Hired Help - Working Stiffs Book One

Working Stiffs - Book One

HIRED HELP

S.L. Carpenter

Sahara Kelly

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 S.L. Carpenter, Sahara
Kelly

Cover Art Copyright 2012, S.L. Carpenter for
P and N Graphics, LLC

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Kelly at
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Carpenter at
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Authors’ Note

Every woman deserves a working stiff!

Welcome to a new series by S.L. Carpenter
and Sahara Kelly wherein women are rewarded with the man of their
dreams and those patient, hard working stiffs find bliss by the
bucketful in the arms of the right woman. They’re not perfect; in
fact flaws are expected because they’re all human. Just like us.
Sometimes the passion is there like a tiny ember, and it isn’t
until their eyebrows are melting that a couple realizes it. Other
times it explodes like an uncorked bottle of champagne that
somebody shook first, drowning lovers in a storm of ecstasy.
 Yeah. Stuff like that!

Collaborating on this story, Scott and
Sahara did what they do best – had a ton of fun writing some hot
and sexy scenes, interspersed with their unique blend of reality
and humor. In upcoming books, they’ll branch off on their own, each
writing new stories based around this idea and occasionally getting
together for another collaboration, just for the heck of it and
because they can. These are short, hot and mostly sweet tales.
Don’t look for depth, angst or massive amounts of conflict because
you won’t find it. You will find laughter, passion and some
sizzling hot sex. In other words, an escape into some seductive
pleasures that Scott and Sahara hope will make you smile and sweat
a bit.

If that happens, let them know? There’s
nothing these two writers like better than hearing that their words
brought a little laughter into a reader’s life. Because we’re all
working stiffs when it comes right down to it…

Chapter One

“God, that’s a fabulous ass.”

“What?”

Realizing she’d spoken the words out loud,
Rose Jackson blushed and quickly turned away from the male rear end
she’d been studying. “Nothing. Sorry. I was just wondering if this
was a Fabio Lesasse. French mid-twentieth century artist, limited
edition print.” She leaned toward a picture on the wall,
uncomfortably aware she was lying like a rug, babbling while she
did it, and embarrassed as hell she’d revealed her private
thoughts.

A snort answered her. “Hmph.” Her security
officer and sometime bodyguard returned to his scrutiny of the back
of a bedside table.

He was thorough, no doubt about it. Another
point in his favor - to go along with his really world-class butt.
“Look, Mel, d’you really think all this is necessary?”

“My job is to keep you secure, Ms. Jackson.
I won’t take any chances with your safety.”

“Yeah, but jeez. Under the bed, I can see.
Checking the closets? Okay, I’ll buy that too. But behind the
bedside tables? This is a private resort, for God’s sake. You think
you’ll find trouble in the candles? Or could the satin bedspread be
a serious threat?”

He ignored her scoffing tone. “Never know
where there could be hidden microphones. Or other kinds of
bugs.”

“Anyone ever tell you you probably watch way
too many spy movies?”

“Nope.”

“Well just as long as you’re removing bugs
not planting them.” Rose’s comment was met with a raised eyebrow.
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Don’t think I’ll forget
that camera you planted in the Holbrook conference room.”

“Just being safe.
Besides,
they
had
one there too, if you remember.” He eased the furniture back into
place. “And I wouldn’t think twice about putting one in here if I
thought your safety was on the line.”

“It’s not.” She lifted her chin.

“You sure?”

What could she say?
I’m here to get fucked, not
murdered
? Not an option. She settled for
simply giving him her own raised eyebrow. Which, Mel being Mel,
bounced off him like a ping-pong ball off a Mack truck.

“Looks clear. Even the pool.” He glanced
over his shoulder to a partially hidden corner of the huge
room.

“What?” Rose followed his gaze and noticed a
rather opulent bath tucked behind some lush plants. It could’ve
seated eight at a pinch. Definitely a party place, if one was into
water sports. She grinned. “That’s a whirlpool tub, not a
pool.”

“Never seen a bath you could do laps in.
That’s a pool in my book.”

“Update your book, Mel. I guess they’re more
common these days.”

Together they walked back into the living
area, where he took a final glance around the room, nodded briefly
and opened the door. “I’ll be outside. You need me, call. I’ll hear
you.”

The light from the hall silhouetted his tall
form for a moment and then the door closed, leaving Rose alone in
the elegantly decorated suite where huge windows were cloaked with
rich velvet drapes against the oncoming night. A crystal table lamp
shed its soft light on the muted tones of the thick carpet.

She strolled to the buffet that lined one
wall and gazed at the mass of scented candles, then let her fingers
drift over the tasteful selection of high-end glossy magazines, her
thoughts still on Mel.

He’s good at his
job
.

He spoke little, was as unobtrusive as a
shadow, and yet…lately she’d noticed something in his eyes when
they met hers.

He looks at me like he’s
interested
.
Like
he wants to take my clothes off and check me for bugs. And I think
I’d let him. Which is entirely the fault of being celibate for too
long.

