Who's on Top?

2

BY THE TIME DOMINIC SAYERS left her office, Jane was smug in the knowledge that she’d won the round. Oh, yes indeed—he was down for the count, with her high heel firmly planted between his handsome shoulder blades. It was a darn good feeling—but she couldn’t help questioning how long it would last. Dominic would be armed and dangerous next time they met. She had to prepare herself. And she had to get him to talk to her.

Besides being angry, who was this man? She didn’t have many clues. And if she couldn’t figure out who he was, how was she going to figure out how to fix him?

She stared at the obnoxious, broad, dark back of Sayers as he walked to his hunter-green Jaguar and unlocked it. The guy didn’t saunter exactly. He just walked casually, with confidence radiating off what she had to admit were exceptionally nice shoulders. She wondered fleetingly what he looked like in a snug T-shirt before her gaze dropped to his backside, which was so fine that she could watch it like a television. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if strange women pinched it on the street….

That’s when he caught her, acknowledging her stare with one of his own.

Annoyed at herself, she turned on her heel, only to have her gaze fall on the glossy Vicky’s Secret catalogue that had launched some of the trouble between them. Because there was trouble between them, no doubt about it—layers of disturbance that had to do not only with a battle of wits but also with an underlying resistance to each other. Jane didn’t like this one bit. Because the flip side of resistance was…attraction.

How could she be attracted to a foul-mouthed self-professed swine? Well, truth to tell, he was more of a grizzly bear.

Jane had always loved a good fight. And she usually won—just as she had today. But she was attracted to Sayers, God help her.

Ugh. There it was, lying out in the open for her to deal with. But how?

She snatched the offending lingerie catalogue off the sofa and stuffed it into the nearest circular file.

The planet was littered with Vicky’s Secret catalogues. Bombarded with bras, plastered with panties. She was so used to seeing them, modeled by half-naked nymphets, that she hadn’t thought to hide the damned catalogue in the depths of the cleaning closet.

And out of all the possible selections in such a catalogue, Mr. Sayers had to have caught her looking at that one. Jane clutched the pearls at her neck and let her fingers slide along the smooth orbs, trying not to imagine how they might feel slithering into dark, sensual crevices. She shifted from one foot to the other, feeling heat blossom on her skin at an unbidden image of Sayers trailing his fingers after them….

Then she slapped herself in the forehead. What was wrong with her? Jane stuck her foot in the wastebasket and stomped on the damn catalogue just to make herself feel better.

Shannon’s door opened behind her. “Now that’s a good look for you, O’Toole.”

With dignity, Jane removed her foot from the container.

“Almost as good a look as the beet-red on your face an hour ago.”

Jane shot her a look that communicated two words: bite me.

“So what’s up with him, and why do you look like you just ate a nail sandwich?”

Jane sighed. “He doesn’t want to be here. Remember how thrilled I was to hear from that female VP? The one from Zantyne?”

Shannon nodded.

“Well, she’s the one who sent Mr. Sunshine this morning. And he does seem to have an attitude problem. He’s going to be a tough client.”

“Not to mention a hot one!”

Jane ignored the comment completely, as well as the smirk on her friend’s face.

“But if you do well with him,” Shannon guessed, “we could get a lot more business from Zantyne—business that we need if we want to break even this year, service the business loans and hire a receptionist.”

“Exactly.”

Shannon tapped a long fingernail against her teeth. The fingernail was purple. Yesterday it had been blue.

“Hey, Shan? Your nails aren’t going to be green tomorrow, are they? I mean, we—”

“Have a corporate image to uphold, yes, I know. Trust me, once I have my first clients in here next week, the claws will be short and neutral. But until then I’m a free spirit, honey. And green’s not a bad idea…MAC has a new metallic mint color out. Thanks for reminding me.”

Jane looked down at Shannon’s toes, which gleamed—alternately striped and polka-dotted with silver and purple. She shook her head. “Where do you find the time?”

“Exactly where you find the time to run on your treadmill like a gerbil on a wheel. Back to this hunky guy with the eyebrows. Convince him that he can use you for his own purposes, and then he’ll relax.”

Jane nodded slowly, trying to ignore the dirtier connotations of being used for Sayers’s own purposes. Stop that! He’s a client.

Shannon might have a few nuts in her center, but she was often unexpectedly brilliant. “I think you’re right,” Jane said in her best crisp and professional tones. “He’s not the kind of personality who will accept help. He needs to be in control.”

Shannon smirked. “Hmm. Kind of like some other people I know…”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m a Virgo. I was born that way.”

“No, I think you dictated the exact date and time you exited the womb. You also took notes, cc-ing the doctor and your parents.”

Jane was smart enough to check the door this time for roving clients before shooting the finger at Shannon. Oh, yes, she had Finesse.

SHE WAS DRAWN BACK INTO HER office by the ringing phone and she could still smell Dominic Sayers’s scent as she picked up the receiver. “Jane O’Toole.”

“Hi, honey.”

Her heart turned over at the sound of her father’s voice, monotone and depressed, as he was most of the time. She worried about him constantly. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Gilbey got himself fired again. Don’t know what to do with that boy.”

Jane plopped into her leather chair, squishing all the air out of the seat cushion in an indelicate whoosh. She slipped off one brown leather pump and rubbed the arch of her bare foot against the toe of the other. “What happened this time?”

“Some BS about how the foreman doesn’t like him, wrote him up for being a minute late, yada yada.”

She’d heard it all before—many times—which was probably why she was allergic to the blame game. Her brother Gilbey, just like Dominic Sayers today, always had a boss who was out to get him. And conveniently for Gilbey, the boss always did. Then Gil didn’t have to work while he “searched” for his next job. It was all very convenient. Jane sighed.

“Dad, he’s not going to grow up if you don’t kick him out of the house. He’s going to remain mentally seventeen forever—and he’s twice that age!”

Her father muttered something.

“You know I’m right. Do you want me to talk to him again?”

“Can’t hurt. And maybe you can help line him up some other prospects.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “I can’t recommend him to anyone when I know what he’s like.”

“He’s your brother, Janey.”

“Yes! He’s my brother, and therefore my own reputation is on the line when I put in a good word for him. It’s embarrassing when he gets fired.”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

I am thinking about it. That’s why I’m slowly going insane. “So how are you doing, Dad? Are you cheering up a little?”

“Well, you know. Darn weeds keep growing in the walkway, no matter what I put on ’em. Got moles in the front lawn. And the Jets are gonna get the snot kicked out of them tonight, you mark my words.”

“I’ll bet the hardware store has something to take care of the weeds and moles. I can’t help you much with your team, though. You just might have to pick a different one.”

“I’m no fair-weather fan, Janey. I stick with my boys!”

I know, and your loyalty is one of the things I love most about you. But judging by their current stats, that means you’re going to be depressed until basketball season starts up.

She didn’t say it aloud. “Why don’t you get out into the sunshine and take a walk, Dad? It’ll make you feel better.” And how about some nice Prozac?

“Unnh.”

“Really.”

“Unnh.”

Well, this is progress. “What would you like me to bring for dinner on Sunday?”

“Unnh.”

“Meat loaf? With mashed potatoes and peas?”

“Unnh.”

Jane decided he’d answered in the affirmative. “Okay, then. I’ll see you Sunday.”

She placed the receiver back in its cradle, and her thoughts returned to Dominic Sayers. Unfortunately the thoughts were not of a professional nature: he was shirtless, displaying a tan, six-pack abs and a wicked grin. He was also beckoning her to come sit on his lap—which she did very happily, disengaging his buckle, pulling off his belt and using the leather to strap him to the chair he sat in. Then she—

Jane O’Toole, get a grip on yourself! You’ve obviously been working too hard and are in desperate need of a date.

She tried to remember how long it had been and then decided she didn’t want to think about that.

Wiping her mind clean, she opened a new file on her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment before typing in his name. Under it she wrote:

Attitude problem. Bullheaded. Seems to thrive on confrontation. Blames others (boss) for current predicament. Arrogant. Aware of physical attractiveness. Competitive streak several miles wide.

