Beyond Breathless. Kathleen O'Reilly
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awful car, she’d been off her game. Maybe it was the car, maybe it was him, maybe it was the way he sparked her pulse, touched her skin, kissed her like a sexy, desirable female.
The last shimmers of passion were still glowing inside her, which couldn’t be allowed because she had a huge presentation in…She checked her watch.
Ten minutes ago.
Jamie rubbed the back of her neck, trying to rub away the disappointment, too. It didn’t work.
“I should call you,” he said, and her panicked gaze collided with his.
“Please don’t assume,” she started, and then trailed off miserably. Somehow the situation would have been easier if the sex had been mediocre, or even better, awful. But nooo…
They had had great sex.
In a Hummer.
And what if he’d ruined her sex life forever? What if she was destined—cursed—to only enjoy cheap, tawdry sex with complete strangers?
It was a nightmare of stupendous proportion.
“You don’t want me to call? You’re involved, aren’t you?” he said, and to her ears, he sounded relieved.
Quickly she nodded. A white lie, but lies were made to get people out of jams.
Her cell phone rang, rescuing her from further conversations or recriminations.
“McNamara here.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. McNamara, but Mr. Newhouse will be unable to wait any longer for your meeting.”
Her gaze shifted to her briefcase, boring through it, letting all her tensions narrow into one tight beam. She pushed away all thoughts of hunky guy and mangled hose, letting experience and twenty years of educational instruction whip her into shape.
With one hand, she pulled her hair back into the ponytail with a single hard twist and a tight snap of the rubber band. Her ritual complete, all brain cells now back on line and fully functioning.
“Sandy, I can you call you Sandy, can’t I?” She recrossed her legs, confidence flowing back in her veins. “I don’t need much time today. We can reschedule into thirty minutes rather than the previous hour. Don’t let me down, Sandy. And you know what? Maybe I can repay you with dinner tonight. I bet you know all the best places, in fact—” she whipped out her online Zagats, fingers flying “—there’s a fabulous little French place I’d love to try, La—”
“Finis, Ms. McNamara. Mr. Newhouse is already overbooked this afternoon and this morning’s power mishap in the city has only made things even more impossible.”
“Impossible, as a word, is highly overrated, Sandy. You sound stressed. Have you been to the day spa up in the Berkshires? If you’d like, I can set you up—”
“Hold, please, while I get the other line.”
“Of course,” purred Jamie, talking to dead air. She noticed Andrew watching her, measuring her job performance and her trampled pride kicked in. She flashed him a confident smile and began to speak into her cell, in low, overhearable tones.
“He is? Perfect! I think we can arrange to discuss that as well. And the new offerings, too? I’m sure he’ll be very pleased. B-W believes in the highest services available.”
She waited three beats.
“Of course we’re available for whatever financial needs—”
“Excuse me, Ms. McNamara, were you speaking to me?”
Sandy the Gorgon had returned.
“Another call,” Jamie snapped, her face heating up, refusing to look in Andrew’s direction. “About that later appointment. Maybe fourish?”
“Mr. Newhouse is unavailable. I don’t know how to be more direct.”
Jamie pitched her voice low. “Just ten minutes after lunch. I don’t need much time. And he really needs to hear what I have to—”
“Perhaps I wasn’t being clear.”
At that, Jamie’s stomach curdled. She glanced out the window, the rolling hills of Connecticut whizzing by. Too little, too late.
“I’m only ten minutes from the office,” she tried, hoping that the steno-taking Gorgon had a heart.
Sandy the heartless Gorgon hung up.
“Problem?” asked Andrew.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said with a tight smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sensing that maybe her year had just been shot straight to hell, and thinking that one apology, accompanied by a sexy, yet insightful regard would make it all better.
What a chauvinist.
“It’s certainly not your fault,” she answered, although she wanted to blame him. She wanted to blame ConEd, the Metropolitan Transit Authority, and possibly the entire planet, because first and foremost, when it came to business, Jamie never lost.
“I could try and reschedule my lunch plans,” he offered, still trying for helpful and Boy Scoutish, which only increased her anger.
“Look, I don’t need your help. I don’t need your assistance. I don’t need your pity. I’m a Wellesley grad, you know. Summa Cum Laude,” she added, because she needed to assert herself—regain her footing.
“What a surprise,” he said, so innocently she was immediately suspicious.
When a Boy Scout turned snarky, it was time for a rethink. “I’m sorry. It’s been an awful day,” she offered, rubbing her neck, working to ease the perpetual ridges of tension.
He raised his eyebrows, his dark eyes holding something more than a spark. Now they held a memory. The squishiness in her thighs bloomed anew.
Bitchy as she felt, she wasn’t completely vile. “No, that part was nice.”
Slowly he bowed his head. “My vanity thanks you.”
“Somehow I don’t think your vanity needs it.”
“Strokes are always…” He covered his eyes. “Strike that.”
His discomfort struck something within her, because she felt it, too. Carnal overtones were still thick and heavy in the air, a new experience for Jamie, an experience that made her want to clutch her briefcase to her chest. It was her crutch, she knew it, she admitted it, and she wasn’t going to loosen her grip.
Her fingers itched to get a bite of chocolate from her briefcase, but he would see it as a weakness, so she made a fist instead.
“Can you have the driver let me off at the train station in Stamford?”
“You’re just going to sit and wait until the trains are running again? At least let him take you back to the city.”
He didn’t seem to understand that she had to leave this pleasure-cruise on wheels. The smell of sex, cologne and newsprint mingling together into a potent aphrodisiac was weakening her mind, and she couldn’t have that. This was an experience best forgotten, or if not forgotten, then at least filed in the “Mistakes I’ll never make again” folder.
“No, thanks,” she said.
“If it’s the cost, don’t worry. I’ll pick it up.”
Like she was some minimum-wage slacker. “I can manage my own finances, thank you.”
“Just a gesture, not a judgment on your earning potential.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not usually like that.” It was a lie. She usually was. Her nickname at the office wasn’t Porcupine for nothing. Her coworkers didn’t think she knew, but jokes spread, and one day she entered the break room one minute too early. Thinking fast on her feet, she pretended