Chapter Four
Windsor
I spent Sunday sulking because I didn’t pull the damn trigger on the guy at the bar. I had him. I saw it in his eyes. He isn’t my type at all. He’s dangerous. Breaking hearts is probably one of his perfected skill sets. I should have just taken him home and beaten him at his own game. Sex and skedaddle. Hormones have completely taken over my body since coming in contact with Maverick. Horny doesn’t even begin to describe what the mere thought of him does to me. And I didn’t even see him with his shirt off!
I can’t concentrate on my computer screen in front of me because of the color of the damn numbers in my program. They are like this bluish black color, and I wonder if it’s the exact color of his tattoos. I’m sick. I don’t even think banging Garrett, the hot CPA in the office next to mine, all lunch hour would work. No. Only a Maverick or someone similar would do for my wanton needs. This is what I get for going years without sex. One sexual laced conversation with a sex God, because I know he is a sex God, and I’m a panting dog. I bet he even knows his effect on women, which makes this all the more horrible. A maybe-solution pops into my mind as I hit speed dial number four.
“Hey, Phillipe. Is Morganna super swamped? I need to talk to her,” I say. I hear the hiss of an iron and cover my giggle. He’s doing her ironing.
“Of course she’s busy, Windsor, but I’ll ask if she wants to talk to you if she isn’t screaming on her head set.” I laugh again. He remains quiet. He isn’t joking.
She picks up almost immediately. “Morganna Sterns,” she breathes in a huge rush of air. I get up to close my office door as tightly as it will go.
“I need that date you were talking about.” I cut right to the chase. No need to mince words or beat around the damn bush. That ship sailed the second Maverick asked for my phone number. “Who were you going to set me up with last night?” Please be Maverick, please be Maverick. My silent pleas are freaking pathetic and I inwardly chastise myself.
“Happy Monday to you too, Winnie. Hard up are you?” I hear the smile in her voice. I suddenly know exactly why Morganna is wrapped around Stone’s finger if she deals with this insane sex drive just from looking at him.
“Hard up doesn’t even begin to cover the bases. Date. Phone number, e-mail address – whatever you have. Now!” The phone line she has on hold chirps. I hear papers shuffling.
“Mav Hart is bad news. Stay away from him. I wouldn’t fix you up with him unless you were my mortal enemy. He has a really twisted back story. It’s not my business to discuss this with you. Just please, accept this warning, Winnie.”
My heart sinks and a pit forms in my stomach. It’s not like I didn’t already know it; it just sucks to hear someone else say it.
“I was going to set you up with Steve. He’s a good guy. Maybe a little more tame than some of the others in the rat pack.”
Tame. Ugh. I don’t want tame. That definitely won’t do for what I have in mind: amazing barbarian sex that makes me forget I ever preferred missionary sex with the Nashhole. Who wants eye contact anyway?
“Okay. I’ll e-mail him.” I scribble down Steve’s phone number and e-mail address with half effort, still undecided if I want to date him. Morganna’s warning about Maverick was like dumping a huge bucket of ice water on my libido.
“Shut up with your useless drivel and do it!” Morganna yells. “That was to Phillipe, not you, honey.”
“Are you always such a bitch to him?” I ask, laughing. It makes me feel a little better knowing Phillipe is having a bad day, too.
“No, only when he questions me,” she deadpans. “I’m serious about Maverick, too. He-e…” she trails off.
“He what?”
“Might as well tell you, you’ll find out soon enough. He called me this morning trying to get your information. I didn’t give it of course. But I’m sure he’ll find another way. He’s persistent at his worst.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m sure she knows I’m disappointed, but if she says it’s for the best I have to trust her. Especially with something like this—something she deals in. She knows The Guys.
“Thanks, I guess. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“When he finds you, because I know he will, don’t get upset with me when I say ‘I told you so’. Gotta go, darlin’.” Her accent slips at the end. She was being sincere.
Click. The line is dead.
I scribble doodles all over the notepad with Steve’s number. I feel like a traitor because I secretly hope Maverick gets in touch before I make this phone call. Then I won’t have to worry about anything except hot sex. Morganna doesn’t know that I already know what type of guy he is. I tried the good guy for a long time and it ended up biting me in the ass. A bad guy was exactly what I needed all along. A villain—a nasty one with hot hands and wet lips. I’m not trying to find insta-love, or even insta-lust, even though the last one is probably part of the deal.
A shiver shoots down my spine and my core clenches. It’s ten a.m. and I’ve gotten nothing accomplished. I pick at my barely living desk plant. I dump the remnants of my water bottle onto the soil. “You never had a chance,” I whisper to the inanimate object.
“You have two afternoon appointments. New clients. One and Four,” Hannah drones through my phone’s intercom.
“After lunch? Why one, Hannah?” I had plans to go home for a long lunch and have a long drawn out date with Bob, my battery operated boyfriend. I sigh. “E-mail me the info,” I say.
My inbox chimes almost immediately. One is just a tax consult, which is normal and boring. The second email, the one o’clock appointment with T.H., is a full consult. My boss has an asterisk next to the subject line, which means money. Lots of it.
I beep Hannah back. “How much are we talking?”
“No details. He requested you. Even after I told him you prefer morning appointments.”
The ad I placed online must be working if I’m getting people requesting me personally. I fought an internal battle after the woman in marketing told me I’d get more business if I posted a photo of myself with the advertisement. Like a freaking personal ad or something. I guess I should thank her if it’s actually working. Our accounting firm is large, and there are plenty of other accountants with a lot more experience and with substantially larger resumes. John Nash is also an accountant in this firm. He works a few floors up and I never run into him. I think it’s purposeful. I went a little crazy the months, and probably year, after his cheating scandal. My co-workers went out of their way to make sure I’d never see him again. I don’t even see Nashhole’s car. His parking garage is on the other side of the building.
“Thanks,” I yell a little too loudly before shutting off my intercom. I’m intrigued to find out what I’ll be working with. Who I’ll be working with. The giddy thoughts of advancing because of a large account make me forget why I didn’t get anything done all morning. With a new purpose I start plowing through my work, balancing accounts and calling clients. On a roll, I work straight through lunch, clearing my workload so I can leave directly following my four o’clock. It startles me when Hannah’s voice echoes in my small office.
“Your one,” she stutters. I narrow my eyes at the phone, wondering what the hell is making the iron-willed Hannah fumble words. “Your one is here, Ms. Forbes.” Recovered completely. Even addressing me formally in front of clients like our boss requests. I straighten my desk so I don’t look like a complete paper slob.
“Send them back, please,” I tell her. I comb my fingers through my hair and plaster the fake, friendly smile on my face. The same smile that is on my ad. The one they expect. I’m discovering new levels of vanity I never knew could exist.
All vanity goes directly out the window the second Mr. T.H. enters my office, closing the door behind him.
“Windsor Forbes. You were far easier to track down than you should be,” Maverick says. I should be scared because he obviously stalked me. I should be angry that this asshole didn’t take no for an answer. I should beep Hannah and tell her to send security up to my office, even though I’m sure the rent-a-cops wouldn’t stand a chance against the muscle wall that is Maverick.
But I don’t do any of those things. I shake my head out of sheer feminine cattiness. Inside? My stomach is doing flip-flops and my heart is pounding, sending jolts all the way down to my sex. The things that flit through my mind are all lewd. Crass. We are both naked in all of the images. Sweating, skin clapping, hair pulling. I want him. His dimples are out in full force, because I still haven’t spoken. He knows what he’s doing to my insides.
“T.H.? Well who would have thought,” I say, extending my hand to shake his. I’m suddenly a little disappointed it’s Maverick when I was expecting to land a huge account. Granted, I will land some other huge object straight between my thighs. He must see the displeasure on my face.
He takes my outstretched hand, shakes it, and then folds his large arms across his chest. “Expecting someone else?” he asks.
“Yes and no. I spoke with Morganna today. She told me you wanted my information.” As I say the words, paranoia hits me. Maybe Maverick really does have a lot of money and he does want me to manage it for him. Maybe he’s not interested in dating, screwing, insert sex act here, with me. He wants my professional services. I’m not sure what is worse. Not getting a large account or not getting him, Morganna’s warnings aside.
“I want your information, huh?” He stalks around my office like a predator. Which is what this man is. Fully. I love it. His eyes heat when he looks me up and down, not trying to hide his appraisal. He drags the office chair that sits in front of my desk next to my seat.
