves. Black nylon hugged her ankles. Suede pumps caressed her feet. His heart stopped when his gaze rose to her face. Actually it never made it to her face. It didn't get past her shoulders, her throat bared by the cut of her lacy black vest, not to mention the swell of breast above the plunging neckline. Or that tight choker around her neck.

He was unreasonably incensed despite himself. “You dressed for him, didn't you?”

Her pen and pad bobbed in one hand while the other fiddled with the rainbow-colored necklace at her throat. “Him who?”

She'd left the door open behind her. Laurence tried not to yell. “Dic—”

She glowered, a look less than intimidating when you took in the whole petite package.

Laurence gave in anyway. “Richard.”

“Yes.”

“You'll freeze in that skimpy vest.” Or she was going to incite Dick the Prick to lust.

“It's summer.”

Beneath the desk, Laurence clenched his fists on his thighs. “You drove your car again?”

“Squeaky's watching it for me to make sure nothing happens.”

“Squeaky?”

“Our attendant.”

Laurence couldn't even remember the man's face, yet Madison had learned his name. Then he noticed the almost nervous way she fingered her rainbow necklace. What was the thing made of anyway? “What?”

Her eyes shifted to the left. “What do you mean, what?”

“You're twitching. You only do that when you want something.” Maybe he should tell her what she wanted. Then he could give it to her. Gladly.

“It's about my picnic.”

Thank you, God, she wanted to cancel it. “I can tell you to work late if you need an excuse.”

“No.” The purse of her lips didn't last long. “I just want to ask you not to follow me to Golden Gate Park tonight.”

“I wasn't going to follow, but there's nothing wrong with a man taking a stroll through the park.”

“You don't stroll.” She fluttered her eyelashes and puckered her lips. “Please, T. Larry.”

He would look a little ridiculous watching them from a park bench. Not to mention obsessive and compulsive. “All right, but you have to sit out in the open where everyone can see you. No dreamy little clearings amidst a lot of trees.”

“Okay.”

“And you have to promise to park in plain sight and leave before it gets dark.” He'd called the police several times since the tire incident. They'd tried reassuring him by saying that there'd been similar occurrences in three other garages that same day. So reassuring. Not. Changing garages wouldn't help, either. Damn.

“Promise?” he repeated when she pressed her lips together, fingering that damn necklace again.

“All right, all right.”

“And—”

“Isn't that enough?”

He tapped his finger against his lips. She shut up easily this time as if afraid he'd use his mouth on her again, a method he would have preferred. He made up his mind before he could consider the wisdom of his decision. “You have to give me Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday night?”

He raised a brow. “Do I hear an echo in here?”

“But what do you mean you want Tuesday night?”

He enunciated clearly. “If he gets tonight with you, then I get tomorrow night.”

“Whatever for?” She stared at him as if he'd sprouted a thousand snakes from his bald head.

He wagged his finger at her. “Or I can just follow you through the park.”

“All right. But this won't be a date or anything, will it? It'll just be an outing.”

She could call it whatever she wanted, but she'd kissed him back, and she'd liked it. He hadn't a doubt about that. “Deal. An outing.”

“Why do I think I just got suckered?”

He smiled. She was going to get a helluva lot more than suckered, though that was a good place to start.

She tipped her head. “Where are you taking me?”

Ah, that was the question, how did he top a picnic in the park, romantically speaking? He hadn't a clue. “It's a surprise.”

Her eyes sparkled.
Gotcha.
Madison loved surprises. “Oh come on, tell me. How will I know what to wear?”

Anything she wore would do just fine. “Let's worry about that later.”

Madison tapped her shoe. “All right. Did you call me in for something else?”

Foiled. He'd called her in simply to see her. “Pull the file for,” and he threw off a garbled name she wouldn't understand while he cleared his thoughts.

“Who?” Her thumb worked its way beneath the beads around her neck, pulling as if the baubles were strung on elastic, then let it snap back in place.

“The file for…” He stared at the hollow of her throat. “What's that thing you're wearing?”

She tilted her chin back and pulled on the necklace until she could see it. “It's candy.”

“Candy?” His voice rose like an adolescent boy's.

“Yeah. You eat it like this.” She tugged a bead into her mouth, bit it off, sucked on it, then licked her lips. Her cherry-red lipstick somehow managed to stay in place.

His head would surely explode. “And you wore
that
for him?”

“No, I wore it for Kirsten.”

