Taking the Score (12 page)

“If you think you took advantage—”

“I don’t think that. You knew what you wanted, and you went for it. You came at me like a cat in heat.”

She thumped him gently. “Hey, you were pretty grabby yourself.”

“I was.” He smiled, a proud grin. It faded as he watched her mental U-turn manifest on her face. “Another terrible idea?”

“Why do the terrible ones always feel so good?”

“A question for the ages.”

“My life right now is so complicated that living—and sleeping—with my boss is a catastrophe in the making. We’re not going to get much work done if all we can think about is whether the photocopier is the perfect height for doggy style.”

“I think it’s probably too tall and there are too many buttons that go
beep
.” He grinned. “But I’m assuming you’ve already measured and know that, Ms. Strickland.”

Snugging her body against his, she stifled her laugh. Really, she should be creating a separation between them, yet this closeness she felt with him was undeniable. Strangely right. Postcoital Brody Kane was one very cool dude.

He rubbed calming circles over her back, not questioning, giving her mental space even though she was sweat-bonded to his chest. That urge to cry re-bubbled and she bit down on her lip to fight it off.

“It’s okay, Emma. I won’t push. You’ll just have to be satisfied with knowing what I’m thinking about in the shower, the kitchen, the library, the wine cellar…”

She laugh-snorted.

“Or whenever you walk by my office door.”

She lifted her head from the safety of his warm shoulder. “I was right about you.”

“Yeah?” He stared into her eyes, all dreamy and romantic.

Snap out of it, Ems.

“You’re an absolute sadist.”

Chapter Twelve

“This is exactly what I meant by mooching, Brody.”

Emma stared at the array of pretty skirts and blouses and camisoles, not to mention the inordinate supply of skimpy lingerie and beautiful heels. Brody sat in one of the white leather armchairs, in weathered Levi’s and a button-down oxford, sporting a laptop on his knee and an air of unbothered-by-it-all. Kevin lay curled up at his feet, playing adoring lapdog instead of his usual ball of hiss.

Her cat was getting comfortable. She’d have to do something about that.

Realizing that she had a problem—no clothes but the crumpled suit she’d been wearing when summoned to the penthouse yesterday morning—she’d resolved to go out to her usual thrift store this morning armed with her last twenty bucks. As much as she’d love to work in Brody’s butter-soft tees, it was not an option. That’s when her boss presented another option, the kind that only richer-than-Trump people could indulge.

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Your clothes were destroyed, and as much as I’d love to have you waltzing around the office naked, there’s probably some pesky Human Resources regulation against it. Just pick a few outfits to tide you over for the week.”

She let her gaze skitter back to the clothes and the two—because God forbid one should be enough—personal shoppers Brody had summoned to replace her wardrobe. They gave encouraging, bleached-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives smiles.

Everything was her correct size. “How did you know they would fit?” she asked them, fingering the label of a beautiful green suede skirt.

Before Colgate and Crest could answer, Brody chimed in. “I took a look at the shredded remains and asked for two sizes down. You have terrible taste in clothes, and you dress like my grandmother. I should have given you a clothing budget months ago so you could present a more professional face to our clients.”

“I am professional.” She stroked a silk bra,
unprofessionally
, enjoying the sensuous slide of it against her skin and trying not to let his casual words about her frumpy clothing bother her. “I just don’t dress like the rest of the office staff looking to grab the attention of Texas’s gift to Chicago.”

“Is that what they call me?”

“That’s what they call all of you. Like you have no idea how much heat you’re packing.”

He smirked at that.

Determined to wipe it off, she added, “Of course all the girls think you’re gay.”

Smirk, out.
The male representative of the personal shopping pair regarded Brody with renewed interest.

“Why would they think that?”

“You don’t date. I manage your schedule and not once have you asked me to book a restaurant, make an excuse, or send apology flowers. No breathy admirers have ever called because they can’t get a hold of you on your cell.”

“So I keep my personal life personal. And I think we’ve dispelled the gay notion, don’t you?” He gave her a look of such heat it’s a wonder she didn’t melt into a gooey puddle of hormones on the spot.

She coughed, eager to recover her balance and send him off his. “So why don’t you date?”

“Is that what’s missing from our working relationship? Your need to schedule my dates as well as all other aspects of my life?”

Something lurched in Emma’s chest. She already hated these imaginary future dates she so wanted to schedule.

“Just being nosy.”

He arrowed a dark look her way. “I was engaged once, but it didn’t work out.”

“Had a hard time competing with your
Doctor Who
figure collection?”

