For All the Wrong Reasons (32 page)

The odd nice suit did not a mogul make. Michael recalled Iris. When his bonus went out the door, so did she. He hated gold-diggers with a passion.

But he could not hate Diana. She just wouldn't let him. All his fighting to stay neutral and not hit on her, what had it meant? Just about nothing, when he thought he was faced with a lover of hers.

Michael's groin had refused to be silenced that day.

And it was a good thing. If he hadn't kissed her and taken her home, he might never have known what it felt like to really master a woman; not just an easy lay, the latest of the long string of girls he didn't know, or girls he quite liked, some woman he had selected from all the girls flinging themselves at him because he needed a piece of ass. Diana, he had dreamed of. Thought about. Been distracted by.

She fascinated him. And he admired the way she had adapted to working for a living.

But, Cicero told himself, it was nothing more than that.

How could he fall for an uptown girl like Diana? She sat opposite him, in a delicate pink shift dress worked with tiny yellow daisies embroidered over the hem, a sharp matching jacket that cut under her full breasts and made the whole thing just about work-friendly. He had no idea who the designer was. Some logo was emblazoned over the tiny buttons. D&G, Dolce & Gabbana. It was another outfit that looked sensational and must have cost … well, best not to guess about that.

He reminded himself she had never asked him for anything. But was that because she thought of him as her boss, rather than her boyfriend?

Their relationship had never been defined. They worked together and fucked like rabbits. Every time he promised himself he would scale it down, his resolve evaporated when he touched her, or saw her, or spoke to her. Maybe she'd be screaming at some delivery company that was late with a package, and Cicero would suddenly look at her mouth and imagine it sliding over his skin. Or maybe she would be bending over her desk, studying cover copy, and that glorious ass would be sticking out in his face, round and firm, flaring out from her tiny waist. The effect was the same. His heart started to race, his groin stirred, he looked at her and had to have her. Sure, he liked Diana and she liked him, but they were too different. They were just friends who had sex.

Michael told himself this daily.

“I'm listening to any suggestions you have,” he said easily. “I always do. You're pretty bright, for a foreigner.”

Diana raised one neatly plucked brow. “That's a laugh. In England, you need a satchel and a lunch box to go to school. In America they issue bullet-proof vests at the door.”

“I know you're big on gun control, but that's not the Constitution. Anyway, I'm sure you didn't drag me out here to have a political discussion,” he said, dryly.

“No.” She looked down and blushed, and he remembered the flushing of her skin under him this morning, the red patches over her breasts, the long red lines where he had slowly raked his nails across her belly. Diana writhed and gasped more than any other woman he had ever known. They were hot together. Yet when she left his bed, she was more reserved than ever.

She's fascinating. She's infuriating.

“I wanted to suggest that we should be careful. We leave the office together too often. We shouldn't arrive in the same car.”

Michael swallowed a sip of the black, thick espresso and masked his disquiet. Diana didn't want to be seen with him.

“You think people will talk?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said, nodding. Her brown hair—he had told her he wanted her to go natural—suited those sharp cheekbones, those full, pouting lips. Her creamy skin looked warmer, her eyes sparkled. “It's not businesslike. You don't want people thinking you gave me my job just because…”

She let the sentence hang in the air.

“Just because we sleep together,” Michael said. “That's a good idea.”

Diana smiled at him and lifted her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She had to draw on all her reserves with Michael to keep from losing her soul. She admired him, and she wanted him and sometimes, when she looked across at him while he was sleeping, she caught herself having deeper feelings. But she ignored them, because he didn't let her get to him.

Diana had been rejected once before. She wasn't going to take any chances now. Michael refused to open up to her. She wanted to end it, but she couldn't. He aroused her like she had never known.

