Beyond Breathless

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, quirking one brow.

“The speaker company,” he answered in his flattest, most monotonous voice.

“Forty-seven billion?”

He nodded. “Price per earnings of nine point seven. Low. Hold recommendation.”

“You’re a broker, I assume,” she said, eyes sparkling, one lip curling up in that cocky half smile that was going to haunt him for days.

“Sort of,” he answered, omitting that he actually managed a half-billion-dollar hedge fund that he turned a neat twenty-one percent annual profit for the last five years, beating the market average three times over.

“Fascinating,” she replied, the mischievous light dimming from her eyes. Definite progress.

One of Andrew’s most valuable skills in the fight against ties that bind was the ability to bore a date to death when he wanted to dump ’em.

Worked every time.

“Sergei Brand,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Your suit. Sergei Brand. Number one maker of semi-custom. Breakout sales in the late nineties when they limited their inventory to only smaller, boutique-type tailors and cut off the big department store chains altogether. Sales climbed thirty-seven percent in the first year, and then tapered off to a blazing twenty-three percent for the next three years.”

Andrew’s heart stopped. Cardiac arrest at the age of thirty-six. “Are you in fashion?” he asked helplessly.

“Wall Street,” she told him, casually studying her nails.

Holy, Alan Greenspan.

“Oh,” was all his razor-sharp wit could come up with.

Then she looked up, her face poker-steady, but the light blue eyes were saying something entirely different. “Next year’s market outlook?” she asked coolly. The words were a gauntlet, a threat…a turn-on.

So this was a game to her? Two could play at that, and Andrew’s smile turned predatory. “Slow in the first quarter, but gaining speed in the second, and third, and then a slight downturn in the fourth.”

She licked her lips, and he followed the provocative movement with his eyes. “Nope. First quarter is fast out of the gate.”

“What about the January affect?” he asked, his voice huskier than normal.

“Not a factor. Gains in the entertainment sector will outpace all others,” she said, one flirtatious thumb absently caressing her throat, a slow up and down motion that his whole body was following with avid attention.

His mouth opened, a high school caliber proposition sat on his tongue. And then he remembered his age, his college degrees, his supposed maturity. “What makes you say that?”

“The American consumer is ready to play.”

She was wrong, and he knew it. “Disagree,” he argued.

Furiously she shook her head until one wayward lock of hair fell loose from its rigid confine. The minx was toying with him, until his instincts honed in for the kill.

“The burgeoning consumer market is too crowded,” he continued. “Everywhere there’s distraction. More, more, more, everything pounding at the brain like a hammer. Eventually there’s steam, billowing smoke. Before the year is out it’s gonna implode because a consumer can only take so much before he erupts. It’s Krakatau, Vesuvius, Mt. St. Helens. Mark my words, it’ll blow.”

She leaned forward in her seat, one stocking-clad knee inches from his own. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. “That same stress will force the consumer to increasingly turn to things to take their mind off economics, politics, foreign affairs, and the price of oil. They’ll need to wind down, relax. TV, movies, gaming, the Net, those are the only things large enough to fill the void,” she said, her gaze locked with his, and his brain flickered off. His hands itched to pull the ponytail loose. His fingers curled, aching to follow the line of her throat, finding out what lay beneath the demure suit jacket. And his cock, well, his cock didn’t need an instruction manual. No, all current thinking was going on below the waist.

God in heaven, she was seducing him.

JAMIE PERCHED ON THE EDGE of her seat, waiting. She loved to debate, any excuse to argue, and Andrew was her biggest challenge yet. She felt primitive, carnal and exquisitely female.

Yeah, okay, admit it.

She was turned on.

She’d never felt this pull of animal attraction. The hard, dark eyes were no longer hard. The spark was definitely there. And that firm mouth kept luring her gaze, the pounding of her heart matching the telling pulse between her thighs. The soft cotton of her bra rubbed unbearably against her breasts. It was exhilarating, freeing…

Titillating.

All because he was indulging in a little monetary give and take. The electric shock was zooming straight to her head, among other places. She felt invincible, Xena, modern-day warrior princess, ready to turn Newhouse and his cow of a secretary into toast. With only a snap of her fingers, Jamie would have the poor man down on his knees, begging to sign on with her firm. But first things first.

There was another man she wanted down on his knees.

And she was looking right at him.

“CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING?” Andrew said, although he didn’t know what he would ask.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Jamie…” he started.

“Yes,” she said again, leaning in closer, until he could smell her. The last lingering of her perfume, the fibrous aroma of summer wool, and the hint of musky desire.

He closed his eyes, breathing her in.

“Jamie,” he tried again, but then suddenly he didn’t care anymore. All he cared about was touching her, exploring her. Andrew pulled her over and into his lap. He had a tremendous need to kiss that crooked mouth, and so he did.

He usually had more finesse, but his quick wits had slowed to a drugging crawl, and his body moved with a will of its own. Her lips were soft, pliable, open for him, and his tongue shot inside. She climbed closer into his lap, her hips toying with his cock, until he was ready to beg for mercy. His hand flew to the buttons on her blouse, working one, breaking two, and exposing a wonderfully proper, cotton bra.

“We shouldn’t,” she murmured in a voice that only egged him on, and then she sighed against his neck, pressing warm kisses there, her tongue playing in his ear.

“We should,” he answered. His hand moved to the fastening on the back of her bra, and he unclasped it in one try, which was a new record for him, last made in eighth grade at PS 117, when Erica Haberman cornered him in the boy’s bathroom.

He pulled the white cotton fabric to one side, exposing a pert, rosy nipple. He took it in his mouth, pulling, tasting, feasting. She moaned again, her head falling back, exposing the creamy white throat that had started it all.

His erection pulsed and strained against her. He wanted to touch flesh. He had to touch.

His hand reached down between her legs, finding a silky set of panty hose and he broke through easily, pushing one finger inside her.

She bucked on his lap, and he heard another moan. Deeper, longer. His.

Her hands clasped his shirt, first for support, and then her fingers worked to release the buttons, and she pulled it free, running her hands up and down his chest.