L.A. Caveman (5 page)

Jake whipped around. "Yes you will,"
he snapped, "because I've had enough of this putting on a circus."
He stalked toward her, then sideways as he brushed his hair off his
face. His movements radiated suppressed energy. There it was, his
dangerous side revealed. For some reason she wasn't surprised or
afraid; she'd sensed his animal side and seen too much of his
ability to control his temper to be fearful, though the tension she
sensed made her almost supernaturally alert. And increasingly
uncomfortable.

The scent of his cologne wafted over
her again, and she couldn't help noticing the commanding presence
in the way his stride took possession of the room. It was such a
masculine body to be so graceful. The ridiculous thought occurred
to her that if he were, indeed, in a circus, then he would be the
lion tamer. The cats couldn't help but acknowledge him as their
master. It was in the way he stalked.

One arm shot out to point at the clear
glass walls, and Stanna blinked.

"Glass is acceptable for design, but
it doesn't offer much in the way of privacy. I prefer privacy when
I discipline an employee."

Noticing the way she bristled, he
smiled tightly. "Also, I’d better take this opportunity to tell you
that when I ask for something at work, I expect it to happen, right
away, otherwise it's known as insubordination, and I can and will
write you up for that." He turned around again and pushed the glass
door without looking back. "Enough write ups," she heard him say in
a frustrated sotto-voice, "and maybe a lawyer will let me tear up
that contract."

Stanna sat for a moment, alone and
shaken. Her mind cast about for some sort of plan. Get a lawyer
herself? Get out her contract and rip it the way she'd ripped the
handout? Give up on the magazine business and try her hand at
something more her speed, say, knitting quilts?

No.

The negation came from somewhere deep
within her. No lawyers. Whatever had begun, here, with Jake coming
and altering her profession and trying to kill her goals, it wasn't
finished playing out yet. A lawyer would change the game, making
her lose even if she won.

She wouldn't run, she wouldn't cry for
help. Strangely enough, she heard her stepfather's sincere but
rough Texan-tinged advisory:
Play the cards you’ve been
dealt.
For once, the domineering voice actually seemed to guide
her decision rather than give her something to rebel
against.

Besides, she was just plain curious
how the situation could get any worse. Surely anything she
attempted could only improve the situation?

He seemed to really hate her. It
bothered her that she cared. Was it possible to hate someone you
met only the day before? She believed she hated him too. He was
evil, he was ignorant, he was the devil.

She didn't really think he was the
devil though. Stanna rose, resolved to do what she could to repair
any damage done. Maybe she’d spoken and acted a trifle hastily.
Maybe more than a trifle. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Her face burned as delayed
embarrassment about the scene she made struck her. She shouldn't
have gone public with their little feud. It hadn’t helped anybody.
Especially her. But as it occasionally did, her temper had gotten
the better of her.

She would have to call on all her
reserves of diplomacy, she thought as she swept up the torn paper.
She deposited the two pieces in a narrow, mesh-steel trash
receptacle tucked discreetly next to the glass doors on her way
out. She’d be humble.

It was too quiet in the
industrial-brown carpeted hallway. As if the troops had all
retreated to their solitary posts to sift through the morning's
events. Or cowered in their foxholes. No hum of gossip or even
radios playing.

It made her uneasy.

She walked with her head high toward
his lair. Worry dogged her steps, sending spikes of anxiety through
her. She admitted to herself, for the first time, she might
actually be outgunned.

In his office, Jake tossed his
briefcase on his chair instead of his desk. Lumped high with
half-unpacked boxes and crowded with somewhat organized piles of
paper and film to be sorted, the desk seemed to forbid any more
items being placed upon it.

That damn contract. She was going to
be much more trouble than he’d realized. He seriously contemplated
firing her despite the contract. What a sweet thought.
Unfortunately, an impossible one. Jake stroked his temples wearily
and leaned against his desk.

