Who's on Top? (3 page)

Jane's thoughts turned to her mother again, now dead of breast cancer twelve years. Mom would never have bought meat loaf and mashed potatoes. She'd have made them—and not the powdered kind either, as Jane suspected these were.

Dad hadn't been surly and depressed when she was alive, and Gilbey hadn't been quite such a mess—she'd had him doing all kinds of landscaping for her, even building a rock waterfall by hand. Jane still remembered him then, totally absorbed in his task, working twelve hours a day with only a twenty-
minute lunch break. Gilbey loved to work with his hands. She understood that.

That's why the last three jobs she'd gotten him had involved manual labor. But he'd walked off the construction job, put all the parts together backward on the assembly-line job and butted heads with the foreman on this latest one, a position in an electronics company.

What am I going to do with you, Gil?
It simply never occurred to her that he wasn't her problem.

On the other side of the table, her dad put down his fork and rubbed his belly. “Feel like I swallowed a bowling ball.”

“Did you enjoy the meal, Dad?”

“Unnh.” But he nodded.

She picked up his plate and wished that men of his generation would acknowledge the arrival of feminism and do their own dishes. Yeah, right. Dad would clean up the kitchen the same day he mowed the lawn
en pointe,
in a pink ballerina tutu.

In that one regard, it was a good thing that Gilbey still lived with him. Jane took the plates to the sink and rinsed them. To the mental list in her head she added: antidepressants for Dad, another job for Gilbey. The men in her life always needed help.

That night, to her shame, Jane dreamed of a hot, naked Dominic Sayers who needed help finding his clothes. Funny, but she refused to give them to him.

In fact, she had hidden them herself and she taunted him with a single sock…for which Dominic
had to chase her down. Laughing, he pinned her against the wall and demanded his things, threatening to take hers if she didn't return them.

When she refused, he opened her blouse with his teeth, scattering buttons across her bedroom floor. Next he pulled down her bra, wedging it under her breasts and taking the nipples into his mouth.

Jane moaned and tried to free her hands, but he wouldn't let her go—just captured both her wrists in his right hand and pulled up her skirt with his left. Then his fingers crept under her panties, skimming over hidden curls and caressing, teasing, rubbing her most secret places. He cupped her with a warm palm and slid back and forth, back and forth….

Jane shuddered, gasped for breath and awoke disoriented, breathing heavily. It was dark. The clock read 3:33 a.m., and her body vibrated with—no other word for it—horniness. She ached with lust. Her brain felt foggy. And no way in hell would she fall back asleep before dawn. Crazy though it was, she'd inhaled Dominic Sayers like a virulent flu. Would she recover anytime soon?

J
ANE STOOD IN HER OFFICE
, hands on her hips, in front of the hairy flower arrangement. There
had
to be a way to dust the darn thing without making it disintegrate. The coffee was brewing, and this was her challenge of the moment—the one she felt she could triumph over before having to follow the annoyingly sexy, butt-headed Dominic Sayers around his office like a Labrador retriever. Well, a Lab with opposable thumbs, a notepad and a definite agenda.

She went to the closet that held cleaning supplies and stood there looking at the array of possibilities for cleaning flowers. Furniture polish? Soft soap? Disinfectant spray? Nope. And she'd already ruled out the vacuum. Could she swish the flower heads around in the toilet?
I don't think so.

Finally her gaze settled on a mini fan, which she pulled out and set on the floor near the offending arrangement. She plugged it in, turned it on and aimed it satisfactorily. The flowers began to rattle in the breeze, and a gazillion dust motes swirled into the air in a mini tornado. There!

The door opened to admit Lilia, who took one look and assumed an expression of kindly tolerance for the insane.

“Did you bring doughnuts?” Jane asked hopefully.

“Of course. I have a dozen in my four-by-six inch pocketbook.”

The article in question was a little quilted number that hung from Lilia's shoulder by a thin gold chain. Definitely no edibles in there, darn her sarcasm.

“If we ate doughnuts more than once a week, we'd all be barn-size, Jane.”

Yeah, well. Barns were peaceful. They lounged about on golden prairies under blue skies and didn't have to tangle with dangerous, sexy, six-foot-two attitude problems. Barns didn't worry about depressed relatives, cash flow, client referrals or hairy flower arrangements.

