Show and Tell Page 8

  She punched the Mustang’s accelerator and buzzed around a slow-moving minivan full of soccer moms and kids. She had to wonder when Connor would switch out Faith’s Lexus for a minivan. He was such a dad. Trinity’s heart ached a little bit thinking about the two of them. She’d dreamed about that with Harper, not the minivan or even the pregnancy itself, but the way Connor touched Faith, the expression on his face, an indescribable look of pure joy that actually brought a tear to Trinity’s eye.

  She would not get maudlin. She would not be demoralized. She wasn’t the mothering type like Faith anyway. Climbing out of the car and heading into the small courtyard, she flipped through her jumble of keys for the alarm remote, which she’d also had reprogrammed. The rhododendrons were about to bud, and soon after would be the camellias and azaleas. The flowering bushes in the courtyard were one of the reasons she’d picked the condo.

  “Trinity.”

  She shrieked and dropped everything, finally catching her breath to say, “What are you doing here, Harper?” She would have liked her voice to be more assertive, but she sounded like a scared little mouse.

  He was seated in one of the black wrought iron chairs at the little café table. “Honey, we need to talk.”

  “Don’t”—she sucked in a breath—“call me honey.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Harper was a golden child, fair hair styled in a short cut, blue eyes, and pale, barely there eyebrows. With the few extra inches he had over her height, she could always wear her best high heels with him.

  Now that was a recommendation for marrying a man. What had gone wrong with her over the last few months?

  “Can I at least come in so we can talk?” His eyes begged.

  “No.” Instead, she sat on the chair opposite him. “I’m getting a divorce.” She didn’t feel a single emotion. Honest. All right, she was trying not to feel anything, especially anger, which was such a wasted, useless emotion.

  He put a long-fingered hand on the table as if he were actually thinking about touching her. “Before you do that, I want to explain—”

  “There’s nothing to explain.”

  His Adam’s apple slid up and down. “I’m sorry. I know how that must have hurt you.”

  “She had breasts, Harper.” Trinity slapped her hand over her mouth in horror, then gathered herself. “Not that I cared.” Yet his harpy was everything she wasn’t. Just as Inga Rice was. Next to the two of them, Trinity felt downright androgynous.

  See, that was the problem. Harper showed up at the end of an Inga-infested day. Trinity wouldn’t have been so weak if it weren’t for that.

  “You’re so much more perfect than her.” He passed a hand over his hair without actually mussing it. “I don’t know what came over me. It was a momentary blip.”

  Except that he’d had time to bring the woman to their house, for God’s sake. That took more than a momentary blip. She itched to slap his face, but that would be undignified. Instead she went for his egotistical jugular. “I married you because I was trying to give myself what Faith had.”

  She felt a flush rush straight up her body to her face. Good Lord. That wasn’t true. She wasn’t jealous of her best friend. Yet some needy part of her wanted a man to look at her the way Connor gazed at Faith, as if no other woman existed. But no, no, she couldn’t have married Harper out of envy.

  Trinity jumped to her feet, and her heel slipped sideways, throwing her off balance. “You have to leave right now.”

  He stood with her, then went down on his knees, looking up. “Please. I made a mistake. A huge mistake, I know.”

  Oh God. This couldn’t be happening. She could barely manage a whisper. “I don’t care about your mistakes, Harper.”

  “I want to come home.”

  “This isn’t your home. It belongs to my father.” Please get up, just get up. She couldn’t stand him down on his knees, and she backed toward the front door. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him. She didn’t even want to find him pathetic. She didn’t want any emotions about Harper at all. “You have to go.”

  He held out a hand. “Will you at least think about it?”

  One question burned in her mind. Did Harper want her for herself? Or was it her father’s money he was going to miss? She could ask him. He’d swear it wasn’t the money, yet she’d never ever believe him again.

  She’d forever see him in the shower with his head between that woman’s legs.

  Maybe she needed to find a new condo. Except that she would not let Harper run her out of her home.

  “Have some dignity, Harper. Get up and get out.” Trinity was surprised at how strong and assertive she sounded. It was in direct opposition to how she felt.

  He was still on his knees when she locked the front door. Right now, she could think of only one way to feel better.

  She wanted Scott to tell her she was gorgeous and perfect for him. She needed it badly.

  “I’M in the bathtub sipping a glass of wine and eating chocolate. Dark chocolate. And it’s sooo good.”

  Scott pulled up a pant leg, crossed a foot over his knee, and leaned back in his leather office chair. It was seven o’clock on Monday. The office was empty, his last accountant having gone home half an hour ago. Which was lucky for him. He wanted to come with her this time, instead of merely listening.

