Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee, Page 2

  “You don’t sleep with...what?” I ask.

  “I don’t sleep with women!” He points at Amanda like she’s wearing a scarlet letter on her chest.

  A scarlet W.

  “And I don’t sleep with gay guys!” Amanda moans back.

  “Aside from that hook-up our freshman year,” Shannon whispers.

  “You pinkie promised never to talk about him!” Amanda hisses.

  Declan and Dad start hooting.

  “Trust me,” Josh says in an acid tone. “The only two people in this room who had sex last night were you and Amanda.” He looks down with a forlorn look.

  Declan thumbs toward Shannon. “Actually, we did, too.”

  Josh’s turn for a raised eyebrow. “In this room? Kinky.”

  Declan shuts him up with a glare. Josh and Geordi wisely leave.

  “Now that we’ve gone into more detail about my sons’ sex lives than an IRS audit, could we please get back to the fact that the CEO of the company I built from scratch is currently wearing a Star Wars action figure as a penis cozy and can’t perform his job!”

  You can guess who said that.

  “Technically,” I correct him, looking down, “this isn’t a Star Wars action figure. That would be far too small to cover my—”

  “Are you really arguing with the semantics about a stuffed Chewbacca toy?” Dad snaps.

  “Declan can’t take that meeting with the Sultan, Dad,” I grind out, trying to take the heat off me.

  “Why not? You’re here, Dec. Delay the honeymoon by a few hours.” Dad’s hand does the familiar dismissal gesture. “The jet can wait.”

  “No, Dad,” I explain, trying to catch Declan’s eye. He won’t give it to me.

  “Andrew, you smell like a distillery and—” he sniffs the air. “And oddly enough, cat urine. You’re standing in a disgusting room filled with people who are staring at your naked body while you use Disney merchandise in a decidedly unconventional manner. You’re hardly in any position to argue with me over whether Declan is a better fit for representing Anterdec in a high-level meeting for a multi-billion dollar deal.”

  I try. Declan has a chance to cough it up on his own. Instinct makes me pause. Or maybe that’s nausea, roiling in my gut. What the hell did I drink last night? Normally, I can hold my own with liquor. I go up to the line, and even cross it by a single, regrettable drink, but I don’t do what I’ve clearly done to my body.

  Mustering clarity, I give Declan a hard look. Silence.

  Huh.

  Looks like he isn’t going to step up, after all.

  “Declan resigned from Anterdec last night, Dad. He bought a coffee chain for Shannon and he’s declared himself the CEO of the new company. He can’t represent Anterdec because he doesn’t work for us anymore.”

  Declan flinches at the word us.

  If I had any muscles to spare, I would, too. It sounds really awful coming out of my mouth, and a part of me wishes I could take it back.

  But not a big part.

  Declan clears his throat and does the unexpected. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out another resignation letter. I had to lead the way. Big brother follows.

  Does this really have to happen now?

  Dad looks at me with disgust, then turns his attention to Declan, brow turned down, the lower half of his face blank. He starts reading the letter just as Amanda’s mother, Pam, appears behind him, stepping gingerly through the mess on the floor, her eyes catching mine, briefly stopping at the beast I’m pressing over my groin to hide my...beast.

  Her teacup Chihuahua, Spritzy, jumps out of her little handbag and sniffs the area around the giant teddy bear. Then he lifts his leg and does what any self-respecting male would do.

  Claims his territory.

  “You resigned?” Dad’s words scream in my head, echoing off the walls of my skull like—

  Like a tuba. Amanda’s got a point.

  Dec squares his shoulders and faces Dad, and now I smile.

  Achievement unlocked: deflection complete.

  “Yes.” Declan’s voice is forceful. He won’t take crap from Dad. Shannon moves closer, her fingers wrapping around Declan’s elbow, and for the first time in my life, I think Declan has a shot at truly taking on Dad. In a game of tennis, this would be Point.

  “You can’t resign!”

  “Just did.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  Oh, big mistake. Big mistake, Dad. When we were kids, the worst phrase you could utter to Declan was “You can’t.”

