Blame It on the Blackout. Heidi Betts

tried to drop hints that his advances wouldn’t be unwelcome. She’d worn her skirts a little short and her blouses a little low. She’d worn a dozen different perfumes, trying to find one that would pique his interest. She’d worn her hair up and down, short and long, straight, curly, braided…She’d leaned close while they talked and fabricated excuses to interrupt him while he worked.

      Finally, when nothing seemed to catch his attention, she’d given up. A girl could only take so much humiliation, and her breaking point came the day she’d arrived at work to find another woman, half-dressed, leaving Peter’s room. Her theory that he must be gay had been shot all to hell, and she’d vowed then and there never to make another move on him.

      Unfortunately that pledge didn’t keep her eyes from wandering over his well-muscled form, or her heart from skipping a beat when he said her name in that low, reverberating voice of his.

      Not for the first time, she thought about quitting. She really should. She was talented, good at her job, and could probably find another position anywhere in the city within the week.

      But she liked this arrangement. Despite the personal misery she suffered on a daily basis, Peter was a great employer. She believed in what he was doing and enjoyed being a part of it.

      Besides, what other boss would spring for a gorgeous new evening gown and accessories that she would probably never have occasion to wear again?

      Lifting items from their bags, she began to peel out of her practical skirt and blouse, ignoring the skittering of awareness that skated down her spine when she realized she was standing half-naked in the middle of Peter’s bedroom. If only he were here with her, and she was stripping down to her skin for something other than an impromptu fashion show.

      Instead of bothering with the fancy undergarments she’d purchased to go with the dress, she remained in her normal bra and panty hose, and simply slipped the gown on overtop. She did trade her plain pumps for the black, glitter-covered velvet stilettos, though.

      Sweeping her hair back off her shoulders, she left the bedroom and crossed the short, carpeted hall to Peter’s office. She stopped in the doorway, leaned casually against the frame and watched his fingers fly over the keyboard.

      “So,” she said, catching his attention. “What do you think?”

      Two

      Peter glanced up from the computer screen, wondering why she hadn’t called for him when she was finished. He’d have gone over to the bedroom to see her new dress instead of making her come all the way over here.

      And then his brain stopped functioning altogether. Every thought in his head flew out his ears as he stared at the vision before him.

      He slid the wire-rim glasses from his nose to get a better look, but she still looked stunningly beautiful. Her hair fell about her face in an ebony curtain and the red satin of her gown, overlaid with black velvet in an intricate flowered pattern, brought out the rosy tint of her alabaster skin.

      And that was just from the neck up. From the neck down, she made his eyes sting, his mouth go dry and his nerve endings sizzle.

      He’d always known Lucy had a fabulous body. All the straight skirts and tailored jackets in the world couldn’t hide that. But this dress, with its spaghetti straps and scallop-edged bodice, high-slit skirt and the three to four inch heels that made her legs go on for eternity, brought out every nuance of her drop-dead figure.

      His gaze drifted over the generous swell of her breasts, the slim line of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips, and up again. Her ice-blue eyes met his and for the first time in his life, he found himself at a loss for words. Speechless, when he’d thought that was something only movie stars suffered because a script called for it.

      After several long seconds of complete, utter silence, Lucy interrupted his total lack of thought and started blood flowing back to his brain.

      “What?” she asked, glancing down at herself as though something was wrong with the awe-inspiring concoction she was wearing. “Don’t you like it? Should I take it back?”

      “No!” he yelped, too fast and too loud. Taking a breath, he tempered his tone and added, “It’s perfect. I was just…” Admiring the view…thinking sinful thoughts…looking for a way to get you out of it… “Thinking of all the heads you’re going to turn tomorrow night. We may have to beat men off with a stick.”

      Her cheeks colored prettily and she lowered her eyes for a moment. “Thank you.”

      “You won’t have any trouble stirring up interest for Reyware in that outfit.”

      He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. What was he thinking, effectively equating her attending the charity soiree in that dress to prostitution? Hey, Luce, how about fixing yourself up and coming to dinner with me so you can give new meaning to “pressing the flesh” and drum up a little financial support for my personal corporation?

      Lord, he felt like a pimp.

      And he knew his comment hurt her because she lowered her head and traced invisible designs on the carpet with the toe of her shoe.

      Scrubbing a hand over his face, he cursed silently. “That didn’t come out right,” he tried to apologize.

      She raised her eyes to his, dark and shadowed, and offered a weak smile. “I know what you meant.”

      No, she didn’t, but he couldn’t think of a way to further explain himself without making matters worse.

      “I’d better go change back,” she said, letting her gaze slide away from him again. “Before I get stained or torn or wrinkled.”

      He could think of a couple of things he wouldn’t mind doing to tear or wrinkle her gown. And he’d happily pay for another when they were finished.

      As quickly as that image entered his mind, he shut it down. Lucy turned, heading back to his bedroom, and there was enough testosterone swimming around in his veins at the moment to watch her walk away and enjoy every elegant, long-legged stride.

      But that was as far as it could go—watching. Lucy wasn’t one of the women who snuggled up to him at parties and made it clear they were hoping to spend the night in his bed.

      As much as he might wish differently, he couldn’t use her to scratch this itch that was suddenly driving him crazy. She was his assistant, and he hoped a friend. Those were two things he wasn’t willing to risk.

      Worse than that, though, Lucy wasn’t a woman he could walk away from in the morning. She would always be here, working for him, helping him to market his software designs and computer know-how, and filling the holes in his own personality with her award-winning people skills.

      Dropping into his desk chair, he sent it spinning and watched the blue of the walls swirl around him. What a mess. He should have hired a man to answer the phone and open his mail. He sure as hell wouldn’t be having this problem then.

      But Lucy was the best, and he honestly wouldn’t want to work with anyone else, no matter how hard it was to ignore her presence.

      If he started something with Lucy, there would be no one-night stand, no casual roll in the hay that could be forgotten and ignored ten minutes later. She wasn’t that kind of girl.

      And if she wasn’t that kind of girl, then she was the other. The forever kind, with visions of marriage and children and picket fences dancing in her brain.

      That kind scared Peter to death. He’d decided long ago never to let a personal, romantic relationship cloud his acumen for business.

      His father had tried to have both and failed miserably. Oh, his company was a smashing success, but his marriage might as well have been a house afire. He’d spent all his time at the office, put all of his energy into deals and negotiations…while Peter and his mother were the ones to suffer.

      Peter had seen the anguish in his mother’s eyes. The slump of her shoulders, the air