Bombshell

Copywriter Ruby Sugars is in a rut. Her life consists of the following: long hours, boring neutral colors and regular fat-shaming from her stick insect–looking boss. But Ruby isn’t really a Bland Betty—she’s a complete Bettie Page hottie, with an enviable collection of vintage couture and very naughty vixen lingerie. Now if only she could channel that girl into her real life…

Cue Ruby’s best friend, whose recent fixation is “fantasy matchmaking.” She’s decided that all Ruby needs is one night with a sexy, delectable man—one with a serious thing for curvy pinup girls. And “Lancer” is hot enough to make any girl’s fantasy come true.

For one night, it’s pure, X-rated hotness. But come the next morning, this brand-spankin’-new bombshell will get the shock of her life when the man she vowed to see only once shows up again…as her new boss.

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo

For Natasha, Gretchen and Terena, who encouraged me to fill this story with juicy details.

Dear Reader,

When I first heard about Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon, I perked up. They were looking for fun, fearless heroines who were career-focused, sexy and adventurous.

I taped their requirements to my wall. I wanted to write that story. I wanted to live that story!

When Ruby Sugars first presented herself to me as a potential heroine, I was skeptical. She had issues. Her confidence was at an all-time low. She had trouble standing up to her control-freak boss. She didn’t even look like your typical ingenue, with curves that would submit to no pair of Spanx.

Then she told me about her secret self—her inner bombshell. She showed me her collection of 1950s-inspired lingerie. Just as I started to reconsider, she went in for the kill—she introduced me to the guy she’d fallen for, the Irish mystery man with a pinup-girl fetish.

I decided we had to tell her story, Ruby and I. We had to battle her demons and jack up her confidence; most of all, we had to bring her mystery man to his knees.

Ruby’s transformation from shrinking violet to bold adventuress has inspired me to take more chances—like publishing my first erotic novella, for example. I hope Ruby’s story inspires you, too, whether that means reading more sexy fiction, applying for that new job or jetting off to Paris for a week of shameless hedonism.

Thanks for reading!

Bombshell

Jody Gehrman

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

Reply All

I’m sitting at my desk, sipping my second vanilla latte, when my world tumbles wildly out of control. Carrie Hoban and Matt Clark sneak covert glances at me as they pass my cubicle, sniggering. I glance down at my blouse, wondering if I dribbled salad dressing at lunch. More titters erupt throughout the offices of Wright, Milton and Sykes. Don’t panic, I tell myself. It’s probably got nothing to do with you. Still, I fish my compact from my purse for a quick, furtive glance. I confirm: no spinach between my teeth, no latte mustache. As I take another sip of coffee, though, I hear Dylan Mackintosh’s braying laugh explode from the far corner of the office and my heart starts to pound.

Something’s wrong.

But what?

Dylan swaggers over. He’s got that walk, the athlete’s strut. Since time began, that walk has struck fear in the hearts of girls like me—big girls who have put up with fat-chick jokes from elementary school on. The sight of his lightly tanned face looming near my cubicle invokes a primal instinct, the gazelle’s urge to flee from the lion.

His eyebrows arch so high they’re in danger of escaping into his hairline. “Loved that photo, Ruby. Pretty kinky.”

“What are you talking about?” Fear makes my voice squeaky and barely audible.

He leers. “Very Bettie Page.”

“Wait—what?” I’m really not this stupid, but panic has made my tongue grow three sizes; I can barely form words.

“Felicity’s going to love it.” He glances at his watch. “She’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.”

As he saunters off, exchanging fist bumps with Luke Neal, I turn to my computer. For a second, I feel so sick I can hardly see. My vision swims and the floor of our fifth-story office roils beneath me like the deck of a ship. Email. Felicity. Kinky. Oh god. No! Noooooo!

With trembling fingers, I open my sent mail. Yes. Oh, fuck. There it is. The email I intended to forward to by best friend Wanda. Except I didn’t hit Forward. Instead, I hit Reply All.

