chair, I picked up my AlphaSmart Neo, the portable
keyboard/word processor I used rather than a notepad
and pen. Paul might be a slow writer, but he could be a
superfast talker, and typing was the only way I could keep
up.
I couldn't decipher half of what they talked about. Profit
margins, balance sheets, long-range planning. I was
ignorant, and fine with that. I didn't need to understand
what they were saying to take it down. In fact, the less I
knew the better, because my mind could wander while my
fingers kept track.
Not so many years ago I'd have been expected to hover
on the edge of my seat, pen poised over my steno pad
while I took vigorous shorthand. Typing was so much
easier. I'd learned shorthand in school, one of those skils
they stil found necessary to teach even if nobody would
actualy use it. The clacking of my nails, kept to a practical
length, tap-tapping on the keys couldn't replace the
sensual scratch-scratch of a pen sliding across paper, in
my opinion, but typing was much faster, and being able to
download the document directly into my computer for
processing was better than having to retype it al.
The cal ended abruptly, at least to me. I looked over the
last few sentences and saw I'd actualy typed the
goodbyes without paying attention. God bless multitasking.
Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Wel, that's over.
Thank you, Paige."
Thank you, Paige."
Brenda could say what she liked. Paul might be particular,
but he was also very polite. "You're welcome."
I'd been sitting with both feet planted firmly on the floor
with the keyboard on my lap. When I shifted to get up, the
sudden flaring sting of pain from my invisible splinter
surged so fiercely I gasped. The keyboard fel to the thick
carpet with a muffled thump, and I bent to grab it at once,
hoping it hadn't been damaged.
Paul had already rounded the desk. "Paige, are you al
right?"
"Yeah, I just…I caught my leg on something earlier. I think
there's a splinter."
The keyboard hadn't broken, thank God. I put it on the
conference table pushed off to the side of Paul's desk.
Warmth trickled down my calf and I strained to see it.
Blood.
"You're not fine, you're bleeding. Stay right there. Don't
move."
Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't
Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't
want me staining it, so I did as he said for the thirty
seconds it took him to grab a handful of tissues from his
desk.
He ought to have handed them to me so I could tend my
own wound. Like compliments and free lunch, taking care
of my boo-boo was probably a no-no. So why didn't I
protest when Paul told me to put my hands on the table?
Or when he knelt on that pretty beige carpet and slid the
soft tissue from just above my anklebone al the way to the
back of my knee?
I said nothing because no sound would come out. I didn't
move because my fingers refused to do more than twitch
on the polished surface of the table. I could see the faint
shadow of my reflection in it, the startled O of my mouth
and the curved arch of my raised eyebrows. But I didn't
move, and I didn't speak.
"There," Paul said in a low voice. Through the tissue the
warmth of his fingers pressed against my suddenly chiled
skin. "I can see it. Stay right there, Paige. Let me find
some tweezers."
I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width
I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width
apart and far enough toward the table's center I had to
lean forward just a little. I didn't want to know what I
looked like, my skirt riding up the backs of my bare thighs
and my face flushed.
"It's a big one," Paul said in a moment. "Hold stil."
I pressed my lips down on a squeak trying to escape at the
touch of the cold metal tweezers. Paul's hand curled
around my knee, holding it stil, while he probed and
I felt the splinter slide free, snagging my flesh, and the
further slow trickle of my blood painting a line down my
leg. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the blurred
woman in the table, the one with my face looking as I'm
sure lovers had often glimpsed, but I never had.
The soft press of tissue again slid up my leg as Paul wiped
away the blood. I heard the crinkle of paper and his
fingers smoothed something on me. An adhesive bandage.
I could feel it puling the soft hairs I never managed to
shave. Then the stroke of his fingers along the secret place
at the back of my knee, so swift I might have imagined it.
"Al done."
"Al done."
I turned. Paul had already stepped away. In one hand, he
held the tweezers. In the other, the shredded paper
wrapper of the bandage.
I didn't strain or stretch to look at his handiwork. "Thank
you."
Twin spots of bright color bloomed on his cheeks. "No
problem."
Before he could say anything else, I grabbed up the
keyboard and left his office with a nod.
Later, in bed, I would fal asleep thinking of two things.
One was the smooth, expensive card and the beautifuly
written list. I wanted that paper, that pen, whatever it was.
And two, the feeling of Paul's fingers on the back of my
knee.
Chapter 09
My Monday-night gyno appointment went as wel as
could be expected for an event that had my legs in the air
and my ass exposed to the entire world. I weighed less
than I had the last time I'd been to the doctor, which was
good, and I found out I no longer qualified for the same
reduced fees I'd been used to getting based on my income,
but that was fine. I had insurance now.