  “Allow?” Declan’s across the room in a flash, right in Dad’s face, making Pam take a step back. Spritzy rushes across the room, collar jangling like he’s Quasimodo the serial killer, destroying me and Amanda with that gong of a collar.

  “That’s right.” Dad won’t back down.

  “I do not need your permission to buy my own company and to resign from yours.”

  I flinch at the word yours.

  Set.

  When my mother died, I woke up in the hospital to a life that was someone else’s. Nothing made sense. Dad was angry, Declan was shut down, and Terry was off at college. He came back for the funeral and disappeared again. Mom was gone.

  One arena made sense, though: business. Joining Dad in running Anterdec was the only way to get his attention.

  And now Dec is leaving.

  Sharing Dad’s attention is one thing. Being the top dog and edging Dec out just slightly is enough.

  Having the full fire hose of James McCormick’s expectations aimed at your face is more than enough.

  I have a beast inside me. No, not the flesh stick between my legs.

  This creature has no name. It thrives on control and vigilance. It needs to know all. Complete control is not its goal. Oddly enough, it defers at times. Rare times.

  Very rare moments.

  This is not one of them.

  “ENOUGH!” I bellow, dropping the Chewbacca pillow, because why not? I have nothing to lose.

  I bend down and find the first piece of clothing that will cover my body. It’s the pink robe I bought Amanda when we arrived. The one with lace at the breasts. I’m not picky. I’m not one of those guys whose masculinity is threatened by feminine attire.

  Not that I have a history with that. It’s just that pink lace is an upgrade from Peter Mayhew.

  True to form, Dad doesn’t budge, Declan shifts his weight to one hip and thinks he can give me a blank, intimidating look and that will work, and the rest of the interlopers actually do move toward the doorway.

  Amanda starts to crawl out of bed.

  “Not you. Them.”

  “But I need to pee. And quit staring at my breasts. You always stare at my breasts.”

  “That’s because they’re luscious.”

  “Oh, brother,” Dad and Dec say at the same time, finally moving toward the door.

  “So firm and supple,” I continue.

  Declan glares. Pam looks like she’s starting to faint. Dad grabs her arm and escorts her out of the bedroom.

  Ordering them out of the room doesn’t work, but talking about Amanda’s naked body does? Fine. I take a deep breath and ignore the nine-member funk band in my head and start to talk about my favorite subject.

  She looks down and screams bloody murder.

  “When did I get a Donald Trump tattoo?”

  And faints.

  “OUT!” I shout.

  They listen to me. People do. I have a voice that makes it clear that not following my command is not an option.

  Though I’m guessing that the Chewbacca crotch had something do with their exit.

  I join Amanda under the covers and pass out.

  Match.

  Chapter Two

  Hours pass. I don’t know that hours pass, because my consciousness is filled with dreams about Sultans in Dubai with rainbow penises having sex with Donald Trump.

  “Andrew,” someone says. Someone with a creamy, sexy voice.

  “Look
at my hands,” I mutter. “Can someone with hands like this have a short chocolate dong?”

  “What?” The creamy voice curdles.

  I startle. It’s dark in the bedroom, and Amanda’s sitting up in bed, her lap covered by the bedspread, her breasts still orange. The way her eyes catch mine makes the room feel warm and sweet. Protectiveness kicks in even more. She’s tenting the covers and looking at her midsection. Her dark hair spills over her shoulder, but it’s matted with something white and gooey.

  No, not that. I lean toward her and sniff. Her hair smells like lemon and salt. For a moment, I close my eyes, trying to regroup. Five days ago, we were broken up. Irrevocably split for one simple reason:

  I had a moment of stupendous idiocy. I’ll own it.

  More than a moment, too. I’m man enough to admit it. I let risk aversion nearly destroy my best hope for love.

  Which meant that I simply miscalculated the risks.

  Hence the stupendous, temporary idiocy.

  We reunited only five days ago. Five damn days. The bandages on her arms are a stark reminder that the wedding in Boston was less than a week ago.

  We’re back together, but there’s still so much left to learn about each other.

  Little things, like which side of the bed each prefers. Favorite colors. Food preferences.

  Or, you know, like whether we’re married or not.

  “How did I get Cheeto coochie?” she asks, pointing to her breasts, which look at me like Sirens on an island in the ocean. Andrew, they croon. Come play with us....

  My mouth is cotton. Fermented cotton. And salt. Something salty. “What?”

  She peers at me. “Your mouth matches my coochie. It’s orange, too.”

  “Coochie?” We’ve only been back together for less than a week. I didn’t know “coochie” was part of her personal vocabulary. “Cheeto coochie” sounds like the name of a tapas dish at a low-end restaurant.

  Or a stripper name.

  “You know.” She peers down. “If your mouth is orange, and my breasts and, ahem,” she points down, “are orange, then we committed some kinky acts with snack foods last night.”

  “You’re the one with the Cheeto-marshmallow fetish.”

  She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t mention food.”

  I wave my ringed hand. “Too much talk. Basics first.” I force myself to stand and walk into the mini-kitchen. Water. I need water. Water and half a jar of ibuprofen-flavored beer.

  And my memory.

  Bzzzz.

  “Your phone!”

  “Probably Gina.”

  “Who is Gina?” The arch tone gets my attention and makes me smile. Now I know something new about Amanda.

  She gets jealous. I grin and smother it with my hand.

  “My new admin,” I say, muffled by my palm.

  She lets out a cute little huff of relief. “What happened to...Bethany?”

  “She was three admins ago.”

  “Lucy’s gone, too?” Amanda asks, incredulous.

  “She was overly rigid.” I can hear the defensiveness creep into my voice.

  “She was great!”

  “She lasted ten days.”

  “You have an admin problem, Andrew.”

  “No, I don’t.” I ignore my phone. If I can keep a Sultan waiting, I can defer my admin back in Boston, the new young woman the temp agency sent me a few weeks ago. What I need right now is water. Water and Amanda. In that order.

  “Your admins have an Andrew problem.”

  “I’m a great boss!” Irritation sets in. We’ve spent five days trying not to talk about any topic more intense than whether to add cinnamon to our breves, how to handle all the sex chafing, or debating whether jalapeno-flavored aioli is better than bacon-horseradish mayo.

  After rescuing her from the pool at Dec and Shannon’s wedding in Boston, we became so wrapped up in the Vegas chaos that we settled into a pattern.

  A pattern of sex, food, gifts, and...sex.

  That’s right.

  Guy nirvana.

  Now she wants to talk?

  Guy hell.

  My slow walk to the kitchen should be filmed by a documentary crew with the soundtrack to Apocalypse Now in the background. The bedroom looks tame compared to the living room and kitchen. No cat. No dog. No giant pee-covered teddy bear, which means the living room should be an improvement.

  I gag. Why does it smell like a distillery in here? A quick push of buttons on the wall and the curtains part, filling the room with light and, as the windows vent, some air.

  Then I see the pile of glow-in-the-dark sex toys on the coffee table.

  And a giant yoga ball.

  That is buzzing.

  “And soon you’ll be my boss,” Amanda tosses off.

  I don’t answer that, because the buzzing comes from a glowing appendage attached to the yoga ball. The tip curves to the left and if I squint, I can read some words on the shaft.

  Yo! G-spot Ah.... An acronym for YOGA.

  That’s a brand name? I’d fire the person who pushed that to market. No focus group on the planet would approve that.

  I solve the problem by grabbing a throw blanket and covering everything. If I pretend it doesn’t exist, then it doesn’t. That’s how Dad handles emotions in other people, and if it works for him, I can apply it to errant piles of sex toys.

  “Oh, my God. I don’t understand. What really did happen last night?”

  You and me both, babe.

