Never Naughty Enough. Jill Monroe
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“I give up,” Annabelle told her.
“Already? It’s not even ten-thirty? Did you wear the sweater?”
Annabelle glanced at Wagner’s doorway and rounded her shoulders. Now she felt ridiculous in the clingy thing. “Yeah, I wore it.”
“Hmm, that should have gotten some reaction.”
She yanked the sweater higher on her shoulders— the plunging neckline was a little too…plunging. “This sweater’s not even made from materials known in the natural world.”
“Did you remember your mantra?”
You’re a femme fatale.
“Yeah, I tried it. The mantra stinks.” Annabelle clicked the pen again and obliterated the mantra with a few more ink swipes.
“Did you arch your back?”
“He thought I had a backache, for crying out loud. He’s probably looking up the name of a good chiropractor in his Rolodex right now.”
Silence greeted her from the other end of the telephone line. Annabelle suppressed a groan. Katie was rarely silent. It meant trouble. Annabelle in trouble. Since meeting in the second grade, Katie had been devising “brilliant” ideas that usually backfired with Annabelle getting the blame. In school it was detention, last year it was a weeklong rash from a sunless tanner. On her face.
“I just had a brilliant idea. It’s time to bring out the big guns,” Katie finally said. “Is there some way you can lock him in the supply closet with you?”
“He’d spend the whole time devising a way to buy out the door company and take over the management.”
“I’m not so sure it would work. That was the old Wagner Achrom.”
“True.” Annabelle sat a little straighter in the chair and eyed the doorknob. That lock appeared pretty flimsy, a good safety net if she— “No, forget it. Former corporate raider or not, he’d figure a way out. Besides, I did everything but recline naked on my desk.”
“Now, that has possibilities.”
A quivering in the small of her back propelled her forward in her chair. “Out of the question.” If she didn’t stop this line of thought right now, Katie would have her convinced greeting Wagner wearing nothing but high heels and a tie, à la Pretty Woman, was a fabulous idea.
Annabelle pushed her glasses down lower on her nose and rubbed her eyes. “There has to be another way for him to finally notice me.”
“You ever heard the phrase ‘You’re pumping a dry well’?” Katie asked.
“Of course I’ve heard it. We’re in Oklahoma.”
“Well, you should have paid attention to it ’cause, sister, the well’s done gone dry. And I’m not sure it had much juice to begin with.”
Annabelle swiveled her chair toward Wagner’s door. No molding, no scrollwork. Just hard wood. Like Wagner. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Well, of course I’m right. Although sometimes I still think there may be something there. Remember how he was about your car?”
“He was probably only worried that his daily agenda wouldn’t be typed and sitting on his desk.”
“Now, girlfriend, you did that to yourself. It’s one thing making a man dependent on you. It’s quite another when you rig the outcome without making damn sure he knows he can’t live without you.”
She glanced at his closed door. “You’re right. I’ve created a monster.”
“Men.” Katie didn’t need to say another word. That one said it all. “Okay, I’ve got it,” she said.
Annabelle’s stomach muscles clenched in apprehension. No telling what this “brilliant” idea would involve. Probably her walking a tightrope from her desk to the copy machine in nothing but a thong and a smile.
But still, her curiosity had her wondering. “What?”
“A great new plan for this afternoon. Write this down—Nothing is more seductive than food.”
“What?”
“Actually, this is brilliant. A picnic. I can see it now. The birds and bees doing their thing. His head in your lap as you feed him grapes. That’s a very sexy food, by the way.”
“May I remind you we’re in the middle of December?” Annabelle glanced outside the large glass window lining the waiting area. “The sun may be shining right now, but how long is that going to last?”
“All right. All right. Then have it on the office floor. In fact, I like that idea better. He has that nice, long leather couch in there, too. See what we can do when we brainstorm together?”
Annabelle glanced from the black leather couches in the small waiting area to the chrome and steel of her desk and file cabinet. The office of Achrom Enterprises was designed to evoke confidence and professionalism. Not picnics. Certainly no grapes. “That would be inappropriate in the office. Besides, he’s not the picnic type. For that matter, neither am I.”
Katie sighed heavily. “Really, as smart as he is, I don’t see why he hasn’t realized you’re perfect for each other. I’ve never met two squarer people.”
“I resent that remark.”
“You resemble that remark. The picnic idea will work precisely because he’s not the picnic type. It will knock him completely off balance. And personally, I think throwing him for a loop is long overdue.” Katie exhaled expectedly into the phone. “Look, we can forget the whole thing if you want.”
Annabelle worked the pen in her hand. “I want to give this plan a try. It’s time. I’m moving on with my life. I just stamped and mailed away my last loan payment yesterday. In four weeks I’ll have my degree.”
She glanced around the office she’d helped Wagner create. They’d begun with such dreams and high hopes. Now he faced a merger.
Sadness and a new anticipation mixed in her heart. With her loans to cover her father’s shady deals paid off and her finance degree in hand, she was finally free. Free to pursue her own dreams and goals.
“I can’t stay here—I don’t even want to. The only thing holding me back is him. He gave me a job when everyone else sent my résumé to the circular file, if not the shredder. He saw past my family name. He gave me a salary and responsibility, and he looks incredible in a suit.”
“You got me there.”
Annabelle’s gaze focused on Wagner’s hardwood door. “If it’s not to be, then I want to close the door firmly behind me and never look back.”
“Then work with me here. You don’t have much time before lunch. You still have that deli on the bottom floor of your building?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Then repeat after me. New mantra. You are a seductress.”
WAGNER SMILED and a twist of satisfaction curled in his stomach as he red-lined a point he wanted to clarify with Anderson’s front men, Smith and Dean.
Good try, fellas. Not going to work.
Did they think he would miss the clause virtually shackling him to Anderson’s side for the next ten years? He might have been out of the game for the last few years, but he still knew all the tricks. Hell, he’d invented some of them.
Red slashes marked the next two paragraphs for extinction, as well. The lawyer who drew up this contract obviously didn’t know Wagner’s cutthroat reputation. At the age of thirty, he’d earned millions of dollars for other people. Now some four years later, some punk associate thought he could outraid him. Not going to happen.
He’d been on the inside since his mom, in blind