"Wish I could lose ten pounds," said the nurse-practitioner when she read my chart and looked me over. "But I like to
eat too much."
"Me, too. It just takes…" Discipline was the word that rose to my lips, and I was thinking of that note again.
"Work."
She patted her round hips and bely and sighed. "Yeah,
doesn't everything?"
Of course it did. You didn't get very far in the world
thinking you could get away with anything less. But I didn't
say anything else, just took my shot and paid my bil and
went on my way.
went on my way.
I thought about it, though.
Discipline.
I thought about it on the drive home and up the elevator to
my apartment, where I changed into a pair of black yoga
pants and a formfitting white T-shirt with the words
Frankie Say Relax in block letters across the front. It was
a good conversation starter. On my feet I put a pair of
trainers that had actualy cost more than the Madden
pumps and were the most expensive shoes I'd ever
owned. I'd d
iscovered I could deal with sore feet for
fashion's sake, but not when I was trying to exercise.
Discipline.
Today, you wil extend your regular workout by fifteen
minutes.
I grabbed a cereal bar from my snack drawer and wolfed
down the chewy jam center and crust as I cracked open a
can of diet cola and drank it back in a few gulps, then filed
a water bottle with ice and water from the tap. My shoes
might be designer, but my water was generic.
I took the stairs to add a little extra to my workout,
laughing at myself for obeying a command meant for
someone else. My heels rang on the metal stairs as I took
them two at a time al the way to the basement. I flung
open the metal door, too, and it clanged against the wal.
Riverview Manor has a nice, if outdated, gym, though it
was hardly ever used. Not trendy enough, I guess. There
was someone at the eliptical machine when I came in. He
looked up but didn't speak around his huffing and puffing.
It was him.
Of course. Why shouldn't I have to sweat and strain next
to the man, that handsome man, I kept running into al over
the place? I drank back some water to give myself
fortitude and hopped on the treadmil.
After five minutes my legs were screaming, and I shot him
a glance. His mouth had set into a tight, hard line of
determination. Sweat ringed his armpits and neckline, but
far from being disgusted, the sight of it made me go al
tingly in my pink places. There's something so fucking sexy
about a man who's working hard.
I saw him shoot me a glance, and his machine beeped, but
I saw him shoot me a glance, and his machine beeped, but
he punched the button to go longer. Uh-huh. I got it.
Bound by sweat and bad television programming, we
worked out on neighboring machines and forced each
other to keep going even when we wanted to stop. Wel, I
did anyway. It had become a point of pride to keep
grunting and groaning my way through the treadmil's fifty-
minute program even when I wanted to hop off.
The fact this guy had the body of a god and stopped
briefly to strip off his shirt didn't hurt. Not one bit. Every
time his abs and pecs rippled I thought about how his
sweat would taste if I ran my tongue along the rim of his
ribs and around the concave cup of his bely button. I tried
to be grossed out at myself for thinking such crude
thoughts but couldn't convince my traitorous body that
wanting to ride his thigh was wrong.
I blamed the TV.
This time of night the only shows we could get on the
gym's battered set were reality-TV shows, game shows or
the music channel. The eye candy on the videos was nice,
but it sure did put a girl in an interesting frame of mind.
As much as I might want to grab ahold of Mr. Mystery's
As much as I might want to grab ahold of Mr. Mystery's
ears and ride him like a roler coaster, random, careless
sex was absolutely not part of my plan. Especialy not with
someone from my building. Guys talked. Even now, when
women were supposed to be able to go after what they
wanted with the same passion and lack of emotional
commitment as men, guys stil talked. Peanut-butter legs,
easy to spread. Doorknob, everyone gets a turn. The
good time had by al. I wasn't out to get a renewed
reputation for having round heels.
Instead, I sweated and bit back grunts that would give
away the ache in my thighs as I watched beautiful women
with porn-star tits writhe on red satin sheets to the
oompah-pah-oomp of some badonkadonk-donk hip-hop
song.
Surreptitiously, I watched to see if he had any sort of
reaction to the pseudofucking being played out in three-
minute increments. His profile told me nothing. Staring
straight ahead, I couldn't see if his shorts were bulging.
Sily, I told myself. Who got turned on in the middle of a
workout? Too much blood was being pumped to other
places for him to get a hard-on. Hel, I thought my heart
was going to bust right out of my chest. There was no way
was going to bust right out of my chest. There was no way
I could spare any for my clitoris.
