LITMIR.BIZ

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      His gaze traveled upward, leaving the relative security of the legal pad to skim over nicely turned breasts, past the lurid throat, and finally coming to rest on her face.

      Jamie of No Last Name looked to be hell on wheels. A woman who threw you down on the bed, and…

      No, no, no…

      He’d seen guys in the office succumb to the lure of the velvet power of the p-whip, but not Andrew. Too many people were counting on him.

      That thought helped gird the loins that were currently raging with lust.

      But she was cute, although he suspected she’d kill him if he said it aloud. Certainly not cute in a kitten and babies sense—thankfully. Her brown hair was pulled back in an elegant ponytail, her light blue eyes were never still, blinking to one side then another…

      …blinking mindlessly while he was pounding inside her.

      The loins came ungirded.

      Damn.

      “Drew, do you have anything to add?” asked the voice in his ear.

      He cleared his throat. “No, I think we’ve covered it. Thanks, everyone, for dialing in. It’s been a productive meeting.”

      It was all bullshit, and Andrew didn’t usually go for bullshit, but there was a time and place for it, and when you’re currently having Technicolor fantasies about the woman sitting across from you in a tank of a limo—well, bullshit didn’t seem out of the question.

      He snapped his briefcase closed with a bang that seemed obscenely loud. She looked up at him, and he saw a quick flash of panic. Somebody else was nervous, too.

      Andrew stared out the window, away from the cold sweat of her gaze, and watched the cars inch forward at a snail’s pace.

      Distraction. He needed a distraction.

      He pounded on the speaker button. “Driver, how’re we doing?” he asked, like he couldn’t tell.

      “Two hours to Connecticut. We’ve almost made it across the Whitestone, sir.”

      “Thank you,” he said politely, and then heaved a breath. While he obsessed over the currently unclothed throat of the mono-monikered Jamie, the oxygen was turning thin—all at one hundred feet over sea level.

      He needed to label her, use the brand like a wedge, because it was obvious that the three feet between the car seats wasn’t going to do it.

      Urges, when unchecked, were a dangerous thing, leading to forgotten responsibilities, sloppily completed tasks, and poor credit scores. Andrew had deferred gratification his entire life; there were other things more important, namely food and rent.

      Drew looked over at the object of his current urge, while considering extremely inappropriate behaviors. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and frankly, the state of his hard-on was about as desperate as he’d ever been.

      “Sound Design. Gross receipts last year over forty-seven billion.”

      “I beg your pardon?” she asked, quirking one brow.

      “The speaker company,” he answered in his flattest, most monotonous voice.

      “Forty-seven billion?”

      He nodded. “Price per earnings of nine point seven. Low. Hold recommendation.”

      “You’re a broker, I assume,” she said, eyes sparkling, one lip curling up in that cocky half smile that was going to haunt him for days.

      “Sort of,” he answered, omitting that he actually managed a half-billion-dollar hedge fund that he turned a neat twenty-one percent annual profit for the last five years, beating the market average three times over.

      “Fascinating,” she replied, the mischievous light dimming from her eyes. Definite progress.

      One of Andrew’s most valuable skills in the fight against ties that bind was the ability to bore a date to death when he wanted to dump ’em.

      Worked every time.

      “Sergei Brand,” she said.

      “What?” he asked.

      “Your suit. Sergei Brand. Number one maker of semi-custom. Breakout sales in the late nineties when they limited their inventory to only smaller, boutique-type tailors and cut off the big department store chains altogether. Sales climbed thirty-seven percent in the first year, and then tapered off to a blazing twenty-three percent for the next three years.”

      Andrew’s heart stopped. Cardiac arrest at the age of thirty-six. “Are you in fashion?” he asked helplessly.

      “Wall Street,” she told him, casually studying her nails.

      Holy, Alan Greenspan.

      “Oh,” was all his razor-sharp wit could come up with.

      Then she looked up, her face poker-steady, but the light blue eyes were saying something entirely different. “Next year’s market outlook?” she asked coolly. The words were a gauntlet, a threat…a turn-on.

      So this was a game to her? Two could play at that, and Andrew’s smile turned predatory. “Slow in the first quarter, but gaining speed in the second, and third, and then a slight downturn in the fourth.”

      She licked her lips, and he followed the provocative movement with his eyes. “Nope. First quarter is fast out of the gate.”

      “What about the January affect?” he asked, his voice huskier than normal.

      “Not a factor. Gains in the entertainment sector will outpace all others,” she said, one flirtatious thumb absently caressing her throat, a slow up and down motion that his whole body was following with avid attention.

      His mouth opened, a high school caliber proposition sat on his tongue. And then he remembered his age, his college degrees, his supposed maturity. “What makes you say that?”

      “The American consumer is ready to play.”

      She was wrong, and he knew it. “Disagree,” he argued.

      Furiously she shook her head until one wayward lock of hair fell loose from its rigid confine. The minx was toying with him, until his instincts honed in for the kill.

      “The burgeoning consumer market is too crowded,” he continued. “Everywhere there’s distraction. More, more, more, everything pounding at the brain like a hammer. Eventually there’s steam, billowing smoke. Before the year is out it’s gonna implode because a consumer can only take so much before he erupts. It’s Krakatau, Vesuvius, Mt. St. Helens. Mark my words, it’ll blow.”

      She leaned forward in her seat, one stocking-clad knee inches from his own. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. “That same stress will force the consumer to increasingly turn to things to take their mind off economics, politics, foreign affairs, and the price of oil. They’ll need to wind down, relax. TV, movies, gaming, the Net, those are the only things large enough to fill the void,” she said, her gaze locked with his, and his brain flickered off. His hands itched to pull the ponytail loose. His fingers curled, aching to follow the line of her throat, finding out what lay beneath the demure suit jacket. And his cock, well, his cock didn’t need an instruction manual. No, all current thinking was going on below the waist.

      God in heaven, she was seducing him.

      JAMIE PERCHED ON THE EDGE of her seat, waiting. She loved to debate, any excuse to argue, and Andrew was her biggest challenge yet. She felt primitive, carnal and exquisitely female.

      Yeah, okay, admit it.

      She was turned on.

      She’d never felt this pull of animal attraction. The hard, dark eyes were no longer hard. The spark was definitely there. And that firm mouth kept luring her gaze, the pounding of her heart matching the telling pulse between her thighs. The soft cotton of her bra rubbed unbearably

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