His proximity heats me, wetting my panties and blushing every part of me that isn’t covered by clothes. I cross my legs. His unreadable gaze darts to my legs and the black pencil skirt that covers my desire. This much man, and how he affects me, should be illegal.
“Well, you’ve found me. What can I do for you,” I say, glancing down at the paperwork he laid on top of my keyboard, “Mr. Thomas Maverick Hart?” Trying to ignore the way his arm brushes mine, I scan the numbers on the paperwork. The large numbers. Maverick is loaded. Not loaded like a Navy bachelor who has a couple re-enlistment bonuses in his account; he’s loaded like a trust fund baby who never has to work a day in his life. I feel his gaze boring into the side of my head as I read. It’s unrelenting. I look at him and hold up the top page, pointing at the bottom line.
He shrugs his shoulders and the top of his neck tattoo peeks out of his polo shirt. “Can you help me with it or not? You are a CPA.” He rasps my title a little too excitedly.
If this is a ploy to get me to date him, he is sorely mistaken. Money won’t win me over. If anything the exact opposite is the case. I know what type of people have this kind of money and I stay away from them. They are the ultimate assholes that don’t care about anything except number one. I shudder. Maybe Maverick isn’t even worth a one-night stand if he’s pushing this in my face on purpose.
He lays his hand on top of mine. “I wanted to see you, Windsor.” He says my name and my stomach drops. He might as well have ripped off my clothing, for the reaction it causes in my body. I suck in a determined breath. Be professional, God dammit.
“I need to know exactly what you want me to do with this money. We could diversify some of it. Use the bulk of it in a more aggressive nature. You are younger. What rates were you getting before? Do you have any ideas or expectations?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from going all freaking raspy with desire. This might be impossible.
“I have high expectations, Windsor,” he says. I want to scream at him to be straight with me. Snatching my hand out of his, I get up and walk to the window overlooking the parking lot of Food Lion. Women juggling kids and groceries distract me.
“Color me stupid. Could you spell it out for me?” I ask without turning around to face him. It’s a little better when I don’t have to look at him, or know he’s in touching distance. I cross my ankles to try to fight the fire between my legs.
“I did my research. I know that you aren’t only a CPA. You are also very good at making money for people. I’ll up the percentage you make on profits if you go out with me. One date,” he says, his voice growing closer as he approaches. I turn around wide-eyed and supremely pissed off.
“Are you seriously trying to buy me? I’m not a prostitute for God’s sake!” I scream, and then slam a hand over my mouth, praying Garrett didn’t hear my outburst.
Maverick laughs. He has the fucking audacity to laugh at me. He shakes his head.
I interrupt him. “Even though I’ll probably get fired for doing this, I’m going to have to say no thank you. You should take your copious amounts of money elsewhere to be managed.” My blood is boiling. I can’t believe he thought buying me out would be the only way to get a date with me. Walking around him, careful not to brush his arm as I pass, I sit down at my desk. “Did you even think to just ask me out?”
He has the good sense to look mortified. He bites a corner of his lip and blows out a breath. “It didn’t cross my mind. I thought it would be much harder than simply asking. You didn’t want to give me the time of day Saturday night.” He cocks his head to one side. “I figured if I sweetened the deal a little, maybe you’d be more receptive to my advances.” Hands in his pockets, he approaches quietly, stealthily. I shuffle his papers on my desk, feeling ill. Ill that I have to send his accounts away and sick because I can’t sleep with him. Not after this show of stupidity. Even my libido has IQ standards.
“You know what they say about assuming, I assume? It makes an ass out of you and me. Plus, it would be a conflict of interest if I handled both your money and your…” I trail off, and let him assume whatever he wants. He’s good with that.
Now he looks really pissed off. Dragging a hand through his longish brown hair, he continues his head shaking.
“I’m sure you have plenty of options, especially given your financial situation. You don’t want to date me,” I tell him, hoping to make him feel better about my rejection. Because I’m insane and I honestly feel bad because he thought this would work. Women don’t tell him no. “I’m all messed up. Ex-fiancé drama and all. Add in your womanizing and it’s a recipe for disaster,” I admit. I’m honest even though he doesn’t deserve my honesty, and even though my crazy heartbeat and the throbbing between my legs tell a different story.
