The Bedroom Business. Sandra Marton

it was all Emily’s fault.

      Emily took off her coat, shook it briskly and hung it in the closet. Then she sat, bent down and began tugging at her left boot while she told herself that bristling would get her nowhere.

      Still, bristling was exactly what she felt like doing.

      And it was all McBride’s fault.

      The great man was not in a good mood this morning. Too bad. Perhaps he’d had another run-in with the twit, desperate to tell him how wonderful he was.

      “Idiot,” Emily said, and gave the stubborn boot a whack.

      Or was he still annoyed that she hadn’t let him tell her what to do last night? Don’t go, he’d said, as if he owned her, and the hell of it was she should have listened to him because her evening with his pal had been a disaster. A total, unmitigated disaster. Mr. Peter-Aren’t-You-Fortunate-To-Be-With-Me Archer was so full of himself it was a wonder there’d been room for her at their all-too-cozy table for two in the restaurant he’d chosen.

      Emily hung her head and groaned.

      Oh, what an awful evening. The wine he’d ordered, even after she’d politely declined a drink. The way he’d leaned close and breathed moistly on her neck. The way he’d tried to feed her a bite of his meal from his fork. Yuck. As if she would want to take the fork into her mouth after it had been in his. And then all that smarmy, double entendre stuff which she’d been too dumb to recognize as smarmy and double entendre, until the waiter happened by just as Archer, the slimeball, said something that made the hapless waiter almost pour the coffee into her lap.

      Emily attacked the boot again.

      And this man, she reminded herself grimly, this—this human octopus, was Mr. Jake McBride’s friend. His oldest, dearest, closest friend.

      So much for thinking her boss was a nice guy even if he was dense. Nice guys didn’t have lifelong buddies like Peter Archer.

      Damn this boot! Why wouldn’t it come off?

      To think of McBride’s gall, that he was angry with her. Whatever the cause of it, how dare he take it out on her? She’d been, what, fifteen minutes late? When she thought of all the times she’d come in early without McBride so much as saying, Why, Emily, how good of you to be here before nine.

      But why would he? She was his personal property. He expected her to be there, at his beck and call.

      “The Emperor McBride,” she said, under her breath, and tugged harder. What was with these boots? They might as well be glued on.

      “Uh,” she said, and tugged again. “Uh…”

      “Having a problem, Emily?”

      She sat up so fast that her heel slammed against the carpeted floor. McBride was standing in the doorway, watching her. His arms were folded and one of his dark eyebrows was lifted in what looked like amusement.

      “No problem, sir,” she replied briskly.

      Of course it was a problem. She’d been bent over, tugging at her boots, and her face was flushed with rosy color. Her hair—a few strands of it, anyway—had come loose of its clip at the nape of her neck and curled gently at her ears. Emily’s hair was curly? He’d never noticed. She always wore it back, and straight.

      Jake frowned.

      “Here,” he said, advancing towards her, “let me help you.”

      “It isn’t necessary. I can—”

      Too late. He was already squatting before her, lifting her foot into his lap and tugging.

      “Really, Mr. McBride…”

      Jake pulled off the boot. No wonder it had been hard to remove. Her boots were made of thin black leather and she was wearing heavy socks. Heavy wool socks, over feet that were attached to long, slender legs.

      Oh, yeah. Archer, the bastard, had called it right. Her legs were good. Excellent, as a matter of fact.

      “Thank you,” Emily said.

      Jake lifted his eyes to her face. “You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat, looked down at the foot, still in his hands, and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “You’re wearing socks.” Brilliant, he thought trying not to wince, just brilliant, McBride. “I mean—you’re wearing—”

      “Socks,” she said stiffly. “Wool socks. Double knit. I guess that’s the reason the boots are so hard to get off. I wore them because I thought I might have to walk at least part of the way home, if the snow keeps up, and these boots aren’t really warm…”

      Her voice trailed to silence. Why was she telling him all this? He was holding her foot in his hands, looking at it as if he’d never seen a foot before. And she was explaining why she was wearing wool socks, as if it mattered.

      “Socks,” he murmured, and looked up at her again. He had such a strange look on his face. That darkness in his eyes.

      Maybe he thought she was going to walk around the office in heavy wool socks all day.

      “Yes. But I’ll take them off. I have panty hose underneath…”

      Oh, good. Now she was telling him about her underwear. Emily colored and pulled her foot from Jake’s hands.

      “Thank you again,” she said briskly. “I’ll get to the mail immediately.”

      “Not without taking that other boot off.”

      “I can manage.”

      “I doubt it.”

      “Honestly, Mr. McBride—”

      Jake knew he could get the boot off with one quick tug but considering the condition she’d put him in, with that comment about her underwear, he figured it was best to take his time.

      “There,” he said, when it was safe. He dropped the boot beside its mate and rose to his feet. “All done.”

      Emily nodded. “Thank you,” she said again.

      “You’re welcome.”

      He looked as if he were going to say something more. A few words of apology, maybe, for the way he’d snapped at her before? No such luck. He gave her a quick nod, swung away and went back inside his office.

      The door closed silently behind him.

      Emily sat motionless. Her feet were tingling. Not the way they’d tingle if the circulation were coming back after they’d been freezing cold. She’d felt that, once, when she was a little girl and she’d missed the school bus and ended up walking home in the snow. No, they were tingling in a very strange way. As if they were still in McBride’s lap. As if his big hands were still holding them. As if he were still looking up at her with his eyes all dark and hungry…

      The room seemed to tilt.

      Emily dragged air into her lungs. Then she took off her socks, slipped her feet into the shoes she’d brought with her, and got to work.

      Hours later, she sighed, blinked owlishly at her computer screen and pushed back from her desk. It was almost one o’clock. Time for lunch, she thought, and rose from her chair. She gave a ladylike stretch, opened the drawer to get her purse…and saw the copy of GOTHAM, still opened to the personal ads.

      She made a face, picked up the magazine and dumped it into the wastebasket.

      “Goodbye and good riddance,” she said, and dusted off her hands.

      Last night had cured her of even thinking about going out for an evening with a man she didn’t know anything about.

      On the other hand, choosing a date from the Personals would be different.

      She might not really “know” the man, but she wouldn’t go into it blindfolded. At least, she’d have some information about