He didn't need any legal expenses now,
not when he had everything staked on the magazine's
success.

Which meant he was stuck with the
little pain in the ass. He pressed the flat of his palm against
some paper covering the solid wood of his desk, then hit it. It
made a satisfying
thwap
. She had spirit, which under other
circumstances he'd admire. She had some talent, too, he reluctantly
admitted. He'd read some of her old columns. Her writing snapped
and crackled even with the blame-the-men-for-everything feminist
subject matter.

But.

She was a hellion in front of his
other employees and stubborn about applying his editorial
direction. It wouldn't do. He couldn't afford insubordination right
now, any more than he could afford to buy off her contract.
Everything depended on the magazine running smoothly and
efficiently, responsive to his direction. He couldn’t allow another
tantrum like the one she’d thrown in the conference
room.

As if in answer to his unspoken
ultimatum, Stanna knocked hesitatingly on his door while pushing it
further open. Her demeanor seemed more subdued than before, he
noticed. She looked at the floor as she walked quietly towards his
desk. Stopping still a good five feet from him, she slowly glanced
up at his face. He saw the tension etched in hers. Her pretty
gray-blue eyes no longer spit fire. She twitched but stood her
ground when he pushed himself away from his desk and strode past
her to shut his office door behind her.

Brushing close enough by her to touch
the sleeve of her simple white T-shirt, he took control of the
meeting by speaking quietly toward her shell-pink ear, "I believe
an apology is in order." He continued, then turned to lean again
against the edge of his crowded desk. He folded his arms. "Your
dissatisfaction about your new role at this magazine shouldn't have
been expressed publicly. Nor in such a manner."

Stanna started to respond.

"I'm not finished!" Jake slashed the
air with his palm. His voice vibrated with suppressed anger and
determination. "You undermined my authority in front of my new
employees at our first meeting. You insulted me personally, and you
effectively brought an end to a meeting that should have lasted
until everyone had a chance to respond with their own
questions."

He could see her lips twist slightly.
Distaste for what she was hearing? Too bad. But perhaps she was
about to cry. Damn it, he hated it when women cried. He hoped she
wouldn’t cry.

He softened his voice. "Stanna, I
can't have you disrupting the magazine like that. Whether you agree
with my methods or not, I have to ask you to cooperate."

"Cooperate with my own
destruction?"

Nope, she wasn't near tears, Jake
realized with relief. He began to speak but Stanna held her hand
palm out and fingers spread in a stopping gesture.

She visibly restrained her ire. "Okay,
I shouldn't have let my temper get the better of me. Sorry. All
right? But when I saw what you did to me, I flipped out." She
searched his eyes. "You don't understand," she said, watching his
expression. In a despairing undertone, she added, "I just wish you
could understand."

Jake thought he'd never seen a more
angelic entreaty. Her mesmerizing blue-gray eyes were clear and
expressive. Her brows arched delicately like angel's wings. Her
white shirt and simple haircut only added to the effect of
innocence. It was a compelling picture, and he felt himself
responding to it naturally with a surge of
protectiveness.

He tried to crush the impulse. She
might morph into Stanna Spitfire any moment, so her angelic act
didn't fool him one bit, he told himself.

"I have to think of my magazine," he
explained, his voice sounding too gentle to his own ears. As a
result, his next sentence dripped with menace: "You have a job to
do. Go do it."

"What if I don't choose to do it that
exact way?"

Jake suppressed a chuckle at her
wheedling retort. What was it about her that messed with his moods
until he wanted to slam his fist through a wall one moment, and
felt tickled with humor the next? He shook his head,
baffled.

Stanna raised her chin stubbornly.
"You really don't understand. If it weren't for you, I'd be next in
line for this office, this desk..." Her glance took in the office,
then the mountainous pile on the desk. She frowned at it. "Ian told
me, often, that I was a shoo-in for editor. Then you came along and
fired him. And not just that," her voice got faster, heated with
the ire she obviously tried to control, "you also insult me, demote
me, and channel my creative voice into your women-bashing new
column."