“I’m sorry if I offended you. You’re good. I did my research. I want you on my accounts. No date. I never should have tried that tactic,” he says, looking remorseful. He doesn’t even meet my eyes. He looks down at the floor as he speaks.
Morganna’s words bounce around in my head. Bad news, Winnie. Bad news. I can’t even help it. I’m still inclined to throw myself at him. Thank God my brain speaks before my body does.
“My associate, Garrett, will be happy to manage your accounts,” I say. Garrett will be more than pleased to have this pushed his way. I’ll have to make up some lie about not being able to comfortably deal with the amount, because I sure as shit can’t tell him the real reason I don’t want to deal with the money or T.H. I smile. “He’s good. Just as good as me, I assure you.”
Dimples flash at me. They look less mouthwatering and a little more menacing. Eyes narrowed he asks, “That’s two no’s then?”
“Yes,” I tell him as I extend his paperwork out to him. “I have an afternoon appointment. I appreciate all of your interest. Garrett’s office is out my door, first door on the left.” I take one more look at the assets and liabilities on the page before he takes it from my hand and strides out of the door like a freaking Viking called to war.
I should have just accepted the date, because now I feel like all I managed to do is poke a grizzly with a long stick. I won’t be able to find that long of a stick next time. I don’t want Steve. I don’t want anyone that will make me think of Maverick. I need to get him out of my system…and fast.
*****
Maverick
She sent me away like a diseased leper. Not only that, but she did it easily. She didn’t even consider fucking me, even when she saw the money. No dollar signs flashed in her eyes like a normal woman. No. She said “No.” And she even tried to make me feel better about her rejection, doling out some story about how messed up she is.
I passed desperate asshole status a long time ago. Hanging out in this level of embarrassment is new. I had no intention of going to visit Garth’s office. I’m so fucking pissed off and frustrated. To top it off, my dick is hard. It didn’t get the rejection memo yet. The tight skirt, the flawless skin in daylight, the blue eyes that show every emotion she has. If I saw another guy I’d probably end up doing something stupid, breaking something or saying something really incriminating.
It took more self control than I knew I possessed to walk out of that woman’s office without saying anything else, or just bending her over the desk and fucking her senseless. This pit in my stomach would be gone if that had happened. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, though. The challenge to bag her while she screams my name is now the only thing that consumes my thoughts.
A new layer to the game surfaces—I want her to care about me. I want her to give a shit. I want the very thought of my absence to cause her physical pain.
“You know what?” I whisper to myself as I pass Garth’s office. “What the fuck. Why not?”
I turn around and grip the doorknob to his office and blast inside. I cock my head to the side at Garth’s startled appearance. He holds his desk phone to his ear.
“Uhh,” he says into the receiver, “he just got here.” He pauses again as he listens to the female voice on the other end, a voice that can only be Windsor’s. Garth holds up a finger in the air. Seriously? This little prick is telling me to wait? “Sure, Win. Drinks sound good. Tonight?”
Windsor shoots me down and asks this asshole out? Not even minutes after I leave. Win? He uses a nickname, too and it sounds intimate and familiar. I want to crack his skull against a wall. I want to use her nickname.
Reel it in, Mav. Why do I care what he calls her? I don’t give a shit. Garth is fucking with my game. That’s why it pisses me off. That’s it. Nothing else.
“Captain’s at 8 o’clock,” he whispers, probably trying to be discreet because I’m staring him down. He hangs up the phone and smiles a goofy fucking smile. Because Windsor asked him out. I’d have that smile if she said yes to me. Now, I get to see what it looks like first hand.
“Ms. Forbes said you’d be coming over,” he says.
Now she’s Ms. Forbes. Fucking convenient. My hands are shaking at my sides. I can’t control them. When I hear the papers I still carry rustle, I know I have to get the fuck out of here before I explode. I want a drink.
No you don’t.
I need to fuck something. I know getting laid won’t even appease me. The game is now fucking with my head and my damn dick. I realize I haven’t said anything to this pansy prick.
“I already got everything I need,” I say, confusing him. I turn around and blaze out of the stifling office building as quickly as I can. I slink a leg over to mount my motorcycle, the only thing I’ll get between my thighs today, and shake my head. This whole afternoon is shot to shit. The rumble of the engine does little to soothe me, so I push the accelerator faster, urging it to take me where I need to go.
Captain’s at 8 o’clock.