Drop Dead Gorgeous (28 page)

God, she wanted him. Madison really wanted him. It was almost too much to believe, and he removed his hand, pulling back to stare into her face. “Are you sure about this?”

“I'm sure.” She ran her hand over the top of his head. “I love your head, T. Larry. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Uhhh, no.” She loved bald? “I thought you always said it made me look old and stuffy.”

She grabbed his chin in her fingers and squished his lips together until he felt like a bloated fish. “I
never
thought that, T. Larry. Didn't I tell you bald is sexy?”

“Yes, but—”

She put her thumb on the seam of his lips. “No buts. I love it. And I only said you were stuffy when you were talking about your silly plans. And don't say they're not silly!”

He couldn't say a word, first because the pad of her thumb caressing his lips did odd things to him and second because the thought of her loving his bald head was…nothing short of a miracle.

“I'm not lying, T. Larry.”

He hadn't said a word.

“But I can hear what you're thinking.”

He blinked.

She removed her thumb and brushed his lips with hers. “You've got hot eyes, too, all smoky and stuff, and they do funny things to me. Are you going to make love to me now?”

He swallowed, and knew if he were in his right mind, he wouldn't simply accept everything she said. He'd return to his station on her couch. “I don't have any protection.”

“There's something in the nightstand.”

He wouldn't ask why even as the thought stabbed him. Instead he rose, stripped off his T-shirt and briefs, then opened the drawer to find a full box of condoms. She lay on the bed looking beautiful, trusting and vulnerable.

He put one on while she watched, her eyes glittering with fascination, and then he moved between her legs. He pulsed against her, but something held him back from simply entering, taking. He wished suddenly he hadn't rushed with the condom. Rising above her on his elbows, he nibbled her bottom lip.

“Put me inside you.”

She reached between them, found his length. His fingers joined hers, enjoying the feel of her hand wrapped around him. Then he slid away to touch her, finding the same sweet spot he'd known so lovingly yesterday. She sighed, arched and caressed him with her hand, her touch only slightly diminished by the rubber.

He delved more intimately. God, she was so wet, so ready, as ready as he. Still he couldn't quite believe it. He entered her with two fingers. She squeezed him, then reached down to cup him.

“Do you want me, Madison?” he whispered into her hair.

“Yes. Please.” Her breathy voice made him jerk in her hand.

He withdrew his fingers, sliding them once more over her clitoris, then joined with her hand to guide himself inside. She held his buttocks as he entered fully. God, she was tight. He buried his face in her neck, her hair, and eased deeper. She slid damp fingers to his back, his shoulders, then hugged him close.

Raising her hips to meet him, she rode each thrust.

“Are you going to tell me what the
T
stands for after this?” she whispered as if it were a sweet nothing in his ear.

Jesus. He'd tell her anything she wanted to hear. She was hot and slippery and unlike any woman he'd ever known. And this, this was unlike any act he'd ever known. Her soft cries echoed in his ears as he pumped, and when she started her orgasm, she bit into the flesh of his shoulder. The love bite sent him over the edge, and he dived headlong off the cliff he'd been standing on.

The cliff was called Loving Madison Avenue.

 

M
ADISON HAD BEEN AWAKE
for some time. T. Larry snored gently against her arm. All was right with her world. At least it should have been. He made love to her, the most fantastic glorious love, along with all the other delicious little adjectives she couldn't think of at the moment. T. Larry had taken her beyond anything she'd ever felt in her entire life. Yet…something was missing.

One-sided love just wasn't enough.

With anyone else, she could have deluded herself, but love would never hit T. Larry unexpectedly. She wasn't in his plan.

She rolled to her side, pressing against him, to look at the clock. T. Larry grunted softly but didn't wake. The alarm would go off in two or three minutes. He slept like a child, his face smooth and unlined, almost young.

Looking at him, she ached inside, which wasn't something she was used to. Being in love with T. Larry, she was destined to feel this particular ache a lot. Still, a tiny smile grew on her lips. The man was adorable.

Beep, beep, beep. She didn't use a music alarm. Music lulled her back to sleep.