“Kirsten?”

“My niece. You remember, at the party, she gave it to me?”

All he remembered was that kiss at the end of the night. “You can't wear that at work.”

“It'll be gone before the end of the day.”

It would be gone before he let her out of his office. He half rose from his chair with the psychotic idea of chewing the thing right off her neck. And he wouldn't stop there.

He might have done it, too, if Jeremiah Carp hadn't rapped on his open door. “I need Harriet.”

Harriet who?

“She called in sick today,” Madison supplied.

“The girl's never sick.” Jeremiah sucked in his big belly, pursed his fleshy lips and puffed out his cheeks in a very good imitation of the fish he was named for.

“She is today.”

Laurence had yet to find his voice when Jeremiah lumbered from the doorway, but at least he was in his chair, his demented urges in check. Momentarily. Unless he didn't get Madison out of his office. “That's all for now.”

“But you never even told me what you wanted me to do.”

His thoughts about her were plainly wrong. At least in the confines of the workplace. They were, in fact, unjustified at any time. Laurence couldn't help himself, but he could spare her any more embarrassing ogling today.

“Close the door on your way out.”

She stood and backed away from him, her brow creased with worry lines. “Should I call a doctor, T. Larry?”

A psychiatrist. “No.”

She pursed her pretty lips. “I'll check on you later then.”

God forbid.

She closed the door.

Laurence beat his head on his desk three times.

 

M
AYBE SHE SHOULD HAVE
given T. Larry a bead to chew on. Candy medicine, Madison thought as she heard him start banging his head again. She looked at her calendar to check if it was a full moon. Nope, but marked clearly was the fact that only ten days remained until her birthday. Ten and a half, if she counted today. Then her phone chirped.

“You better get out here right away. There's someone—” Rhonda Templin in reception said, panic vibrating in her voice.

“Who is it?”

“It's someone for T. Larry.”

Madison wasted no time in coming to Rhonda's rescue. The reception area being small and enclosed and the man being so large, Madison couldn't miss him. They should provide bigger chairs, or ones without arms. The poor man overflowed the tastefully pastel seat, sweat beading his upper lip and forehead.

Madison leaned over Rhonda's desk to whisper. “Turn up the air-conditioning.”

Rhonda's eyes protruded in her thin face, as if she'd never seen a person of such large proportions. “Here's his card.” She gulped air down her windpipe. “He's a lawyer.”

The card trembled in her hand. Once relieved of its burden, the appendage shot beneath the desk.

“Don't tell him my name.” Lawyers terrified Rhonda. Once a hairdresser, she'd been sued by a client when the woman's hair fell out after a perm. Rhonda swore the hair had been falling out in clumps before the perm, which was why the hapless woman wanted it done in the first place.

Rhonda lost, vowing never again to touch another person's hair. Not even her own. Which was obvious. Her dark roots had grown out down to her ear lobes, and from there her hair was a faded platinum blond in varying choppy lengths. On the up side, she was under thirty, favored black clothes and nail polish and could say she'd purposely chosen a punk-rock hairstyle.

Madison looked at the business card, then the man and back to the card again. What a wonderful name, such a delightful rhythm to it. Harold. Or Harry. “Mr. Dump, how can I help you?”

“It's pronounced Doomp,” he said, “as in oom-pahpah. The first name is Harold.” With a hand on the armrest to the right, then the left, he rose with a rolling motion and an effort that sent droplets of perspiration hurtling into his too-tight collar.

Harry Dump's oversize briefcase pulled his arm down almost to the floor, giving him the appearance of a listing barge. Extending his other hand, he wagged Madison's arm until the bones in her neck jarred. The scent of shoe polish rose from his plump, greasy fingers.

Stepping back, she could now see the scars in his battered briefcase had been blacked with shoe polish. His bulk stretched the repaired seams of his blue suit jacket and a fresh pink carnation covered the lapel shiny with overuse. Laundry soap lingered beneath the odor of polish.

“You don't look like a T. Laurence Hobbs.” Dimples bracketed his mouth.

His smile infected her. Madison laughed. “I'm his secretary. Madison O'Donnell.”

The dimples turned into exclamation points, and his blue eyes glowed. “My dear, secretary is a term from the pre-female-emancipation days, and it's demeaning. Your job description should be Executive Assistant,” he said with capital letters.

She took his game one step further to see his reaction. “But the term Secretary oozes sex appeal.”