Gena Showalter: Animal Instincts

Not again ! My momentum pushed him back against his desk. I landed with both hands clutching the hard muscles of his thighs, my head perilously close to his crotch.

His arms wrapped around my waist to steady me. I should have jumped away, but I didn't. I lingered… and lingered. My gaze remained glued on the center of his pants, widening as he-no, surely not. He was not getting an erection. His slacks were not inching toward my face.

With a gentle tug, he forced me to stand, though he didn't completely release me. His hands tarried on my arms, warm and callused and oh, so delicious. The scent of unadulterated sin enveloped me. His eyebrows furrowed together and I could tell he didn't know quite what to do with me.

As reality settled in, I jolted away from him. Holy Mother of God, what was wrong with me? I'd come so close to making this man-this ultra-rich, ultra-sexy man with lots of influential friends-a eunuch. And I'd enjoyed it. I needed to be committed.

"I'm so sorry." When I noticed the papers that had been neatly stacked upon his desk were now scattered across the floor, my mortification increased. Only me. This would only happen to me.

I placed my briefcase aside and crouched down, gathering the papers and photos. All of the pictures were of women, and strangely, every woman wore green-or nothing at all.

"I'm so sorry," I told him again, chin canting to the side. Was that woman slathered in green pudding? And was she actually licking her own arm? What kind of kinky shit was this man into? "I didn't-"

"It's all right," he said, his tone pleasant, not the least put out.

I relaxed the tense grip I had on the stack of papers/porn. "Did I damage anything important?" My god, that woman was bending over and eating from a box of Lucky Charms.

"No." He chuckled. "The most important item is still intact."

I felt a blush creep from my forehead to collarbone. I forgot Royce's implication, though, when I spotted the photo of the woman naked and spread-eagle on a lush pile of leaves.

"Here. No reason for you to do that," he said. He bent and gently swiped the items from my hands, his fingers brushing mine. "I'll get those later."

His touch startled me. Electrified me. I jolted away from him for the second time as if he were some type of radioactive waste. Turkeyon rye. Turkey on rye . My hands shook as I picked up one of the photos still lying on the floor. In it, a female crouched on all fours, a pair of green cat ears peeking from her blond hair.

"It's my fault," I said, staring at the photo, "so I'll help pick up." What would I find next? Naked green mud wrestling?

"No. I mean it. That's not necessary." This time his answer was curt, almost angry sounding, and he ripped the picture away from my grip.

What had I done now?

It was then I realized exactly what I'd held. Applications from all of the women who wanted to be Mrs. Powell. No wonder he was trying to get rid of me. He didn't want me to see the naked candidates.

I uttered a raspy, embarrassed cough. "I guess this is goodbye, then." Straightening, I spun around and raced for the exit.

"Naomi?"

"Yes?" I stopped, but didn't turn back. Had he felt the same flare of awareness that had nearly incinerated me? Would he ask me out? I'd have to turn him down, of course. He was a client. Only once before had I dated a client. Richard. The effects of that relationship had taught me three valuable lessons I'd never, ever forget.

One: no sleeping with clients.

Two: no getting naked with clients.

Three: no doing the nasty tango all night long with clients.

Yet I couldn't stop the rush of pleasure that hit me at the thought that such a magnificent man might be attracted to me. Tense, I gripped the fabric of my skirt and waited for his next words.

"What's your favorite color?" he asked.

Unexpectedly, my heart sank. I admit it. I'd wanted him to ask me out. Just because I planned to say no didn't mean an invitation was unwelcome.

"Naomi?" he said again.

I realized I hadn't answered him. "My favorite color is blue. Why?"

"No reason." There was an edge of satisfaction in his voice.

I started for the door again.

"Naomi?"

I paused. Anticipation rushed through me. This was it. The next words out of his mouth would be an invitation to dinner. I knew it. I felt it. "Yes?" The word emerged as a breathless whisper.

"Don't forget your briefcase."

A Tigress never lets anyone get the upper hand in a conversation; she never lets someone else have the last word. Otherwise, she becomes a receptacle for her opponent's emotional garbage.

"So, when are you going to make a move on your new boss?"

"Ha, ha," I said, giving my cousin Kera my best don't-go-there frown.

My other cousin opened her mouth to say something flippant. I knew Melody's comment would be flippant because everything out of her mouth was something only a smart-ass would say. I shot her a death-ray glare.

It worked. Actually worked. Tell-it-like-it-is Mel remained silent. Perhaps I really was getting good at that I'll-eat-you-alive expression.

I eased back in my seat. Sunlight streamed through the pink kitchen curtains, surrounding the table in a haze of warmth. The scent of coffee filled the air. As we did every Monday morning before rushing off to work, or school in Mel's ease, we sat at Kera's kitchen table, feasting (or gagging) on whatever food she had prepared.

Kera owned a catering business and was trying to put together a cookbook of fresh, exotic recipes. Normally she was an amazing cook, but those "exotic" recipes of hers were pure crap and killed all hint of her talent.

On the Kera Diet, I'd lost eight pounds. And I needed all the pounds I could get. Don't hate me, but I'm one of those women who really doesn't have to watch what she eats. I'm thin, too thin if you ask me, and I always have been. There's a downside, just so you know. Being called Bones. Having small breasts. Looking malnourished. My stepdad actually counseled me on eating disorders once.

This morning we were safe with bagels and blueberry muffins. Store-bought. Kera hadn't had time to prepare anything exotic, thank God. I don't think I could have handled another breakfast like last week's. A strawberry-barbecue-and-blue-cheese ostrich egg omelet. Just the memory upset my stomach.

"Well?" Kera said. "Are you making a move on him or not?"

"I'm not attracted to Royce," I told her, hoping I sounded convincing. (I didn't.) "Therefore, I'm not making a move on him. And what's up with him and his wife applications?"

"He's eccentric and looking for love," Kera said, as if that explained everything.

Mel took a sizable bite of her bagel, chewed, swallowed. "He's a man. Men like naked photos and will do anything to get them. End of story."

Now that made sense.

Mel and Kera were identical twins, but they were different in so many ways. Kera had been born with an angel on her shoulder. Mel had been born with the devil on hers.

Mel had thick streaks of bottle-red running throughout her blond hair. She also sported several tattoos and piercings. In contrast, Kera appeared delicate, practically angelic. Both women were five-four with petite bodies and bright blue eyes.

"Did you drool over him during your meeting?" Mel asked.

"No. Of course not." Did liars go straight to hell or were they granted some sort of immunity? It wasn't like liars were murderers or anything. "Why would you ask me something so ridiculous?"

Eyes twinkling, Mel slathered cream cheese over her bagel. "You've been drooling over his picture all morning."

I gasped. "That is sooo not true."

"Oh please. I could bathe in the puddle you've created. A long, leisurely bath, at that." She raised our copy of the Tattler , "But, if you insist you're not attracted to him, I'll just get rid of this." She cast a meaningful glance at the trash can and eased to her feet.