“But I didn't get any of the crèmes,” she heard herself whine.

Lilia shook her head at her. “Would you like some coffee? I'll bring you some.”

“Thanks. Travel mug, please. I have to head to Zantyne today and evaluate that client in the workplace.”

“Well, I hope you have better luck there than with that vase of dried flowers. What exactly are you trying to achieve?”

“I'm dusting them,” Jane said proudly.

“Mmm.”

The tone of Lilia's voice suggested that she check on her project. Jane squinted in disbelief. The fan had
taken care of the dust, all right. But it had also blown off all the petals and leaves on the left side of the flowers, leaving the ones on the right intact. They looked partially shaved, and she had a huge mess to clean up off the floor and coffee table.

Jane switched off the fan, turned the bald side of the flowers to the wall and threw the appliance back in the closet. She determined to write a letter to HGTV right away, begging for their advice. There just
had
to be a way to dust dried flowers.

 

T
HE
C
ONNECTICUT HEADQUARTERS
of Zantyne Pharmaceuticals was a rectangular brown monstrosity that reminded Jane of a monumental loaf of bread. Clearly extra funds were channeled into R & D and not atmosphere.

The inside walls of the place were painted the shade of provolone cheese, and the reception desk was a mossy green. Jane decided she'd stepped into a rather unappetizing corporate sandwich. She asked politely for Dominic.

“Mr. Sayers?” said Zantyne's receptionist into her headset. “Ms. Jane O'Toole to see you.” She paused, then nodded. “I'll do that.”

Jane wondered if her unwilling client had issued orders to kick her butt right out the door. She unconsciously braced herself for two burly men in security uniforms to appear, but it didn't happen. The sleek blonde got to her feet and said, “Right this way.”

Jane followed the pink-clad, entirely too pert
globes of the receptionist's rear end as they twitched through a set of wide double doors and down a taupe-carpeted hallway, until she stopped at an office on the right. Miss Pink flipped her hair over her shoulder and gushed, “Here she is, Dom. Can I get you two anything?”

Oh, maybe a couple of pistols,
thought Jane.
Or better yet, lances—so we can run each other through with more gore.

“Thanks, Jeannie, but I think we're all set.” Dom flashed her a surprisingly tusk-free smile as he stood up from his desk, his powerful sex appeal sending much of Jane's blood rushing south.

With a little moue of her lips that made a couple of cute dimples appear, the receptionist wiggled back to her post. Jane was positive Miss Pink had practiced that lip thing in a mirror. Hmm. Maybe she should try it?

Sayers turned the smile upon her now. “Jane!” he said warmly. “Good to see you again. How are you today?”

She stared at him, wary.
Embarrassed that you managed to star naked in my dreams last night.
“Uh, fine,” she said. “How are you?”

“Couldn't be better, thanks.”

Did someone spray happy mist in your Wheaties this morning? Add amphetamines?

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

She shook her head, unable to look away from a sexy little mole in the middle of his left cheek.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you.”
And don't say “me” next, either. Where is your evil twin? The one I met yesterday?

Today's Dominic was even dressed in a happy-colored pale yellow button-down and khakis, not the funereal pinstripes of the day before. His eyebrows looked less menacing. And dark, curly hairs beckoned to her from his open neckline, cranking up his sex appeal factor even more, if that were possible.
Uh-oh.

Me, Tarzan,
those little curly hairs crooned.
You, Jane. Wanna swing to nirvana on my big, thick vine?

Huh. She averted her eyes from the danger spot and reminded herself that the man in front of her was nothing more than a chest-thumping primate who needed to be civilized.

She considered asking him to pull his anger out of the nearest file cabinet so they could get on with examining it but decided to go ahead and explore this warm and fuzzy aspect of his personality—since, after all, it was probably a mask. He'd let it slip sooner or later.

“I'm guessing you just want to follow me around and observe me, correct?”

“Yes. I may tape some conversations, too—with your permission.”

“Of course!” he said in genial tones.

Who are you?

“To start with, I have a staff meeting in five minutes. You can meet my team and see that I actually play quite well with others.”

We'll see about that.

But it was true. Five people filed into the room, including his marketing coordinator, two analysts, an assistant product manager and a PR specialist. Three of them were women, two men. They all seemed to have an easy camaraderie with “Dom,” as they called him.