He held her gaze, steel and soft at once. “We weren’t very compatible.”

Heat to rival a furnace blasted through her, his implication obvious.
Sexually compatible
. So the ex didn’t enjoy bossy, hair-pulling, dirty-talkin’ Brody between the sheets.

She returned her attention to the gorgeous things, unable to get the tune of
Pretty Woman
out of her head. They’d never had money for clothes; as a child, she always wore Salvation Army hand-me-downs. The three suits she owned prior to Kevin’s psychotic break—brown, black, and gray—she’d picked up at the White Elephant Charity shop. In becoming respectable, she didn’t want to attract attention; she just wanted to do her job.

But perhaps there was no harm in looking good while she did it.

“The navy pin-striped suit is nice,” she said tentatively. “Very professional.”

“Go try it on,” Brody said, not even looking up from his laptop.

Two minutes later, she came out, dressed head to toe in brand-new threads. Underwear, silk shell, gorgeous Michael Kors suit (no price tag, she’d noted) and nude heels that Katerina might scratch Emma’s eyes out for.

“Well, it fits,” she mumbled, suddenly shy.

Brody raised his gaze, and it felt like he drank her in. “It certainly does. Like it?” His voice sounded husky as all hell.

“Yes,” she whispered.

It took a couple of loaded beats to drag his gaze away from her, back to the clothing and the mute personal shoppers who avidly watched the electric exchange. “One each of everything. Charge it to my account.”

“Brody, you can’t do that.”

“Can and did.” He sighed. “You need lounging-around-in clothes as well as stuff for work. Your
day
job.”

Anger colored his voice, as if he hated to be reminded of what she’d done at the club. What she would have to go back to in five days if she didn’t come up with a plan.

“But I don’t need all these clothes.”

“I wish that were true. But Emma, you wearing all these clothes is about the only thing keeping me from biting that sweet little ass of yours. The more fucking layers, the better.”

…

The morning after he and Emma had sealed their no-more-shenanigans agreement, Brody leaned against the counter in his kitchen, the Gruenfeld report in one hand, his phone in the other as it vibrated annoyingly.

Another text from his sister. Apparently not content to be a regular pain in his ass, she had graduated to royal while she indulged her latest talent as pimp. Every recent text came with either a set of measurements, a pic of one of her wedding party, or a list of likes and dislikes. Today’s installment read:
Gabby likes Coldplay (don’t hold it against her). Hates fresh flowers (I know, weird). And is totally up for it since some rodeo dick told her she didn’t get his spurs twirlin’. Fucking Texan men!

His sister had an acute case of wedding brain and it was making her loco. Brody, too.

The idea of banging any one of his sister’s friends turned his stomach. Of course, it wouldn’t be happening, because not even his pain-in-the-ass sister could force him to have sex with anyone. All of them were nice enough girls, but repellent when his mind was jam-packed with thoughts of the woman currently singing—badly—in the shower.

Brody had spent four and a half minutes outside the guest bathroom door, listening to Emma murder “A Total Eclipse of the Heart,” not that the song needed help to be the worst piece of dreck ever composed. He’d only left because the cat had stopped by to stare at him accusingly. But before all that, before the bad singing and the nosy cat and the meddling texts from his sister, there had been something even more disturbing.

Socks.

This morning, he’d strolled into his walk-in closet and found gray socks with a blue TARDIS, the Doctor’s time machine, on each one. He knew that ingrate of a cat wouldn’t have sprung for a gift even if he had the opposable thumbs and funds necessary to go online shopping, so that left Emma.

She didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of, yet here she was spending money on something so frivolous. It made no sense. But then, the woman was an enigma.

Had Brody really thought that returning to the status quo would be possible? He wanted order back. His perfect, and perfectly boring, life as it was run by Ms. Strickland. A return to the
Ms.-Mr.
, the buzzing over his skin when she was near and not being able to touch her, the unsatisfactory orgasms with her as the focus.

For the last six months, this near-reclusiveness in the haven of his tower on the sixtieth floor had been his normal. His misery had been his safety net. But a key had been turned in that club, and something unlocked yesterday morning on the floor of his bedroom. Lines—horizontal, vertical, and every which way—had been crossed. He understood her need to preserve the boundaries. Well, she shouldn’t have bought him fucking socks.

He set his mind to making coffee in the cafetiere; sometimes the one-button push of the Keurig wasn’t challenging enough and he needed the motions of
doing
. Boiling the water, measuring out the grounds, the depression of the plunger.

Plunging. Damn, even coffee was making him horny.