T. Larry jerked. “What?”

She clambered over him, reached for the switch, then lay still against him, chest to chest. She was hoping for a good-morning kiss. “It's time to get up.”

He didn't put his arms around her. She rolled back to her side of the bed. “I'll take my shower first if you want to lie in bed a little longer.”

“All right.”

Yep, she was destined for that ache.

She'd set her clothes out the night before, jeans and a T-shirt being her only choices since she couldn't stand another turtleneck. She climbed from the bed, made sure her nightshirt—which she'd put back on last night when T. Larry donned his briefs—covered her butt, and gathered her apparel.

“Madison.”

She whirled, ready to throw her baggage to the floor and jump back into bed. “Hmm?”

“Why did you have a box of condoms in your drawer?”

Oh. She'd noticed his hesitation last night. “I bought them for you. Just in case.”

He didn't say anything.

“Are you mad?” Now he could yell about the dream, too.

“No.”

She should go. This was sort of humiliating. “Are you sorry about last night?”

“No.”

Then what? “Do you want to tell me what you're feeling?” Fat chance. He was a man. Men never said what they were feeling.

“Not right now.”

She gathered her bundle close to her chest, but the ache didn't stop. She wanted to tell him she loved him, wanted to ask if he might give up his plans and love her. For the first time in her life, she didn't say a thing that was on her mind.

“I'll take my shower then. Do you want some breakfast?”

“I have some fruit at work.” Then a second later, “Thanks.”

The whole scene was beyond mere humiliation. Making love was supposed to bring two people together. Instead, she couldn't blurt out one teeny-tiny feeling. She padded down the hall to the bathroom and left him alone.

Maybe the
T
stood for Temporary. Temporary Larry, temporary in her life.

Loving him wasn't supposed to hurt like this.

L
AURENCE HAD JUST
pulled into the parking garage after the longest, quietest forty-five minutes he'd ever spent in Madison's company when she broke her silence.

“All right, I'm done.”

His usual parking space was empty, waiting for him. “Done? With what?” Him?

“Pouting.”

“Pouting?”

“T. Larry, why are you repeating everything I say?”

“I'm trying to understand.” He'd never seen her pout. He'd assumed her silence meant she was hurt because he hadn't declared his undying love nor encouraged her to declare hers. Pouting, on the other hand, was an emotion that didn't run deep.

“It's unbecoming. So I'm done. We can get back to normal.”

“Normal?” The night before they'd experienced the most incredible sex of their lives, and now she wanted normal? Maybe the “they” was the problem.
He'd
experienced the most incredible sex of
his
life. He didn't have a clue about Madison.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Repeating what I say,” she almost shouted.

“I think we should talk about last night.”

“I think we shouldn't.” She opened her door, stepped out, then closed it on him.

Then he understood. He'd blown it that morning, when he'd given her monosyllabic answers, terrified if he allowed anything else, he'd humiliate himself by telling her exactly how he felt.

He caught up with her at the elevators in their building. Normal. If normal was what she wanted, that's what she'd get.

They faced the elevator doors. The light dinged, the doors opened. He held them as she boarded, then pushed the button.

Their reflections in the silver door screeched at him. She barely reached his shoulder, especially without her usual high heels. In the wavy image, she was all glorious red hair, he was all bald head and seriousness. What the hell had he been thinking last night? That was the problem,
he
hadn't been doing any thinking at all. His male member had been doing it all.

Just then, Madison slipped her hand in his, tugged on his fingers until his gaze met hers in the silvered door.

“You know, T. Larry, no matter what else happens after this, I want you to know last night was the best night of my life.”

The doors whooshed open, she dropped his hand, graced him with a killer smile and left him to make his own way back down to the gym on the eleventh floor.

She couldn't see it, but an answering smile curved his lips. While everything certainly wasn't right with the world, Laurence was sure it wasn't all completely wrong, either. Madison had said she loved his bald head.

 

L
AURENCE FOUND HER
an hour later on her hands and knees under her desk making sniffing noises. The sight of her delectable rump in the air, encased in tight jeans, gave him heart palpitations.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Don't swear at me,” came from beneath the desk. She backed out, sat on her haunches and stared at him. “Can't you smell it?”

