Men at Work: Through the Roof / Taking His Measure / Watching It Go Up. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ Gina. Thank you. Now, exactly what do I owe you for not telling me where he is? Oh, fudge. I don’t care. Just send me a bill.”

      IN HER OFFICE at the Reston Foundation, Marina leaned back in her leather chair and rubbed her bare feet on the mink-covered foot-rest under her modern maple desk.

      She did not believe in killing animals for their fur, but when your grandmother had already bought the mink in question in the form of a coat, what were you to do? She refused to wear it—not that it was possible here in Miami—and so she’d used it for other things.

      One of her great pleasures in life was to sit naked on her mink-upholstered vanity stool while she did her makeup and hair—or obsessed about where to find her fiancé.

      Working construction.

      Now, there were any number of places that Ben could be doing that…but again, a gut instinct had her dialing Mathew Tremaine’s number. Ben would have wanted to look out for his employees, find them other placement. He’d call Tremaine. And if he was working construction himself, then it was quite possible that he’d ask Mathew to hire him, too.

      Just as Tremaine’s assistant answered the phone at his office, she hung up. Better to do this in person and be able to see his face.

      An hour later, Marina swept into his office, her assets showcased in a tight, peridot-green silk top and black hot pants that were just shy of indecent. Tendrils of her chestnut hair cascaded from a loose knot on her head, secured by two decorative chopsticks. Gold and peridot chandelier earrings dangled midway to her shoulders and a large peridot tear-drop nestled just at the top of her abundant cleavage.

      “Mathew! Darling! How have you been?”

      Tremaine had the body of a scarecrow and the face of a bullfrog, topped by sparse graying hair. His odd appearance hid a creative mind and great generosity, but the guy was always a little challenged in the babe department. Marina felt a bit guilty taking advantage of this, but the end justified the means.

      His pale gaze darted to her cleavage and stuck there as if superglued. He couldn’t help it, poor man—she’d engineered her outfit with that result in mind. So she didn’t hold it against him. Marina repeated her question, since he seemed not to have registered it the first time.

      “Mathew. How are you?”

      He gulped as she leaned forward to brush one of Gnarly’s hairs off her knee. Then she sent him a dazzling smile.

      “Just fine,” he almost squeaked.

      “Wonderful. Listen, I wanted to ask you something about the plans for our house.”

      Discomfort crossed his face. “Er—the house?”

      She nodded.

      “I thought—that is—um. I thought you and Ben weren’t, ah, going to build it after all.”

      She dropped her Vuitton bag in his visitor’s chair and put her hands on her hips. “Wherever did you get that idea, silly?”

      “Ben told me yesterday.”

      Aha! They’d been in touch. “Really. Well, that’s news to me. You know,” she said, fiddling with her earring and batting her eyelashes, “he did say he’d be out of pocket for a while, but…”

      Mathew’s eyes almost popped out of his head as she shamelessly forced her shoulders back so that the twins thrust forward, launching like pleasure missiles.

      She cocked her head and turned a melting gaze upon him. “Oh, gosh. This is a tiny bit embarrassing, but…darling Mathew…do you know where he is?”

      “Couldn’t tell you,” Tremaine said, rapidly blinking. Then he fixed her with a too-bland stare.

      “Mmm.” She sashayed forward and sat on the edge of his desk, never taking her eyes off his.

      He swallowed convulsively and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His gaze fell into her cleavage again.

      Marina leaned forward some more and shook her finger at him. “Naughty, naughty, Mathew. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to lie?”

      He blushed to the roots of his hair. “Lie?”

      Her voice low and husky, she said, “I should spank you, bad boy.”

      His eyes glazed over and he almost drooled onto his desk. “Sp-spank?”

      “Mmm-hmm. Take down your pants and—”

      He shot backward in his rolling chair and crossed one leg over the other, clasping his hands over his crotch. He wiped sweat from his temple with the back of one hand. “Ms. Reston, please.”

      “Please what, honey?” She moistened her lips.

      He jerked at his tie as if strangled.

      “Where is Ben, sweetie? C’mon, you can tell me. I know he’s working construction. Is he on the job at that new auto dealership you’re doing?”

      Tremaine shook his head.

      “Then—” She tapped her fingernails on his desk “—on site at the lieutenant-governor’s beach house?”

      “N-no.”

      She sauntered around the desk and grabbed his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Where is he, honey? Don’t be a bad boy, now. Tell Miss Marina where Benny is. I know he’s working for you.”

      She didn’t, but bluffing got her the information.

      “Davie,” he gasped, cross-eyed, his nose disappearing into her cleavage. “Our big condo units there.”

      “Oh, Mathew.” Marina smiled. “I could kiss you.” She stepped back and then did kiss him, right on the mouth. No tongue action, though—she had to draw the line somewhere.

      Tremaine sat stunned and paralyzed as she picked up her purse, hitched it over her shoulder and walked to the door. His eyes were riveted helplessly to her ass, as if it were a priceless piece of art and he were a collector.

      Just to punish him a little for trying to keep Ben’s whereabouts from her, she rolled her hips with the last few steps and shot him a provocative look over her shoulder.

      Evil? Not at all. Women had to use what power they had in this man’s world.

      “Thanks, babe,” she said. “You enjoy the rest of your day, now. And don’t worry—I never reveal a source.”

      3

      MARINA GUNNED the Porsche down a dirt road in Davie, Florida. She wore a very short, painted-on white jean-skirt, hand-embellished with embroidery that climbed her hips and blossomed on the small seat. The button on the fly had been imported from Morocco and the artist had signed the low-dipping waistband.

      Giuseppe Zanotti had crafted her sandals, Catherine Malandrino had sculpted her clingy, belly-baring top and Bobbi Brown took responsibility for her lush lips and full, expertly lined СКАЧАТЬ