Glancing down, he found Kevin glowering, looking like he’d murdered Brody three times in his fantasy life before breakfast. Brody did not enjoy cats. He suspected he was the only person in the world who did not appreciate cat videos. After a ten-second face-off, he reached for a tin of tender turkey Tuscany with long grain rice and garden greens in a savory sauce, and got busy serving the new ruler. As he set the bowl down, Kevin hissed at him.

“You and I are going to have to get along, you little fucker. I’m giving you a roof over your head, treats to eat.”

Cat eye roll.

“Fine, have it your way. I don’t need your approval.” Brody stood and moved a few feet away so the cat wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. Because it was all about catering to
his
needs. Jesus.

A soft giggle spiked all the hairs on his neck. “That’s what we all say, but when push comes to shove, we’re merely minions.”

Emma flounced into the kitchen, wearing Brody’s frayed Texas A&M tee, though pj’s had been included in that shopping spree yesterday. Flannel ones that covered every inch of her kissable skin from his greedy gaze. She really should be wearing the things he bought her, not flitting about the kitchen looking so cute he could take a bite out of her. And for Kevin’s sake, no bra, either.

The penthouse had six bedrooms. Maybe he should have installed a guest kitchen.

“May I?” She gestured to the cupboard behind him.

He stepped out of the way and admired as she stood on tiptoe to grab a coffee pack. Hazelnut. He must make sure to get more of those in. The motion hitched up the tee to reveal the backs of smooth, toned thighs his fingers itched to dig dents into. He longed to bruise her with his mark.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, as though the fact of her gorgeous legs on display was not in any way connected to the gargoyle impression he knew was welded to his face. Already grumpy because his sister was pissing him off, a cat was running the show, and there was a gorgeous out-of-bounds, socks-buying woman in his kitchen, Emma’s cheer was not helping.

“You’re an even worse singer than you are a stripper.”

“I know.” Grinning, she glanced back toward the way she had come. “Wouldn’t have thought the sound could carry all the way to the kitchen.”

“I was walking by when it assaulted my ears. Kevin didn’t like it, either.” Kevin had actually sat there listening like it was the most soothing lullaby. Idiot.

Her good humor remained undiminished in the face of his surliness. “My sister and I used to sing that song constantly when we were kids. It’s so ridiculously OTT. We’d even act it out.” She pivoted on her toes and sang, “
Turn around
,” with both her hands in a dramatic framing of her face.

He jumped on that crumb of information. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah, Daisy. She lives in Pennsylvania where we grew up.” Clouds scudded across her face before brightening too quickly to be genuine. “And speaking of sisters, are you looking forward to yours coming into town tomorrow?”

“Nope.”

She frowned. “She always seems so nice on the phone.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, she sounds like she has personality.”

Diplomatically put. Brother and sister couldn’t be more different. Liv had inherited their father’s outsize presence and in-your-face attitude. She loved and hated Senator Broderick Kane in equal measure, constantly seeking his approval and spitting at the mention of his name when he refused to dispense it.

Brody was more like their mother, Suzanne Boudreau Kane, a Houston society beauty who married down. Two kids and five years later, she realized Broderick Kane II was never going to change. She could only stand so many of his cast-off mistresses showing up with mascara-streaked cheeks and blubbering lips, telling her he’d promised to leave his wife and make them the next Mrs. K. So Suzanne did all those mistresses a favor and divorced him—reaming him of millions in the process.

Even with this shitty precedent for relationships, Brody had still allowed himself to get tangled in Kerry’s web of lies. He blinked back to the present to find Emma watching him, eyes narrowed to curious slits.

“My sister’s a menace and this whole weekend is a nightmare in the making.”

“It can’t be that bad. I’m sure it’ll be fun to see her and her friends.” She pressed the button on the Keurig. He found himself mesmerized by her slender fingers and imagined them locking onto his ass. Making her own mark. “So, do you know her bridesmaids well?”

His ears perked up at the note of feminine interest he heard in her question. Time to test the waters.
Outbid, outflank, or outsmart.

“I’m probably going to have to sleep with one of them.”

“
What?
” Her brow knit furiously. He enjoyed that.

Casual as all fuck, he showed her his sister’s latest text message.

“What does that mean? Is she trying to”—major levels of frowning now—“set you up with a bridesmaid?”

“She thinks I’m not getting laid enough.” He leaned in. “She’s right.”

Emma remained still, just seemed to absorb his proximity with a sexy shiver.

“Why is she trying to get you laid?” Her voice sounded ever so slightly high-pitched. She tore at a sweetener packet rather violently and added it to her coffee. “Is there something wrong with you?”