  “Are you touching yourself?” He had to know what she was doing beneath the steaming water.

  “No. I told you, I’m eating chocolate,” she answered, her tone a hint sassy, as if she thought he’d lost his mind.

  “I want to hear you come.”

  She moaned, a sweet, delicious sound that wrapped around his cock and wound up inside his guts. “Chocolate,” she said with emphasis, “is orgasmic.” Then she punctuated with another long hum of pleasure.

  “You know you’re killing me with those sounds.”

  “Of course I do. I want you to be very hard.” She paused a beat. “Are you?”

  Oh, hell yeah. “Very.”

  She sighed, and he could see her slipping further into the water, bubbles trifling with her nipples. “Good. Now we’re going to play.” She splashed the water for emphasis.

  “I’m ready.” Before, he’d been the one to play her. This time, she wanted the lead, and he was happy to give it to her. He’d closed his office blinds, locked the door in case an unaccounted-for employee wandered by, and plugged in his hands-free receiver. “Tell me what to do.”

  She made a sound he identified as the clink of her wineglass on the porcelain tub. “Pretend we’re on a train in . . . France,” she mused. “Can you hear the clickety-clack on the tracks?”

  So she wanted a little role-play. “Yeah, I can hear it.” He switched position, leaned back, and crossed his ankles on top of his desk. “Do I know you?”

  “No. We’re strangers. I’m reading a book, sitting across from you. You’re looking over a folded newspaper, and I can’t help myself, I keep glancing up at you.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A skirt. And a low-cut shirt. Nothing tasteless.”

  “Of course not.” A bit of naughty and nice, perhaps, but he considered her incapable of being tasteless. “You’re sitting with your legs crossed.”

  He actually heard her smile as she said, “I can feel you looking at my legs. I wriggle my foot, and my pump slips off my heel. I lean forward and slide it back on, very slowly.”

  “And when you sit back, you glide your hand all the way up, your ankle, your calf, the side of your knee.” Damn, he could see her, smell her hot scent.

  “I never look at you beyond one or two flirty glances.”

  He’d kill for one of her flirty glances. “You look just enough to know that I’m checking you out and loving what I see.”

  “Then I uncross my legs, slowly cross them the other way.”

  Holy hell. A Sharon Stone move from Basic Instinct. His cock was so damn hard, he had to stroke it through his pants. Yet he wasn’t ready to unzip. If h
e did, everything would be over far too soon.

  “You’re wearing stockings, not panty hose. I can see a flash of gorgeous thigh above the black lace.”

  “Am I wearing panties?”

  “I can’t tell. Do it again,” he whispered.

  “No.” She sighed. “That would be obvious. I’m not easy.”

  She was so far from easy and so fucking hot. His cock was painful. “You haven’t turned a page in five minutes.”

  She laughed. “And you’ve been reading the same newspaper article for at least ten minutes.”

  The sultry sound made the tip of his cock tingle. His briefs were wet with pre-come. “Your stop must be coming because you stand up.”

  “Oh, something’s coming up all right.” Her husky chuckle was almost his undoing.

  “I stand, too. I’m close enough to breathe you in.” He scented her from that night in the hotel, the musky delicate aroma of feminine arousal.

  She moaned for him. He knew she was touching herself. It ratcheted Scott higher as he wove the fantasy around her. “I don’t even see the tunnel ahead until we’re plunged into darkness, then all I can think about is touching you.”

  She hummed again, half moan, half cry, soft, sweet, making his cock pulse.

  He took her deeper. “I run my hands down your sides, to your hips, and pull you close enough to feel my cock.”

  “You are so hard. And so big.”

  With his eyes closed and her voice in his ear, it was all so fucking real. God, she smelled good, her skin silky smooth. “I slip a finger down the crease of your ass, and you’re warm.”

  “Mmm.” Her little noise went on forever, and he was sure she didn’t even hear herself.

  “I can’t resist tracing up the inside of your thigh and pushing between your legs. Christ, you’re wet, so warm and so wet. I can feel it. I can hear it in your breathing. I want it. I want you. You arch into my hand, taking me deeper. Just a little longer, but I can see the damn light at the end of the tunnel. I raise my hand to my nose, and I smell you, and God, I wanna make you come, I want to hear you scream . . .”

  She cried out, long and low, and he knew she was coming hard. If he wanted to come with her, he had only a moment, and he didn’t know which to savor. Her come, or his? In the end, he held off stroking himself, instead letting her sounds ride through him and drag him under.

