Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 68

For an instant this morning, when he'd walked into the break room, she'd been sure he'd recognized her. His expression had clouded, his gaze had darkened. She'd been sure he was going to call her on it. But he hadn't. He hadn't said a word to her.

In retrospect, she could only a.s.sume he'd been annoyed to find an employee dressed so casually. Forester+Blake didn't have a dress code, per se. Sure, employees were expected to dress professionally when dealing with clients, but otherwise they could pretty much wear whatever they wanted. Still, today she'd been pus.h.i.+ng it. Which only made her wonder if she subconsciously hadn't been trying to sabotage her plan.

She should be relieved. Shouldn't she?

Yes, of course she was. She didn't want him to recognize her. What she wanted was her mojo back.

"Look," she said into the phone as she turned away from the mirror. "This has to work. This is my only chance to get things back to normal. I need my mojo back. Especially since they've scheduled some big meeting for Monday. I think they're going to announce the coming layoffs. Which means I have to do this."

As she spoke, she moved through the hotel room; fluffing a throw pillow on the king-sized bed; turning the champagne, cooling in the bucket; setting the matches on the fireplace mantel.

"Look, darlin', I'm not saying you shouldn't do this. I just think you're crazy for thinking it's going to bring back your mojo."

"Well, it better," she snapped. "This hotel suite is costing me a fortune. If I get laid off now, I'll have to declare bankruptcy."

Financial bankruptcy was the least of her worries. It was the bankruptcy of ideas that scared her most.

He never intended to show up.

After realizing Jane and Sasha were the same woman, Reid had spent the entire day prowling around his office, trying to figure out exactly what Jane was up to. Half a dozen times, he'd stormed out of his office and made it nearly to her desk to demand an explanation, only to turn and storm back.

The Jane he knew would be petrified if her boss confronted her over this. But Sasha? Sasha would most likely just b.u.mp up her chin, meet him toe to toe and give as good as she got.

So which woman was she?

Jane, who harbored a crush on her boss, but was terrified of him? Or Sasha, who seemed ready to embark on a pa.s.sionate affair with a stranger? He ached to find out.

What good would it do to meet her?

Yes, he could satisfy his curiosity, but nothing else.

She was an employee. Strictly, and by every definition, off limits.

So, he'd decided not to meet "Sasha" in the lobby at eight.

As long as he thought of her as Sasha, his resolution held. Bold and confident Sasha he could walk away from. But Jane? Shy, but brilliant, Jane was another matter altogether. As soon as he pictured Jane standing in the lobby-waiting for him to show up, finally leaving when he never did-he was lost.

Before he knew it, he was out the door and in the elevator, cursing every time it stopped between the tenth floor and the lobby, praying she hadn't already given up on him.

Finally, the elevator reached the first floor. He could barely wait while the people in front of him filed out through the doors.

He saw her as soon as he made it through the crowd. Even with most of the lobby separating them, he recognized her instantly.

Dressed in a low-cut black dress that clung to her tiny waist, then flared out over ample hips to swirl just about her knees, she looked like one of those pinup poster girls from the forties. Her hair fell in sculpted waves to her jawline. G.o.d, was she gorgeous. And from this distance, she was pure Sasha.

And yet, as he moved across the marbled lobby towards her, he saw hints of Jane in the tilt of her head, the slope of her shoulders, the lowered gaze. She stood and moved like a woman unaware of the power of her beauty. Unused to the sway she held over men.

How had he missed that on the roof?

Then she glanced in his direction, did a double take-proof she'd given up hope that he'd show-and, incrementally, she transformed completely into the woman she'd been a week ago. Shoulders back, lips curved into a pouty smile, head tilted so she gazed at him from under a veil of thick lashes.

He felt his gut tighten as she crossed the lobby. Why did he find her more attractive now that he knew she was Jane, now that he saw the vulnerability beneath the bravado?

And how the h.e.l.l was he going to walk away from her?

Yet he would have to walk away. No matter what she had in mind, he couldn't sleep with her. Couldn't take advantage of her, not when he knew about the crush she had on him.

