Masked Read online

  She fascinated the hell out of me.

  I had to learn more about her.

  That wasn’t a crime, was it?

  And learning more about her didn’t mean she had to learn more about me. For at least the next couple of months, I was technically her boss.

  “Well, they say originality is the purest form of sincerity.” I attempted to tack on a charming smile. But real charm was definitely harder than the faked shit. Hell of a time for life to inflict that lesson.

  “They say that, huh? They who?”

  I shrugged. Christ. Me, shrugging like I had no more clues about life than Trey. “The ‘theys’ who matter.”

  “Aren’t you a they who matters?”

  That was my cue to strut like a rooster who’d fucked half the hens. Instead, discomfited spiders swarmed my chest. Hell. I wanted to just tell her the truth. What would it feel like to do that? To expose myself to just one person on this earth besides Trey and Lance, who didn’t count because my secret was hidden in the same closet of disgrace as theirs?

  No. Not now. Not ever.

  “Mattering is all in the way you look at things, Miss Montgomery.”

  There was her cute lip-tilting thing again. She went for the other side of her mouth this time. “And how do you look at things, Mr. Stone?”

  “I’m sure you know most of the answer to that already.”

  “Oh?”

  “A search history on your laptop will return my name in a hundred ways, won’t it?”

  “We both know the Internet reveals only the tips of the icebergs.” She took a deep breath, as if debating whether to let her next words have life. “And I have a feeling your iceberg is really fascinating.”

  Before I could stop myself, I grinned. Yes, she’d just compared me to an iceberg. She’d also called me fascinating and been genuinely apprehensive about the flirt. The comprehension shot adrenaline through me, along with a rush of attraction best crammed down and fast forgotten. Fuck. Masochism was not my thing.

  “All right, tell me this.” I deliberately squared my shoulders, a tactic I usually saved for meetings when I needed to appear taller than my six-foot-three. “If you were after the next inch of my iceberg, where would you look?”

  My intention? To throw her off guard again. I never anticipated my plan ricocheting on me, that she’d topple my focus with her own determined stance, both hands on her hips. The pose was a perfect showcase for her high, taut breasts and the supple curves leading to those incredible legs…the imagination of what their juncture looked like, tasted like…

  I clenched back a groan. Masochism was worse the second time around.

  “The next inch, huh?” she returned. As if I needed that phraseology at the moment. “Hmm. From what I know of you right now…probably your office.”

  I arched both eyebrows. “The personality through osmosis approach?”

  “More like simply taking a tour of someone’s home. And since I already know you’re here more than anyplace else…”

  I chuckled. “Guilty as charged.”

  She returned a strange little frown to that, stepping back with a fresh flush. “Or maybe I’d better pack up and call it a night.”

  A strange surge of panic pounded me. Reacting at once, I grabbed her hand. “Without your full dose of osmosis from the inner sanctum?”

  Hell. From masochist to idiot in less than a minute. While there was nothing to hide behind the doors to my CEO suite—my secrets were buried in much better places—I simply had a firm rule about mixing business with pleasure. Taking Claire Montgomery’s hand was a blur of those lines, a gray scale I pushed wider by the minute and seriously needed to correct.

  What the fuck was she doing to me? Why did she tempt me to break so many rules? Good rules. Guidelines that existed for damn important reasons, like keystones in the archway of SGC’s success. She was the one thinking straight around here, and what did I do to reward her?

  Drag her farther down the hall to my office, of course.

  But maybe a visit to the hub of Stone Global was the perfect solution for my ass-fool wanderlust. And to satisfy her curiosity, as well—so it would stop taunting me from her mesmerizing gold eyes.

  “You prepared for the resplendence, San Diego?”

  “As I’ll ever be, Chicago.”

  She wasn’t going to let me catch a break. The sarcastic slide to her words begged for a response—something like whirling on her, pinning her to the wall, and stripping the tone from her mouth with my tongue.

  Gray scale. Corrected. Now.

  I stopped at my door. The patter of her heels halted in a hurry, becoming another erotic taunt as I remembered what those shoes did for her legs.

  “After you.” I swept an arm out, palm up, while opening the door. She clattered by me with an inquisitive smile—

  That dropped into a gape.

  “Okay, wow.”

  I’d certainly gotten that reaction before. But none disappointed me as much. Her blurred lines had no doubt begun a refocus. From this point on, she’d see me through the filter of the technical wonderland office, the sparkling cityscape view, and the desk, once Dad’s, that rivaled Odin’s throne. I would be all these things to her, never again a simple guy to trade snarky lines with or to feel up through my shirt just because she liked my muscles.

  Back to nothing but the tip of the iceberg.

  “I hope that’s a good wow and not a bad wow.” I knew the answer already but threw it out as a comfortable conversation filler.

  “A good one.” She bypassed the wall full of video monitors, as well as the kitchenette and designer meeting table, in favor of the pictures mounted on the opposite wall. One photo in particular drew her in. “Is this you and Tippi Hedren?”

  I walked over, letting her see my surprise at the observation. There were a number of photos on the wall, including a shot with the president himself, but she’d zeroed in on this one. “That was a special night for me,” I admitted.

  “No shit.” The sarcasm was gone. In its place was genuine awe.

  “You’re a Hitchcock fan?”

  “No.” She blushed again. “Animal geek. My dad had a thing for the weird cable channels, like Discovery and National Geographic. Watching the specials with him…” A wistful expression took over her face. “Well, those are good memories. He indulged my fascination for everything adventurous, especially the wildcats. Lions, tigers, panthers…such beautiful creatures. What Hedren’s done at her Shambala Reserve is so amazing.”

  I indulged a shit-eating smirk. “That picture was taken at Shambala.”

  “Son of a bitch!” She slammed my shoulder with a slap before, regrettably, her reserve clicked in again. “Sorry. God, I just beat on the client.”

  A little furrow marred her brow. Once again, I fought a bizarre impulse to yank her close and kiss it away. This tiny woman, full of such huge life, pushed at every damn boundary I possessed—leaving me helpless for definable action on the matter. I should’ve been seething at the recognition. Instead, I went for mindless humor. “It didn’t hurt. I promise.”

  “I don’t imagine it did. You have—”

  “I have what?”

  The crimson flags in her cheeks widened. “Really great muscles.”

  Heat filled my own neck. And other places too. It felt fucking wonderful. How long had it been since a woman’s words made me hard? Like the answer mattered. I thanked myself for dragging my ass out of bed to practice with the water polo team this morning despite the mess going down with Trey—but royally cursed myself for being so stressed about the crisis that I skipped the extra ten minutes to jack off in my private shower at the gym. “I’m willing to keep things a secret if you are.”

  She gave me an adorable sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “But my silence comes at a price.”

  “A price?”

  I grabbed her hand. To my pleasure, extending deeper than it probably should, she issued no protest as I walked her across the o
ffice and into the anteroom. I’d added the space as a concession to Britta, who’d threatened to quit if she came to work and found me asleep at my desk one more time. It housed another kitchenette, a sofa that could convert into a bed, and full bathroom facilities. It also contained the sole cabinet in my suite that was always locked, especially when Trey was around.

  Once I’d taken the key from its hiding place, I moved to an ottoman next to the sofa. One well-placed twist into a hidden lock, and the ottoman’s lid swiveled back to reveal six bottles of wine inside. Each vintage was housed in its own temperature-controlled tube. Claire’s little gasp of surprise provided another moment to feel like the goddamn king of the world.

  “This is my price?” She chuckled a little. I echoed the sound.

  “Do you enjoy wine?”

  “I thought this was about your iceberg, Chicago.”

  “Humor me. I’ll even let you pick the poison. Red or white?”

  She let the giggle become a full laugh. The sound of it was close to music in its own right, and I reveled in listening to it. In the feeling of knowing I’d inspired it. Damn. After everything that had happened today, I should’ve had the disposition of a rabid grizzly, ready to eat small children and anything else that crossed my path. Instead, I popped the cork on the Barolo she’d picked and strutted my way toward the kitchenette for a couple of glasses. Yes. Strutted.

  I poured a little of the wine into a glass and handed it to her for the first taste. She swished and tasted the liquid like an expert. I arched my eyebrows, almost teasing her with my approval.

  “Okay, I’ve done this before,” she admitted. “My dad’s in landscape design. In Temecula.”

  “Ahhh. The Southern California version of Napa Valley.”

  “Points for the geographical trivia, Mr. Stone.”

  “Points for the polished sip and swish, Miss Montgomery.”

  She settled her glass on the counter with an expression I couldn’t decipher. Shyness? Sadness? Another attack of discomfort? “It’s really all I should have.” Rubbing her forearm nervously, she stepped back. “I’m sorry. I know you just opened the bottle. It’s very good—and expensive—”

  “Which I don’t give a shit about.”

  My glibness didn’t ease her tension. “For all intents and purposes, you’re now my boss.”

  “Who wants to buy a drink for his team after a hard day’s work.” I sneaked in a smirk while filling her glass all the way. “Can we help it if you’re the sole definition of ‘the team’ right now?”

  She laughed before taking a shy sip. “Rah rah.”

  “Their loss.” I poured my own glass. “Everyone left before the fun began.”

  “And here I was, thinking that was Wooten’s press conference.”

  A cloud skidded over my disposition. Wooten’s three-ring circus of a press conference hit my memory with all its ugly force. “Hypocritical bastard,” I snarled. “He’s got Trey’s balls in one hand, and with the other, he’s likely groping some intern’s ass.”

  “We can only hope.” Humor crept back into her tone. “More than one intern would be even better. Preferably one of each gender.”

  I gave her a reaction I hadn’t indulged in for a very long time.

  I laughed.

  Fully. Openly. Daring to enjoy the freedom of it, if only for a second. A risky move? Probably. But she was taking just as large a leap. Something told me Andrea Asher wasn’t one for the minions enjoying themselves during an assignment, no matter how firmly the client insisted on it. I should be respecting that boundary too—but fuck, it felt nice to be laughing in the face of this shit day, my gaze filled with the warm beauty of this woman, my mind cleansed by her easy companionship. Selfishly, I insisted on hoarding her a little while longer.

  Grabbing the bottle and my glass, I made my way out of the kitchen. “Come,” I charged. “Bring your drink but leave the Wooten hashtags back there.”

  She turned but didn’t follow me. After a moment of my questioning stare, she issued one word, purposely drawing it out. “Please?”

  I cocked my head, confused. What the hell was she begging me for?

  That was before I raised my scrutiny to her face. There was no sign of supplication on her features. The woman, from the top of her copper waves to her stilt-clad toes, wasn’t pleading me for a damn thing. She was issuing a decree. If we were counting this as off-the-clock time, I should behave a little better than a gutter-raised thug in a well-cut suit. And goddamnit, she was right.

  After setting my glass and the Barolo down on the coffee table, I returned to her with deliberate steps. In a smooth sweep, I pulled her hand into mine. Her fingers still shook a little. The quivers worsened when she lifted her head and our gazes locked. The result on my own system, the heady power of knowing I affected her as she did me, was a more potent buzz than the wine could ever impart.

  “Miss Montgomery,” I murmured, “will you please honor me by sitting for a while—and discussing anything in the world besides Gerard Wooten?”

  She surprised me with a giggle while letting me lower her to the couch. “All right, then. Name your non-Wooten subject.”

  Easy answer. “You.”

  She dropped the humor. Took a tentative sip of her wine. “Mmmm…no. I’m not that interesting.”

  A thousand rebuttals pelted my mind. Her face alone, with those surreal amber eyes, that naughty pixie nose, and those beguiling coral lips, was enough to keep me fascinated for hours. Focusing on the base of her throat did no good either. It only made me think about what her skin tasted like there. Would she be sweet as honey or tangy as lemon? Would she sigh in response, dig her hands into my hair, lean back so I could suck more of her?

