“David Brenner, British Sex God, CEO of Brexcel Corporation,” Margie went on.
That bit about the corporation clicked, and Diana staunchly refused to linger on the sex god part. “The guy who bought that building out on Long Island and turned it into a gamer’s paradise? Like, where all the computer nerds go when they finally crawl out of their mother’s basement?”
Margie nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, but that’s not the best part—he’s filthy rich. Like a billionaire.”
Diana shrugged. She didn’t care about billions so much as she cared about making sure her car had enough gas, her belly had enough food, her ass had clean underwear to slide into every morning, and her sister had her college tuition payments. Diana was a simple girl with simple needs… And Margie was the girl who loved the flashy, shiny, pretty-pretty things. Money didn’t impress Diana, not as much as character, loyalty, or dedication. Give her a hard-working, blue collar gentleman over a snobby billionaire any day. Not that either of those men were an option. Seemed that thick thighs, curvy hips, and a fleshy belly were kryptonite to the male species no matter what was in his bank account.
“That’s nice for him,” she finally replied, checking the time on her computer monitor.
Sighing dramatically, Margie pushed her phone into her coat pocket. “If he was the one meeting with Ayers, the one Janet was talking about, then he’s the one battling the baby-daddy suit.”
What had Margie heard that Diana hadn’t? Not that she needed to know anything; she already had plenty of other cases to keep her occupied, she didn’t need office gossip to taint her brain.
Rolling her eyes, she made a shooing motion with her hand. She didn’t care why the man was in the building, she just cared that she needed to get her head on straight; she had work to do and she didn’t need the distraction of day-time fantasies that had no chance of becoming reality.
She was a realist, dammit!
Margie clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes right back. “Fine, I’ll go. I should probably get back to my office—this shirt is starting to smell like skunk ass—but don’t think we won’t talk about this later,” Margie said, pointing at Diana.
She waved her off again. “Whatever. Thanks for the shirt. I’d get it back to you tonight—”
“Buuuuuut Blake is coming over…” Margie finished for her, needlessly reminding her that she had a night of hot sex coming up, and Diana was looking forward to a long commute home to Jersey.
“Yup.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll get this one dry-cleaned and invoice you for the charges.”
She laughed and blew a kiss to Margie as she left.
Despite her—honestly—less than diligent efforts to forget the man from the elevator, her body immediately responded to the slightest memory of his gaze, how it skimmed over her, lighting her skin on fire. He was unlike any other man she’d met; beautifully masculine, with a presence that demanded attention. Submission.
Where the hell had that thought come from?
Shaking her head to clear away the horny muck, and despite her earlier desire to put him from her thoughts, she focused on the facts she now knew about him.
David Brenner… Now that Margie had helped her make the connections, she remembered reading about the guy in a Forbes magazine she’d plucked from the month-old pile of reading material in her dentist’s office. He was one of the top five billionaire bachelors in the world.
Good for him, she thought, as a vision of gray-silver eyes flashed through her brain.
Apparently, Mr. Brenner was a self-made man, turning a single sandbox style computer game into a software empire. There had been a picture of him, but the part where his head would have been had been ripped out. No doubt someone wanting to take that gorgeous face of his home to stare at while they drifted off into erotic dreams.
And they would be erotic. Her skin flushed, remembering just how incredibly…masculine he’d been. Tall. Check. Muscular. Check. The man’s tailored suit coat hugged his arms and chest like it was trying to cop a feel. Sexy mouth. Check. Fuck me eyes. Check. David Brenner had easily turned her into a brainless stump with a single glance in his direction.
Damn! That had never happened to her before. And it was fucking humiliating! He must think I am some fawning idiot…if he even spares a thought for me at all.
Like that was likely to happen. Out of sight, out of mind. Chubby chick at the elevator, gone from his memory before he hit the 32nd floor.
Her heart still pounding from their incredible (though that was one-sided) and brief encounter, she barely heard the ding from her computer, indicating an intra-office message from her boss. Moving the mouse to kill the screen saver—a fluffy dilute calico kitten in a red rubber boot—she read the message.
MY OFFICE. TEN MINUTES.
Well, there went her chance to calm the hell down and avoid her boss seeing her in her comically tight shirt.
In the time it took her to clock back into work via the company’s internal time-keeping software and check her reflection in the small mirror in the bathroom across the corridor from her office, her heart returned to beating at a rhythmic, neutral pace.
Shit. She knew she looked like a grown woman trying to squeeze into a toddler’s shirt, but unless she wanted to leave work early (which she couldn’t afford to do, since she needed the hours) she had to face her boss despite looking like the ass end of an éclair; overstuffed and spilling out.
Sucking in a breath, she held it as she let herself into Mr. Ayers’s office. Having worked for him for three years, she knew he expected her to be right on time, and she was. And now she was standing in front of his desk while he was staring at the computer screen in front of him. Only a twitch in his eyebrows told her that he noticed her arrival.
Richard Ayers. Sexy as