Reply fucking all!

From: Felicity Franco

To: Creative

Sent: Friday, January 4, 10:15 a.m.

Subject: Colin Wright’s Visit

Heads up, folks: Colin Wright will be visiting from the New York office Monday, January 14. This presents an exciting opportunity to impress a founding member of this amazing company. I want to be sure everyone pulls together to show him what a top-notch professional team we have out here in San Francisco. I know you won’t let me down.

Yours,

Felicity

From: Ruby Sugars

To: Creative

Sent: Monday, January 4th, 1:30 p.m.

Subject: RE Colin Wright’s Visit

The latest missive from The Stick. You know “top-notch professional team” is Stick speak for “everyone lose twenty pounds and get Botox.” Think I’ll show up Monday in this.

I’d attached a picture Wanda took of me during her “fantasy photography” phase last summer. She wanted to start her own studio, and she’d employed me as her guinea pig. We’d taken it one Saturday night well into our second shaker of martinis. Dylan’s Bettie Page comment was spot-on; that’s exactly what we were going for. My thick, dark hair was cut in Bettie’s trademark severe bangs, and the black satin corset strained to contain my D-cup cleavage. The garter belt, thigh-high silk stockings, long satin gloves and patent leather pumps gave it that retro pinup girl flavor, but the pièce de résistance was the leather riding crop I held above my head, dominatrix style.

My hand flies from the keyboard to my mouth. I feel my stomach lurch, and the pasta salad I ate for lunch threatens an encore. This stupid message went to everyone on the creative team—all twenty-five of us! By now it’s no doubt been forwarded to everyone else who works here.

Simon Tork, my art director, leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Honey, if I liked girls I just might fall in love.”

More titters and guffaws ripple across the office. I have to think fast. I look at the clock. Seven minutes till two. My boss Felicity, aka The Stick, always returns to her desk by two. Assuming she didn’t check her phone during lunch, there’s still the narrowest chance I can save my job.

It’s a long shot, but I have to try.

Launching myself from my desk, I ignore the laughter and catcalls all around me and pound up the stairs to IT. It’s mostly guys up there, and they all stare openly as I sprint for Gopal’s desk.

“Did you see it?” I pant without preamble.

His dark eyes meet mine, puzzled. “See what?”

“I sent an email.” I pause to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I meant to send it to my friend Wanda, but I must have gotten distracted and hit Reply All instead. Oh god, she’ll fire me. She’s been looking for an excuse. Please, you’ve got to help!”

“Calm down.” His face scrunches up with concern. “You’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t—”

“I’m serious! This is an emergency. I’m doomed.”

He turns to his computer screen. In a low voice he says, “What do you need me to do?”

I look around, aware now that stealth is called for. There’s a chair near his desk and I yank it closer, lowering my own voice to match his. “Can you delete it?”

“I can’t hide it from those who have seen it.”

I look at my watch: 1:55. “Please! She’ll be here any second.”

He bites his lip, his face conflicted. I’m asking him to do something that could get him fired. It’s highly unlikely—Gopal’s too good to be expendable—but it’s possible. I know it’s selfish of me, but I figure he’s got about a 9 percent chance of losing his job over this. I, on the other hand, have at least a 99.9 percent chance of losing mine if Felicity sees that email in the next five—no, four—minutes.

I implore him with my eyes.

He sighs and spins in his swivel chair to face his screen. His fingers fly over the keyboard. He squints. He mutters to himself. I hold my breath. Finally, at 1:58 p.m., I see the beautiful glowing words on his screen: Are you sure you want to delete this message from the server?

He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “You owe me, Sugars.”

“I know! Forever!”

He hits a couple more keys, and the screen says Message deleted.

“You’re the best!”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agrees. “I expect a steady supply of gratitude for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve got it.”