Treatment plan:

1. Exploit and then control subject’s hostility; get him to relax and open up.

2. Establish more about subject’s background. Does he have an underlying anger at women?

3. Observe subject in office environment. Gather examples to show him how his behavior negatively impacts his relations with coworkers. Pay special attention to interaction with females.

4. Bring up these examples in a nonthreatening way and explore alternate scenarios for subject to employ next time.

5. Using the above examples, get subject to admit he has a problem and that he can solve it.

6. Do not allow subject’s looks or your own libido to sway you from your objectives!

Jane stared at the computer screen. Now where had number six come from? She needed to remember that Sayers was not a nice guy. He had likened himself to a pig.

That scent of his wasn’t at all porcine, though—woodsy, male, a hint of clove—and it still hung in her office. Jane spun in her chair to face the credenza, from which she pulled a can of Lysol. She depressed the nozzle and walked it around the room on full blast.

Take that, Sayers. I’ll figure you out. And then I’ll fix you like a bad habit.

SUNDAY DINNER WAS ITS USUAL barrel of laughs. How could you love two people so much and be so frustrated by them? Jane reminded herself that even a graduate degree in psychology couldn’t answer a question like that.

“The potatoes are dry,” her dad muttered. Gilbey said nothing as he helped himself to a slab of meat loaf, placing it in the center of a lake of ketchup on his plate.

Jane contemplated what this said about her brother as she methodically scraped her father’s portion of mashed potatoes back into the serving bowl and added butter and cream. As she reached into a cabinet for the electric beaters, her dad said, “Now don’t make ’em too fattening, Janey.”

She plugged the beaters in. “Adding water won’t make them taste very good.” The noise drowned out any possible response from her dour dad. When she was done, Jane scooped a healthy portion of mashed potatoes back onto his plate and watched with satisfaction as he began to eat them with obvious enjoyment—not that he could allow himself to acknowledge it.

“Probably’ll gain five pounds,” he groused between bites.

She just smiled. He was on the skinny side and had abnormally low cholesterol. She wasn’t worried.

Her gaze returned to Gilbey, who was now turning his plate to make sure the meat loaf was truly centered in the ketchup. “Perfect,” he announced to nobody in particular.

Did he want a compliment for his skill? “You know, Gil, most people put the meat loaf on the plate first and then the ketchup on top.”

“I’m not most people.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

“Why do you do it that way?”

“Because it works better.”

Jane shook her head, but as she watched him eat, she was struck by the fact that it did work better—at least for him. Gil had a hard time with accepted structure. He was always questioning traditional ways of doing things. She’d called him stubborn and exasperating many times. But maybe he was just creative.

Gilbey, in his own way, was as unique as Shannon. But if Shannon marched to an alternate orchestra, Gil shambled along to an alternate grunge band.

Jane stuck a piece of meat loaf into her own mouth and tried to catch her brother’s gaze, but he wouldn’t look at her. He was ashamed at the loss of another job. Well, he should be, darn it!

“Your critical side is not your most attractive side,” she heard her mother say in her head. Jane all but rolled her eyes. Yeah, but you can’t be blind to people’s faults, either.

She fought against her judgmental side, she really did. She used it to help people, to fix their problems. She was good at that. She’d founded a company to do it. Her critical side would end up being her most lucrative side. Most companies steadily lost money for the first three years they were in business. Thanks to her, Finesse was close to breaking even in nine months.

Jane’s thoughts turned to her mother again, now dead of breast cancer twelve years. Mom would never have bought meat loaf and mashed potatoes. She’d have made them—and not the powdered kind either, as Jane suspected these were.

Dad hadn’t been surly and depressed when she was alive, and Gilbey hadn’t been quite such a mess—she’d had him doing all kinds of landscaping for her, even building a rock waterfall by hand. Jane still remembered him then, totally absorbed in his task, working twelve hours a day with only a twenty-minute lunch break. Gilbey loved to work with his hands. She understood that.

That’s why the last three jobs she’d gotten him had involved manual labor. But he’d walked off the construction job, put all the parts together backward on the assembly-line job and butted heads with the foreman on this latest one, a position in an electronics company.

What am I going to do with you, Gil? It simply never occurred to her that he wasn’t her problem.