Jake felt a twinge of guilt for
enjoying the way her chest was heaving. He compensated by
modulating his tone for easy listening. "Stanna." Then what she
said sunk in. "You were thinking that
you'd
be editor?" In
retrospect, he probably shouldn't have sounded so
surprised.

And he really shouldn’t have
laughed.

Stanna's expression registered the
additional insult, and sure enough, she morphed before his very
eyes. She became almost a she-wolf, teeth bared in a grimace and
her whirlwind of sudden movement toward him triggering his own
defensive measures: Before even a second had ticked by, they were
frozen in a tableau of her firm body halted in mid-strike by his
imprisoning grasp of her wrist. Somewhere in the back of his mind
he noticed the morning sunbeam through his large office window
illuminating a rectangle of swirling dust over her left shoulder.
The front of his mind, along with the rest of him, was occupied
with the woman whose chest pressed against his.

For a second she remained completely
still, as if stunned into immobility. Then he felt the twisting of
her wrist as she tried to extricate. He knew she could feel the
crushing grip he exerted communicating she wouldn't get away until
he got some answers.

Answers to questions like, how did
those angry, pale pink lips taste? The shape of them -- delicately
bowed, just wide enough and expressive as hell -- tempted him to an
extreme he shouldn’t be contemplating.

When he didn’t let her go, she
subsided. To his amazement, she even apologized. “I’m sorry, I
don’t know what came over me. That was… incredibly inappropriate. I
actually tried to hit you.” She laughed, and he heard the defeat in
it. “You should be able to fire me for that.”

Such lovely lips. “I can take
reparation another way. If you’re willing.”

“
If you mean… do you mean?
What exactly do you mean? I think maybe I am willing.” She stared
up at him, breathing fast. Her lips curved into a bemused
smile.

With her body trembling against his,
he didn't hesitate. Jerking her body tighter against him and
inclining his head, he caught a strange expression in her eyes just
as he devoured her lips. His free hand rose to grasp a thick
handful of the silky hair at the back of her head, sealing the
kiss.

His mouth was eating her alive, Stanna
thought desperately. And what was worse, she was enjoying it! His
lips and teeth teased, but his tongue plundered her mouth in direct
ratio to the shock waves that vibrated to the pit of her stomach.
The intense pleasure he inflicted turned her legs to spaghetti
noodles, and she appreciated his strong grip holding her up. Escape
was a distraction she immediately forgot.

Plastered against his chest, she
reveled in its broad, hard expanse. He must have sensed she wasn't
planning on going anywhere just yet because he released her wrist
to gain embrace-leverage and shock her anew with the amazing
sensation of the full length of his superb body fitted to all of
hers.

But he didn't give her mouth any rest.
Hot, smooth, and intoxicating, his tongue suddenly thrust in a
rhythm that her whole body resonated to. In and in and in... she'd
never been kissed like this before. Her few boyfriends were as
puppy beagles next to this completely dominating, extremely
competent man who held her. Impossible to forget this thoroughly
alpha male with his muscled body plastering her to him. Responding
shamelessly, she arched against him, moaning deep in her
throat.

She nearly purred in satisfaction when
she heard him groan, a low rumble, perhaps in response to her
sound. One of his hands pressed the back of her shirt and the flesh
beneath, the other clutched thick handfuls of her hair, as if he
couldn't get her close enough. Her response whipped through her,
another shockwave of pleasure. What was happening? Her fuzzed mind
tried to make sense of it, but his mouth kept driving all thought
away. She leaned into him further, hungry for more.

Their hips bumped the desk, and a
small glossy brown block tumbled from its precarious perch atop the
cardboard boxes. It struck a small cleared patch of shining
mahogany desktop with a thud that effectively drew both their
attention. With arms still intertwined, they both stared at the
wooden rectangle and the name engraved on the brass
front: