HostileTakeover Page 3

  Under her serious nature, he’d glimpsed something struggling to get out. A fresh wildness, the reckless innocence of youth she’d never been able to indulge. He remembered one of her freshman letters, talking about how out of sync she felt with the other students. He told himself he remembered it nearly word for word because he had a damn near photographic memory. Not because he’d read it a little too often, feeling an uncomfortable connection to what he’d experienced in college.

  He’d called her, because her loneliness had been too much for him to address through the written word. He didn’t remember half of what he’d said, but he’d stayed on the phone for an hour and a half with her, until he had her giggling uncontrollably and calling him names. He’d told her to loosen up, stop worrying about everything. Do something unexpected, stretch her wings and relax her inhibitions. Get in trouble occasionally, for Chrissakes. Not real trouble, okay, but you know. “Stay out overnight, get a little tipsy on Budweiser, kiss a boy you don’t know very well who has a cute butt.”

  “Ben!”

  He’d laughed at her embarrassed outrage, but then he’d sobered, fingers tightening on the phone. If he was there, he would have hugged her. It bugged him to know she was hurting. “Learn how to have fun, Ella-Marcella.” Marcella was her full name, and he’d made up the pet name for her because it annoyed her. “I know you’ll ace the studies. You’re too responsible to do otherwise. But Jesus, cut loose and be a kid. See how it feels. You may like it so much you’ll decide never to grow up.”

  “Like you?”

  “Cute. I have a life, so I’m getting off the phone now.”

  “You just have a date with some woman with big boobs and no brains.”

  “If they have the big boobs, the brain’s not really necessary.”

  “Sexist pig.”

  “Smartass.” But before he hung up, he added, “Go. Have. Fun. Don’t worry. If you end up in jail, I’ll bail you out. And don’t do the Budweiser thing around boys. Only girls.”

  So maybe he felt a little responsible about the actual need for bail. One night, late, she and six other kids decided to jump in the beat-up Toyota she’d bought with her own money. All packed in with snacks and pillows, they’d driven overnight to Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. They were near their destination, close to dawn, when her passengers decided to moon a passing motorist just for the hell of it. Unfortunately, it was an unmarked police car, and one of her passengers was carrying a bag of weed, something Marcie hadn’t known until it dropped out of the kid’s pocket when he stumbled out of the car.

  Ben got the call in a morning meeting, Alice breaking in with the pointed look that said You need to take this. He’d talked to a tearful, apologetic Marcie, but what he most remembered was her pulling it together, enough that he heard her audible swallow on the phone, the sudden attack of dignity as she stated, as solemnly as a defense attorney nailing the key point, “You said if I got into trouble, you’d bail me out. Right?”

  Telling Matt he had something personal to handle, he took the private jet to Kentucky. He worked it out, getting them released without anything going on their records. Fortunately, the sheriff was a decent sort who could tell Marcie was a straight-arrow kid and no one had any other priors. Marcie didn’t make Ben cover for her for long; she told him she would tell Lucas and Cass about it, and she did, a couple weeks later. Her main concern was making it go away before Cass had to worry about it, because her older sister had spent so much of her life protecting them. Marcie couldn’t bear to give her another moment of worry on her behalf.

  On the drive back to the school, where he took the wheel of her Toyota, and the other kids followed in a chauffeured van, she’d freaked out to the nth degree, resolving never again to leave the campus grounds until graduation. He’d been able to convince her she shouldn’t stop being adventurous and going after things she wanted just because she got set back on her heels now and then. Life was about the experience, not just the nose to the grindstone.

  Why did he have a feeling he was about to pay dearly for that advice?

  * * * * *

  “What happened to that guy?” Ben poured Marcie a second glass of her preferred after-dinner white zinfandel as she finished chuckling over the recap of her Kentucky mishap. He’d chosen one of his favorite casual cafés, with a table outdoors so she could enjoy the New Orleans’ nightlife.

  “Allan milked the whole anti-establishment pothead image as a freshman, but he was too smart to stick with it for long. He was a chemistry genius, so he’s working for one of the major pharmaceutical companies now. He’ll probably discover the cure for cancer. Thank God he cut those gross dreadlocks. He was actually a decent-looking guy without them, a real Michael Bolton makeover.”

  “Do you want dessert?”

  “Have you ever known me not to want dessert? I’d have started with it, but I’m convincing you I’m a grown-up. Then I’ll be the oldest one at the table, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, keep it up, wiseass.” He passed her the dessert menu so she could consider her choices for later. As he watched her eyes flicker over the selection, her teeth worried her bottom lip in an altogether distracting manner.

  He’d kept their conversation to her school years, the work education co-ops in Europe and New York, because it helped him remember who she was, who she was supposed to be to him. A little smile played around her lips now and then, a knowing look as if she was wise to the ploy, but he found himself absorbed by her experiences with corporate offices in Paris, Milan and Stuttgart, the differences in legal practices, as well as the sights she’d indulged. She’d always been detail oriented, and she recalled everything with ease, answering his questions and frankly impressing the hell out of him.

  “You were smart, integrating the co-ops into your studies. I knew you were impatient about it putting your graduation a year later than your classmates.”

  “Yeah, and you all didn’t have to go to one of those mind-numbing graduation ceremonies. They mailed me my diploma. But I admit, when you said it would give my resume that extra polish, it did.” She gave him an eye roll and a smirk. “I’ve already been invited back to two of the European firms and the New York one wanted to hire me then and there.”

  He licked his finger, touched her with the sizzling noise of hot stuff, and she laughed. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead and be smug. It gave me valuable work experience as a corporate investigator, which is the field I intend to pursue. Steve Pickard’s already given me a couple projects to do while I’m home. I can’t wait.”

  “Just so they don’t interfere with the vital tasks of collating, copying and organizing paper clips for me.”

  “I’m going to tell Alice and Janet you mocked what they do. They’ll load your stapler with C-4 and wait for the boom.”

  “They don’t need any help creatively planning my demise.”

  “I’ll bet.” She grinned at him, then gave him a mock scowl. “You didn’t warn me what the absolute best experience in Europe would be.”

  “All-night orgies with rugby teams?”

  “No, but that was a close second. Oh my God, the food. If you ate everything you wanted you’d exceed the weight limit for the plane trip back. I thought of you so often, because you’re such an amazing cook. You really need to go to Italy sometime and do one of their week intensives on Italian cooking. You’d love it. Do you still bring something for the monthly family dinner at our house?”

  “Still.”

  She sighed, sat back. “Whatever you brought was always our favorite. Well, not Nate’s, but that was because he had a serious hot dog and macaroni fetish going then, but those orgasmic desserts, or the bread… I don’t think I’ve ever tasted bread as good as what you bake, not even in Paris. If you ever decide not to be a lawyer, I think you should open a bakery.” Her gaze went back to the menu, then up. “Will you choose for me, like you did dinner? I trust your instincts.”

  She’d implied it was his culinary expertise, but if he was the suspicious sort, a
nd of course he was, she’d maneuvered him into taking control of the meal, deciding what she would and wouldn’t eat. The way a full-time Master might.

  The candlelight on the table flickered, catching her eyes, the gleam of her freshened lipstick. Glinted off that pendant. Reaching out, he touched the disk. His fingers were large, couldn’t help whispering over her throat, just a brief touch, but he saw her register it, her fingers tightening on the stem of her wineglass. His own skin tingled with heat. “That’s a pretty piece.”

  “You gave it to me. The forget-me-nots?” At his puzzled expression, she prodded his memory further. “My senior prom, the night my date stood me up?”

  “Oh yeah. I remember. What happened to that clueless loser?”

  “I have no idea, but I’ve often hoped it involved several flights of stairs and a year in traction. I was mortified that Cass told you about it. The other guys were okay, but it embarrassed me that you knew.”

  He decided not to touch the why of that, because it was too uncomfortably obvious. Marcie was continuing anyway, relieving him of the need to do so. “I was crying on the back-porch swing. You came out with a corsage of fresh forget-me-nots and roses, and a handkerchief. You told me any guy worth my time would always come to me with flowers and a handkerchief. One to make me smile, and the other to dry my tears, because a smart guy knows women need to cry as much as they need to laugh. It was good advice on judging which guys were worth my time.”

  She touched the disk. “So I pressed three of the forget-me-nots, and a friend who likes making jewelry designed the collar and pendant.”

  He paused in lifting his whiskey. Before he could respond to that startling statement, the waiter was there, asking for their order. “We need a few more minutes,” he said brusquely. When the waiter nodded, retreated, Ben leaned forward. “Marcie—”

  “You sat on the swing with me, kept me distracted.” She was lost in the memory, tracing the edge of the wineglass. “Everyone else decorated the front yard with lights, turned on music. Any of the neighbors who wanted to relive their prom day were invited. There was food, dancing. It became a party. You and I danced. Do you remember?”

  They were near Frenchmen Street, which meant there was always music in the air. He’d chosen a restaurant across the street from a hole-in-the-wall club renowned for local-band favorites. As a result they’d enjoyed the music while eating, but it hadn’t been so loud they couldn’t talk. Now she tilted her head, drawing his attention to the bluesy jazz piece playing. Giving him an infectious smile, she rose from the chair, tugged on his hand. “Let’s dance now. Just one song. I can’t believe I’m back in New Orleans. I’ve missed it so much here.”

  He closed his fingers on hers, holding her in place. “Marcie.”

  She leaned against his grip, trusting him not to let go as she swayed back and forth. “Are you worried about what people will think, us dancing on the sidewalk? Have you forgotten how to cut loose and have fun, Ben?”

  He sighed, tossed down the napkin. Their outdoor seating was cordoned off with a painted iron fence hung with bright beads and fresh potted flowers. He delighted her by putting his hip on it, swinging over, and in the same motion, curled a strong arm around her waist and brought her over as well. He rolled her into an easy Cajun two-step, twirling her out and under his smoothly moving hands, taking her around his body.

  She laughed out loud as he caught her hips, kept her in place as he stayed behind her, doing the footwork in tandem and out to the side, then bringing her back for the turns and the two-step basic again. It didn’t take much to get people in New Orleans to dance, so several couples joined them almost immediately.

  Marcie reveled in the feel of his hands on her. She knew the steps, but not as well as he did, so she followed his lead. He more than met the challenge, directing her without hurry or hesitation, comfortable in that role as he always seemed to be. To the outside viewer, he was just a capable dancer, but anyone who had the craving in her blood as she did would see it, feel it.

  She knew he’d picked up on her ploy, having him order the meal for them both, but he had no idea what it did to her, watching him assume command of a situation where her only preference was to trust his direction. And now, how he took control of her movements so easily…she was content to stay in this moment forever.

  This man was meant to control and lead a woman in ways that would overwhelm her with pleasure, open the deepest wells of her heart, the places she was afraid to surrender. She’d put the white flag in his hands, happy to have him tie it around her wrists, binding him to her.

  They did two songs, going from the Cajun two-step into the faster jig, improvising some freestyle steps that had them both laughing. It brought her heart in her throat. Ben hadn’t laughed during dinner, not once. Cass had mentioned he’d gotten more serious these past couple years. Marcie had seen it when she first stepped into his office, in his green eyes, the tighter set of his mouth. He’d always been the jokester of the group. But even then she’d known what they saw now, that sometimes it was more habit than true levity. Whatever demons plagued him, she hoped she was helping to push them away. She wanted to do it forever.

  On those turns and brushes, she took full advantage, making sure his grasp fell lower on her hips than he intended. She worked herself in closer to his body, pressing full against it before she stepped back for the next turn. He was solid and strong, so sure on his feet, his large hands bringing heat and pleasure even in a casual touch. She was glad for the nature of dance itself, the way it let worries be set aside for a little while, allowing what both dancers wanted to come to the surface.

