Kathleen O'Reilly - Once Upon A Mattress

Ben clicked on the word-processing icon, but it was too late. He looked behind him.

Busted.

By Hilary Sinclair.

She smiled tightly, her lips curving in a smug manner.

Ben was quick—threw himself into things right from the start—but when she looked at him as if he didn’t belong here, it really ticked him off. One thing about Miss Sinclair, she knew mattresses. One thing about Ben, he didn’t.

To make matters worse, she wore this dark shade of lipstick that should have looked goth, but instead it looked inviting.

“May I help you,” he asked, not thinking about her mouth.

“Busy, Mr. MacAllister? Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Ben started typing away in the word processor. “Clearing my train of thought. Humor is an excellent stimulus when your cerebral cortex is overutilized.”

She pursed her midnight-dark mouth and her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

“No.”

Her green eyes narrowed even further. They were cat eyes, tilted at the corner, and now they were mere slits. “Your father asked that you help out with the travel arrangements for the team. I’ve put together everyone’s itineraries, and their airline requests.”

Ben’s headache returned. Travel agent was not on his list of things to do.

She tossed her long dark hair back from her face. She had the kind of hair that kinked in the wet weather, and now that he thought about it, it’d pretty much perpetually kinked since the first day she started at MacAllister Beds. That’s what ten days of solid rain did to hair.

Why did he let her get under his skin? Ben’s emotional Richter scale was usually on low to very low, but she spiked the needle, both in a figurative and literal sense.

Perhaps charm and a little bit of ignorance were in order. He could do both well. “Do we know what hotel to book?”

“The show is at the Paris Las Vegas. We’ll do the press conference there, as well.”

Ben jotted it down on his notepad. “Airline?”

“Iberia.”

He looked up. She didn’t crack a mandible muscle. Ben stood his ground. For a long time she stared him down. What she didn’t know was that he’d spent six months as a bouncer during his Stanford years. And that gave him the upper hand. Finally she broke. “That was a joke,” she mumbled.

“Yes, I’m sure it was. Airline?”

“Whatever’s cheapest. We’ll be flying out on Sunday evening, although Allen has asked for a Saturday flight because he wants to gamble. Your father wants to rent a motorcycle and ride around Vegas while he’s there, and I’ll be happy with whatever arrangements you make.”

“Window or aisle?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would you and Allen like a window or the aisle?”

“Aisle.”

“Special dietary needs.” He quirked a brow, a blatant show-off gesture.

“I’d like a plate without processed meat.”

“Vegetarian?”

“No, thank you. Vegetables don’t agree with me.”

“Perhaps I could pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? It might be gentler on your system.”

She took a deep breath, her rumpled blouse rising and falling. In, out, in, out. His eyes followed her breathing, and damned if he wasn’t getting hard.

“Sarcasm is unbecoming in a professional environment,” she said, and he wondered if she’d think hard-ons were unbecoming.

Instead, he cleared this throat. “And I thought I was being considerate.”

“Shall I assume this task is not beyond your capabilities and that you can work it into your—” she shot a glance at his monitor “—busy schedule?”

Her voice was full of rebuke, as if she were a schoolteacher correcting a wayward student. Ben had never indulged in schoolteacher fantasies, but images popped into his brain—images that could get him in trouble with Hilary Sinclair.

For a moment he contemplated her prickliness. She wasn’t his type, not to imply that he limited himself to a type, but she had something that appealed to him. Here was someone clearly in need of a life adjustment. She didn’t smile enough, didn’t look happy at all. He’d never seen a woman more in need of rescuing than Hilary Sinclair.

And Ben, who’d never rescued anything in his life, was captivated.

Life was too short to ignore such heaven-sent opportunities. “I like your blouse, Miss Sinclair,” he said.

Finally, success. He was rewarded with a deep flush. Deep and decadent. In quite a disordered manner, the rigid Miss Sinclair pulled a tin from her pocket and popped an Altoids in her mouth, and then, remembering her manners, put the box on his desk.

Ben didn’t look at the tiny mints; instead he was fascinated by her curves. She had been all tight lines, straight back, narrow eyes, but now, as if by magic, her cheeks were rounded, almost plump, her eyes wide and liquid. She had the guilty look of a woman who’d been caught in the wrong bed.

Ben idly traced the rim of the desk with his index finger, imagining what lay underneath that rumpled white blouse. There was nothing like crossing the line to make things interesting. His smile grew wider, his hard-on harder.

“I need to leave,” she said, turning tail to run.

He watched the crinkled skirt as she rushed out the door.

“Oh, Miss Sinclair?”

She turned and leaned against his door frame, panic in those wonderful cat’s eyes. “What?”

“You forgot your mints.”

HILARY HAD NEVER liked wet spots. They were uncomfortable, unsightly and could lead to early onset of mildew. She stared up at her ceiling and watched the wet spot grow larger. Outside, the storms were raging, and inside apprehension was swelling, right along with the wet spot.

She turned on the radio, hoping to block out the internal turmoil. The soothing tones of Dr. Tracy, the Love Doctor, filled the air.

“Next caller.”

“Hello, Dr. Tracy, I’ve been having problems with my boyfriend…”

Boyfriend? It was such an innocent-sounding word. Hilary had had a boyfriend once, and she and Mark had encountered no problems. Of course, he had broken off their seven-year engagement, which some might consider to be a problem.

She liked to think of it as a blessing.

Now she was footloose and fancy-free, and if she really put her mind to it, she could do footloose and fancy-free. Yup, she was on her way to a new and improved lifestyle.

And any second now, her new and improved lifestyle was going to spring a leak.

Cursing her Realtor, she moved the rugs out of the way and stared at the slightly warped, wooden flooring beneath.

She had thought the softened appearance gave it character. She was a moron.

Hilary didn’t like insecurity. She knew she was capable and intelligent, a real go-getter. Yet, this afternoon when Ben MacAllister had flashed her a bit of his oh-so-abundant charm, she’d had a tremendous desire to go out and get her nails done.

Men like him didn’t notice women like her. He had charisma, was handsome and she’d heard the stories about all the places he’d been.

So why pay attention to her?

Inconceivable. No mere man would reduce her to such a quivering mass of spineless Jell-O. And thanks to Mark, men weren’t to be trusted—none of them, not one bit.

While she was contemplating her own gullibility, the first drop fell. Big and fat.

Hilary dashed to what was someday going to be her newly remodeled kitchen and searched frantically for a bucket. There, back at the far wall under the sink, she found the shiny blue plastic pail she’d salvaged from Mark’s place in Atlanta. She carried it back to the living room and, feeling rather cocky, placed it under what was now a steady stream of water. Then she put her hands on her hips, ready to battle the storm gods.