  She’d slap you and knee you in the balls, you dumb fuck.

  The words were truth. Claire Montgomery, while equally stirred by the physical attraction between us, had clear boundaries for those feelings, proved by all her adorable and awkward efforts to scramble out of my path this afternoon. Hell, the woman had radiated so much tension when I’d sat next to her during the presentation I wouldn’t have been shocked if she’d glowed when the lights went down. She clearly took great pride in being a member of Asher’s team, so letting my lips wander in her direction would be like asking her to cuckold the company. I had no right to proselytize on the subject, either. I was the guy who commissioned artwork for my office instead of my home.

  “You had that answer good and ready, didn’t you?” I finally asked. “You have a lot of practice at it?”

  She took another sip of the wine. It was damn good stuff, a fact I was grateful for as she sneaked her tongue over her lips to catch every drop. “What? You hoping the Barolo’s loosened me up more?”

  “Has it?”

  She sighed. “I’m an open book, Mr. Stone. My life consists of work and my dad. And maybe a few favorite pairs of shoes.”

  She lifted one of her legs and grinned at the navy platform pump at the end of it. All I saw was a high-fashion death trap for her, but her smile was worth swallowing my opinion. My fortitude doubled in light of the question I wanted to ask next. I waited for her to take another sip before taking the risk.

  “I haven’t heard you mention your mother.”

  She let her leg descend—along with her grin. “She’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Her voice deepened to a rasp. “Long time ago. I was six. Brain aneurysm. It was sudden, and she didn’t suffer.”

  “Shit.” My guttural reaction was the real deal. “That’s still rough.” I meant every syllable of that, as well. “Did your dad remarry?”

  Her lips lifted again, but the expression seemed forced. “No. He hasn’t even dated until the last year and a half.”

  “So he has somebody now.”

  “Yes. I guess you could say that.”

  “All right.” I drew it out with a little humor. “I could say that…how?”

  Tension claimed more of her posture. Her
eyebrows drew together. “What the hell? It’s not like I’m sharing state secrets.” She could’ve convinced me otherwise with the next sip she took, belonging more in the gulp category. “In a couple of months, Andrea Asher will be my new stepmother.”

  “Damn.”

  “Nothing like a little weirdness to go along with the fourteen-hour work days, right?”

  “It’s quite a twist.”

  “Sorry for the bombshell. Pretend I didn’t tell you, okay?”

  A strange anxiety overcame her face. I bore my gaze into her, yearning for my reassurance to seep through. “The Enigma of the Magnificent Mile, remember? Poker face is an art form when I want it to be.”

  “Thanks.” Though she didn’t lose the tension, it took on sardonic edges.

  “So how did it happen?”

  “Fast,” she supplied. “Dad came to pick me up for lunch one day, and by the next week, he was redesigning Andrea’s new backyard. Two months after that, they sprang the news on me.”

  “Goal-driven man.”

  “Yep.” She popped the final p with more of her impish sarcasm.

  “Unless he knocked her up?” I ventured.

  “Oh, God!” She grimaced. “You didn’t just go there.”

  “Guess I did. But now I observe where your intensity comes from.”

  “Yes, you do.” She pulled in a long breath. “His family, including my grandfather and grandmother, were caught in the paramilitary shit storm in Ireland during the eighties, so he took advantage of a cousin’s sponsorship to escape and come here. He worked his ass off from the second he arrived. After a few years, he was able to start a small business of his own. He specialized in creating new gardens for people that were stunning but tolerant of our dry conditions in Southern California.”

  I smirked. “Unique choice for a guy from Ireland.”

  “Right?” A mix of humor and pride shone in her eyes. “But my dad’s one of the best at drought-resistant beauty. Before long, a lot of celebrities started using him. The au pair for one of those stars was my mom. They met one day, declared their love two weeks later, and were married three months after that.” She glanced back up and shrugged. “Crazy, huh?”