Maybe he could let her down easy. Take her out to dinner at a nice restaurant, then politely, and kindly, tell her it wasn't going to work out. Which she'd only believe if he managed to keep his hands off of her.

When she reached him, she tugged on his tie playfully. "You're late," she accused.

"I'm sorry." He found himself grasping for a lie. "I had a conference call with a client in NewYork that ran over."

Too late, he realized his mistake. Forester+Blake didn't have a client in New York. Yet.

Jane's eyes lit with curiosity. "A client in New York? But we don't-"

She broke off and it occurred to him that his slip might work to his advantage. Maybe he could get her to admit who she was if she was curious enough about the call.

He nodded towards the door. "You want to grab a bite to eat? I know this great Indian restaurant around the corner."

She shook her head. "No, I-"

"French, then? There's a place down on Sixth Street you'd like. Or maybe Cajun?" Anything to keep from following her back to her room. His self-control was suspect where she was concerned.

"We can order room service, if you're hungry."

She stepped closer, draping her hand on his arm, her fingers creeping up his sleeve.

Her voice sounded husky and s.e.xy as h.e.l.l. And he couldn't help wondering if she was trying to disguise it.

She didn't wait for his response, but sauntered over to the bank of hotel elevators and pushed the "up" arrow. Seconds later, a pair of doors opened and she stepped inside. With one palm pressed against the doors to keep them open, she asked, "You coming?"

Okay, he told himself. Follow her up to her hotel room. Have a drink. You're just going to talk to her. To try to figure out what's going on. You'll be just fine.

Whatever game she was playing, he had no intention of getting caught up in it. As long as he remembered that, he'd be fine. Right.

Before he could question his own intentions or will-power, he followed her into the elevator. The doors closed behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. She stood close to him, her shoulder touching his, and in the close s.p.a.ce he was suddenly aware of her scent. He caught a whiff of the same perfume she'd worn last week, as well as the hint of apples.

Now that he knew Sasha was Jane, he recognized the scent. She always smelled like apples, he remembered. He just hadn't noticed it until now.

As the elevator lurched into motion, she said, "So tell me about this client of yours in New York."

She looked up at him as she spoke, and when he answered, he couldn't help gazing into her eyes.

"It's nothing." It'd be so easy to kiss her. He'd only have to lower his head. She was so close. Mere inches away. And his body remembered all too well the feel of her in his arms. The taste of her mouth beneath his.

"Important enough that you kept me waiting," she reminded him.

Why had he kept her waiting? he wondered numbly for a second before sanity returned.

Even then, he ended up saying more than he meant to. "A potential client, actually. I was on the phone with the marketing director for Tres Bien. They-"

"The lingerie store?"

The surprise in her voice helped him knock off the lingering effects of her proximity. "Yeah, the lingerie store. They've put out a request for proposals."

"That's great!" Behind the Sasha facade he saw the glimmer of the real Jane in her excitement. "That would be a h-huge account."

"Yes, it would." Apparently she'd forgotten that he'd never mentioned where he worked, or even that he was in advertising. He didn't call her on it, though.

He watched with interest as she struggled to rein in her response. Watching her slip back and forth between the real Jane and the Sasha she pretended to be fascinated him.

"I mean, I'm sure that would be good for your business."

The elevator doors opened, and he followed her out into the hall. "We don't have the account yet. We've got a lot of hard work ahead of us."

He watched Jane carefully as he spoke. As soon as he'd mentioned Tres Bien, her eyes had lit up. He could practically see her mind working now.

When she spoke, her enthusiasm got the better of her and she slipped back into her normal voice. "Oh, of course...but Tres Bien? How great would it be to w-work on that? I-" She blanched when she realized what she'd said. "I mean...you don't seem the type that minds hard work."

"I don't. What about you?"

She stopped outside the door to her room to pull the pa.s.skey from her bag. "What about me?"

"Do you mind hard work?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped herself. He saw the glint of calculation in her gaze as she looked him up and down. "I don't mind hard anything."

He'd just bet she didn't.

Her voice-one hundred percent Sasha again-was full of sensual promise. He was almost annoyed with himself for responding to such a blatant come-on. Apparently it didn't take much from her to turn him on.