On the other side of the table, her dad put down his fork and rubbed his belly. “Feel like I swallowed a bowling ball.”

“Did you enjoy the meal, Dad?”

“Unnh.” But he nodded.

She picked up his plate and wished that men of his generation would acknowledge the arrival of feminism and do their own dishes. Yeah, right. Dad would clean up the kitchen the same day he mowed the lawn en pointe, in a pink ballerina tutu.

In that one regard, it was a good thing that Gilbey still lived with him. Jane took the plates to the sink and rinsed them. To the mental list in her head she added: antidepressants for Dad, another job for Gilbey. The men in her life always needed help.

That night, to her shame, Jane dreamed of a hot, naked Dominic Sayers who needed help finding his clothes. Funny, but she refused to give them to him.

In fact, she had hidden them herself and she taunted him with a single sock…for which Dominic had to chase her down. Laughing, he pinned her against the wall and demanded his things, threatening to take hers if she didn’t return them.

When she refused, he opened her blouse with his teeth, scattering buttons across her bedroom floor. Next he pulled down her bra, wedging it under her breasts and taking the nipples into his mouth.

Jane moaned and tried to free her hands, but he wouldn’t let her go—just captured both her wrists in his right hand and pulled up her skirt with his left. Then his fingers crept under her panties, skimming over hidden curls and caressing, teasing, rubbing her most secret places. He cupped her with a warm palm and slid back and forth, back and forth….

Jane shuddered, gasped for breath and awoke disoriented, breathing heavily. It was dark. The clock read 3:33 a.m., and her body vibrated with—no other word for it—horniness. She ached with lust. Her brain felt foggy. And no way in hell would she fall back asleep before dawn. Crazy though it was, she’d inhaled Dominic Sayers like a virulent flu. Would she recover anytime soon?

3

JANE STOOD IN HER OFFICE, hands on her hips, in front of the hairy flower arrangement. There had to be a way to dust the darn thing without making it disintegrate. The coffee was brewing, and this was her challenge of the moment—the one she felt she could triumph over before having to follow the annoyingly sexy, butt-headed Dominic Sayers around his office like a Labrador retriever. Well, a Lab with opposable thumbs, a notepad and a definite agenda.

She went to the closet that held cleaning supplies and stood there looking at the array of possibilities for cleaning flowers. Furniture polish? Soft soap? Disinfectant spray? Nope. And she’d already ruled out the vacuum. Could she swish the flower heads around in the toilet? I don’t think so.

Finally her gaze settled on a mini fan, which she pulled out and set on the floor near the offending arrangement. She plugged it in, turned it on and aimed it satisfactorily. The flowers began to rattle in the breeze, and a gazillion dust motes swirled into the air in a mini tornado. There!

The door opened to admit Lilia, who took one look and assumed an expression of kindly tolerance for the insane.

“Did you bring doughnuts?” Jane asked hopefully.

“Of course. I have a dozen in my four-by-six inch pocketbook.”

The article in question was a little quilted number that hung from Lilia’s shoulder by a thin gold chain. Definitely no edibles in there, darn her sarcasm.

“If we ate doughnuts more than once a week, we’d all be barn-size, Jane.”

Yeah, well. Barns were peaceful. They lounged about on golden prairies under blue skies and didn’t have to tangle with dangerous, sexy, six-foot-two attitude problems. Barns didn’t worry about depressed relatives, cash flow, client referrals or hairy flower arrangements.

“But I didn’t get any of the crèmes,” she heard herself whine.

Lilia shook her head at her. “Would you like some coffee? I’ll bring you some.”

“Thanks. Travel mug, please. I have to head to Zantyne today and evaluate that client in the workplace.”

“Well, I hope you have better luck there than with that vase of dried flowers. What exactly are you trying to achieve?”

“I’m dusting them,” Jane said proudly.

“Mmm.”

The tone of Lilia’s voice suggested that she check on her project. Jane squinted in disbelief. The fan had taken care of the dust, all right. But it had also blown off all the petals and leaves on the left side of the flowers, leaving the ones on the right intact. They looked partially shaved, and she had a huge mess to clean up off the floor and coffee table.