  Amanda’s words float through the air with a tempo they’re not supposed to possess. I flatten my palms against the granite countertop in the small kitchen of our suite and take a deep breath. My shoulders rise up and expand out. I feel my soles against the marble tile. Emotion washes over me like the shame my father was trying to instill. He failed, but the attempt lingers.

  My eyes catch the glint of gold against the polished granite.

  Husband? Wife? Josh and that rainbow chocolate dong dude skedaddled along with the rest of them earlier. I breathe, inhaling and exhaling, counting to four, then eight, using every technique that I normally don’t need to use.

  It’s not anxiousness. It’s overwhelm. And when I get overwhelmed, there’s only one solution.

  Control.

  Actually, now there are two. The new one is sex.

  I like new.

  Instead of going back for my cell phone, I reach for the corded one and dial a special code that takes me straight to my number one here at Litraeon.

  “Mr. McCormick? How may I help you?” It’s Brona Jordan, vice president of operations. Her voice has that smooth, cultured tone with an accent that you can’t quite pinpoint. European? Central Asian? Boston Brahmin? Brona’s been with Litraeon for the past five years, and profits have gone sky high since she brought on a new line of chefs and stores to the attached mall. While she isn’t the top dog, she’s best at meeting delicate situations.

  I am the poster child for delicate.

  “I need a suite.”

  “You already have a suite. You require a second suite?”

  “I want one of the presidential suites instead.”

  Silence. I know what I’m asking. Declan, Dad and I settled for these second-tier suites because of the last-minute nature of the wedding mess. The cream of the crop should be mine again. I’m done playing second fiddle. Sunlight flashes off the ring on my left hand.

  Funny. I haven’t taken it off yet.

  “Yes,” she says slowly, “we can accommodate that, of course. You realize we will need to relocate the Sultan.”

  The Sultan?

  “He’s here?”

  “Yes.”

  My mind races and clears at the same time, as if my gray matter were being pressure washed of toxins and left gleaming and renewed.

  “And that’s the meeting I missed.” Dad’s fury connects with Brona’s observation. Anterdec is in final negotiations to expand our resort network into Dubai. We have two smaller properties there, but this w
ould be an enormous capital investment, with a fifty-story tower, massive water park, private airport and all that goes with the definition of luxury among the ultra-wealthy.

  And I blew off a meeting with the Sultan because of—

  “Cheeto coochie!” Amanda moans from the next room.

  “Excuse me?” Brona asks. “Did you say something, Andrew?”

  And then there’s that.

  Brona’s shift from formality tells me even more. Dad’s already gotten to her and let her know why I’m missing the meeting.

  I’ve lost control here.

  Time to gain it back.

  “Get me into a presidential suite within thirty minutes.”

  “I need sixty, and permission to relocate anywhere they ask.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They might want to go next door if you kick them out.”

  Next door. We’re competing with the owners of that resort for the Dubai deal.

  “Damn it,” I mutter.

  She merely clears her throat and waits. I chug half a gallon of water and sigh.

  Control. I need—

  “May I make a suggestion?” Brona’s words are soothing. “What if you reserve a royal suite next door?”

  “Me? Why would I move out of my own property?” And when the hell did the place next door create royal suites?

  “To throw them off.” She sighs. “And yes, we’re working on creating our own royal suites. Already in development.”

  Tumblers click in my head. Gears sync. I have a naked mystery shopper in my bedroom. Brona’s suggestion sets off a firestorm of connected thoughts, lighting my CEO brain up like a thunderball.

  “Perfect. Do it. We’ll take their best.”

  “Nothing but,” she croons. “Anything else?”

  “No—wait. Yes. Check the security video for the hallway in front of my suite. Copy it from about eight o’clock last night until right now. I’d like to review it with Jed.” Jed is our head of security here at this Vegas Strip resort, Litraeon.

  Click.

  “We’re moving,” I announce, carrying a glass of water for Amanda back to the bed, handing it to her.

  She immediately pours it down her front, starting with the collarbone, the water cascading down her torso, pearling on her nipples, rolling down the slope of her breasts like something out of really high-quality porn.