Maybe she was imagining it. He’d been by her
side, protecting her ever since her husband had been felled by an
aneurism and left her in sole control of Jackson Enterprises. Now
that she fit the description of incredibly rich widow, she supposed
she needed a bodyguard. She had taken over the reins of the
business, developed new campaigns and worked hard on new leads over
the past eighteen months. She’d proved herself worthy of the CEO
position she’d inherited - but at one hell of a cost.

To accomplish her goals, she’d sacrificed
herself in a variety of ways…no social life, no parties, no
adventurous foreign vacations…not even a shopping trip down Fifth
Avenue more than once every six months or so. Sometimes she’d had
to remind herself to shower. It had been all work, all the time.
Deaf to the entreaties of her friends, she’d hunkered down in her
office, and only now could she come up for air, breathe, and take a
few hours for herself. The work was still there, but she had it
running the way she wanted at last, with people she could rely on
taking some of the burden from her shoulders.

Of course, the change in her situation and
her new accessibility brought about its own share of problems.

Not a day passed without a friend
approaching her bearing a suggestion. Often it was for a blind
date, or occasionally it was the phone number of some businessman
they knew who wanted to take her to dinner. Which was all well and
good, but not anything Rose was particularly interested in. Even
though the last couple of years had been spent in near-hermitlike
isolation, she wasn’t a fool and had a well-developed streak of
practicality.

She knew she couldn’t trust anyone to go out
with her as Rose and not Ms. Jackson, rich widow. Doubtless those
men existed. But she’d rather be safe than sorry. A woman in her
position only gave her trust to those who absolutely earned it. Or
to those whose discretion she’d purchased.

Which had brought her here, to this
up-market and discreet hideaway. A place where she was going to
rediscover a side of herself she’d buried and damn near forgotten
about.

A place where she intended to let a man take
her body and pleasure it, use his skills to bring her joy,
excitement and - she hoped - at least one eye-rolling, scream
inducing, stress releasing, toe-curling orgasm. Maybe even two.

Yep. Rose blinked at her reflection in the
fancy mirror over the buffet, not seeing the elegant and slender
brunette with the blue-green eyes, but the daring lass with Irish
blood in her veins, who’d gone out on a limb and worked her way to
this moment.

She had done it. She’d booked herself a room
and a man. She’d gone to her spa for the first time in ages, had
her hair done, and bought the latest in silk ensembles - a blouse
that drifted over her modest curves and a skirt that floated freely
around her shapely calves. It wasn’t edgy, and probably wouldn’t
have made the cover of any fashion magazine, but as soon as she’d
put it on, she’d felt -- feminine. Now, however, she caught a
glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors in the room.

Eeek
.
This damned outfit makes my ass
look fat
.

She’d taken the advice of her few trusted
girlfriends, listened to their enthusiastic encouragement, and then
picked up the phone to dial the number they’d given her. At the
beginning there had been more than a little skepticism in her
attitude, since public perception listed this out-of-town hideaway
as either a celebrity rehab center or a post-cosmetic surgery
recovery spa. Neither was accessible to those with less than
several millions in their disposable income bank accounts. Those
lovely CEO petty cash funds that seemed to attract expensive and
alluring invitations like flowers lured bees.

But apparently both descriptions were
carefully crafted misdirections, nurtured by subtle rumors and
gossip. Only the privileged few knew that it was, in fact, a
high-class and prohibitively expensive palace of sexual
pleasure.

For
women
.

And if the clients emerged refreshed,
smiling and walking tall - well, it was only natural to place the
blame on newly enhanced sobriety, or laser skin resurfacing. What
else would make a woman glow?

After Rose’s first call, it had been
surprisingly simple.

“We’ll be happy to accommodate you, Ms.
Jackson. All charges will be handled with discretion and from what
you’ve told us, our data indicate that Josh will be best suited to
meet your requirements.” The voice was professionally soothing, the
information concise and efficient.

Rose appreciated both, accepted the
recommendation and here she was, nervous, ready and waiting in the
elegant room, with the comforting knowledge that Mel would be
within earshot if she needed him.

He’ll be listening. Shit. Do I scream when I
come? It’s been so long since I had sex with anything that wasn’t
battery-powered, I’ve forgotten.

What must he think? Was he running one hand
through his short dark hair, the way he did sometimes when he was
working on a problem? And what was going on behind those brown
eyes? Were the tiny golden flecks bright today in the lamplight, or
were they muted, giving him that certain look Rose privately
thought of as his predatory stare?

Christ, if he did plant a micro mini video
cam - although I doubt it - he’ll see my ‘orgasm face’. Do I have
one? Those magazines all say I’m supposed to.

She glanced at her reflection and twisted up
her nose, squinting and frowning at herself. Then she gave up and
sighed. The candlelight and single lamp were flattering, softening
the planes of her cheeks and making her slender body look lusher
than she knew it was. She wasn’t a big woman anywhere. Her breasts
were adequate, but not eye-catching, and next to Mel she felt
definitely feminine and almost petite. Of course, he’d never
mentioned her breasts at all.

Never given so much as a hint that he might
find her attractive physically. Which was quite correct, of course.
He worked for her. There couldn’t be anything in the least bit
sexual between them.

She couldn’t, for example, imagine his hands
on her adequate breasts, or his mouth between her legs. Nope. That
was not acceptable.