Love and Brimstone Read online

  “Mr. Hawthorne values his privacy,” Thompson said as if reading her thoughts. “Considering the nature of our many businesses, it’s best not to have people poking around. Easier to bring in those we need rather than worrying about keeping others out. If you were wondering, only certain ID cards allow access to this floor unattended. If you need assistance with paperwork or tasks such as that, your assistant is one floor below. You can video conference with her or she can come up to you. You don’t have to go down to her unless you want to.”

  “Saves my time?”

  “Correct. Janice is assigned to you. She has been with us for many years and is very—”

  “Efficient?”

  He smiled. “Quite. The main receptionist downstairs screens our calls. For now, most of Mr. Hawthorne’s calls will come to me. Once you’re up to speed, you’ll take most of his calls. Few go directly to him. Usually if he gets a private call, it comes through his work or personal cell phones. There will be few things you won’t be authorized to handle for him. With the exceptions he’ll go over personally, the rare others can come to me.”

  “How often is Mr. Hawthorne in the office?”

  “He might be here for a month straight, and then gone for six. Ah, hello, Murry.”

  A huge black cat with a white star-shaped mark in the middle of its forehead jumped up onto the library table. He loudly purred.

  “That’s a good sign indeed,” Thompson said.

  She reached out and petted it. It rubbed its head against her, its purring louder. “Why’s that?”

  “He doesn’t like most people.”

  One question answered. “Really?”

  Thompson nodded. “He’s been with Mr. Hawthorne for years. He isn’t a very social cat, I’m afraid.”

  The cat proceeded to make a liar out of Thompson by meowing at him and head butting her elbow.

  “I’m impressed, Ms. Proctor. He seems to have taken an instant liking to you.”

  Taz scratched the cat under his chin and along his back at the base of his tail. Murry purred even louder still as he closed his eyes and arched against her hand. “I think I just made a friend.”

  * * * *

  Murry followed her to her office and curled up in a corner chair, watching her work. She didn’t mind. She loved animals, but she didn’t have time for any of her own.

  Albert Thompson stuck his head in her open doorway. “Oh, Ms. Proctor, did you find your passport?”

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “Good. You may be going to London on Friday.”

  “Ah. Okay.”

  He disappeared. She briefly wondered how he knew she had to find it when her phone rang, distracting her. Robertson.

  “How’s the first day going, sweetheart?”

  “You should see this place. It’s amazing.” She hadn’t seen the inside of Hawthorne’s office yet, but if hers was this nice, she imagined his was even nicer.

  “I imagine.”

  “Guess what? I was just informed I might be going to London this week.”

  “Excellent. I can hold my toga party while you’re gone.”

  She laughed so hard she thought she’d wet her pants. He knew how to crack her up. Tea party, maybe. Toga party? Robertson?

  He’d die first.

  * * * *

  Her office came with a custom sound system, satellite TV—sixty-inch plasma flat screen, thank you very much—and an inner office lounge area. Including a full private bathroom with shower. She could come to work, exercise, and shower before starting her day. Not that she was a huge exercise freak, but instead of dragging herself to the gym after work once or twice a week, she could incorporate it as part of her daily routine. She’d been meaning to work out more. Now she had no excuse not to get into better shape.

  The next day she brought several CDs to work with her. There was little traffic on their floor, and she left her door open with her music turned down low so she didn’t disturb Thompson. “Classical Gas” was currently playing, relaxing her without distraction.

  “I love Mannheim Steamroller.”

  She jumped. Matthias Hawthorne leaned against her doorway, smiling. Maybe she would have to start closing her door so he couldn’t sneak up on her. The guy sure was quiet.

  “Mr. Hawthorne. I didn’t hear you.”

  “I’m sorry I startled you. I just wanted to drop in and see how you’re doing. Is Albert getting you settled?”

  “Everything is wonderful, thank you.” She tried to keep her eyes low, on his mouth—no, that wouldn’t work, she wanted to kiss those lips, but if she looked into those gorgeous eyes…

  His lips curled in a smile. “Excellent. Did he tell you I might need you in London this week?”

  She tried to control the heat building inside her under his gaze. “I’ll make sure I pack.”

  “You’d only be gone a couple of days at the most, if you go. I personally keep a bag packed here, just in case. You can always buy what you need when you get there. Just put it on your corporate cards. Our travel department will handle arrangements for you, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took a step inside her office, as if reluctant to intrude. “I wanted to thank you for coming on board, Ms. Proctor. I know our company will greatly benefit from having you with us.”

  That was nice of him. Bob Stanley always made her feel appreciated, but it was good to hear from the head honcho himself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  He smiled, nodded, and left as quietly as he arrived. Like a ghost.

  She was glad he didn’t try to get her to call him Matthias. Maybe Albert did, and maybe in the future she would, too, but not now. Not yet.

  He was too damn gorgeous to get close to.

  I’m not about to screw up the job of a lifetime by sleeping with the boss.

  That evening, when she retrieved her car from the valet, she noticed it was gassed up and detailed.

  What a time-saver.

  Quite, as Robertson would say.

  She felt spoiled. And loved it.