  When he finally came with her, he wanted to orgasm all over her, face-to-face, no phone, no fantasy, no promises that he wouldn’t touch her. She had a mind as delicious as her body, and somehow, some way, he would talk her into meeting him. He wanted more than just a voice on the phone.

  6

  WOW. Tuesday was a whole new day, and Trinity was a whole new woman.

  That fantasy. She couldn’t get over it. Scott made it so real, she could feel his hands all over her in the dark. She wanted his hands all over her. In the dark. In the light. Anywhere. For real. Her desire was sort of scary while at that same time exciting. She almost wished she’d let him touch her that night in the hotel.

  Altogether, she felt much better about Harper and Inga and the job and all that stuff. Because of good phone sex? Well . . . yeah! For work, she’d chosen a nice sweater—okay, it showed her breasts to advantage—paired with a short, flared skirt and black stockings. She’d gotten the stocking idea from Scott last night. Not that anyone at Green would know what was under her skirt, but she knew. And she’d brought a philodendron for her office cubicle. The drab gray blue needed some greenery.

  An office would have been better. She could close her door and call Scott. Instead, Christina Lee’s voice melted through the partition wall on her left, as did the AP girl’s sitting on the other side of the divider right in front of Trinity, all of which meant that Trinity’s voice melted right back to them. She couldn’t check e-mail because while working at her computer, her back was to the cubicle opening. What if someone soft-shoed up behind her and saw a naughty Scotty e-mail? Good Lord.

  A shadow flickered over her computer monitor.

  Bam! The whole cubicle rattled, and two fifty-pound binders almost crushed Trinity’s fingers.

  “Excuse me?” She knew the scowl looked terrible on her forehead, but really.

  “Read that.” Today Inga had outfitted herself in jeans so tight the rivets along the seams were in danger of blowing out. In a sweater more form-fitting than Trinity’s, her breasts were cone-shaped, like those old brassieres the women wore in classic movies from the 1940s.

  Inga hadn’t guessed Trinity’s insecurity, had she? Trinity’s face flamed at the thought that perhaps yesterday she’d accidentally stared at Inga’s breasts. No, no, she hadn’t.

  Rather than show fear, Trinity attacked. “What is that?” She slapped a binder.

  “That one”—Inga pointed at the smaller of the two books with a red-tipped nail—“is the wire transfer book.” Then she singsonged, “Your job now. Instructions are in the front flap. And this”—she tapped the fatter binder—“is everything you need to know about the system.” Inga grinned. It wasn’t pretty.

  “It was my understanding that you were assigned to show me.”

  “I don’t have time to show you.” You idiot. Yes, that comment was tacked on even if Inga didn’t say it.

  “It shouldn’t take very long,” Trinity said patiently, “I’m a fast learner.”

  Inga covered her mouth, but Trinity recognized the snort of laughter.

  She would not let this woman get the better of her. Rising from her secretarial chair, Trinity pushed it toward Inga. “Please”—one should always be polite with subordinates—“have a seat and sign us onto the system.” She might never have had a real job but she had oodles of organizational experience working on charity funds.

  “You better take quick notes,” the snide b-i-t-c-h said.

  Trinity pulled over the guest chair. She would manage this woman. Even if it killed her. Crossing her legs, she propped a yellow pad on her knee, pencil poised. “Fire away.”

  And Inga fired.

  “It’s a Web-based enterprise system, and our sign-on is your last and first name,” Inga rattled off, “so is your password, until you change it.” The blonde’s fingers flew over the keys, and screens flickered across the monitor so fast Trinity couldn’t follow. She hadn’t gotten past first and last name. Or was that last and first name?

  “We have to change it right now. What do you want?” Inga sat, hands poised.

  Trinity couldn’t think beyond not wanting Inga to know her password. “Faith.” She’d change it as soon as she got a chance.

  Inga tipped her head and punctuated a look with a puff of breath.

  Trinity wasn’t about to explain her choice had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with her best friend.

  Inga typed that in. “Now we’ve got your AP and AR screens.” She tapped the monitor with her nail. “This icon is a shortcut to all the past-due receivables.” She flashed Trinity a raised-brow glance. “You’ll have to call all the deadbeats and get them to pay up.” She hit a key and pointed once more. “And here’s your shortcut to the past-due payables. You have to call them all, make nice, bend over and take it—” Inga stopped, gave Trinity that little smile akin to a Nazi concentration camp commandant. “Got all that?”