  The band took a break, the club switching to a DJ. Recognizing the Jennifer Paige song Crush, she bit back a snort. Perfect timing.

  It didn’t matter. Ben was a smart guy. Her feelings at sixteen wouldn’t have evolved and persevered this many years unless they were something else. The song actually illustrated the point, the lyrics suggesting the singer knew it was far more than a crush, that she was just trying to fool herself. Ben was probably doing the same, maybe even trying to convince himself he was the one suffering a crush now. She would love knowing that, that she was starting to be an inseparable part of his thoughts, the way he’d been of hers for so long.

  Those two years of travel and staying away from home had been hell. But Cass always said you couldn’t enter into a challenging negotiation without believing a hundred percent in what you wanted. Marcie had needed to prove it to herself before she could prove it to Ben. And she had, in spades. Nearly seven years, and she’d never wanted anyone else to touch her. Every time a boy had, something inside her turned off, and she could only imagine Ben. She’d made herself do those dates, though. While she tried to avoid the emotional entanglements that might hurt the male in question, she needed a certain level of experience to achieve her goal. Those dates had been a testing ground for this, a game with very real stakes.

  “Do you remember our slow dance, at my home prom?” He was still wearing his suit jacket, additional armor against her, she was sure. Rather than putting her hands on his shoulders, she slid her hands inside his coat, along the firm, heated skin over his ribs, separated from her touch only by his thin dress shirt. He stilled, but she stepped closer. He gripped her upper arms, but she kept coming, until her palms were against his back, fingers stroking his shoulder blades, the male muscle beneath the shirt. Ben was over six feet, so it was easy to lay her cheek on his chest, just under his jaw.

  He still had his hands on her arms, but as she sighed, let her body melt into his, he muttered an oath against her hair. She closed her eyes, triumph sweeping through her as he slid his arms around her. One at her waist, his palm against her hip, the other staying at her face, cradling it where it lay against him. He slid his thumb along her throat, touching that collar, his fingers playing in her hair. They swayed together to Jennifer’s song, Ben’s sure footwork keeping them moving in a slow glide.

  “I put my hands under your co
at, just like this. The other guys were grinning at you, knowing you were trying to figure out a way to push me away a little bit without hurting my feelings. You knew I was too old for you to dance with me like a little girl, too young for us to dance that close. Isn’t that odd, how that change happens?”

  When she lifted her head, Ben still had his hand on the side of her face, his gaze intent upon her. His grip on her tightened, and she knew from his expression he was done letting her dodge and retreat. His mouth had that firm set, his eyes pinning her in place. But she still had a couple key seconds, and she wasn’t going to lose them.

  “You’d started to get hard when you pushed me away. You covered it in your usual smooth way, but I remember it.” Had dreamed about it.

  Particularly when she brought herself to climax in her dorm room at night. She’d lean back from her laptop, think of Ben. She’d imagine him coming up behind her, his fingers sliding around her throat, tipping her head back against his abdomen. He’d whisper to her, tell her to spread her legs. He’d command her to put her fingers down her panties, and then watch her get so aroused she was begging him. Begging for permission to come.

  She’d had submissive cravings for a long time, but it wasn’t until she’d read between the lines, picked up on what she’d overheard and seen between Lucas and Cass and the others, that she’d understood what she was. Why her sexual desires were different from the vanilla sex fantasies of a high school or college girl. Her dreams had to do with her being on her knees, being spanked, restrained. Tortured and tested. By him.

  She wanted to say all of that, wanted to be that brave, but something about his look now, the tightening of his fingers on her face, kept her silent.

  “You’re asking for trouble, little girl.” The hard tone was different. It wasn’t the Ben he’d always been with her, and though she knew he was trying to warn her off, it speared need and hope through her vitals. This was the predator she wanted. Hell, she’d bathe in raw meat if that was what she had to do. It gave her the courage to answer him.