Jane switched off the fan, turned the bald side of the flowers to the wall and threw the appliance back in the closet. She determined to write a letter to HGTV right away, begging for their advice. There just had to be a way to dust dried flowers.

THE CONNECTICUT HEADQUARTERS of Zantyne Pharmaceuticals was a rectangular brown monstrosity that reminded Jane of a monumental loaf of bread. Clearly extra funds were channeled into R & D and not atmosphere.

The inside walls of the place were painted the shade of provolone cheese, and the reception desk was a mossy green. Jane decided she’d stepped into a rather unappetizing corporate sandwich. She asked politely for Dominic.

“Mr. Sayers?” said Zantyne’s receptionist into her headset. “Ms. Jane O’Toole to see you.” She paused, then nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Jane wondered if her unwilling client had issued orders to kick her butt right out the door. She unconsciously braced herself for two burly men in security uniforms to appear, but it didn’t happen. The sleek blonde got to her feet and said, “Right this way.”

Jane followed the pink-clad, entirely too pert globes of the receptionist’s rear end as they twitched through a set of wide double doors and down a taupe-carpeted hallway, until she stopped at an office on the right. Miss Pink flipped her hair over her shoulder and gushed, “Here she is, Dom. Can I get you two anything?”

Oh, maybe a couple of pistols, thought Jane. Or better yet, lances—so we can run each other through with more gore.

“Thanks, Jeannie, but I think we’re all set.” Dom flashed her a surprisingly tusk-free smile as he stood up from his desk, his powerful sex appeal sending much of Jane’s blood rushing south.

With a little moue of her lips that made a couple of cute dimples appear, the receptionist wiggled back to her post. Jane was positive Miss Pink had practiced that lip thing in a mirror. Hmm. Maybe she should try it?

Sayers turned the smile upon her now. “Jane!” he said warmly. “Good to see you again. How are you today?”

She stared at him, wary. Embarrassed that you managed to star naked in my dreams last night. “Uh, fine,” she said. “How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better, thanks.”

Did someone spray happy mist in your Wheaties this morning? Add amphetamines?

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

She shook her head, unable to look away from a sexy little mole in the middle of his left cheek.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you.” And don’t say “me” next, either. Where is your evil twin? The one I met yesterday?

Today’s Dominic was even dressed in a happy-colored pale yellow button-down and khakis, not the funereal pinstripes of the day before. His eyebrows looked less menacing. And dark, curly hairs beckoned to her from his open neckline, cranking up his sex appeal factor even more, if that were possible. Uh-oh.

Me, Tarzan, those little curly hairs crooned. You, Jane. Wanna swing to nirvana on my big, thick vine?

Huh. She averted her eyes from the danger spot and reminded herself that the man in front of her was nothing more than a chest-thumping primate who needed to be civilized.

She considered asking him to pull his anger out of the nearest file cabinet so they could get on with examining it but decided to go ahead and explore this warm and fuzzy aspect of his personality—since, after all, it was probably a mask. He’d let it slip sooner or later.

“I’m guessing you just want to follow me around and observe me, correct?”

“Yes. I may tape some conversations, too—with your permission.”

“Of course!” he said in genial tones.

Who are you?

“To start with, I have a staff meeting in five minutes. You can meet my team and see that I actually play quite well with others.”

We’ll see about that.

But it was true. Five people filed into the room, including his marketing coordinator, two analysts, an assistant product manager and a PR specialist. Three of them were women, two men. They all seemed to have an easy camaraderie with “Dom,” as they called him.

He introduced every person to her by name, joking that Jane was there to help him mind his p’s and q’s. They all looked puzzled but carried on with various reports to him.

When Jackie, the marketing coordinator, had finished, he thanked her graciously. “And how’s Tommy doing?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Kid’s gonna drive me crazy, whining about that cast on his arm.”

Dom shook his head in sympathy. “Well, tell him he’s lucky he didn’t break it in the summertime. A cast gets even hotter and itchier then, believe me.”

She nodded.

“Your Buccaneers are looking good, Tim.” Dom said to one of the analysts.

The guy flashed a big white grin at him. “Yeah. Gonna kick the he—uh, hoo-ha outta the Falcons.”