Her Favorite Rival (16 page)

She’d been waiting for this—wanting it—for a long time. Even though she’d known it was stupid and wrong and inadvisable for so many reasons.

He was already hard, his arousal a hot pressure against her belly. The ache between her thighs demanded that she rub against him, that she slide a hand around his waist and grip his backside and haul him closer still.

He muttered something urgent against her mouth, then his hands were on her breasts, cupping and squeezing them through the thin cotton of her shirt. She gave a small, inarticulate moan when his thumb grazed her nipple, and when he caught it between thumb and forefinger and squeezed she almost dissolved on the spot.

A tidal wave of need threatened to swamp her. She wanted him inside her, slamming into her. She wanted heat and a hard male body bearing down on her. She wanted sweat and sex smells and mouths and tongues and fingers and hands.

She felt dizzy with it, intoxicated. Overwhelmed.

Panicking, she broke their kiss, her hands flat on his chest as she pushed him away.

She needed space. She needed air. She needed to
think
.

He took a step backward and the world snapped into sharp, harsh focus.

She was pressed against the side of her car in the parking lot of a seedy bar situated mere meters from her place of employment.

And she was with
Zach.

For a long moment they stared at each other, breathing heavily. Despite the power of her wake-up call, a treacherous, reckless part of her still urged her to fist her hands in his shirt and jerk him against her so he could finish what he’d started.

He was that good.
They
were that good together.

She clenched her hands, clinging to self control.

“Well. I guess that answers a few questions.”

It was so not what she was expecting that a gust of laughter escaped her. He smiled, and she didn’t feel quite so appalled by what had almost happened.

“That was really dumb,” she said.

“Yes.”

“We work together. There’s too much at stake. Especially at the moment.”

“I know.”

Neither of them moved. Her knuckles ached.

“I’m going to go now,” she said.

“Okay.”

He still didn’t move, which meant it was up to her. She slid along her car until there was space between them, scared of what might happen if she walked too close to him. Zach was still standing where she’d left him, watching her, and she had to concentrate on the simple act of sitting behind the wheel and guiding the key into the ignition. Finally the engine fired and she wound down the passenger window and tried to think of something to say that didn’t include the words
Come home with me.
She couldn’t, so she offered him a wave before taking off.

The fog of lust began to clear as she hit the freeway. What had seemed highly desirable a bare handful of minutes ago suddenly looked exactly like what it was—the sort of rash, ill-considered misstep that could seriously damage her career.

Thank God common sense had made a belated appearance. Thank. God. Otherwise she had no doubt she’d have her knees around her ears right now as Zach took what she’d so eagerly, willingly offered.

Cold relief washed over her as she turned onto her street. She could all too readily imagine the horror of having to look Zach in the eye tomorrow morning after doing him in the backseat of her Honda.

She’d rather chew glass. As for sitting through hours-long meetings with him on the other side of the table... No. It was too awful to even contemplate.

They’d dodged a bullet tonight. They’d taken the step toward safety and sanity in the nick of time.

It had been close, though. Too close. The taste of him... The strength of his beautiful body... The urgent caress of his hands on her breasts...

Yeah.

It had been pretty damned amazing, and it had taken serious willpower to push him away. Even now she felt thwarted, but that wasn’t an insurmountable problem. After all, she was a resourceful, imaginative, dexterous single woman, and there were other ways to scratch the itch Zach had created. Safe, private, non-career-threatening ways that wouldn’t require her doing the Walk of Shame the next morning.

Of course, there was always ice cream. Fortunately she had a tub of honey macadamia in the freezer.

Smiling grimly, she took the elevator upstairs and served herself a big bowl of frozen consolation.

CHAPTER NINE

A
UDREY
HAD
BEEN
right—kissing her had been a mistake. Not for the reasons she’d stated, though. Kissing her had been a mistake because he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her. About the needy, wordless sounds she’d made when he’d stroked her tongue with his. About the way she’d rubbed herself against him. About how good she smelled. About...

Swearing, Zach rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head, the better to stare at the ceiling in his bedroom. He resolutely ignored the hard-on tenting the sheet. He was not going to lie here in the dark and fantasize about Audrey while he took care of business like a sweaty teenager. Not tonight, anyway. It smacked way too much of defeat and desperation—and he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit defeat where she was concerned.

A dangerous admission, given their mutual circumstance. Mere hours ago, six of their colleagues had been shown the door. There would be more sackings, too, as sure as night followed day. Having an affair with a coworker was a surefire way to garner exactly the wrong sort of attention from the executive team. Especially if that affair turned sour—and what were the odds of that happening?

He mentally reviewed the three office romances he’d witnessed firsthand. None of them had ended well—one in divorce, one in a sexual-harassment charge, the third with tears and public humiliation and rejection. People did weird stuff when their hormones and emotions were involved. Was it any wonder that things went pear-shaped when all of that high drama was wedded to the can’t-get-away-from-each-other pressure-cooker of an office environment?

So it would be self-destructive in the extreme to pursue this...
heat
between him and Audrey. An act of gross folly. He should stop thinking about her, stop dwelling on those few minutes when she’d been his. He should definitely quit staring at the ceiling and thinking about the warm, welcome weight of her breast in his hand and think about work instead.

No sooner had he started reviewing tomorrow’s schedule than a sense memory hijacked his brain: the small hitch in Audrey’s breathing when he’d closed the distance between them.

She’d felt so damned good. Too good.

That was the problem. He’d been thinking about her for so long, a few minutes with her in his arms was never going to be enough. It might be stupid, but he wanted more.

His hard-on throbbed in agreement.

“Bloody hell.” He rolled out of bed and walked to the bathroom.

One flick and the cold water was running in the shower. He stared at the flowing water for a long beat, knowing it would be a painful solution to his problem. Then he stepped beneath the icy stream.