* * *

When I get back downstairs, Felicity’s just stepping out of the elevator. Her sleek, closely-cropped hair sits like a dark helmet on her head—not a single strand out of place. Her navy skirt hugs her slim hips and her cream silk blouse is immaculately pressed. Her brown eyes meet mine; the pencil-thin eyebrows pull together as she frowns. No creases appear, though. She’s in her early thirties, tops, but she gets so much Botox her face is as smooth and plastic as a Barbie doll’s.

“Ah, Ruby. You’re here. Can I have a word, please?”

My heart, which is still running laps inside my rib cage, takes a flying leap for my throat. “Sure. Right now?”

She gives me a smile so cold it freezes my blood.

I manage to mumble, “Always have time for you.”

“Great.” She marches toward her office as I trail along in her wake.

Navigating the desks of the various copywriters, graphic designers, art directors and copyeditors, several snorts of muffled laughter reach my ears. Felicity stops, nostrils flaring. She’s obviously noticed, too. She looks at Dylan, who has just managed to bite back a guffaw.

“Something funny?” Her bird-like eyes search his face.

Dylan nudges Matt, who pretends to be engrossed in a report. “No! Nothing’s funny.”

Felicity turns to me, studies me briefly, then shrugs and glances back at Dylan. “Production meeting in an hour.”

“Roger that,” Dylan replies.

As she ushers me into her office and shuts the door. I try to get my sweat glands under control. My pulse is still racing, and I can feel big wet patches of perspiration soaking through my blouse. If there’s one thing Felicity can’t stand, it’s sloppiness. If she had her way, the entire world would be as sleek, cold and modern as her office, which resembles a futuristic Swedish hospital. Sitting in her deeply uncomfortable chrome-and-leather chair, I’m terrified I’ll sweat on the flawless suede.

“I suppose you got my email?”

I squirm, then force myself to sit still. “About Colin Wright’s visit?”

“Yes.” She studies me for a long moment. Did she see my reply? Maybe she checked her phone at lunch. Please, god, no. “You feel okay?”

“Of course!” I chirp. “Why do you ask?”

“You look a little feverish.” She reaches into her drawer and hands me a Kleenex. For a second I assume she’s anticipating an outburst. Here comes the ax. But then I see she’s gesturing, almost imperceptibly, at my forehead, and I realize I’m supposed to use the tissue to mop up my sweat. Lord, can this day get any more humiliating?

“Thanks.” I dab at my forehead, then wad the Kleenex into a ball.

“So, about Colin’s visit. I just want to make sure you understand how essential it is that we present a modern, streamlined image.” Her eyes travel over my body as I try to get comfortable in the tiny space-age chair. I feel like a hippo stuffed into a hatbox.

“Oh. Right.” I glance down self-consciously. Nobody on the planet makes me feel as fat and powerless as The Stick. It’s her superpower; one glance from those hard, sparkly eyes turns me into an obese, inbred deaf-mute.

“This business is all about image.” She grins, her facial muscles straining against their Botox restraints. “I just want to show Colin how on-trend we are. That makes sense, right?”

I nod, staring at my lap.

“I’ve started taking the most invigorating Pilates class.” She says it briskly, as if changing the subject. “Amazing how much it works the core.”

Am I paranoid, or is she actually glaring at my stomach? I suck in my belly and hold my breath, torn between mortification and fury.

I’m the lump in her porridge, the wrong sized cog in her machine. Over the past couple of years she’s assembled a creative team of skinny, fit, cosmetically perfect automatons. They’re members of her cult—they worship clean lines, motionless hair, perfect skin and bland ideas. She would have fired me long ago, except I’m the best copywriter she has. My inability to fit in with her twisted little vision of corporate perfection pisses her off every time she looks at me.

“Excellent!” She stands, signaling the end to our little chat.

As I make my way back to my desk, Simon looks up. “You fired yet, sweetheart?”

“Not yet,” I breathe.

But I knock on wood, just to be safe.

Chapter Two

Happy Hour

Wanda studies me over the rim of her martini glass. “So you dodged The Stick’s wrath. So what? She’s destroying your self-esteem. You know that, right?”

