Kathleen O'Reilly - Beyond Breathless

The big chrome wheels trimmed in gold, the endless line of doors, the tinted windows—it screamed of junior proms or drunken women flinging their bras out of the roof.

Oh, God, he was in the music business.

A neat little man emerged from the driver’s seat and then opened the passenger door. “Continental Cars, at your service.”

“This?” Andrew asked, and Jamie was relieved to hear horror in his voice.

“It’s all we have, sir. Cars are in big demand now since the trains aren’t running.”

Jamie averted her gaze from the vehicle, the block-long engineering defect making her corneas burn.

“Maybe a Town Car?” Andrew asked the driver hopefully.

He shook his head. “We’re fresh out. Take it or leave it.”

Andrew looked at Jamie, a question in his eyes.

She wanted to flee, alligator-trimmed heels poised in a northward position, but instead she weighed her options, her sensible side telling her to call Newhouse and reschedule.

Newhouse.

Now there was a name to pull her right into a Hummer.

It’d taken her three months, fourteen phone calls, and three Powerpoint presentations to get one heel in the Newhouse door.

A lesser woman would have abandoned the situation, put a minus in the credit column and walked away, but the prize kept her in the game. Newhouse was one of the few software companies to not just survive, but thrive during the tech bust, and now they were rolling in cash. Cash that needed to be strategically invested because the bread crumbs that their current firm was earning for them were pitiful. Bond-Worthington could change all that, and Jamie, the top client-relations rep at the firm, was the one assigned to recruit them. To date, it had been an uphill battle. But Jamie was made of tough stuff.

The name Jamie McNamara meant nothing to Newhouse and his Gorgon of a secretary, but they would soon learn…

Assuming she could get to Connecticut before lunch.

She took another look at the vehicle and tried not to shudder.

Hummer limos were for sleazy account managers, girls gone bonkers, and South Beach.

She didn’t like this ostentatious hulk of metal on wheels, but the Newhouse account was calling. If she had to ride in a Hummer limo, well, suck it up McNamara, there are worse things in life.

She took a deep breath and nodded, echoes of a porno soundtrack spinning in her head.

Andrew held open the door, and before she could change her mind, Jamie climbed inside.

ANDREW BROOKS HAD a conference call in ten minutes and idle conversation wasn’t his forte, but thankfully, the woman didn’t seem to expect him to talk. Instead, she pulled out a copy of the Wall Street Journal and began to read.

He nearly smiled, because he knew just how she felt. People got in the way of productivity. Always wanting to ask him advice, or talk about a hot date, or worse yet, analyze Survivor. Survivor: The Wall Street Edition, that’s what they needed. That was one game that Andrew would win. Every time.

The limo was hideous, red leather seats and the ceiling was covered with sparkling lights that blinked on and off. He thought there was a pattern, but was afraid to discover what it was.

He glanced over at “Jamie,” wondering what her story was. She was tall and sleek, clad in a dark suit that was almost masculine in its severity. But those black shoes…

He had an odd compulsion to talk to her, find out where she worked, what she did, what corporate prize resided in Stamford.

He pushed back the purple curtain over the window, saw the endless line of gridlocked cars, and sighed. Not a good day for heading to Connecticut.

Not a good day for heading anywhere.

Their lead insurance analyst in New Haven had scheduled a lunch meeting to discuss the impact of the flattening bond market. A two-second phone call could have rescheduled the whole business, but then he had bumped into the sleek dark suit, the curvaceous body, and the stiff blue eyes, and he couldn’t resist. His brother would have leered, his sister would have cheered.

Andrew was just intrigued.

So what was it in Connecticut? He didn’t think she was meeting a boyfriend or a lover. Ten in the morning was too early for social obligations and there wasn’t any softness about her, any excitement in her eyes. And although he wasn’t big on fashion, he didn’t think that women wore pinstripes on a date.

“Job interview?” he asked, because she seemed nervous, her eyes straying every now and then to her briefcase.

She peered at him over the financial page. “Excuse me?”

“In Stamford,” he said. “Do you have a job interview there?”

She shook the newspaper page to straighten it out. “No,” she answered, and then continued reading, dismissing him.

He checked his watch. Another six minutes until his call. “Business meeting?” he asked, trying again.

This time she lowered the paper. “Yes,” she answered, just as the limo jerked to a halt.

Andrew thumped against the back of his seat.

“Sorry, sir,” said a voice over the loud speaker. “The Triboro is backed up tight. Want me to try the Deegan?”

There were cars stretched out over the bridge and beyond. Nothing was moving. Not the air, not the brake lights. Andrew pressed the speaker button to talk. “An accident?”

“No,” said the voice. “Just the entire city thinking a power outage is a great way to gain a four-day weekend.”

Jamie leaned forward, and he caught a whiff of perfume. “Can’t he go faster?” she whispered.

Andrew pressed the talk button again. “Do whatever’s fastest,” he said, knowing in his gut that he could’ve flown to Connecticut and back in the time it was going to take them to travel forty-five miles. He didn’t have the heart to tell her, though. She looked like she could chew nails, but no way was that getting them across the bridge.

“Whatever you say, sir. If I hear any updates, I’ll let you know.”

The voice cut out, leaving Andrew and Jamie alone.

“Do you think I can be in New Haven in an hour?” she asked.

“Truth or lie?”

“Lie,” she said without hesitation.

“Sure. Without a doubt.”

He watched as she reached a hand around, kneading the tendons at the back of her neck. Her arm lifted her breasts under the fitted suit jacket, and his eyes flickered down. Only for a minute. But she caught him and lowered her arm.

“I have a call,” he said briskly, exorcising the lust from his mind. “Do you mind?”

She looked relieved. “No, go ahead. Do what you need to.”

It wasn’t meant as an invitation, but the image of her, skirts up, flashed in his head. A subliminal message that came and went. Andrew frowned, and spoke into the telephone headset, commanding the phone to dial the Chicago office. He’d always been a little claustrophobic, and, trapped in the car, even if it was forty feet long, was messing with his head.

He began to speak, trying not to look her way. She took her own cell out of her briefcase and dialed, holding it up to her ear.

She wasn’t overtly pretty, no argument there, but there was something so controlled inside her, a pressurized spring, tightly wound. Andrew’s brother and baby sister always said he was too tightly wound. That he needed to relax and get a life. One way to relax would be to pry apart those tightly wound thighs and bury himself inside her.

“Andrew?”

He jerked back into the conversation. “Repeat that, please?”

And so the boring meeting went on. He had a life. A successful, fulfilling, organized life. But it was another kind of fulfillment, sexual fulfillment, or lack thereof, that was currently tenting his pants. He took a pad of paper from his briefcase and laid it strategically across his lap.