  Chapter Seven

  It didn’t take Taz long to get into a new routine. Normally not the earliest of risers, she found herself eager to be out of the house by five every morning. It allowed her time to use the exercise equipment with no interruptions. Apparently the valet staff worked twenty-four seven and were always ready when she arrived. The London trip washed out, but one morning midway through her second week, she was surprised to find someone already in the gym.

  Matthias Hawthorne had worked up quite a sweat on the treadmill. She paused in the doorway and gulped. He wore headphones and didn’t seem to notice her at first. When he did, he waved, then went back to his jog.

  Relieved, she made her way to an exercise bike on the far side of the room. Normally she ran the treadmill, but she was afraid she’d be too close to him and stare.

  Even with his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him he was gorgeous. He had a nice body, just a few extra pounds on his abs, but his legs and arms looked firm and lean. Combined with strong, smooth hands and long, slender fingers…

  She cut that thought off.

  She wondered what it would feel like having his cock buried deep inside her pussy…

  So not helping!

  She closed her eyes and pedaled harder, faster, trying to banish the image. He was gorgeous. She hoped he didn’t make this his new routine. He was far too distracting.

  Eventually she glanced his way again and saw him working a cool-down routine with weights.

  Oh good, he’ll be going soon. She didn’t know if that was relief or regret twisting her stomach.

  She finished on the bike and headed to a treadmill. Hawthorne smiled and waved her over.

  Crap.

  “Would you mind spotting me? I didn’t want to bother you before. I’d like to do a few lifts.”

  “Uh, okay. Sure.”

  He set up a weight bench for one-hundred pounds, and s
he stood behind him, trying not to stare down at him—

  those gorgeous arms

  —while he lifted. Her gaze drifted to his waist, to his shorts, and she realized his loose shorts didn’t conceal much. She shivered, wondering again what he was like in bed…

  She mentally smacked herself. Don’t do this, Taz. Don’t screw this up!

  True to his word, he was done in a few minutes. He looked up at her. She couldn’t move her eyes fast enough and caught the full-on force of his gaze, which melted her very soul. Her panties felt instantly soaked as her clit throbbed and her nipples tightened.

  “Thank you, Ms. Proctor. I appreciate it.”

  Then he sat up. She found herself stammering, “You’re welcome,” and returned to the treadmill.

  He left. Ten minutes later she gave up trying to finish her routine. She was too rattled, too distracted.

  Too damn horny.

  She couldn’t forget the image of him walking out of the gym, his firm thighs disappearing under his shorts…

  Urgh! It had been too long since her last boyfriend. That’s all.

  Way too long.

  She stopped for a cup of coffee at the cafeteria and rode the elevator up. Hawthorne would, hopefully, be in his office taking a shower.

  Boy, wouldn’t I like to help him soap up.

  Argh! This. Is. Not. Helping!

  She retreated to her office and locked the door. Then in the shower she stood under water as cold as she could tolerate, trying to wash the image of Matthias Hawthorne’s delicious body out of her mind.

  * * * *

  By week four, Taz had settled into her job and, fortunately, Hawthorne didn’t reappear in the gym. She relaxed, enjoying the work. She wasn’t in close proximity to Hawthorne for any great length of time and found each encounter easier to endure than the last.

  But she still found him totally yummalicious.

  One afternoon, Hawthorne knocked on her open door. She looked up. “Come in, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  He smiled. “Up for a car trip?”

  She tried to conceal her surprise. “Beg pardon?”

  “I’ve got an issue up in Vancouver.”

  “Canada?”

  He laughed. “Washington state.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you be ready to leave in thirty minutes?”

  She nodded. “I need to get some things out of my car. We’re not flying?”

  “I need to stay out of airplanes for a few days. I’m sick of flying. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all.” Not if you don’t mind me barfing all over you out of sheer nervousness.

  “Bring those other files with you, please. The ones we’ve been going through. We can talk about them on the way.”

  “Right.”

  She was glad she had her workout bag with her. Whatever she didn’t have she could pick up on the road. She packed, shut down her laptop, then called the valets to get what she needed from her car and put it wherever it needed to go. They were spookily…

  Efficient.

  She was waiting for him by the elevator twenty-nine minutes later. He smiled as he walked toward her, an overnight bag casually slung over his shoulder. She was still in her Versace suit and suddenly felt way overdressed compared to him. He wore jeans, tan white-soled boat shoes, and a blue pique-collared golf shirt.

  “Nothing like the open road.” He smiled, and before she could protest, he grabbed one of her bags and carried it.

  She thought they would take one of the larger cars, but she was wrong. Downstairs awaited a 1968 Mustang coupe, Acapulco blue. Her things were already inside.

  “You’re kidding!” She stared, her jaw slack.

  Hawthorne handed their bags to the valet. “Care to guess? I heard you’re a motor head.”

  A race-car driver’s daughter, she immediately knew what he meant and shook her head. “If you tell me it’s only got a 200 under the hood, I’m gonna lose all respect for you, boss.” The Ice Queen had thawed. That was the most familiar she’d been toward him. “Is it a 390?”

