She told herself that it didn’t matter, that the lack of remembrance didn’t hurt. Just because she remembered Erik, didn’t mean that he should remember her, as well. After all, she was Penny Rawley, poster child for wallflowers worldwide. Plain. Forgettable. Invisible. Whereas, he was the Erik Thompson. Computer genius. Entrepreneur extraordinaire. The most sought-after bachelor in Texas, if not the world. The self-proclaimed lawman who rode through cyber space on bandwidth rather than a horse, packing a keyboard instead of a six-shooter as he tracked down criminals in the relatively new frontier known as the Internet.
But it did hurt, she admitted, blinking back an unexpected rush of tears. If he didn’t recognize her when he arrived, or even acknowledge in some way that he’d once made her acquaintance, she feared she’d die of a broken heart…or, at the very least, suffer extreme humiliation.
To heck with her date with destiny, she told herself, already reaching for the purse she’d tucked within the kneehole space of her desk. She would quit. Leave before he arrived. Spare herself the heartbreak and humiliation. She’d find a new job. One with a lesser-known company, a less-infamous owner. One where she had no past connection with her employer.
Just as she stood, purse in hand, prepared to make a hasty exit, the elevator dinged, signaling its arrival on the executive floor. Trapped, with no escape left to her, she watched, frozen, as the doors slid silently open and the car’s single male occupant stepped out. The man carried a briefcase in one hand and held a thick sheaf of papers before his face with the other.
She slid her gaze down his body, noting the black T-shirt with Cyber Cowboy emblazoned across its front, the faded jeans that hugged slim hips, the long, muscular legs whose long, sure strides brought him ever closer to her desk. She dragged her gaze from the tips of scuffed cowboy boots crafted from an unidentifiable exotic skin and back up to the coal-black hair that curled damply on his forehead and over his ears.
Erik Thompson? she asked herself in bewilderment. She’d expected him to have changed over the years, to have incorporated a more polished style, one that befit his current status and wealth. A three-piece, custom-made silk suit, Italian loafers, a gold Rolex watch. Something to attest to his success. But he hadn’t changed at all! He still dressed like a down-on-his-luck cowboy, just as he had when she’d first met him in college ten years before.
Without lifting his gaze from the report he studied, he passed by her desk and mumbled a one-word directive for coffee.
She slowly turned her head, following his unflagging progress toward his open office door. Her gaze drifted from the dark hair that curled against the neck-band of his T-shirt, down a broad back and tapered waist to his buttocks and a frayed tear just below his hip pocket. Her breath snagged in her lungs and burned there as a strip of black silk appeared in the narrow slit. Oh, my God! she thought, heat flooding her face. Black silk briefs. He wears black silk briefs! Her purse slipped from suddenly weak fingers and dropped to the carpet with a soft thud at her feet.
Seemingly oblivious to the sound of her purse dropping or the lustful stare that monitored his movements, he stepped inside his office, hooked the worn heel of a cowboy boot around the bottom edge of the door and gave it a shove. The door slammed shut between them, the sound as sharp and startling as the report of a gun, making Penny jump.
She placed a hand over her heart and sank weakly down onto her chair. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, then said again more slowly, “Oh…my…God.”
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, staring at the closed door, an image of the man on the other side filling her mind, her pulse thundering at the erotic visions that built, before his voice boomed from the other side, “Where’s my coffee!”
She hesitated, remembering her earlier decision to leave, then bolted to her feet. I’ll give it a couple more days, she promised herself as she poured coffee into the thick ceramic mug that Mrs. Hilloughby had indicated was his favorite. Then, if I find him impossible to work with, I’ll quit.
She snatched the itinerary from the printer as she raced by her desk, but forced herself to pause outside his door and take a deep breath, before knocking. Not hearing a response, she opened the door and peeked inside.
He was seated behind the desk opposite her, the heels of his hands pressed against his temples, studying the report he’d dropped between his braced elbows. Sunshine streamed through the plate glass window behind him, creating a golden halo of sorts for a fallen angel.
At eighteen she’d thought Erik Thompson the best looking and sexiest man she’d ever met, and nothing she saw now changed that earlier opinion. Then, as now, he projected an image of strength, self-confidence, an intellectual intensity that merely hinted at the sharpness of a brilliant mind, an impatience to conquer the world and claim it as his own…and an inborn sexuality that turned her insides to warm, spun honey.
Granted, she had to look beyond his rough appearance to see those traits and experience that thrill. It seemed he still had an aversion to a comb and razor, she thought dreamily, as she skimmed her gaze over the damp curls that drooped endearingly over his forehead, the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw.
As she stared, he dragged a weary hand down his face, flipped a page, then returned the hand to his temple, as if he needed it to support the weight of his head. He’s exhausted, she realized with a stab of sympathy, then just as quickly wondered at the cause of his fatigue.
Remembering his demand for coffee and suspecting his need for the stimulating caffeine was real rather than ego generated, she crossed to his desk. “Good morning, Mr. Thompson,” she said, deciding the formal greeting more appropriate—especially since he hadn’t seemed to recognize her. “How was your trip to Japan?”
His attention riveted on the report, he muttered something unintelligible and held out a hand. His response was so much like her brother’s grumpy morning greetings to her, she was taken aback. Were all men alike? she wondered incredulously. Did they all take for granted that their needs would be met without a thought or a care for the person who was fulfilling those needs?
Determined to make him acknowledge her presence, she set the mug on his desk just out of his reach and took a step back. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she pursed her lips and waited, tapping the itinerary furiously against her forearm.
After a moment he glanced up, his gaze snagging on the abandoned mug without ever making it to hers. Frowning slightly, he hooked a finger in its handle and shifted his gaze back to the report as he took the first cautious sip. “You the new secretary?”
Penny rolled her eyes. Even in conversation he seemed to communicate in sentence fragments, though she didn’t need to struggle to decode this particular message. His meaning was all too clear and proved what she’d already suspected.
He didn’t remember her.
But she didn’t die of a broken heart, as she’d feared she might. Nor did she suffer even a shred of humiliation. Instead a slow fury burned its way through her. “Yes,” she said, and thrust out a hand, determined to make him touch her, prove to him that she was a human being and not one of his complicated computer systems. “Penny Rawley.”
He glanced up, met her gaze briefly, then dropped his gaze to her hand. His frown deepening, he set aside his mug, gave her hand a quick pump, then released it. “Mrs. H. show you the ropes?” he asked, infuriating her further by turning a page of the report and continuing to read, instead of focusing his attention on her.
“Yes. She was very thorough.”
“Took care of
