Beyond Breathless. Kathleen O'Reilly

harrumphed. You could judge his emotional well-being by the way he cleared his throat. Low and guttural was bad. Clenched teeth and a tick meant the coast was clear. Today’s forecast was afternoon storms. He peered out over silver-framed rims, just as a vice president of Financial Opportunities should.

      “You let me down, McNamara. Failed me. I needed you to go out and hit a long ball, instead you stood at the plate while Newhouse threw you three breaking balls. Some other execs, you might have been able to stare them down, but Newhouse is one tough cookie.”

      “I know, Walter. I’m working to get on his calendar again.”

      “But when, McNamara? When?” He got up and stood at the window, pointing to the view of the Statue of Liberty. “See that? That’s New York. Priciest real estate in the continental U.S. And do you know how we can afford a view like this? Performance, performance, performance. Our team is the best, Jamie. We deliver every time we step up to the plate. Every time. You’re at the plate. You need to deliver.”

      Jamie cleared her throat, low and guttural. “Got it, boss. The power outage—”

      “Admit it. You got caught with your pants down.”

      She jerked forward, her conscience working overtime. How could he possibly…Then she relaxed. Of course he didn’t know that it wasn’t her fine Italian wool pants that had been down, exposing the tightest butt her hands had ever explored.

      Instinctively, her hips rolled forward.

      No, no, no.

      “We must prepare for all contingencies,” Walter continued. “Do you know how many times the power has gone down in the city? Two point three annually since 1970. Two contributing factors. Weather and construction. Look at that April sky! Not a cloud in it, but hear those jackhammers pounding away?”

      Jamie nodded, mainly to humor him. On the thirty-eighth floor, they heard nothing but the occasional whistling of the wind. It wasn’t time for semantics.

      “Construction. Why do you think we keep a backup generator in this building? Our clients count on us; they expect us to be here day in, day out. 24/7. At Bond-Worthington, we anticipate a market movement before it happens. Before it happens.”

      “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Jamie swallowed and continued to nod, trying to listen, needing to listen, but instead little scraps of memory played in her head.

      Andrew.

      There was such uncontrolled heat, such—wickedness in their lovemaking. She felt a giggle rise in her throat. It was like a soap opera or something. Jamie had neat, orderly sex, not wild monkey sex.

      Primly she crossed her legs tighter.

      But that didn’t stop the tingles.

      “Don’t let it happen again, McNamara.”

      Guilty as charged.

      Jamie looked up and met Walter’s paternal gaze. She was his protégée, his pet, and a morning mambo in a Hummer wasn’t going to do anything to advance her career. Hell, at thirty-two, she was well past the optimal dating age, well past the morning mambo age, too. No, her path was well-defined and well-trod. She wouldn’t disappoint. She placed her feet firmly on the floor and stood up, ramrod straight.

      “It’s not going to happen again, sir.”

      He gave one curt nod. “Knock him dead, McNamara.”

      And with that, Jamie walked out, leaving all the tingles behind her.

      4

      SUZIE Q WAS ONE OF New York’s most exclusive gentleman’s clubs. The girls were legendary for their movie-star looks and machine-gun breasts, but Andrew ignored the undulating skin, instead choosing to stare into the murky gold liquid of his beer.

      The day had been entirely wasted. Instead of analyzing the first quarter figures for Nikolson-Ploughing Pharmaceuticals, he’d stared at the numbers, remembering the awed expression that had flashed through Jamie’s eyes as he’d moved inside her.

      And after work, he’d thought he could catch up. Wrong, the memories were still there, and for the first time in longer than he could recall, the stock market wasn’t so fascinating. Spending a Friday night at some bachelor party, burning a few more brain cells seemed justified. Besides, due to the lucky condom souvenir from Kevin’s bachelor party, it seemed preordained. When Jeff had showed up at his door, he shrugged and went along like a happy, sated lemming.

      Sated being the optimal word. This morning with Jamie was probably the pinnacle of his sexual career, a conquest to file away under the heading Top Ten Best Ever.

      Damn, he’d been good.

      His body twitched in appreciation.

      There’d been this electric connection with Jamie. Something he hadn’t felt in so long, he’d thought it was dead. She’d made him feel—primal, a masculine instrument of phallic proportions, created for the sole purpose of pleasing his mate.

      Sure, Andrew was used to pleasing women, but they only saw the image—rich, single, not too shabby in the looks department. Andrew could be impotent, and women would throw themselves in his direction because the package was something they wanted.

      But not Jamie.

      He smiled, remembering the feel of her full breasts in his hands. Now that—

      “Earth to Andrew.” Jarred out of the steamy fantasy, Andrew looked up, and found his brother staring at him curiously. “There’s only one thing that can put that drunken leer on your face, bro. A ten percent uptick in the market.”

      Jeff was three years younger than Andrew by birth, but light years off in emotional maturity. With proper guidance and a firm hand, he’d probably wise up—in another forty years.

      Andrew took a long draw on his beer, mainly to shake off the remaining memories of the morning. “I can appreciate the female figure just as much as any man.”

      “Only if she’s wearing a calculator. Wake up and smell the cheesecake, bro. We’re in the land of Bacchus & Boobs.” To prove his point, Jeff pointed to the main stage where a perfectly proportioned Barbie doll was grinding against a pole, her bare breasts sliding up and down, up and down, up and—

      Okay, Andrew wasn’t dead.

      “It’s a nice place,” he offered lamely.

      “Are you completely insane?” Jeff signaled for the waitress. “You need to live, Andrew. You’re going to die, and they won’t be able to shoot embalming fluid inside you, because your blood turned to stone a long time ago.”

      “One of you is all this family can afford.”

      “Because I’m a slave to the lure of the feminine mystique? That’s totally unjustified.”

      “Actually, if all you did was look, I wouldn’t be worried. One of these days, you’re going to hook up with the wrong girl and parts of you are going to start falling off.”

      A waitress came up to Jeff, climbing into his lap as if she belonged there, or at least could be rented for a fifteen-minute interval.

      “You’re ancient, Andrew,” he continued without missing a step. “These are the best years of our lives, and you’re throwing it all away.” As Andrew watched, Jeff slipped a twenty in her G-string and the waitress stroked Jeff’s cheek, her hand drifting down to his lap.

      “Drinks?” she asked.

      “Two shots of Jagermeister.”

      Alarmed, Andrew started to protest. “Oh, no.”

      Jeff flashed him an evil grin, as the waitress wiggled back to her feet. “Oh, yes. In fact—” He patted one sculpted butt cheek “—make it six.”

      She brushed against him, a flirtatious shimmy of silicone.