Sex was no longer frustrating and enervating. This time, when she was turned on, she was satisfied. If that was the word for it … squirming and whimpering, clutching at Michael as he pounded into her, the thickness of his cock driving all caution away. It was hard to make barriers when she kept remembering the way his thumbs rubbed gently back and forth across her nipples, his palms slipped down to cradle her ass and caress her pussy, softly, until she was twisting in his hands, begging him to fuck her again. And Michael Cicero was not a pretty boy. With the shirt and suit off, the bull-like chest was fully revealed, the thickness of his biceps, the dark, wiry hair that covered his chest and his arms. The face that stared down at her, kissing her hard as his hands pinned her arms over her head, teasing her, keeping her motionless, was a man's face, broken-nosed, dark-eyed, thick black lashes, close-cropped black hair. Ernie's skinny frame seemed even more unattractive and … Diana flinched in distaste at the thought of his cock.

Maybe it was true that size didn't matter … but she didn't think so.

It wasn't about length, it was about thickness. How long Michael was she really didn't know … about average, maybe. What had her biting her lips to stop from crying out was the solid thickness of him, that stubby, wide, sweet plunging, relentless flesh that was so merciless in seeking out her pleasure. Cicero was a master. Outside the bedroom, Diana thought she could handle him, but inside the bedroom, his word was law. Michael wasn't a sensitive lover. He didn't go for poetry and long candlelit, soul-baring dinners. They rarely got to dessert before his hand was rising up her knee and he was shoving her into a cab, touching her breast under her jacket, firing her blood and making her breath come out in ragged gasps. He pinned her down across the bed, a table, his knees. He held her locked in place with his body, one hand holding down both her arms with utter ease as the other roamed across her body, tormenting her. And when he finally agreed to fuck her, Michael knew how to pace it, driving her, forcing her up to the brink, tilting her body so his cock pressed against that soft, melting spot on her inner walls that forced her to yield, the pleasure exploding inside her like a firework, a white-hot, blinding shower of stars.

But he was so stern and disapproving of her.

She tried a million different outfits, and none of them seemed to please him. Sometimes Diana felt they were circling each other like wolves about to strike, not sure whether to mate or fight.

She needed to know how he felt. She had hoped he would tell her she was being dumb, that he wanted to be seen with her.

No such luck. Cicero accepted what she was saying without hesitation. Diana was sure he didn't love her.

“Well, that's settled.” She smiled as brightly as she could. “I'll go first; I know you like your breakfast.”

“Yeah, see you in the office. And maybe tonight.”

“Maybe,” Diana agreed.

She lowered her glass, stood and walked out. She didn't let the tears prickle in her eyes until she was safely out on the sidewalk.

She is one cold woman, Michael thought grimly.

He's made of stone, Diana said to herself.

*   *   *

After that, they arrived at the office separately. The irony was that once the office doors had shut behind them, they got on famously, enjoying each other's ambition and dynamism.

Michael drew up business plans and made presentations to software houses.

Diana listened to his vision and increased her hiring. It was amazing to her that he could found a computer-games company when he knew nothing about computers. But Michael's passion was infectious. Book-industry insiders who knew him recommended him to colleagues in the tech market. It usually only took one meeting, with Michael's business savvy and Diana's poise, for the fishes to bite.

“I don't know code from crack, but I
do
know kids,” Michael explained. “If we hire the right people, we can execute the vision. Is David Geffen a musician? Is Donald Trump an architect? Hell no. You don't need to be. You need to hire the right people and come up with the right numbers.”

“But in that case we might as well be selling soap,” Diana protested.

“We might, but I don't want to sell soap. You can work to make money or you can work at your dream. But if you choose to work for the dream, you'll make more money.”

“I guess so.”

“People are interested, aren't they?” Michael demanded.

She couldn't deny it. “Very.”

“Imperial is going places. Trust me. I know about these things.”

Stung by his arrogance, she couldn't help but needle him. “You're only thirty-one, Michael, and so far you have one aborted book house to your credit.”

“I know about these things,” Michael said simply, shrugging.

Diana didn't press the point. The trouble was, she believed him.

THIRTY

“Interesting,” Ernie said.

