Baby for the Tycoon. Emily McKay

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      “Exactly. And good sex is addictive. You’ll have a problem with that.”

      That cool, clinical tone of his made her blood pressure creep up. How the hell did he sound so calm? So rational?

      “What kind of problem am I supposed to have with this… this extremely addictive sex?” And damn it, her tights were inside out. She rammed her hand down one of the legs, trying to snag the ankle hem so she could right them, but anger made her clumsy.

      “I just don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s not good for Peyton.”

      Watching Wendy’s frustration grow as she wrestled with her tights, Jonathon wondered if perhaps he should have taken a different route.

      “We’re her parents now,” she snapped, clearly exasperated. “I can’t see how it would possibly hurt her for us to sleep together.”

      “You can’t?” Why did she have to be so strongheaded?

      Why couldn’t she just make it easier on both of them and agree with him for once?

      “No. I can’t. In fact, since we agreed that this marriage could last up to two years, I actually think it’s a good idea.”

      “Then you haven’t thought it through.”

      Of course, nothing was ever that easy. Not with Wendy.

      One of the things that made her such a great assistant was that she never hesitated to give her opinion. No mindless agreeing for her. If she had a better idea, she said so. If she spotted a problem he’d overlooked, she pointed it out. Unfortunately, right now, it made her a pain in the ass.

      Because what he really wanted—no, damn it, what he needed—was for her to stop talking about sex.

      “Okay, maybe I didn’t think it through.” Finally—thank God—she got her tights right side out and stepped into them. “But now that I am, I don’t know that I see a downside. Two years is a long time. And—” She broke off, appearing to grit her teeth before spitting out her next words. “And I’m not going to tell you that you can’t see other people while we’re married.”

      “Wendy—”

      “No. Just let me say this, okay?” She swallowed visibly, not quite meeting his gaze, though he could tell she was mustering the gumption to do so. “I’m not going to forbid you from… doing what you need to do. But goodness knows, I’m not going to be registering on eHarmony anytime soon. So, maybe it’s not a bad idea to—”

      “What?” he asked. “To hook up anytime either one of us has an itch?”

      She rolled her eyes. “What is wrong with you? Are you purposefully being the biggest jerk in history for a reason?”

      “What is wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?'” He swept a hand toward his desk, as if displaying the destruction they’d done. “Five minutes ago we were having sex on that desk and now you’re talking about me being with another woman? How is that normal?”

      This had to be the most awkward conversation in his entire life. And considering that he sometimes talked to complete strangers about their finances, that was saying something.

      She looked stricken by his words. Not for the first time either. She gave a little rapid blink, her eyes not quite reaching his gaze, and then swallowed. “I’m trying to be logical here. Two years is a long time and—”

      “And you don’t think I can keep my zipper up?”

      Her gaze snapped to his face. “Let’s just say, given that I’ve had a front-row seat to your dating practices for the past five years, I’m skeptical.”

      “Trust me. I can keep my zipper up.”

      She gave him a searing once-over. “All evidence to the contrary.”

      He gave her an icy, wolfish smile. “Is that really a stone you want to throw?”

      “What do you want me to say? That I’m so impressed by your monkish fortitude?”

      What did he want her to say?

      He wanted her to say that she didn’t want anyone else. That she wanted only him. And that she wanted him for some reason other than he was going to be convenient for the next two years.

      “Okay, you want the truth? I don’t think we should sleep together again, even if it means two years of celibacy. For both of us. I don’t want you to get hurt, and you’re too emotionally involved already.”

      “I’m too emotionally involved?” she scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm, but he could see the flash of pain in her gaze and knew he’d nailed it on the head. “I am? That’s funny, because I wasn’t the one just now who couldn’t stop talking about how much I wanted this for the past five years. About how desperately I needed this.”

      Of course it would come back to that. He’d sounded like a lovesick fool. But neither of them would benefit from imagining he was some romanticized hero.

      “Right,” he said, bitterness seeping into his voice. “I talked about how I wanted your body. How much I wanted you physically. Not how much I loved you.” As he spoke, the tear that had been clinging to her lashes, finally gave up its battle and dropped down onto her velvety cheek. He gently brushed it off with his thumb, then held it up as evidence. “And I’m not the one crying now.”

      “You bastard. I can’t believe you said that.” She stepped back, putting some distance between them. “And you’re wrong about one thing. I won’t be begging to sleep with you again anytime soon. Not now.”

      She stormed off, but made it only as far as the office door before turning around. Propping her fists on her hips, she said, “I need to know now. Are you in or out?”

      “What?”

      “Are you in or are you out? Do you still want to do this, or are you wigging out on me?”

      “I’m in,” he said slowly. Undoubtedly deeper in than he should be.

      “Are you sure? Because two years is a long time. And I’d rather know now if you’re having second thoughts.” “I said I’m in.”

      “Good. My family wants to meet yours. They’re planning a reception for us. We leave for Palo Verde on Friday.”

      She didn’t wait for his reply. It probably wouldn’t have occurred to her that two years without sex wasn’t nearly as off-putting as the idea of going to visit his family. A second later he heard the door to her office slam as she stormed out.

      All alone in the office, he sank into his desk chair. Everything that had once been on his desk now lay scattered on the floor as well as the contents of three drawers. Years of keeping his life meticulously under control, of keeping his emotions neatly compartmentalized, and he’d blown it all in one reckless act.

      He propped his elbows on his desk and dropped his head into his hands, ignoring the fact that his own cheeks felt suspiciously damp.

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