He sniffed just as she had. He hadn't noticed a thing, assailed as he was by prurient images of Madison on all fours. But now that she mentioned it…“What is that odor?”

She plopped her hands down on her thighs. “I smelled it yesterday, but it's way worse today. I checked the trash cans and behind the filing cabinet. I even threw away Richard's flowers.”

Good riddance. “It smells like something died in here. Call Maintenance. Maybe there's a mouse in the air-conditioning.”

“It's only around my desk. I checked the other cubes and the copy room.”

Bill walked by behind Laurence. “New cologne, Madison?”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“That was rude.” Laurence had never heard Bill say anything so downright mean to Madison. The place was going crazy. Had the moon been full last night? That would explain a lot. “What's wrong with him?”

“He's miffed because I spilled coffee on his shirt yesterday.” Madison climbed to her feet and dusted off her hands.

“Didn't you tell him it was an accident?”

“It wasn't.”

He was afraid to ask. “Call Maintenance.”

She did, amidst a chorus of gags and gasps as his crew began to arrive. It was pretty bad. Definitely a mouse. Or a lost and forgotten bit of Madison's meat loaf.

Before the words could leave his mouth, Laurence backed into his office and closed the door. He dropped his briefcase on the desk, hung his jacket, then sat in his chair. A myriad of letters needed signing, client documents needed reviewing, and there were checks to be authorized. He ignored them all, thinking instead about the smoothness of Madison's skin.

He was definitely a basket case.

The door opened behind him. Jeremiah; he recognized the throat clearing. Laurence turned slowly in his chair.

Jeremiah Carp's face had grown to resemble his name the way some people grow to resemble their dogs. His cheeks looked puffed up with air, and his lips seemed to be in a perpetual pucker.

Laurence folded his hands in his lap to hide his state of arousal. “What can I do for you, Jeremiah?”

“It's about that smell.”

“Why are you whispering?”

Jeremiah shrugged, then raised his voice. “I'm not sure.” Entering, he closed the door behind him.

“You were saying?” Laurence prompted.

“The smell. Ryman has a client coming in this afternoon, and he'll pitch a fit if…” Jeremiah's voice trailed off, and he held his hands up in defeat or acceptance.

“We'll have the mess cleaned up by noon. Besides, Ryman can walk his client around the other side of the cubicles. The distance to his office is the same.”

“Actually, he's bringing the client to see you.”

Laurence groaned. “Not Stephen Tortellini.” He snapped his mouth shut, realizing belatedly he'd used a Madison nickname.

“Tortelli,” Jeremiah corrected. “And uh…yes, he's bringing him to see you.” Jeremiah didn't meet his eyes.

“When did you stop backing me on this Tortellini thing?” Laurence already knew. Ryman had gotten to Jeremiah. The man was a pushover, an excellent accountant, but a pushover nonetheless.

“You know Ryman.”

“You were the one who said any man who wore a Rolex watch, drove a new Porsche Boxster and had just purchased a home in Saratoga couldn't be making less than a hundred thousand a year the way Tortellini claims.” Laurence would have given his eyeteeth to live in that quiet little suburb. But he couldn't afford it, and he had brought in over a hundred K last year.

Jeremiah spread his hands and waffled. “Well, on the face of it, I suppose it is a bit suspicious.”

“But you want
me
to handle Ryman.”

Jeremiah puffed his cheeks like a blowfish, then smiled in an almost boyish fashion. “Yes,” he said as he darted for the door, exited, then leaned back in for a parting shot. “Right after you get rid of the smell.”

The situation was becoming farcical.

The phone rang. He let it go four times before he realized Madison wasn't going to pick it up for him.

“Hobbs here.”

“I'm still waiting for an answer.” The slightly stuffy tones of Harry Dump.

“My seventy-two hours aren't up.”

“You just want time to put pressure on Miss Hartman.”

He raised a brow though no one would notice. “Yes. You're exactly right. And I think she's caving, Dump.” He was sure to give the name its phonetic pronunciation.

“I won't put up with any shenanigans, Hobbs.”

