to his arm like that.
“Worse. Accountants. Although I did invite these genius kids I’m trying to seal a deal with. The four of them are a trip.” Nick smiled down at Grace, who wrinkled her nose and offered to order him a drink. When he took her up on it, she disappeared into the hall. Strolling over to where Maxie sat fuming, Nick dropped into one of the straight-backed chairs across the coffee table from the couch and hooked his foot beneath the rung of another, dragging it closer so that he could prop both shiny loafer-shod feet on it. Draping an arm over the back of his chair, his back to the game, he might as well have twiddled a toothpick in his mouth for all the sense of urgency he seemed to possess. There was no sign of the Nick who’d been with her in that elevator.
“Hello, Ms. Tyler. Working hard?”
She forced her aching fingers to loosen their grip. Crossing her arms over her chest, she kept her voice as cool as an iced margarita when she answered. “I am a well-oiled machine, Mr. Drake. The crew’s good to go.” Her smile was sweet, her voice perky. “Your playwright’s the one who’s causing the production delays.”
“Hmm, yes.” He rubbed the knuckle of his index finger above his lip and nodded again. “That impression has been growing on me, as well.”
Whoa. Backpedal. The last thing she wanted to do was spook the backers.
“I’m not saying the play’s not good. It is. It’s brilliant, actually.” She didn’t have to lie there, thank god. The only explanation she might have for the playwright’s uncanny talent with words might be demonic possession, since he could barely string together a coherent sentence in person, but she wasn’t about to knock it. “But he shouldn’t have this much power at this late stage of the game. He’s too stressed out about achieving perfection and that means rewrites, which were fine at the beginning, but he needs to lock it down now. Your mama’s backing his choices all the way, though, and his delays are costing us. Heitman’s gotta be the final word, not this kid. No matter how talented.”
“How much is it costing us?” His eyes narrowed.
“Less with me than with any other stage manager out there.” She stood up. This was a time to hold the high ground, so to speak.
“That’s not exactly encouraging.”
Before she could even register what was going on, Nick was pacing and barking orders into his cell phone.
She really needed to register the fact that this guy was not from the theater world. She kept forgetting that run-of-the-mill disasters in the lead-up to a big show would seem like complete and utter chaos to a civilian, particularly one who was used to the less...colorful world of business.
She tugged at his sleeve as he snapped out commands at some poor soul who had to be his mother’s personal assistant.
The assistant had probably never dealt with anything more challenging than organizing fundraising tables for the annual Lincoln Park Zoo Ball. This latest leap into the arts by Nick’s mother was probably the biggest shitstorm from which they’d ever had to protect themselves.
“Listen, Nick.” She ducked as he whirled around, his elbow breezing through the space her temple had occupied a moment earlier. “Hey! Watch it, Drake. Listen—”
Shouting in the wind, she was. There was only one thing to do.
She snagged a liter bottle of club soda off the bar and shook it.
Hard.
Right as her hand cranked the cap off she spun around, seltzer spurting volcanically from the bottle. She had a split second to wish she wasn’t always quite so sure of herself.
Then she blasted him square in the face.
In the silence that followed she could hear a high-pitched voice squeaking from his phone, rising in volume when no one answered.
Nick’s pale blue Oxford was plastered to his chest. Club soda ran off his chin, beaded up and then soaked into the wool of his charcoal-gray suit coat, dripped off the spiky tips of his hair. She was splattered with it when he tossed his head back and whipped the wet ends of his hair out of his eyes, his phone still clutched in one hand.
Slowly, cautiously, she raised her open hands in front of her.
No sudden movements.
Just as slowly, but without a hint of caution, he walked toward her, wiping the phone off on his pants and slipping it into a pocket. She retreated one step at a time until she ran into the hard edge of the table, which caught her just beneath her butt. She leaned even farther back from the hips, certain there wasn’t enough room in this box to escape him. He didn’t stop his approach until he was pressed hard against her thighs, hands braced on the table on either side of her.
Her elbows ached from leaning on them. Maybe hosing him down with club soda hadn’t been the best way to get his attention.
He lifted one hand and wrapped it around her throat.
She sucked in a breath and shivered as the liquid soaking him seeped into her jeans, her shirt. Excruciatingly aware of the hard wedge of thigh that was pressed against her crotch, she shifted slightly and saw an answering fire flare in his eyes. His voice was a growl that thrummed against her nerves and sent heat racing through her system.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”
She surrendered. Hooked her ankles behind his waist and used his shoulders to pull herself up.
“If it doesn’t involve getting me naked on this table, I don’t want to know.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. His warm breath brushed her mouth as his face dipped toward hers, eyes half-shut in that slow burn of a smile.
“I’m so glad we agree.” The words slipped out between barely-there kisses. She tolerated that for a moment and then captured his bottom lip in her teeth and nipped, hard. Stay still and kiss me.
The sudden blaring of 80s hard rock from across the room was more of a shock than a turn-on, she had to admit.
“What the—” Nick was prevented from pulling away by her legs, which were still wrapped around him.
“Ignore it. They’ll call back later.” She didn’t normally approve of begging, but if that was what it took...
She ran her hands up his arms, across his shoulders and then cupped his face in her hands, pulling him back to her.
He came willingly, lifting her butt up onto the table behind her for leverage.
“If there’s some theater emergency that requires your immediate attention, I swear we’ll be right back to the part where I strangle you.”
He flexed his hands on her hips, drawing her tighter against him. The thick length of him against her made her groan. She slid her fingers around his neck to thread through his hair as she arched her back, increasing the pressure.
“Those calls get ‘Cabaret.’ Or, hmm, yessss—” His hands slid up her sides until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. Her mind went blank, but her lips kept forming the words as her head dropped back and she gave in to the need pounding through her body. “Or ‘Send in the Clowns,’ not GNR.”
GNR.
