“Your nine thirty is here, Luke.”
“Thank you, Lisa. Give me a minute.”
He didn’t like to be late—punctuality was important since his schedule was everything—but if he didn’t respond to this e-mail now he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the meeting.
Dear Sex Bomb…
Luke frowned. Read it again. Then a second time. Then checked that it was actually to him and hadn’t been forwarded on from by some idiot staff member who thought he might find it amusing. No, there was his name in the “To” box.
Why the hell would somebody send him an e-mail about hard drives and underwear?
It had a Total Tech signature line at the bottom, which meant it had originated from Christie’s magazine, too. How odd.
He’d ended up buying the magazine a couple of months ago after the original owners went bankrupt and it had nearly folded. Joseph had planned to buy it to help Christie out, but then, having doubts about being his wife’s boss, had come to Luke instead.
Luke hadn’t minded bailing out the magazine. He already had quite a little media stable, and Total Tech was pretty impressive. Even though it had meant moving its entire office into his building after its lease expired, because he liked having everything he owned within reach. Within control. It calmed him.
But he was not calm about this e-mail. It suggested workplace shenanigans, which were against company rules. He was going to have to have words with Ben about it.
Frowning, he checked the time—he had another thirty seconds before the minute was up—then he tried to figure out who’d sent him the e-mail. And his heart nearly stopped when he read the address:
[email protected].
Marisa Clair. Well, there was only one Marisa Clair who worked at Total Tech magazine. Soft curves. Golden hair. Red mouth. Lightning. Electricity.
And lipstick on his collar.
A bolt of something white-hot shot straight down his spine.
For the past two weeks he’d been doing a very good job of forgetting what had happened at Christie and Joseph’s wedding. Or rather, not thinking about it, since he had a photographic memory and couldn’t forget anything if he tried. He thought she’d been doing the same. At least she’d been very clear that they needed to avoid each other at the time, so they had.
So why on earth was she sending him suggestive e-mails about her panties now?
He only had another ten seconds before the minute was up but he read it again, unable to help himself.
God, he had absolutely no interest in the color of her panties. At all.
Sure you don’t. Like you’re not already imagining whether or not they’d be cotton or lace. Whether she’s wearing a thong or—
Luke stopped the thoughts dead in their tracks. No. He most definitely did not want to know.
Which made this highly irritating. Because, of course, he was going to have to respond. He couldn’t not reply to an e-mail, which meant if he ignored it, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else.
Annoyed that now he was officially late since his minute was up, and trying to ignore the remembered heat of her mouth under his, Luke typed out a reply.
Dear Marisa,
I thought we agreed to keep our distance.
He paused, staring at the screen. Then added:
Please also remember that, as per my new e-mail policy, all e-mail is for work purposes only. So in the future kindly confine your correspondence accordingly.
Luke McNamara
CEO McNamara Financial and Compass Media
There. That should do it.
Luke pressed send, then put the e-mail out of his mind. He had more important things to be worrying about, such as the running of his company. Keeping everything ticking along the way it was supposed to. The way any CEO of a big corporation would.
Because despite his OCD, that’s what he was. A CEO of a big corporation. Successful. Functional. And completely and utterly normal.
“Lisa,” he said, hitting the intercom button. “Please send in my nine thirty now.”
…
Marisa came back from lunch as restless and dissatisfied as she’d been when she’d arrived at work this morning. Turned out that spending money she didn’t have on a dress she didn’t need hadn’t shifted those feelings after all.
Shoving her ill-gotten gains underneath her desk, she sat down and once again found herself staring at the blue glass vase her father had given her. She loved that thing, loved how it reminded her of the hours she used to spend in her father’s workshop, watching him turn liquid glass into sparkling, fragile bubbles of art. After he’d died, she’d sometimes imagined she was one of those bubbles. Brittle and delicate, and liable to shatter.
Especially after Alistair.
Jesus, listen to yourself. Why are you thinking about crap like that? Alistair’s gone and you’re fine. Right? You don’t give a toss. Not anymore.