Pillow Talk. Kathleen O'Reilly
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to have something to take her mind off the job issues right now and finally she had a chance to give something back to her mother. “We’ll have your friends and your side of the family…”
Alarmed, her father looked up. “You’re not inviting Aunt Alys. The woman eats enough for ten. Jessica, you’ll go broke just trying to feed her.”
Diane waved a hand at her husband. “Hush, Frank.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a healthy appetite,” Jessica piped in.
“And I wouldn’t dare not invite her,” her mother added.
Frank rubbed a hand over the remaining twirls of dark hair that covered his scalp. “Oy. She’s coming, then? Jessica, I’m hoping that job of yours pays well, ‘cause you’re going to have a hell of a bill.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“My little girl is going be vice president someday, I know it.” Her father grinned, his dark eyes glowing, and Jessica felt a little kick in her heart.
“You bet I will,” Jessica promised, ignoring the twinge in her stomach that seemed to indicate otherwise.
ADAM SHOWED UP at her door at eight o’clock sharp on Thursday. Much to his delight, Jessica greeted him at the door with a prickly smile and a wisp of a dress. All the blood drained from his head and he experienced a twenty-percent loss in mental capacity.
It was good. That much he knew. Sparkling, the material moved around her like liquid gold. The front was two strips of cloth that clung to her breasts. How? He didn’t know, but he was happy.
She smiled at his obvious discomfort. “Problem, Taylor?”
Her voice was smooth and confident. This was a woman who liked her power. Her idea of home was behind a desk. High risk, low return. Remember that, he told himself. He held out a hand. “Not at all.”
He made the requisite small talk as they made their way to his car. Then he flicked the keyless entry and opened the passenger door.
Adam had learned to expect a myriad of reactions to his car. Fascination and awe, and a few dates had turned—well, insatiable. And who was he to complain? But there was no awe in Jessica’s expression now, no sexual hunger, darn it, just—anger? This was a new one.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, still holding open the door. Maybe that was a mistake? Maybe she didn’t like the man-opening-car-door protocol. Well, damned if he was going to lose his manners for her.
“You drive a Porsche.”
“Yes,” he answered.
“A 911 Carrera Coupe.” She splayed a hand over the roof, her fingers smoothing over it like a lover’s caress. “It’s lapis blue, isn’t it?”
He nodded, now completely fascinated. His consultant’s training told him to hold his tongue.
“A 3.6-liter engine, 320 horsepower?”
Except when a woman started talking horsepower. “Zero to sixty in under five seconds.”
Her hand dropped to her side and she sneezed. “You’re an evil man, Taylor.”
Perhaps if he hadn’t tallied the final head-count projections today he would have been more receptive, but the insult hit close to home. His voice rose a notch, just one, before he got control. “Because I drive a Porsche?”
She jabbed the hood with an energetic finger. “That’s my car.”
Adam ran a hand through his hair, muddling his way through. “Did someone steal your car?”
She shook her head and sneezed again. “No. I don’t own the car. It’s my goal.”
Adam reached in his pocket and took out the travel package of tissues he’d brought just for her. “Here.”
Obediently she blew her nose, wadded the paper in her hand, and then faced him, liquid gold in the bright lights of the street. “I’m sorry. It’s a long story and very silly, and I won’t bore you with the details. Can I just say that I’m a little overwrought and we can leave it at that?”
Overwrought, my butt. He thought about pressing her for the truth, but the night was young. She glanced toward the car, more longing in her eyes than he really wanted to see wasted on a Porsche. Inspiration struck and he held out his keys. “Why don’t you drive?”
She palmed the keys, lightly stroking the metal. He watched in silence, wondered at the oddly vulnerable expression on her face. And then it was gone.
She threw the keys in the air, caught them with one hand and was settled in the driver’s side before he could open the door. Damn. He walked around, opened it, shut it. “Just making sure it’s closed,” and then folded his legs in the passenger side.
“You know how to drive a stick, Barnes?”
“Just watch me.”
And the car roared into the night.
THE RESTAURANT was cool and chic. Not like the normal places that Jessica chose to spend her dining dollars, but she couldn’t help the cocky swing in her hips when she crossed the elegant threshold.
Jessica Barnes had arrived, holding tight to the strong arm of Adam Taylor. Okay, technically he was still the enemy, but for tonight—tonight he was her dream man.
He was her imaginary date to the prom, the football player that had never asked her out. He was the Saturday-night phone call that never came. All neatly packaged into one living, breathing, sexy-as-hell man.
And by the way, did she forget to mention that he drove a very cool car?
Her sigh of pleasure was long overdue. Eleven years of doubts pent up inside her. It felt good to let it all out.
After they were seated and had gotten their drinks, she sipped her wine like a pro. He took off his jacket and she studied the way his tanned skin balanced the stark white of his shirt. Nice. She liked the way his gaze lingered on her, appreciation in those gray-green eyes, desire there as well.
She leaned forward, tempting the fates. “How did you become a consultant?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I really do.”
“Fresh out of school with an MBA, there weren’t that many jobs. I took the first offer I got, a position at one of the big consulting houses. That lasted for about three years, about the time I discovered I was good at operational efficiency.” He stared off into the distance, tugging at his tie.
“A rare talent,” she murmured.
He turned back to her and shrugged. “It’s what I do. How about you? You like numbers, huh?”
“I’ve always liked math, and finance seemed the way to go. I found Hard-Wire about two years after I graduated.” She remembered the day she’d told her parents her plans for VP. She would even spring for champagne. A vice president had never set foot in the Barnes household before and she was determined to rectify that little situation.
He watched her from over his glass. “Are you from Chicago?”
“Born and raised. And you? You’ve got this accent. What’s with it?”
“Alabama.”
“No kidding? A.L.? You don’t look like what I imagined a guy from the twenty-second state would be like.”
“A.L.?” He laughed. “So what am I supposed to look like?”
“You know, overalls, a piece of hay clamped between your teeth, rural. You look urban. You clean up good, Mr. Taylor.”
“Thank ye kindly, ma’am.”
It felt comfortable to sit here with him: talking, laughing. Trusting him. A shiver ran down her spine. That was a bad thing.