“So sue me.”

He rammed the receiver back in its cradle, hoping the noise would split the man's eardrums. Damn, that felt good. He should have been worried about Madison's reputation, about his position in the firm.

Primarily, he felt like a warrior in battle. He was going to win. Ryman would drop that damn client like a hot potato. Harriet would drop her suit. And Madison…

What did he want from Madison?

 

S
TAN THE
M
AN
—Madison wasn't sure of his last name—stretched on his ladder, screwing the air-conditioning plate back in place, his plumber's crack staring her in the face.

“I really don't think there's anything up there, Madison. You'd smell it all over the office, maybe even the whole building, if something died up there.”

“I've looked everywhere down here. It has to be up there.”

Stan climbed down, hitched his pants up as far as they would go, scratched two inches short of his privates and took a deep, considering breath. “Did you check out your desk?”

“How could a mouse have gotten in my desk?”

“They're sneaky little bastards.”

“Stan,” she warned.

He gave her a pudgy grin. “Sneaky little sons-a-bitches?”

“That's even worse. I think.”

He erased his smile. “All right. The ‘little darlings' can get into anything. Open your drawers.”

She wanted to laugh, but then she'd have to explain the image to Stan. So she did as he asked while he watched over her shoulder, sniffing close to her ear.

“See, I told you there isn't anything in there.”

He did some more sniffing and snuffling, his nose wrinkling. Shuffling across the carpet, he bent at the waist. Madison had the awful thought that he looked and sounded a bit like a pig.

“It's over here somewhere,” Stan pointed, “and closer to the floor. What about that file cabinet?”

“I don't usually go into the bottom drawer. It's just got some old diskettes and stuff.” Plus it was her secret hideaway for T. Larry's body parts, when she had a mind to tell people she'd cut him up with her chain saw.

Stan, still leaning over and shocking her with an enormous amount of his crack, put one hand on his knee and slid the drawer open with the other. The smell intensified.

“Ewwwwe.” Madison put her hand over her nose and mouth.

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“What for God's sake is that?” Voices punctuated Stan's.

“I'm gonna puke.”

She didn't have to turn to know it was Mike, Anthony and Bill. They stood at her cubicle opening like a grazing herd.

Seemingly undisturbed by his audience, Stan rummaged around in the contents of the drawer. “You know what's in that box?”

“What box?” She didn't want to get close enough to see.

“The one that says ‘Happy Birthday, Madison' on it.”

A present? Hidden in her drawer? Ooh, how fun. She stepped forward, stopped. “That's not what stinks, is it?”

Hands on both knees, Stan looked over his shoulder. “Don't know. But one of us has to open it. I just didn't want to spoil your birthday surprise.”

“Smells like it's already spoiled,” quipped one of the herd.

Someone else snickered. A crowd was gathering. Even Harriet had come out to play. Standing next to the wall, ZZ Top's gaze moved from Harriet to Madison and back over the massed heads.

As a matter of pride and bravado, Madison took the box. Multicolored balloon paper wrapped what seemed to be a shoe box. Written in each of the balloons on top, in different-colored inks, “Happy Birthday, Madison” shouted at her.

The stench was everywhere now, clinging to her nostrils, making it impossible to tell the origin. Certainly not this festive shoe box. She slid a fingernail along the underside of the lid, slicing the paper neatly.

“Don't you need to blow out a candle before you open your present?” Bill needling her.

“That's before you cut the cake.”

“Smells like someone cut the cheese.” Anthony? Mike? She couldn't tell.

Fear suddenly wet her palms. Something terrible lay in wait for her. Maybe it was the tire slashings, the calls, her clothes, everything catching up with her; her hands started to shake.

“You want I should open it for you, Madison?”

Stan. What a man. She wished T. Larry would come out of his office and rescue her. But it was best not to admit weakness when you were actually freaking out. “I can do it.”

She set the box down on the desk because she couldn't stand to hold the present against her while she opened it. Slicing through the paper the rest of the way, she slipped a finger beneath the lid, hesitating.

“Come on, Madison, we can't stand the suspense.” Laughter.

She wondered if they knew how scared she was.