“Can you please not snatch my last shred of dignity?” I’m slurring my words and licking sauce from my fingers, so my dignity is out the window anyway. We’re lounging in a booth at Jo-Jo’s, our favorite happy-hour spot. It’s right near my work, which comes in handy on days like today, when it’s all I can do to stagger across the street and collapse into Jo-Jo’s shadowy depths. Between us sits a platter piled high with chicken bones. Wanda took one look at my face and insisted on a double order. She firmly believes any sorrow can be borne if you have enough gin and extra-spicy buffalo chicken wings.

“The bad-ass sex kitten in that picture is who you really are.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder and widens her eyes at me. “The Stick’s fat phobia is turning you into someone you’re not.”

“Every single woman in our department’s a size two, and the guys are all jocks. That’s what she sees as ‘modern’ and ‘on trend.’”

Her bracelets jangle as she plucks a celery stick from the carnage before us. “She’s a skinny little fascist. Pure and simple.”

She has a point. But then, Wanda gets to be whatever she feels like; she never has to dress for somebody else’s notion of success. She’s got a trust fund, after all. I take in my best friend, feeling affectionate on my two-martini buzz. Her long blond hair is styled to look like she just went surfing, though I know she spends a fortune to achieve those careless beachy waves. Her blue-green eyes are set off with pale glittery makeup, and her outfit is an offbeat mix of upscale designer pieces set off with funky bohemian secondhand finds. Wanda Duffy sparkles. That’s the only way to describe her. She sparkled the day I met her at UC Santa Cruz, when I was stitching costumes for a student play she was in. She sparkles now, a decade later, even while destroying a celery stick with unladylike chomps, her jaw working with bovine determination.

“I hope you realize,” she goes on, “that until you stop trying to please that horrible woman, you’re going to be miserable.”

“Some of us have rent to pay.”

She tilts her head and fixes me with a “girl, please” look. “That’s a suck-ass excuse and you know it. You could run your own agency by now. You don’t need The Stick. She needs you.”

“I’m touched by your confidence in me, but—”

“Don’t be touched! Just believe me for once.”

I give her a weary look, and she changes the subject. Like all best friends, she knows when to give it a rest.

“Anyway, speaking of work, I have an announcement to make.”

I sip my drink and nod encouragement.

“I’ve finally found my calling: fantasy matchmaker.” She looks incredibly pleased with herself.

Though the Duffy fortune ensures Wanda will never have to work, she’s obsessed with finding a worthwhile vocation. Her worst fear is turning into her mother, whose idea of a hard day’s work involves shopping on Melrose and sushi with the girls. Of course, Wanda’s not pedestrian enough to go out and apply for a job that already exists. Instead she’s forever inventing new careers, most of which lose their shine after a few weeks, at which point she discards them without comment in favor of some new pursuit.

My eyebrows arch. “Okay. Fantasy matchmaker. Explain.”

“You remember Mimi Foster, Sarah Copeland’s cousin? Anyway, I had this fascinating conversation with her at a party last week about how much she loves dressing up in anime costumes and getting spanked. Needless to say, she was wasted.”

“Random,” I comment.

“People have a right to their proclivities,” she tells me with a pious air. “Anyway, the next night I met this banker dude at another party, and guess what he just happens to mention?”

“Don’t tell me—he likes getting spanked, too.”

“Not getting spanked,” she corrects, “He likes to spank. And he happens to have a thing for hentai.”

“Which is?”

“Japanese porn—but like, comic-book porn.” She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to get off track. “So I fixed him up with Mimi and kapow! They hit it off.” Kapow is one of Wanda’s favorite words. God knows why.

“A relationship based on comic-book porn?” I can’t help looking skeptical.

She downs the rest of her drink and signals the waiter for another round. “Okay, so they might not live happily ever after, but they had an amazing night together. And it got me thinking: all these matchmaking websites, they focus on compatibility in the most conventional sense—you know, like hobbies, religious beliefs, income levels. They don’t even touch on the most powerful factor of all.” She pauses, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Which is...?” I prompt obediently.