Sixty seconds later, he flicked the water off and toweled himself dry, his “issue” momentarily resolved.

Long-term, though...

He needed to get over her. That was the only sensible, smart solution. He needed to exorcise her from his fantasies and move on.

He returned to bed and closed his eyes resolutely.

* * *

T
HE
FOLLOWING
MORNING
, he dragged himself out of bed after a restless night and was at his desk by seven. Audrey, however, was not.

Unusual for her. But maybe she had a meeting first thing.

Fifteen minutes later, a light flicked on on the other side of the office.

Audrey.

His heart rate kicked up as he contemplated going to speak to her.

Probably a bad idea, given that her mere presence in the building was enough to make him hard. He gave his crotch a rueful glance.

Thanks for helping me out, buddy.

It was a grim day, the empty desks in the department serving as a powerful reminder of yesterday’s carnage. At midday the rumor went around that the first of the marketing department staff had been let go. By the end of the day, there were eight empty desks there, too. It certainly helped put unrequited lust into perspective.

He left work with a heavy briefcase, but instead of heading straight home he traveled through the city and into Footscray. He had a standing arrangement to catch up with his mother once a month, and tonight was the night. She probably wouldn’t register the loss if he failed to turn up, but something in him insisted that he keep the date. Duty, perhaps, or love. Or maybe it was simply guilt.

He stopped at the local shopping center for takeaway Indian, ordering enough for two even though his mother wouldn’t touch food if she was high. She was invariably skin and bones, her addiction ensuring that eating food for sustenance ran a poor second to her body’s demand for drugs. If he could get some food into her, he’d count the evening a success.

A familiar heavy sensation settled over him as he parked his car in the driveway and walked to the front door. Unlike several of the other houses in the street, the lawns were neatly mown, the rudimentary garden trim and neat. He paid a garden maintenance company to take care of the yard, as well as covering the rent and utilities and ensuring that a regular delivery of groceries appeared on his mother’s doorstep once a week.

He knew that some people would consider him an enabler, since anything he did to support his mother invariably meant he supported her addiction, but he’d made an uneasy peace with the arrangement. He’d tried cutting her out of his life, turning his back on her for several years when he was studying. He’d told himself he was free of her, and that she was free of him, too. No more guilt and broken promises and disappointment for either of them.

Great in theory. In practice, it had meant he was called to the E.R. at various Melbourne hospitals two, three, four times a year, late night calls that dragged him out of sleep with his heart thumping, sure that this time would be the last, that his mother’s wasted body had been fished out of a slum or a river or a gutter. At some point he had acknowledged to himself that he couldn’t live with the uncertainty and had set her up in the house next to Vera, an old family friend, and done what he could to keep his mother alive without giving her ready cash to feed her habit.

Not an ideal solution, but life was full of compromises.

He had a key, but he knocked, anyway. This was his mother’s house, her private space, and it had never been his home. After a short silence he heard the sound of someone moving inside the house, then the door opened.

“Zach.” His mother blinked sleepily, a beatific smile curving her mouth as she registered his presence. “Hey, baby. I forgot you were coming.”

Her face was flushed, her pupils shrunken to pinpricks, her words verging on slurred. Her clothes hung on her frame, her thin arms carefully covered with long sleeves to hide the bruises and track marks.

Same old, same old.

“Hey, Mum. I brought you dinner.”

She felt impossibly frail when he embraced her. She’d lost more weight since last month, a worrying sign because it usually meant she was using more.

“Thought I could smell something good.” She smiled and pushed her gray-streaked dark hair behind her ear. “You always bring me good things.”

She blinked a few times before performing a labored about-face and making her way slowly down the hallway, one hand on the wall for balance. For a heartbeat he remained on the doorstep watching her painful progress, fighting the urge to drop the bag of food and turn tail and run.

There was nothing but despair for him in this house, and he’d had enough to last a lifetime.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him before following his mother to the living room at the rear of the house. He caught her as she tidied the paraphernalia strewn across the coffee table—the length of stocking she was using as a tourniquet, the spoon she used for cooking her gear, the sterile swabs she used as filters, a box of sterile syringes.

“It’s okay, Mum.”

“I know you don’t like it.” Even though her high had left her far from coordinated, she worked doggedly until she’d transferred everything into a wicker basket, which she then took from the room.

He collected a couple of plates from the kitchen and was serving up the food when she returned.

“Butter chicken. My favorite,” she said as she sank onto the couch.

She talked a good talk, but he had no illusions that she’d eat anything while she was high. Before he left he’d cover her untouched meal and leave it in the fridge for her to find later.

“So, what’s been happening?” he asked as he picked up his own plate.

“Oh, not much. Some new people have moved in up the street. Single mum with a couple of kids. She’s been pretty friendly so far, but that will change.” His mum pulled a face.

“You don’t know that.”

“Zach, come on. The moment she finds out there’s a junkie on the street, the kids will be warned off and I’ll get the silent treatment. And someone will tell her, don’t you worry about that.” Her words came slowly and it was obvious she was struggling to stay focused. Any second now she’d fade out altogether—“nodding out,” in street speak. If her high ran to form, she’d fade in and out for the next hour or so.

Could be worse. She could be strung out.

Last time he’d visited she’d been suffering withdrawal symptoms, pacing agitatedly as she fretted over when her dealer would return her call. His two-hour-long visit had felt like a week.

“You’re not a monster, Mum.”

“I know that. You know that. But most of the world thinks I’m a waste of space. They might be right, too.” She huffed out a laugh before her eyes drifted shut.

Right.

Even though his appetite had completely deserted him, Zach ate his meal. He had a lot of work to get through once he got home, and he needed the energy.