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PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
Suzanne Forster

“[a] hard-edged, sexy romp.”

— Publishers Weekly on Blush

“A gripping novel…depicting the darker side of the rich

and powerful that includes intrigue, sex, lies and possibly

murder. The reader will not want to put the book down…”

—New Mystery Reader on The Lonely Girls Club

“Intelligent, psychologically complex and engaging…”

—Publishers Weekly on Come Midnight

“Forster’s name has become synonymous with taut,

suspenseful and wildly sexy novels that are

hot enough to melt asbestos.”

— Romantic Times BOOKclub

“The attraction was palpable, and [the] love scenes were

hot…a romantic suspense novel I can recommend highly.”

—All About Romance on Every Breath She Takes

“Interesting and appealing characters, great pacing and

interaction, an original plot line…strongly recommended.”

—The Mystery Reader on The Lonely Girls Club

Tease
Suzanne Forster

www.spice-books.co.uk

Prologue

“Whatever you do, Tess Wakefield, do not come.”

Had she actually said that out loud? Tess tried to open her eyes, but her lids were uncontrollable. They quivered like feather fringe. God, she must be glowing like a beacon. Sensations were lighting her up from the inside, crackling like the filaments of a neon tube.

Had he heard her? What would he do? Take it as a challenge and increase the pressure? Or lighten it and drive her utterly mad? It wouldn’t take much. He could so easily sweep her up and fling her over the edge.

With one finger.

With one more breath on her aching nipple.

One more feather stroke.

Why didn’t he just get it over with? Why did he leave her alone for so long? He came when she least expected him and touched her in intimate places. One finger gliding through her wetness, and then he was gone. The way a child steals icing from a cake.

Two fingers rolling her nipple.

Tight and tender.

Teeth on her rump.

How long had he been doing that? Hours? Days? She didn’t know anymore.

But he didn’t know how strong she was, how ardently she had fought to take back control of her life. She could not be broken, even if it was joy that poured from the cracks.

Someone was laughing, shaking with laughter. Him? No, it was her. Tears soaked her face and salted her tongue.

Was he even there? Or was she imagining a lover worthy of the Marquis de Sade? A demon with the patience for whatever time it took.

Was any of this really happening? The water dripping on her body, splashing between her legs and becoming more intense with each drop. It was a torrent now. She was becoming the water, flowing, dripping, melting like a glacier in spring. How did she stop this flood?

She forced her eyes open and saw them staring back at her. Eyes. Everywhere. Hypnotic and black as cherries. Her own eyes, heavy with sexual desire. Begging. Release me. Don’t let me writhe and thrash like this, helpless. Electrical current grounds me. Lust cracks me like a whip. I am what you have made me, a whore for pleasure. But I will fight you to prove that I’m not. And I will win.

“Put your hands against the wall. Spread your legs.”

Was that his voice? Was he speaking to her? Was that his hand on her naked flank?

Oh, God, no. Another touch. Another feather stroke, and she would be gone. Shattered.

She was ready to climb out of her own body, shed it like a snake, anything to escape him. She grabbed hold of the metal bars, quivering, waiting for pleasure that was unbearable. It took her all the way to heaven and back. All the way to hell. She could not let go. She would shatter into pieces.

One touch and he would break her in half.

Whatever you do, Tess Wakefield, do not—

Chapter One

Twenty-five days earlier…

No point packing the vibrator. Tess Wakefield had zero interest in sex. She’d been doing without it for the better part of a year, and that year had been better, thank you. No more bikini waxing unless she felt like it, no more inspecting her backside for unsightly blemishes or plucking the odd hair from the knuckle of her big toe, which hurt like hell.

No more penises or anything that was attached to them. Men were high maintenance. Well, most of them anyway. They needed all that ego-stroking and fawning, and they didn’t even care if you lied about how wonderful they were. They’d rather you fake orgasms than admit to not having them. Think about it.

And they were wimps, too, when it came to the important things in life. Squeamish about a little honest emotion. Terrified of giving up their freedom. They weren’t looking for partners in life. They wanted groupies. Wannabe pop stars, all of them, in search of an adoring audience. And all that pretending to love football when you were freezing to death and had to pee but didn’t want to risk hepatitis in the event bathroom.

Well, this groupie had turned in her backstage pass.

She tossed the vibrator into one of the boxes that would go into temporary storage and turned back to the array of clothing on her bed that still had to be sorted and packed. Thank goodness her new employer, Pratt-Summers, was handling most of the move to New York for her, which included the generous offer to use one of their corporate apartments until she could find a place of her own. She’d been offered the prestigious creative director position, and she had to look professional. That meant black, and lots of it. On the other hand, this was an advertising agency and they tended to be casual. It was also February, which meant jeans and sweaters, except for client visitation days when everybody wore suits like big boys and girls.

Tess knew a little something about ad agency protocol. She’d been with Renaissance Marketing in L.A. for the past eight years, doing everything from answering the phones to running the creative department to pitching and winning multimillion-dollar campaigns. Now, finally, it felt as if all the hard work and long hours had paid off. She’d given it her all, and maybe too much, considering how everything else in her life was withering from neglect.

She picked up her off-the-shoulder jersey sheath, briefly tempted by the thought of the New York club scene, then relegated it to the storage box. The dress was too red, too tight. It shouted take me off—and a couple other things that ended with off.

Her conversion to celibacy had come immediately after the breakup with Dillon, her let’s-wait-until-the-perfect-moment-to-announce-our-engagement fiancé. That perfect moment was never, of course. Too late Tess had discovered that Dillon was involved with another woman, his mother. She steamed the wrinkles from his boxer shorts and enzymatically cleaned his contact lenses for him, while Tess could barely handle the instructions on a box of laundry detergent. The fact that Dillon had made his mother break off the engagement with Tess confirmed her suspicions about him. He was high maintenance and a commitment-phobe.

That had seemed obvious to Tess, but her always brutally frank friend, Meredith, had disagreed. “You’re the CP,” she’d told Tess, who’d protested, “How could I be the commitment-phobe? I’m the one getting dumped.” And then it had hit her. Maybe she was choosing CPs so that she didn’t have to commit.

She knelt to pull the plug on her clock radio and saw the time. “Ten? It can’t be.” She’d been up since 6:00 a.m. How did it get that late?

Pratt-Summers had arranged for a car to take her to the airport, and a moving van to pick up the last of her boxes. The van was due in thirty minutes, and not only did she have to finish packing, she had to get the apartment presentable. She was subletting her one-bedroom place furnished, and the tenant had agreed to a month-by-month arrangement, just in case Tess found herself packing for a flight back.

Not that Tess expected anything to go wrong. She was eminently qualified for the job, according to Erica Summers, the CEO at Pratt-Summers, who’d interviewed her personally just three weeks ago. But how often did a creative directorship of a large Madison Avenue ad agency come along?

“To most thirty-two-year-old ad execs? Never,” she said, aware of the flutter in her voice. God, she was nervous.

This job was huge. New York City was huge.

Maybe she wanted to miss the flight. She couldn’t even seem to make up her mind what clothes to take with her, and there was no time to call her brutally frank friend to discuss it. Meredith, voice of clarity in a jumbled world, steadfast shoulder, mother confessor and occasional scolding conscience. Were there any Merediths in New York?

Tess’s spirits sank with her shoulders. She looked around the place, marveling at the chaos. It could have been declared a disaster area. Fortunately, she saw the problem immediately.

She wasn’t dealing with Bank of America’s automated voice-mail system. She only had three options to worry about. Get rid of the crotchless day-of-the-week panties that Dillon gave her, obviously without his mother’s knowledge. Toss out anything else that brought the word hot to mind. Then pack the rest and go.

One week later…

“The best way to open the mind is to open the body. If one is closed, the other cannot be open. Breathe through the soles of your feet. Listen with your fingertips.”

Tess spoke in low, modulated tones to the five men and women lying on their backs on gym mats, arranged in a circle and forming rudimentary U shapes with their bodies. Their arms and legs were straight up in the air, reaching toward the ceiling, some steadier than others.

“Can you feel the energy flowing and your mind expanding?” Tess asked. “Focus on the base of your spine. Is it tingling?”

“Something’s tingling.” Carlotta Clark giggled.

“Would you tell Carlotta to stop looking at my balls?” Andy Phipps, who lay on a mat opposite her, tugged at his baggy gym trunks in an exaggerated attempt to cover himself.

“If you had balls,” Carlotta scolded in her sexy, hiccupy voice, “you’d be begging me to look at them.”

Andy lifted up on his elbows and appealed to the group with eyes as big and velvety brown as instant pudding. “You’re my witnesses, people. She’s harassing me again. I’m being harassed. That has to be obvious to everyone here.”

Andy suddenly collapsed, his elbow knocked out from under him by Jan Butler, a plump graying copywriter on the next mat. “She may want you, Andikins, but is she woman enough? Can she take you to Jannie Land?”

Andy seemed to be considering the idea. The others began to cheer him on. “Breathe through your balls,” someone suggested.

Tess rested her hand on her hip and watched their antics with amused forbearance. It wasn’t the relaxation break she’d had in mind. She’d had plenty of experience with ad agency brainstorming sessions. They needed to be loose and free-flowing, but this bunch was flowing all over the place. What they needed now was direction. Tess’s specialty.

She stepped into the center of the circle to restore order. “Back to your mats, wild things. Let’s finish the exercise and get on with our brainstorming.”

Jan gave Andy a wink.

Andy’s skinny legs boinged back into the air. “Don’t blame me if someone else loses control,” he warned Tess. “This position drives the ladies crazy.”

“We’ll bear up,” Tess assured him. Andy’s diminutive frame, rag-mop dark hair and dimples did seem to bring out the vixen in the over-fifty set, but Tess was hot for his fertile brain. And it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that he could be counted upon for comic relief, even when he wasn’t trying to be funny. He was in his mid-twenties, fresh out of grad school and a gifted illustrator. He’d been at Pratt-Summers just a month, which was three weeks longer than Tess had been here, but he was shaping up to be a key member of her creative team. He was bright, verbal and a bottomless pit of ideas. Exactly what Tess needed, considering that she’d been assigned the lucrative—and problematic—Faustini account. The leather-goods franchise was in big trouble. The Faustini name had always been associated with meticulous handcrafting and old-world elegance, but that wasn’t selling in a culture that prized everything young and hot. Faustini’s management wanted to expand beyond briefcases and luggage. They were after a chunk of the luxury leather clothing and accessories market, and that couldn’t be done without a total image overhaul.

“Nine thousand and ten thousand,” Tess said, counting out the final seconds of the position. “Okay, last chance to check out Andy’s balls. Now, lower your legs slowly, and don’t forget to breathe.”

They all copped a look, including Brad Hayes and Lee Sanchez, the other two males in the group. Brad was a thirty-year-old communications major from Harvard, and Lee was the team’s prematurely balding marketing whiz. Andy rose to a sitting position, as red as a stop sign, but seemingly pleased by all the attention to his male anatomy.

Tess had held this morning’s brainstorming session in the company gym so she and her team could take Qigong breaks. She’d expected skepticism toward the martial arts technique, especially from some of the agency veterans, but at least everyone had agreed to give it a try.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Brad Hayes asked. “I tend not to do things I can’t pronounce.”

Carlotta snickered. “Do you even need to ask, Brad? Tess comes from la-la land.”

Tess took the jab in stride. In the week she’d been here, she’d picked up on some animosity from Carlotta, who’d been at Pratt-Summers longer than anyone else on the team. Tess could think of two reasons. Carlotta didn’t believe that Tess had the creative chops to handle the job, which was understandable. Tess had yet to prove herself. Or Carlotta felt the job should have been offered to her, which was a bigger problem, but Tess was optimistic that she could handle it with plenty of diplomacy, and maybe some plum assignments.

“It’s pronounced chee gung,” Tess said, answering Brad. “Qi means life force, and gong means accomplish through steady practice. It works wonders for me. Keeps the blood flowing and the ideas coming.”

Tess dragged her mat into the circle on the other side of Andy Phipps, not wanting to come between him and Jan Butler. It was time to get back to work. She’d been brought in as their boss, so it wasn’t surprising they were a little wary of her, but she hoped to quickly melt any resistance. The team was on a tight deadline with the Faustini campaign. The starting gun had gone off even before Tess arrived, but she did not intend to lose this race.

At least she’d had some experience with bonding and leading. She was more concerned about the other task Erica Summers had given her. Pratt-Summers had built a reputation for brilliant innovation. They’d won nearly every industry award for their avant-garde designs, but they were also becoming known for their arrogance and lack of communication with clients—and it was costing them business. Tess had been brought in to do what spin doctors were supposed to do—create a new image for the agency’s clients, but she’d also been tasked with creating a new image for Pratt-Summers itself.

Now, there was a challenge.

And worse, Erica had asked her to keep quiet about it. She didn’t want to ruffle feathers. Creative types were sensitive about being handled, she’d cautioned, as though Tess weren’t a creative type herself. It was Tess’s ability to successfully straddle the two disciplines—account management and creative—that made her the perfect covert agent for change within the creative division.

“Let’s talk about the Faustini account and don’t be shy.” Tess coaxed the team with her hands, like a traffic cop beckoning cars to advance. Too bad she didn’t have a whistle. “Any new ideas since our last session on Faustini? Somebody toss something out. Anybody. I don’t care how wild it is. How do we make Faustini’s new leather boots a must-have item?”

Andy had arranged himself cross-legged on his mat, continuing to tempt the ladies. “We don’t,” he said. “We start with the briefcases, their signature product. First, make the cases sexy, then introduce the boots.”

“Good luck making a briefcase sexy.” Carlotta shook back her claret-red waves and played with the zipper pull of her Lycra warm-up suit, as if to say now this is sexy.

Tess would have guessed Carlotta to be in her late thirties, but thanks to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, she was, and probably always would be, ageless. It was tempting to think she’d been hired to boost male morale, and maybe their testosterone. But, to date, Carlotta had racked up more awards for her ads than any other Pratt-Summers creative. She was kick-butt in more ways than one.

Andy sprang up and went to get a sleek black leather case he’d left under the basketball backboard. Tess recognized it as a Faustini. She watched with interest as Andy dropped to his knees on his mat, took a pair of sheer red panties from the case and glanced up, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“A man can’t spend every weekend working,” he said, letting a beat pass. “Faustini. Work hard, play hard.”

He’d given Tess an idea. She reached over and touched the lid of the case seductively, swirling her fingertips over the silky leather. “It’s so soft,” she cooed in a kittenish Marilyn Monroe voice, “and you’re so successful.”

Andy arched an eyebrow: “You’re into leather, too?”

“Not leather,” she scolded. “Faustini.”

Tess and Andy grinned, high-fiveing each other. “Not a bad thirty-second shot,” she said.

“Or!” Carlotta squealed. “Picture me as a dominatrix, a bullwhip in my hand. “You’re not carrying a Faustini?” She cracks the whip. “Take that!”

The enthusiasm was contagious. Soon, they were talking over each other, but the suggestions got more and more outrageous. Tess hated to be a killjoy, but she’d already met with Alberto Faustini, the company’s rather stodgy founder, and he didn’t want anything far-out. He’d told Tess to come up with something provocative, but nothing X-rated, and that was despite strong opposition from his new partner, his twenty-two-year-old wild-child daughter, Gina, who favored vampires, sexual bondage and other gothic images. Fortunately, Gina Faustini didn’t sign the checks.

“Guys,” Tess said, “we want to seduce customers not shock them.”

“Why not shock them? Before you can seduce them you have to get their attention.”

Tess wasn’t sure who’d spoken until she noticed her team members looking over her shoulder. She whipped around, saw the source of the disembodied voice, and was glad not to be hooked up to a lie detector. Her sweaty palms would have shorted the machine out.

How long had he been standing there?

She’d never met Danny Gabriel, but even if she hadn’t seen his likeness plastered all over the agency walls in photographs with business giants and celebrity clients, she would have recognized his personal trademarks—the bare feet, the worn blue jeans and the flowing hair he’d gathered into a loose ebony braid.

Here before her was the agency’s image problem in the flesh. Not his clothes, even Gabriel donned a suit on client days. His attitude. He was Tess’s codirector—and the infamous advertising savant she’d been brought in to teach some manners. The Faustini account had been his before it was given to Tess, and rumor had it that he’d been replaced because he sided with Faustini’s daughter.

What was he doing here now? He’d been in Tokyo all week, drumming up international business, which was his new focus, according to Erica. Tess was supposed to have been formally introduced to him tonight at a dinner with Erica and the board members. She was nervous enough about that. If Carlotta was the agency’s diva, then Danny Gabriel was its rock star.

Tess sat there, thunderstruck, aware that she wasn’t racking up leadership points with her silence. Her team knew him, but they seemed to be speechless, too. Either they were intimidated or expecting a confrontation. There was a good chance that Gabriel saw her as an interloper.

She was an interloper. And this could be a test, but of what? Her worthiness to walk the same ground he did?

She rose to her feet, accomplishing it with surprising grace. “My, my,” she said, her tone both friendly and challenging. “I’ve heard so much about you. Danny Gabriel, right? I’m Tess Wakefield.”

She waited for a reaction before offering her hand. He looked almost approachable, except for those eyes. Sharp. Serrated. Like a cutting tool. They reminded her a little of someone else’s eyes, and it was just enough of a resemblance to make her thoughts heat with unwanted memories.

He nodded, his expression warming slightly. “Faustini management doesn’t know what the hell they want,” he said. “The client rarely does, so it’s our job to tell them.”

“Really? Our job?”

They shook hands, and she covered his with both of hers, pressing down firmly. His focus sharpened. Possibly he was just realizing that she might be a worthier adversary than he’d thought.

“But shock value has a way of backfiring, don’t you think?” she asked.

“For people like me, yes. Not for you, though. You can get away with anything.”

“Excuse me?”

He just smiled. “You have a free pass—in advertising and in life. Use it.”

“What free pass?”

“Your sincerity. The good-girl thing. It sells, especially when it’s used to sell something bad. People might not line up to buy bibles from you, but they would buy sex. They would buy leather, even if it came with whips and chains.”

“Really.”

He nodded. “You make the bad stuff okay. If a sweet thing like you is a little bit kinky, then maybe kinky is okay. You give people permission to do what they secretly want to do.”

“Sweet? You’re quite sure of that?” Tess had never been called that before, and it didn’t strike her as a compliment, no matter how he couched it. Her naturally curly blond hair was cut in a bob, on which she spent a fortune for frizz control, and she still had a bit of California tan and a few freckles left. But she was no angel. Her past might shock even him. As for her work, of course, she was passionate and sincere. If you didn’t believe in the client’s product, you had no business trying to sell it. That was her motto. Obviously, it wasn’t his.

“Shock them, Tess,” he continued. “It’s the only way you’re going to get their attention.”

Neurons were firing in her brain, sending out orders to tighten muscles and tendons, her jaw being the target area. She fought the desire to remind him that he was giving advice to his replacement… then arched an eyebrow and said it anyway. Indirectly.

“Shocking the client will accomplish nothing, except to lose us the account, and I don’t need your help with that.” Thwap.

“I meant shock the public, not the client,” he replied, nonplussed.

“That’s not necessary, either. People don’t appreciate being made fools of. You might get their attention once, but you’ll never get it again.”

He rubbed his jaw, seeming amused. “You have much too high an opinion of your fellow man.”

Present company excepted, she wanted to say, but held her fire. She usually kept a pretty good grip on her emotions—Meredith liked to call it a headlock—but anger wouldn’t get her anywhere with him anyway. She needed to stay grounded because this guy was a raging river. He held nothing back, and she didn’t have that luxury. She had to preserve her energy to save the account that he’d put in jeopardy.

“Are you done with the gym?” he asked. “It’s reserved on Friday mornings for murder ball. You and your team are welcome to join us. Carlotta has a mean serve.”

“Murderball?”

He grinned. “Dodgeball where you come from.”

So that’s why he was here. Dodgeball. Not because he couldn’t wait until the evening to meet her. Figured.

“They may want to play,” she said, referring to her team, “but I have some calls to make. Give us a minute to finish up our brainstorming session, and we’ll be out of your way.”

“Take your time.” Suddenly warm and friendly, he worked open the top button of his white dress shirt. “I need to hit the locker room and change first, anyway.”

She mumbled something about seeing him at dinner that night, and then turned back to her team, not surprised to find them riveted. The gym virtually hummed with tension. A corpse would have been sitting up.

“Let’s meet tomorrow morning in the Sandbox,” she told the team, referring to one of the agency’s many themed conference rooms. “I know it’s the weekend, but we have a deadline bearing down on us like a tsunami.”

Andy rose first, picking up his mat. “So, what kind of a campaign is this going to be? Shock and awe?” He grinned, apparently at the possibilities. “I’m sure I could come up with something that would put Faustini management on life support.”

Hmm. Andy may have just handed her the perfect opening. She had no idea whether Gabriel was still behind her, but she hoped so. This was her chance to make an impression on all of them, but most of all, she wanted him to hear it.

“Keep in mind,” she said formally, “that it will be difficult for Faustini to pay their advertising bill if they’re on life support. They are the client, and without them this agency wouldn’t exist. They’ve hired us to do a job. Let’s do it. Let’s give them the campaign heard around the world. But don’t forget that the client has to like it first or no one else will ever see it.”

Tess couldn’t tell whether they were with her or not, but she wasn’t finished. “It’s not us versus Faustini,” she said. “It’s us and them. We’re a team, and they’re part of it.”

Her team gave her a smattering of applause, and she curtsied. Tess waited for Gabriel to say something, and the silence became awkward. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he’d already left. So much for the crusading speech.

As she knelt to pick up her mat, she had the feeling the murderball game had already started, and there were only two players. This was a one-on-one with Danny Gabriel, and she was the rookie, fighting for a piece of the star player’s turf. And maybe for her career.

Chapter Two

Tess hovered in the narrow stall, trying not to drop her purse, or anything else, into the sleek, low-slung toilet. She’d just finished her business when a man had entered the bathroom and taken the stall right next to hers. Now she was stuck. Or rather her outfit was stuck. Her cotton gauze jumpsuit had been perfect for the Qigong session that morning, but it should have come with assembly instructions for all the hooks, snaps and tabs. Now she was having a slight wardrobe malfunction. She’d ended up with a hook and nothing to attach it to but a snap. And she couldn’t very well leave the stall half-dressed with a dude next door.

The agency’s bathrooms were coed on the theory that new experiences were stimulating and enriching—and Pratt-Summers was known for providing their creative staff with plenty of stimulation. The coffee lounge offered more choices than Starbucks. It also had an oxygen bar, a tea bar and a gourmet snack bar, featuring exotic dark chocolate from around the world that was said to be as potent as prescription mood elevators. Anything to keep the ideas coming.

Tess had worked straight through lunch on the Faustini account, and this was her first break of the afternoon. All she wanted to do was pee and get back to her desk. But it looked like she was going to have to take herself apart like a model airplane and start over.

The adjacent door opened and banged shut.

Tess hesitated, listening. She could hear him washing his hands and chatting with Mitzi, the mysterious washroom attendant, who seemed to be on a first-name basis with everyone at the agency. Apparently she was as much a fixture as the bathroom’s fancy gold faucets. Tess had heard through office scuttlebutt that Mitzi had been with the agency through every management shake-up, of which Tess was just the latest. She not only guarded the bathroom and the adjoining lounge, she ran an aromatherapy concession, did reflexology and was rumored to be a licensed acupuncturist.

Tess gave up on the jumpsuit. Let it flap. She might flash a few people, but her white cotton sports bra wouldn’t give anyone much of a thrill.

She rolled her neck, aware of clicking noises. A massage would be wonderful, except that Mitzi made her nervous. The washroom attendant looked to be in her mid-forties, attractive in a strange way. She had severely cropped hair, an olive complexion and dark, expressive eyes. She was also short-waisted and pear-shaped, with the lowest center of gravity Tess had ever seen, which probably made her a powerhouse masseuse. And to her credit, she kept a beautiful bathroom. There were orchids everywhere, plush rolled towels, pearlescent hand lotions and the place smelled luscious. Today, it was essence of an English rose garden. But on Tess’s first day at the agency, she’d smelled something she couldn’t identify, and Mitzi had explained that she’d been using oil of hemp for a massage.

Hemp? Could Mitzi add drug dealer to her list of specialties?

Tess had given her a wide berth after that, but she seemed to be the only one who was concerned. As far as Tess could tell, Mitzi was widely revered for her advice on everything from health to dating and relationships. She got more respect than the CEO. Right now, she and the unidentified man were discussing his blood pressure and she was recommending that he burn candles during his power nap.