“Your secret self. Your fantasies. The dirty little wish list you don’t dare type into a form on eHarmony. When your fetish matches his, that’s a powerful bond. I consider it a public service.” She squints at me with a sly, conniving look. “And you’re going to be my first big project.”

“Oh, no! Come on. Again?” I’m forever Wanda’s test subject, as evidenced by the “fantasy photography” session last summer. Admittedly, I got some ego-boosting shots out of that, one of which is now indelibly burned into the dirty little minds of my coworkers. God. How will I face everyone Monday?

The waiter brings us another round, which I resolve to sip very slowly for once.

Wanda drains half her glass and leans toward me, her turquoise eyes a little bloodshot and dead serious, all the more so because she’s tipsy. “You need to let your inner minx out.”

“My ‘inner minx’?” I repeat, my tone dubious.

“Yes!” She bangs her fist on the table so hard the platter jumps, scattering a couple of bones. “You’ve got a bombshell inside you begging to be unleashed. Until you let her out, you’ll be stuck.”

“Whatever you say, Sparkle.” I use her nickname in the hopes of diffusing some of her intensity. People around us are starting to stare.

“I intend to unstick you.” She looks determined, but her credibility is slightly compromised by the streak of ranch dressing in her hair.

Chapter Three

Window Dressing

That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, obsessing. Everyone at work saw that nasty picture of me, legs spread in a wide, domineering stance, my hand gripping the riding crop above my head, my nipples practically visible as the corset pushes my breasts up, forcing them so high they nearly spill over. I recall the way Dylan’s eyes dipped down to my cleavage when he came over to give me shit about it, the thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he leered.

It’s not as if I’m all that concerned about what Dylan Mackintosh thinks of me. I don’t even respect him; why should I care if he thinks I’m a slut?

That’s when it occurs to me: I’m not lying awake because I’m worried about my reputation. I’m lying awake because I’ve inadvertently awakened the bad girl in that picture. In spite of the person I’ve become for work, the pathetic office drone who tries to please Felicity at any cost, there’s still another me alive and well. A retro sex kitten. An old-fashioned vixen.

And she’s stirring.

I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Nero, my cat, opens one eye and glares at me from where he lies half-buried under the duvet. He’s named after Nero Wolfe, the grouchy, obese detective from Rex Stout’s mysteries. The resemblance is striking; like his namesake, my Nero is about twice the size of a normal cat. He’s also cantankerous, condescending and brilliant. Unlike the detective, though, who dines on only the finest culinary masterpieces, my Nero is a crazed omnivore. He’ll eat anything: banana peels, coffee grounds, plastic bags. I bought the cutest bonsai tree last month, but he chewed it down to a nub. Now he follows me to the kitchen, paunch swinging, and blinks up at me as I make myself a mug of chamomile.

“I’m jonesing for a cigarette,” I whine. Nero looks back at me as if to say Give me some kibble and we’ll talk.

I smoked in college, quit a few years ago; it had to be done, though I still miss cigarettes like a lover I can’t quite get over. My nana died of lung cancer the year I graduated from college, and after that I was filled with self-loathing every time I lit up, so I forced myself to quit. Now all my drawers and purses carry an arsenal of nicotine gum. I pop a piece in my mouth, even though it doesn’t exactly go with chamomile.

The fog’s rolled in and I feel a draft, so I go to my closet for another layer. Flinging open the doors I’m struck by how segregated it is. On one side there’s my work wardrobe. Everything in that clump is boring and bland. Felicity’s given me such a complex about my failure to fit into a size two, my work clothes now operate as a kind of camouflage. I’m an elephant among tigers and panthers. My best bet for survival is to blend in with the furniture. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not obese, but I’m buxom. I’ve got a huge rack and hips you could land helicopters on. I flip through my work clothes listlessly. Just looking at that side of the closet makes me feel a little sick.