Jennifer Greene - A Baby In His In-Box

Truth to tell, he did. Flynn had never needed an accountant when he was poor. Who’d have guessed that his software programs would take off like lightning in the marketplace? For him, the work was fun—pure playtime—or he’d never have done it. The gold he seemed to be hauling in for the last three years was a total accident.

The other three accountants he’d tried before Molly Weston had been total accidents, too. Two guys. One woman. All three of them had quit on him in a disgusted huff, puffing out the door in their pin-stripe suits and their starched spines.

Six months ago, Molly had started out as starched as the rest of them. She’d also started out soft-voiced and sweet and so shy she was intimidated by her own shadow.

Flynn took personal credit for ruining her.

Her pale pink fingertip located a sheet with a bunch of statistics—one of her favorite things in life—and started stabbing it. “You call this a record of expenses? What is this eight hundred dollars for lunch?” she snarled at him.

“Well, actually, it wasn’t for lunch. It was for that special ergonomic chair for Ralph, because he’s got that bad knee? Only I sort of misplaced the receipt, and I knew that’d tick you off, so I thought it’d be easier to...”

“You didn’t think.” She immediately corrected him.

Since he’d heard parts of this harangue before, Flynn cocked his moccasined feet on the desk and concentrated his attention on studying her. She was pacing. To effectively pace in his office, she needed to kick the basketball out of the way and manuever around the putting green by the windows.

Initially Molly had been appalled at the whole place—but especially his office. Personally Flynn thought the plush red carpet, teak cabinets and slab of lapus lazuli desk looked appropriately expensive and executive. Obviously he’d had to add personal touches, like the basketball hoop over the door and the putting green by the far windows. His office chair was almost as good as a mistress—eleven controls, programmed and willing to massage any part of the body on command. It couldn’t compete with a woman’s hands, but a guy couldn’t have everything in a work setting.

Molly wasn’t much on vibrating chairs. Her approval rating on his customary working attire of historic jeans and moccasins wasn’t much higher. There was no real reason why the staff of five couldn’t work stark naked if they chose. Clients came from across the globe, but impromptu visits to the office were rare.

The whole staff, including himself, were creative nerds who holed up in front of their keyboards and worked whatever hours they pleased. Flynn didn’t care about any of their life-styles or clothes as long as they did their jobs.

Molly, though, was addicted to formality. She liked suits—preferably navy, black or gray, but on a real wild day she’d go for herringbone. Today she was in Priss Mode. Navy skirt, navy heels, a crisp white blouse with a neat little pin choking her at the collar. Her hair was brownish-gold, the color of rich dark tea, expertly cut just short of her shoulders in a pageboy style. Even when she was pacing around, thwacking papers, threatening his cherished body parts, agitated enough to make her hair tumble and bounce...the instant she paused, her hair fell right back into its customary smooth, silky style. Flynn figured her hair didn’t have the nerve to stay mussed.

Her eyes were brown, too, but not tea brown. More melted-chocolate brown. Soft. Emotive. Those huge eyes mirrored her vulnerability, Flynn had always thought. The oval face had more of those hopelessly vulnerable features—feathered brows, delicate cheekbones and an itsybitsy mouth that was damn near shaped perfectly—if a man had his mind on kissing her.

Flynn invariably had his mind on kissing her lately. Aw, hell. He had his mind on tussling with her between cool, smooth sheets on a nice, hard mattress. He’d gamble his Lotus she was wearing a good-girl white bra under that crisp linen blouse. He hadn’t gotten far enough to find out. Yet.

“Are you listening to me?” she demanded.

“Uh-huh. You want to know why there’s extra money in that account. And where the paperwork is to explain where it came from. I’m trying to remember,” he assured her.

“You wouldn’t have to remember if you’d just keep reasonable records from the start! My God, you’re as tough to reform as a career criminal. I’ve set up an entire system to make this easy for you. I know perfectly well that you’re deathly allergic to concepts like organization. But I can’t help you if you won’t even try to come half-way, Flynn.”

“Yes, Molly.” Even her voice aroused him. There was nothing unique in her accent—they were both immigrants to Kalamazoo, but he’d fled from Detroit and she hailed from Traverse City country, so her speech patterns were as Michigan-based as his. But there was something liquid in her voice tone. Something pure female. Something that went down as easy as honey—even when she was mopping the floor with him.

“I’m serious, you jerk. You’re inviting problems with the IRS, and there’s no excuse for it. Your business is perfectly sound, for heaven’s sake. It isn’t that complicated to express that on paper. The rest of the staff has come around like troopers. And then there’s you. What exactly is so hard with keeping some simple, basic records?”

“Honestly. I just forget—”

Oops. Forgetting was a mortal sin in her eyes—which you’d think he’d know by now. She was off again, wheeling around his desk, throwing out her right hand, then her left, in gestures to punctuate her lecture about being disgusted with him.

Flynn had been terrified she’d quit like the others—for a while. But Molly claimed quitting would make her feel guilty. If she quit, he’d have to hire someone else. That someone else would be stuck handling his idiocy. As she put it, the buck stopped with her. She was going to shape him up or die trying.

He really was trying to shape up, but Molly’s standards were rigidly exacting. About work. The two times he’d stolen a kiss from her...well. He hadn’t managed to peel off any of those immaculate linen blouses, or find out if that slim, shapely fanny was as sexy as it looked without the zealously prissy skirt. But he’d discovered something fascinating.

Man, could she kiss.

It wasn’t Flynn’s fault he couldn’t forget. She kissed like a man’s wildest erotic fantasy. Those lips molded under his as if nature had created that soft, red mouth just for him.

Molly had a bank vault of principles she never bent on. It wasn’t as if she abandoned those values, more like there was a deep emotional current running under those first locked doors.

That current could drag a man under, if he weren’t careful. At thirty-four, Flynn had never been caught by the marriage trap, but life would be no fun at all if a man were too careful.

“You’re not paying attention to me,” Molly accused him.

“Believe me, I am. Weston, you have the best set of legs in the Midwest, and probably the whole damn country. And that’s an objective opinion from a leg connoisseur.”

“McGannon!” The first day he met her, he’d thought scarlet was her natural skin color—she’d been that flushed and nervous through the whole job interview. Now, it took more effort to make a blush bloom on her cheeks, but this was a good one, a full-fledged rose. The blush was old news, but the mischievous sparkle in her eyes was a noticeably gutsy addition.

Ms. Wholesome-Weston definitely wasn’t as prim and proper as she used to be. That sparkle in her eyes, in fact, inspired him to swing his legs off the desk.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Exactly what are you saying ‘no’ to?” He stood up.