His treadmil beeped to indicate the end of his program.
He slowed, grabbed his towel and wiped his face as he
climbed off. He drank thirstily from his water bottle. When
he bent to touch his toes, I groaned aloud. This guy's ass
was like two cantaloupes in a silk bag.
He looked up with a smal grin, as if he could read my
dirty mind. I hoped he couldn't. No, damn, I hoped he
could.
"You al right?"
"…fine…"
I was, in fact, almost a puddle of overexercised goo. My
machine beeped a minute later, my program over. I wiped
my face and drank water, too, but I didn't try any sort of
bending. I'd have passed out.
He'd moved to the tension machine, but hadn't yet begun.
He gestured to me, instead. "C'mere. Try this."
"Oh, I don't think so." I shook my head even as my feet
folowed the siren cal of muscled thighs and an irresistible
folowed the siren cal of muscled thighs and an irresistible
set of back dimples.
"You can't just do cardio," the guy said. "You need to do strength training, too. Tone up."
I thought about being insulted, but let's face it. When
Adonis is critiquing your body, he probably knows what
he's talking about. "Okay."
"Sit."
I did. He adjusted something in the back and puled down
the rods on either side so I could slip my hands into the
grips. Across from us, the mirrored wal reflected him
standing behind me as he explained how to pul the grips to
move the weights.
With my feet hooked under the padded bench and my
hands holding the grips, I was effectively imprisoned. He
put his hands over mine the first few times to get me used
to the rhythm. It was easy enough, working my arms, since
my legs stil trembled from the stint on the treadmil.
"Good job," my new trainer-cum-boyfriend said.
His tone suggested he might pat me on the head. Instead,
His tone suggested he might pat me on the head. Instead,
he let go of my hands and put his on my sides. His fingers
curved around my ribs just below my breasts. I drew in a
sharp breath and didn't move at first.
"Keep going." In the mirror his eyes met mine. "Feel how the muscles in your abs are working, too?"
I couldn't feel anything but his fingers inching upward. My
nipples stabbed through my sports bra and the thin, damp-
with-sweat cotton of my T-shirt. Between my legs a slow,
steady throb began with every pul and release of the
weights. I couldn't see his body behind me, could only feel
his heat. I could not feel the hard, long length of his
erection pressed against my back, but suddenly it was al I
could think about.
"Harder," my newfound fantasy man murmured almost
&nbs
p; directly into my ear as one hand slid down flat over my
bely. "Feel your body work."
Oh, God. My mind insisted he was not hitting on me. My
body, on the other hand, thrummed and vibrated and
practicaly did the hokeypokey. I wanted to throw the left
one in, the right one out and turn it al about.
I bit down on my lower lip, instead. He gave me an
encouraging smile. His scent, body spray and hard effort
cut through the gym's pervasive odor of mildew and
cleaning products. My lust didn't show on my face. The
mirror only reflected a sweaty, grouchy-looking woman
whose hair had started sticking to her cheeks. Big wet
rings spread from my armpits and sides, and I couldn't
believe he wasn't disgusted. Maybe he was. He let go and
stepped back with an approving nod.
"Add that to your routine," he said. "You'l see results in a couple weeks, I promise."
Ohhhhh, God. He realy wasn't hitting on me. He was
totaly just trying to be nice and help me work off the extra
inches nobody ever had on TV. He was the jock with the
heart of gold being kind to the brainiac. Too bad this guy
didn't know that in high school I hadn't been the brain.
"Thanks." I drank more water and wiped my face with my
towel.
He wiped his chest and I forced myself not to watch. "You
don't realy look like you need to lose any weight, but it's
always good to supplement cardio with weight training.
always good to supplement cardio with weight training.
Builds muscle."
I had a vision of myself in a bathing suit made from one
thin strip of fabric, tanned to orange splendor and oiled
like an olive. It wasn't a pretty picture. "Okay, thanks."
Mr. Mystery grinned. He had dimples on his face, too.
"See you."
He stuck his head into a tank top, then his arms, and
puled it down. Then he grabbed his towel and water
bottle and headed out. I waited until he'd gone before I
folowed, not only because I wanted to ogle his ass but
because I needed time to cool down. Literaly.
My calves ached. My butt did, too. Now I could add my
arms to the list after the workout I'd given them.
I wouldn't have thought I could stil be horny after the
thigh-crunching walk up the stairs to the seventh floor, but
by the time I got into the shower, al I could do was think
about his hands on me. Austin's hands, the stranger's
hands…somehow it didn't matter, just that they hadn't
been my own.