Her Not-So-Secret Diary. Anne Oliver
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fading into the background somewhere. His name was Jared, and this dream hottie could scorch her sheets any time he wanted—
‘Something wrong?’
‘What?’ He tore his eyes away momentarily to glimpse Melissa staring at him. He shook his head, whether in denial or to clear it, he didn’t know. ‘It’s nothing.’ Nothing he wanted to share, least of all with his baby sister who’d just accused him of being conservative. My snakeskin-print G-string melted away beneath the heat of his hand and my thighs fell apart as he—Whoa.
He threw back a mouthful of the bubbly but the liquid did little to soothe his suddenly very dry, very tight throat. He set the glass down with a clunk.
‘Bad news?’
‘Not exactly …’ Though what exactly this was, he didn’t know. Yet. But he intended finding out.
‘So, as I was saying, I’ve been giving it some thought, and—’
‘Sorry, Liss, I’m going to have to deal with this,’ he said, rising. He caught the frustration in her eyes but he couldn’t give her his full attention until he’d resolved the hot little matter currently burning a hole in his palm. ‘We’ll talk later, okay?’
He headed straight for his study and booted up his computer. Drummed his fingers on the desk. The attachment was titled with today’s date. No reference to Lygon.
He swiped his palms over day-old stubble, clicked the file open. The text flashed onto the screen. It was pink. Wild, colourful and erotic. Despite himself, he felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth. The more he read, the hotter it became.
The hotter he became.
He shifted on his chair to ease a growing pressure beneath the front of his trousers. The scene was so vivid he could almost feel the silky smoothness of her inner thighs, the budded nipple against his palm, her sultry heat as he plunged inside her.
When he’d finished, most of his blood had pooled in his lap. He leaned back, rolled tensed shoulders and shook his head to clear the images. He’d had no idea words alone could turn a man rock hard in less than a minute.
Man, he really needed to get laid.
Sophie Buchanan. Had he met her? He didn’t recognise the name, but then he didn’t always remember the names of women he’d slept with a few months after the fact. And it had been that long. His business and family made sure of that.
Snakeskin print. He grinned to himself. He’d definitely remember snakeskin. And he was pretty sure he’d have remembered that kinky position. Was it even anatomically possible? He was damn well willing to give it his best shot—given the opportunity …
So … Sophie Buchanan must have attached the wrong document to her email. Didn’t stop him sending it to his printer. Should he ignore it tomorrow? Mention it to her? Tempting to watch her reaction, but, professionally speaking, in his place of business? Probably not.
She’d sent it thirty minutes ago, he noted. Had she been in bed? In her snakeskin G-string, perhaps. Lust hazed his vision, sweat slicked his palms, his brow, the back of his neck.
Steady, he ordered himself. Then another thought occurred to him. Was this some kind of set-up? Perhaps it was her intention to get him hot and bothered. What if she’d deliberately set out to seduce him? Looking for a more permanent position in his company via his bed. Disgust left a nasty taste in his mouth. Equally distasteful was the thought that she was attracted to his wealth and prepared to do anything to savour some of it.
The printer shot out the first page. That was when he noticed the minuscule print in the footer: dreamdiary.
A dream. Scanning the page, he nodded slowly and his smile returned. Okay, that made sense. Some woman’s dream fantasy … and he’d been the star attraction. His smile widened to an all-out grin.
What did this woman look like? Masses of unruly wheat-blonde hair. A wickedly clever mouth. Overinflated breasts with large pink nipples. Sexy, supple and spontaneous. Sophie.
Still grinning, he folded the two steaming pages, tucked them in his pocket.
He was looking forward to tomorrow morning.
From her car parked nearby, Sophie stared through the windscreen of her Mazda hatch. The tall building’s glass façade seemed to glint with power and authority in the early morning sunshine. The offices of J Sanderson Property Investments and Refurbishments occupied the top two floors.
Just the thought of what she had to do had her heart pounding into her throat, her fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He won’t be there. Please don’t let him be there. She’d set his agenda yesterday and knew he had a breakfast meeting in Coolangatta, a thirty-minute drive away. He wasn’t due at the office until 10:00 a.m.
Which didn’t mean squat. In Sophie’s experience bosses never did the expected.
She drew in a deep fortifying breath. Get this over with. Gripping her bag, she climbed out into the already balmy, salt-scented air, smoothed her fade-into-the-background beige knee-length skirt and headed for the building.
A few people were out on their morning jog along the wide stretch of beach, a soft aqua sea foamed along its edge. Not a suit or briefcase in sight. She checked her watch. Two minutes to seven. She’d not slept a wink, worrying about Jared Sanderson’s reaction if he saw her email before she could delete it. If he hadn’t already checked his emails from home, that was.
Don’t even think about it.
Pam had complained the man never knew when to stop. Sophie’s stomach dipped suddenly as if weighted down with a bag of that wet sand beyond, and she quickened her steps.
At the entrance, she fiddled with the collar of her white blouse, ensuring all but the top button was secure. She’d scrunched her thick long hair into a clasp at the back of her head.
She smiled a good morning to the security guy unlocking the door as she withdrew her swipe card from the pocket in the side of her bag and kept moving—not too fast so as to draw attention to herself—to the elevators.
A moment later she stepped out into the hushed Sanderson offices. Quickly skirting the main reception area, she crossed the oblique sun-striped carpet to Pam’s desk, then slipped her handbag into the desk drawer.
The room was empty, still and so quiet she could hear the ocean’s eternal shoosh beyond the thick glass windows. And the guilty echo of her pulse.
The swipe card gave her access to the Inner Sanctum but she’d not had a reason to enter yesterday. Today, however … Pushing the door open, she registered nothing beyond the scent of leather and electronics as she swooped on the only thing that mattered right now. His desk was L-shaped and the computer was positioned against the wall, which meant if he turned up she’d see him to her left.
She switched the machine on. Waited on a knife’s edge. Because her legs were shaky, she barely hesitated before she sat down on his wide leather chair and rolled it forward. The faint fragrance of sandalwood met her nostrils, a heart-stopping reminder that this was a gross invasion of his privacy. She tapped in the password Pam had given her. The email icon appeared, she clicked on it, waiting, barely breathing while the messages rolled down the screen. There. Her email. Flagged as unread.
A noise, part sob, part laugh, mostly relief, escaped her as with two swift clicks she deleted the email permanently. Done. Simple.
She leaned back, blew out a long slow breath while her heart continued to thump like crazy against her ribs. I.T. security never audited executive email. Did they?
She would not think about that now. She hit the keyboard and brought his day’s agenda up on screen. All she had to do was slip back to her desk and no one would—
‘Good morning.’ The deep masculine voice steamrolled over her senses like steel wrapped in black velvet.
She