  It was a 1968 Mustang—could it get any better?

  “You’ve got to be kidding. A 200? Please. 427. Four speed.”

  She ran her hand over the door. Flawless. It was either cherry original or a very meticulous restoration. Smooth, no dings, no filler marks, not a hint of orange peel in the paint. The interior looked pristine, and with the exception of a CD player XM radio with an MP3 port, it was also original or a damn good restoration.

  “How long have you owned it?”

  She couldn’t read his smile. “A few years.”

  She grinned, and for once she forgot how attracted she was to him. “You aren’t cruel enough to coop me up in this all the way to Vancouver and back and not let me drive, are you?”

  He tossed her the keys, startling her, but she caught them. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Sure she was dreaming, Taz tried to read Hawthorne’s expression as she passed him, swapping sides. She adjusted the driver seat, her legs a little shorter than his. She kicked off her heels and put them on the floor behind her seat. Brake and clutch, she shifted it into neutral. Then brake and gas, she fired it off. It roared to life immediately.

  Taz closed her eyes and gripped the wheel. She hadn’t been in one of these in…years. Her dad’s ’65 Mustang had a 260 engine. She still remembered one of the few times he picked her up from school, when she turned sixteen, the afternoon he taught her how to drive.

  One of the few things he did as her father that Robertson didn’t have to.

  He’d sold it when she was eighteen. It nearly broke her heart, but he’d wanted her to have a larger, safer car with airbags, the whole nine yards. Every time she saw a classic Mustang it always struck a melancholy chord, reminding her of the best of her father.

  I wish I still had that car.

  Praying she didn’t make an ass out of herself and stall it—or worse, grind the gears or screw up a shift—she adjusted the old-style seatbelt to fit and roared out of the parking garage.

  Hawthorne encouraged her to floor it on the freeway when they were north of the city. She wound it up, and soon they were doing eighty. She liked her Accord, and the corporate Town Car was nice.

  But there was nothing like a muscle car.

  She noticed at a gas stop it had a Florida license plate on the back. “I usually keep it down there,” he explained, “but I’ve missed driving it. I had it shipped. It arrived last week.”

  They made good time up I-5. He directed her to a small hotel south of Sacramento. He checked them in, and for the first time, Taz felt truly comfortable around him, like she wasn’t going to pass out from forgetting to breathe. She called Robertson from her room before dinner and updated him on her location.

  “Have fun,” Robertson said. He sounded like he was smiling. She knew that tone of voice all too well.

  “Don’t read anything into that, buster.”

  “The fastest way to your heart, dear, is a big-block V-8. Especially a Mustang. I’m surprised you didn’t drool.”

  God, he knows me so well! She giggled. “You and I are going car shopping next week. I forgot how much fun they are.”

  “Have a safe trip, sweetheart.”

  Hawthorne knocked on her door, and they went to eat. She brought the files, and they spent two hours over dinner, talking business.

  “Ms. Proctor, I appreciate your attention to detail. And even more, your appreciation for a fine car.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to get familiar with him. “If you want, you can call me Anastazia.” She always pronounced it Anna-stay-zhia when introducing herself, because to say “Ahna-stay-zhia” just sounded too pretentious when she wasn’t British, even though it was her preference.

  He eyed her over his coffee mug. “So, are you an Anna-stay-zhia, Ahna-stay-zhia, or Anna-stah-sha.”

  The last he said with an affected Boston accent. She shuddered, laughing. “I like the se
cond.”

  “I notice you don’t pronounce it like that.”

  “It always sounds better when others say it. My”—Friend? Male nanny? Guardian pro-temp?—“adopted dad says it like that.” That was the first time she’d referred to Robertson in that way, but it fit.

  How sad is it that I don’t meet enough new people in my life to have ever had that problem before?

  Hawthorne raised his eyebrow. “You’re adopted? I thought your parents—”

  “He basically raised me,” she quickly interjected. “He started working for my parents when I was a baby. He was their business attorney, but Mom said he was the only one who could get me to eat without a fight, so he took over. He became their majordomo. Ran the house and tried to keep them in line, too.”

  She studied her hands. “I loved my parents, but they were pretty busy. He was always there, he took care of me. He’s like a dad to me. When they died, I sold the house and got a condo and begged him to stay. I don’t have any other relatives. I don’t think he does, either. He’s my family.”

  “He sounds like an admirable man.”

  “Of course, he always called me Taz growing up. I was only Anastazia when I was in trouble.”

  “Tasmanian Devil, eh?”

  She laughed. “Well, I was hell on wheels. Considering who my parents were, Mr. Hawthorne, it’s amazing I’ve made it this far.”

  “Matthias, please.”

  And there was her unease, back with a vengeance. Muscle cars be damned.

  “I, uh, no offense, but I’ve only been working for you for a few weeks now. Frankly, I’m not comfortable calling you that yet.” He could use her first name if he wanted to. She didn’t mind, because he was the boss. She just didn’t want him getting the wrong idea.

  Yet.

  “I understand. What are you most comfortable with me calling you?”

  Darling, dearest, booty call, Mrs. Hawthorne, anytime you want, oh baby—