He steepled his fingers, which he thought made him look statesmanlike. Jack Fineman's cool, air-conditioned office looked out over Washington Square Park. Ernie gazed unseeing at the nannies walking their charges and the chess players hustling the rubes, and considered the information his lawyer had dug up.

“So how much exactly would you say Cicero was worth?”

A nanny in jeans and a soft cashmere sweater strolled by, pushing a double stroller. So many New York wives were on fertility treatments now that you saw twins and triplets everywhere. Ernie disliked kids. He turned back to Fineman, awaiting his answer.

“Imperial's just a small company.”

Fineman shuffled through his papers. Ernie was a seedy operator, no doubt about it. Fineman's firm wasn't used to hiring private eyes to trail people, as though Ernie were some suburban wronged wife with a grudge. But they paid out the big bucks, and clients with egos were always capricious. The lawyer knew that in this matter he had to pander to his client. “They have an independent distribution deal, plus they write games for some of the bigger houses. But they've also been talking to a lot of banks, even investment banks. I'd say they're gearing up to make an offering on Wall Street. Go public, get serious capitalization.”

Ernie shifted. “You didn't answer my question, mate.”

“I'm getting there.” Fineman smiled broadly. “Right now he might be taking home a hundred, a hundred and fifty a year. He literally takes money from sales and pays off overheads, wages, health plans, etc. But he owns the company one hundred percent. Any IPO would be based on potential, not the small numbers they're managing right now as a boutique firm. They have a unique product in a small corner of the market, educational software. Kids like learning with their games. Word of mouth is excellent. I think an IPO would be a big success.”

“So if they go public, how much does he get?” Ernie frowned slightly. He wasn't interested in background, just answers.

“The sky's the limit. Conservatively, twenty million dollars. Maybe more.”

Twenty million?

Ernie felt his stomach drop. That would put the little bastard up there with him. He had a lot of toys—the chauffeur on permanent call, the charter planes, the chopper rides—but they were company perks. He was employed, and Michael Cicero owned his product. He glanced out over the park again as though he were totally unconcerned.

“Of course, then he loses control of the company.”

“Not necessarily. He doesn't have to float it all. He could sell off a forty-nine percent share, or even less than that.”

“I don't like the thought of a rival taking that slice of the market,” Ernie said calmly. “You know we have an interest in games, too.”

Fineman pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Then I can only suggest you bring your division to the Street's attention, Mr. Foxton. At the moment, his product is unique. And the market loves uniqueness.”

“Right,” Ernie said, thoughtfully. “I better be going.” Fineman stood and showed his client out. He wondered how Cicero would take this. They had screwed him over once. It seemed harsh to do it twice, but hey, business was business.

*   *   *

Opie led the applause and then the dive for the beer.

“Great speech, boss.” He grinned up at Michael cheekily. “Inspiring, huh? Maybe we should get out some brass eagles and send the legions unto battle?”

There was warm laughter.

The staff was crammed into the upstairs room at the White Horse Tavern, Greenwich Village's answer to an English pub, which Michael had booked for the office party. There was a keg of beer and three different wines, and the troops were getting rowdy. Not that he minded.

The Alpha Series of games had recently been launched on the market. After months of code-crunching, rushing the printers and browbeating the independent distribution system, the first Imperial games had finally landed in the stores. Opie had turned to web design and set up a site for direct sales, too, while Diana negotiated shipping contracts with UPS.

The reviewers just loved them. Even the commercial gaming mags had gotten into the act. Around the room were hung, courtesy of Diana, large blow-up posters of the more notable reviews.
PC World
screamed “Revolutionary.”
Gamer
said “Exciting and Addictive.” But the most prominent place was reserved for the tiny inch-long slot they'd gotten in
Time
magazine, that called them “The best reason for moms to love a mouse in the house.” Below the brief rave they had printed the website address. And after that, there had been no stopping Imperial. The factory could not keep up with demand. They were limiting the units per store, per region, per customer, which made them must-haves, creating a delicious, sexy little consumer buzz.