Then she opened the door to the hotel suite. Blindly, he followed her inside.

As he surveyed the room he felt his resistance slip another notch. The room was like something out of one of Jane's ads. The Butler Steam Vac ad, to be precise.

The curtains had been pulled back to reveal the glittering Austin skyline. A fireplace dominated one wall, the king-sized bed the other. Both were ready for use. And he couldn't help wondering which would be hotter, the fire or the s.e.x. Too bad he'd never know.

To the left of the fireplace, champagne was chilling in a silver bucket. A pair of champagne flutes sat on the fireplace mantel. Just as in her drawings.

Well, at least he had the answer to one of his questions about Jane. He'd wondered earlier what the h.e.l.l kind of game she was playing. Now he knew. She wasn't playing a game. She was acting out a fantasy.

He wanted to be offended. He wished he could have been annoyed. But the truth was, the scene before him was more tempting than he wanted to admit.

Worse still, he knew how she wanted this to play out. How he wanted it to play out, for that matter. Over and over, the scene unspooled in his mind.

The setting was charming, but not necessary. The fireplace, the romantic music, and champagne were all just props, background noise. Nonsense, really. As soon as he pulled her into his arms they'd fade from his awareness. When he felt her body against his, nothing else would matter. Nothing but the heat of her mouth against his, the desperation of her hands as they stroked his skin, and the fervor of her response to him.

He'd tried to banish the fantasy from his mind. G.o.d, how he'd tried. But it hadn't worked.

Meeting her as "Sasha" the other night had only made things worse. He could no longer pretend the body she hid beneath her baggy clothes was not worth seeing. He no longer had to imagine how her lips would feel beneath his. But it wasn't Sasha he wanted. It was Jane.

As he watched her cross to the fireplace, one thought echoed in his mind: Man, he'd screwed up. He should not have come here.

She bent over to light the fire, the fabric of her dress stretched taut against the curve of her b.u.t.tocks. No anemic, hard lines to her body. No, Jane was all lush curves and generous flesh.

She straightened and met his gaze. The gleam of antic.i.p.ation in her eyes was far more potent than even her curves.

"Would you like a gla.s.s of champagne?"

"Sure." A gla.s.s of champagne? An icy shower? A s.e.xual hara.s.sment lawsuit? Whatever. "Actually, no. I, um...I shouldn't have come."

She frowned. Not the exaggerated pout she'd put on before, but a genuine frown. "You're not leaving?"

"I think I better." He backed up a step.

"But you just got here." She followed, steadily closing the distance between them. "Surely you can stay for just one drink."

Now, she was standing close enough for him to touch her, to trace his finger along the arch of her cheek or the slope of her neck, to lean forward and kiss her.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "If I stayed, you don't really think it would be for just one drink, do you?"

She shook her head and her hair brushed against her cheek in exactly the spot he wanted to brush his lips. "No."

"Then I think I better go."

He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Why?"

Her touch seemed to burn through the fabric of his jacket and s.h.i.+rt. He searched her gaze for any sign that she might come clean with him, but knew she was far past the point of honest confession.

Unsure what else to tell her, he said, "This-" he nodded to indicate the hotel room "-isn't the kind of thing I normally do."

She jerked her hand away from his arm, her expression horrified. "You think it's the kind of thing I normally do?"

"I don't know." But he suspected not.

Still, he saw the hurt in her eyes. The hint of vulnerability that pulled at him so.

His instincts roared at him to touch her, and before he could stop himself, his fingers grazed her cheek. "This just wouldn't be wise," he murmured.

"I've been wise my whole life, Reid. I'm ready to be reckless."

She met his gaze boldly as she spoke, and he realized for the first time that her eyes weren't merely brown. They were hazel, with pale green r.i.m.m.i.n.g her dilated pupils.

In that instant, something pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was the way she said his name, without her normal hesitation or stuttering shyness. Or maybe it was the startling realization that, after five years, he hadn't even known what color her eyes were. Or maybe it was the way her words spoke to him.

He felt her pull deep in his soul. Desire snaked through him, but this was more than just a physical reaction to a beautiful woman. She seemed to have looked inside him. To know him better than he knew himself.