“Lavender, geranium or neroli,” Mitzi suggested. “Lavender is good for dandruff, too. Makes a wonderful tonic for the hair, and if you put the buds in a dream pillow, it will help you sleep. But be careful, you might see ghosts. And, by the way, I have plenty of that ylang-ylang soap you like. You know, the libido-booster bar with just a touch of nutmeg.”

The man’s embarrassed chuckle made Tess wonder if Mitzi had winked at him. Libido booster? Dream pillows and ghosts? No wonder he had hypertension.

Tess had decided to wait until the transaction was over. She couldn’t be sure the man wasn’t Danny Gabriel, and she didn’t want another awkward encounter with him now. Their dinner tonight would be plenty soon enough.

The moment she heard the man leave, Tess let herself out of the stall and went to the long bank of sinks to wash her hands. Mitzi, keeper of the towels, was seated on her stool at the end of the long counter, her many products displayed on wall racks behind her. She watched Tess intently, ready to hand her a towel when she was done.

Tess thanked her and grabbed some paper towels instead. “In a rush,” she said, taking a moment to scrutinize herself in the mirror.

Good girl? Her? What had Gabriel been thinking?

She pulled on a tight curl, trying to get it to relax and dangle in a provocative way. How did she get stuck with yellow bedsprings for hair? She’d always wanted to be one of those fey beauties whose hair went flying every time she gave it a little shake. The kind who gave men whiplash when she strolled by. She sighed. Not in this lifetime.

Still, she hadn’t had that much difficulty attracting men, especially back in college. She’d gone through a wild-child phase when hormones and adrenaline had uncorked inside her like a magnum of champagne. Reserved as she’d been, she’d gotten bold enough to flirt, and that was all the encouragement certain boys had needed. Suddenly, she was wildly popular. Not for any of the right reasons, of course, but the boys’ reactions had taught her that being sexy was about much more than one’s appearance.

Too bad she’d been riddled with guilt the whole time. Being “bad” had only been fleetingly good. Mostly, the experience had left her confused about her sexuality and her urgent need for male attention. And years later, when she’d finally figured it out, the answers hadn’t been pretty.

The bathroom door swung open behind her, and a small pack of women burst into the spacious room, laughing and talking, probably on a break.

Tess thought she recognized them from the Research Division but couldn’t be sure. She’d been introduced around by a Human Resources person, but she’d met too many people that week. It was all a blur.

“Last night was a Rolling Thunderclap,” one of the women said as the three of them entered separate stalls. “It was loud and fast, and there were reports of smoke coming from my ears.”

“Reports? How many people were there?” the second woman asked from her stall.

“Just me and my boyfriend, but he gave me updates on the half second.”

“Sounds more like a Shake, Rattle and Roll to me,” the second woman said. “Were there coital quivers? I’m a Mountain Fountain girl, myself.”

“And I fall somewhere between Napping Kitten and Arctic Silence,” the third said. “Therapy was suggested.”

Mountain Fountain was a Qigong position, but Tess was pretty sure they weren’t discussing martial arts. She moved aside as the women emerged all at once, not unlike synchronized swimmers. They washed their hands, thanked Mitzi for the towels and disappeared into the adjoining lounge.

Tess glanced at Mitzi, who shrugged. “This month’s Cosmo has a Name Your Orgasm quiz,” she explained. “Apparently, orgasms can reveal hidden aspects of your personality. If you’re limited to one kind, it means you’re not expressing yourself fully as a human being.”

“Ah.” Tess nodded. ’Nuff said. She gave her hair another tweak and frowned. A giant sigh escaped her. Limited to one kind? She should be so lucky. What was an orgasm? She couldn’t remember. Most of hers had been pretty forgettable anyway, if she was being honest. No Rolling Thunderclaps. Even all the heavy breathing in college had been only briefly exciting—and definitely not worth the self-recrimination afterward.

Mitzi was watching Tess with a knitted brow and enough concern to send Tess running. She reached for the Faustini bag the designer had given her, along with a pair of their gorgeous new stiletto boots. Each of the team members had received some Faustini launch products as gifts, and to better help them sell the line. Pride of ownership was a prime motivating factor, and old man Faustini, as everyone called the sixty-two-year-old founder of the company, was smart enough to know that.

“Gotta go,” Tess said. “Work to do.” She gave Mitzi a reassuring nod, but it didn’t seem to register. Mitzi’s health-o-meter was engaged.

