Who's on Top?. Karen Kendall

was pretty sure she had an alternate orchestra. She didn’t look anything like an image consultant—unless it was for rock stars in L.A.

      “A thong eliminates the pantie-line problem.” Shannon shrugged, winding her long, curly blond hair into a knot on her head. Her motorcycle jacket hid most of a screaming-orange tank top—just not enough of it for Jane’s taste.

      “I haven’t tried them,” Lilia said, “but I’ve heard those new boy shorts hide pantie lines, too.”

      “Nope—they crawl.” Shannon was indisputably the authority on undies.

      “Better a little ‘crawl’ than…than…rope burn in a private place!” Lilia stood her ground.

      “Thongs are really not uncomfortable,” said Shannon. “The only problem I have with them is that I’m forever putting them on sideways, since they’re your basic isosceles triangle.”

      Lilia shook her head. “Never. I just can’t go there. Thongs are so…slutty.”

      Shannon exchanged a glance with Jane and both started to laugh.

      “Ah,” Jane responded in a dry voice. “It’s so much less slutty to wear nothing under your stockings, for fear of those dreaded pantie lines.”

      Lilia colored. “That’s not the same thing at all—”

      “No,” Shannon chortled in between mouthfuls of a Krispy Kreme doughnut. “It’s worse! Lilia, you fallen woman, you.” She turned to Jane. “Now, execu-babe, tell us all about your unmentionables.”

      Jane grinned, dried her just-washed hands and helped herself to what was left of the Krispy Kremes. “The only thing you need to know about my underwear has to do with maintenance. You go into Vicky’s Secret, and let’s say you choose beautiful lace tap pants. Or some sheer panties in chiffon. You feel pretty the first time you wear them. Then you toss them into the washing machine—’

      “You didn’t!” gasped Lilia. “Surely the salesgirls told you to hand wash—”

      “Yes, like I have all the time in the world to gently swish each of my freakin’ undergarments in the sink. Get real.”

      Lilia tsk-tsked.

      “So I threw them into the machine. And now they’re wound around the bottom of the post thingy in the washer and I can’t get them out! I’m also afraid to use the darn machine in case they destroy it or set it on fire or something.”

      Shannon laughed.

      Lilia stated the obvious. “You should call a repair guy.”

      “Sure, Lil. You try explaining to a guy your father’s age that the problem lies with your ruby-red lacy tap pants. That it’s going to take a blowtorch and some needle-nose pliers to get them unstuck.”

      Lilia’s lips twitched.

      Jane mock-glared at her friends before rounding on Shannon. “By the way, thanks for leaving me only the squashed glazed doughnut and significantly less than half of the chocolate-frosted one!”

      Shannon rolled her eyes. “I have two adages for you. ‘First come, first served.’ And ‘It’s for your own good, honey.’ Be glad they’re on my hips and not yours.”

      “Why?” Jane muttered. “Why have I maintained a twenty-year friendship with the two of you? Not to mention going into business with you. Next Monday I’ll eat all the crème ones before reaching the first traffic light, and you’ll be sorry you treated me this way.”

      Lilia said, “Now, girls.”

      Shannon stuck her tongue out.

      “Speaking of panties and Vicky’s Secret,” Jane went on, stalking to the prissy camelback sofa and retrieving a catalogue. “How on earth is anyone supposed to wear—” she flipped through some pages “—this? It’s only got a—”

      Suddenly Shannon made a weird face, rolling her eyes wildly, and Lilia coughed and waggled her index finger behind her ear.

      “—string of pearls for a crotch!” Too late she noticed their odd expressions.

      Both her business partners closed their eyes and winced.

      Slowly Jane lowered the catalogue and looked gingerly behind her, only to behold a Hugh Jackman type in pinstripes—her first client of the day. Oh. My. God. His shoulders filled the doorway and he gazed down at her from a height of at least six foot two. His dark hair was cut short in an attempt to restrain a tendency to curl. Dark eyes gleamed at her over Serengeti shades that he’d tugged down just a bit. Besides his suit, he wore a quizzical expression, and his eyebrows formed two interested, sex-charged squiggles.

      She cleared her throat; resisted putting her hands up to her incinerated cheeks; looked at her watch. “You must be Mr. Sayers. I wasn’t expecting you…quite so early.”

      DOMINIC SAYERS FROZE IN HIS tracks. String of pearls for a crotch? The concept was undeniably appealing—he was only human, after all. But he could not possibly be in the right place. Had he stumbled into an upscale escort service? He took a step back; looked up at the discreet, silver wooden letters. Huh. He raised a brow and returned his gaze to the rosy cheeks of the woman before him.

      “Jane O’Toole? Of…Finesse?” He didn’t try to conceal his irony.

      The color in her cheeks deepened to burgundy, but other than that she didn’t bat an eyelash. He was, however, too irritated to admire her composure. He didn’t want to be here.

      “Yes, that’s right.” She raised her chin and stuck out her right hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sayers.”

      “Oh, I doubt it.” His gaze, which he’d meant to keep cool and distant, roved over her body without his permission, dipping into the neatly buttoned but still provocative valley where the plackets of her blouse met—and downward from there. Hmm, pearls…

      She blinked. “If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll get you started on some paperwork. Just some simple questions. Your employee ID number for Zantyne Pharmaceuticals, their billing address—that type of thing.”

      “Ah, yes. The paper trail,” he said, returning to reality and not bothering to hide his bitterness. But he sat and accepted the pen and file folder she handed to him.

      Arianna “the piranha” DuBose was no doubt furiously adding as much as she could to the paper trail that would indicate he should be fired.

      The trail would not include certain important information: that Arianna had lied, backstabbed and schmoozed her way into her current position as his boss; that she was extremely threatened by Dom and didn’t want him around to expose her or show her up; and that she’d deliberately picked a fight with him so she could get him some “help” for his “negative attitude” and “tendencies toward insubordination.”

      He shouldn’t have fallen for her tricks. Damn it, he knew better. What had gotten into him? Why had he let her anger him? And why hadn’t he made sure someone else was in the room during the entire standoff?

      The only blessing Dom could count was that Arianna-the-piranha hadn’t accused him of sexual harassment.

      Still, he was here in Jane O’Toole’s office to be evaluated—probably to commence “sensitivity training,” anger management and who knew what else. General kowtowing, he supposed.

      In the meantime, he had a market analysis due, the regulators breathing down his neck and the licensing agreements to sign off on. Arianna would be nosing around every step of the way, erasing the dots from his i’s and smudging the crosses on his t’s. Anything she could use to trump up a case against him—she’d latch on to it with those flesh-eating fangs of hers.

      Dom realized that Jane O’Toole was saying something to him. “What?” he asked gruffly. “I didn’t catch that.”

      His eyes went from her mouth to her neckline,