He introduced every person to her by name, joking that Jane was there to help him mind his p's and q's. They all looked puzzled but carried on with various reports to him.

When Jackie, the marketing coordinator, had finished, he thanked her graciously. “And how's Tommy doing?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Kid's gonna drive me crazy, whining about that cast on his arm.”

Dom shook his head in sympathy. “Well, tell him he's lucky he didn't break it in the summertime. A cast gets even hotter and itchier then, believe me.”

She nodded.

“Your Buccaneers are looking good, Tim.” Dom said to one of the analysts.

The guy flashed a big white grin at him. “Yeah. Gonna kick the he—uh,
hoo-ha
outta the Falcons.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that. Whatcha got for me?”

Tim made his report while Dom nodded thoughtfully.

Jane taped the meeting and took notes with growing incredulity. But they couldn't possibly have all
gotten together and rehearsed beforehand. No, these people actually
liked
Sayers. And that didn't add up.

Hmm. She tapped her pen on her nose. And so, clearly, had the company receptionist. But while she'd written that off to a sweet young thing's infatuation with his looks, she couldn't write off the interactions in this meeting. It was all very peculiar. For an instant she wondered if just maybe he'd been telling the truth in her office. That he was being set up by a power-hungry boss.

But no—that was ridiculous. She
knew
Arianna DuBose, was a member of the Kiwanis Club with her and the local women executives' networking group, too. She'd never seen Arianna be anything other than charming, articulate and beautifully dressed. And the woman was in a position of power already—so there was no need for her to backstab or get Machiavellian.

Sayers was an educated white male of a certain age, with certain expectations. And he'd felt anger when a woman was promoted over him—plain and simple. It didn't take her behavioral psych degree to figure that out.

Why, then, did he seem to get along so well with the women in this room?
Oh, lightbulb, Jane. They work for him. Not vice versa. It's easy to be gracious when you've got the power.
Satisfied, she stopped hitting her nose with her pen and capped it, ignoring the quirk of Sayers's lips.
Go ahead and smirk at me, you yutz. You're not stumping me by this charming behavior. I've got you figured out.

While he took in another report, she allowed herself to assess his looks again from the corner of her eye.

Nice tapered waist. Long thighs. Solid, athletic-looking knees—no skinny knobs visible through the pants. So he probably had good legs, not chicken sticks. She peeked at the chest hair again, which was a bad idea, since it got her wondering about the broad chest underneath.

Jane, get a hold of yourself! You cannot have a fantasy about the man right in front of him.

Aw, but I've got such a good one,
her libido whined.
Listen: it involves a furry rug before a roaring fire on a cold, winter night…and he licks melted chocolate and marshmallows off your—

Stop it!
She noticed that she was again tapping on her nose with her pen. She recapped it for the second time. Usually she tapped on the earpiece of her glasses, but she'd been curiously reluctant to put them on in front of Dominic.

He looked over at her and now both corners of his delectable mouth turned up.

Trying to sucker me? Not a chance.
She returned his gaze coolly and waited for the meeting to be over, which it soon was. Her stomach growled audibly as he turned to her.

“Care for some lunch?”

Should she go to lunch with him? She hesitated. Well, she could observe him further with other people. Why not? “Okay,” she said. “I just need to run to the ladies' room first.”

“Good thing,” Dominic responded.

Good thing? Why would he possibly care that she took a tinkle? Bizarre man. Jane hitched the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder and marched down the hall to the relevant door. She availed herself of the amenities, still puzzling.

It was when she went to wash her hands that she figured it out. Blue pen marks adorned her nose, making her look like a refugee from the Bic warrior tribe.

She stared at them with growing mortification. How long had they been there? Why hadn't one of the other six people in the room said something? And how was she going to get them off?

Jane dropped her briefcase on the floor and went to town with the pink liquid soap and a brown paper towel, only succeeding in removing all the makeup from the lower half of her face. The pen marks, however, still remained.

She might as well draw a mustache on her lip or add kitty whiskers. No wonder Dominic Sayers had smirked at her!

The score between them was temporarily even, but she'd fix that—and him. There was no doubt in her mind, no doubt at all, about who was going to end up on top….