“Female trouble?” Mitzi said. “Let me guess. PMS, right?”

Tess was too startled not to respond. She was premenstrual beyond belief, bloated and incredibly hormonal. Worse, she’d never been hornier. She glanced down at her body. “Does it show?”

Tess’s period was nearly two weeks late. Probably stress. She definitely wasn’t pregnant, unless this was an immaculate conception. She hadn’t had sex in months, which seemed to be affecting her cycle.

Good for creativity. That’s what she’d been telling herself. Theoretically, pent-up sexual energy could be channeled into other things, like work. In reality, though, she was getting more frustrated, not less, despite the distractions of a new job and a new life. At this rate, her sexual energy would soon be the equivalent of a black hole, sucking up every productive thought she had. Too bad she hadn’t been assigned to come up with an ad campaign for porno flicks.

Mitzi was off the stool and down on her knees, searching through the cabinet beneath the sink. “Maybe some clary sage and juniper-berry tea? It balances hormones, and it’s a powerful diuretic. You’ll pee like a racehorse.”

Tess reached for her purse. “Does it come in bags?” she asked, ready to buy on the spot. What did it cost? Fifty bucks a bag? Sold. Anything that equaled less bloating was gold.

“Aha!” Mitzi beamed as she pulled out a small box of tea bags.

The transaction went quickly, and the price was fair, but it all felt vaguely illegal to Tess. Maybe because Mitzi had literally gone under the counter to get the tea.

“Did I hear a man in here earlier?” Tess made small talk as she waited for Mitzi to process her charge card. “I met lots of people this week, and his voice sounded familiar.”

“Did you meet Danny Gabriel?”

Tess tried not to act startled this time. “Yes. Was it him?”

“No, but that’s who you were thinking it was, am I right?”

“I thought it might be him. Are you supposed to be psychic or something?”

Mitzi wrinkled her nose at the idea. “If the first five senses work, why do you need a sixth? Good eyes and ears is all it takes around here.”

Laughter drifted from the other room, where the women were hanging out. Tess wondered if they were still comparing personal bests or had moved on to something else.

She signed the credit card slip Mitzi pushed toward her and tore off her copy. “Thanks for suggesting this,” she said, picking up the box of tea. “I’m sure it will help.”

Mitzi had her PDA out and was busy making an entry. It was probably how she kept track of sales or inventory. “You’re welcome,” she said, not looking up, “but I think you might need more than tea, dear.”

Tess was already heading for the door. “Thanks, but I have plenty of soap and candles. This will be fine.”

“Tess Wakefield.”

The urgency in Mitzi’s voice made Tess hesitate. She turned to see Mitzi coming after her with a halting gait. Tess wondered if she was much older than she looked, or if she’d been injured somehow.

“Is something wrong?” Tess asked.

Mitzi handed her the credit card. “You forgot this.”

“Oh, thank you.” Tess took hold of the card, but Mitzi didn’t let go of it. Instead, she frowned, her dark eyes boring into Tess’s, as if she was searching for something.

“You don’t know anything about this place, do you?” she said.

“New York?”

“Pratt-Summers.”

“I know it’s one of the best ad agencies in the country.”

A sniff of derision. “And you came here with the highest hopes, thinking this was your big chance. But it could just as easily be your downfall. Not everyone is your friend.”

Tess tugged the credit card free. “What are you talking about?”

Mitzi shrugged, as if to say she’d done all she could. She reached up to pat Tess’s face, and it was all Tess could do not to shrink away.

“Why is it that we always want what we can’t have?” Mitzi asked, lowering her voice. “Use your senses, all five of them.”

Tess wanted to make light of the woman’s intensity, but she couldn’t quite break the spell Mitzi had woven. “I will,” she said.

“He has a secret.”

Tess blinked. “He? Who?”

“Danny Gabriel. You only think you know him.”

“I don’t know him at all.”

“Good, you understand.” Mitzi nodded. “Don’t take the people you work with for granted, especially if they have power over your career. I just don’t want you to be blindsided.” She started back to her stool. “It could happen.”

Tess was becoming exasperated. “Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?”

Mitzi shook her head. She tsked. “My problem is I talk too much. Ask anyone. Pay no attention to me. You’re busy. Go back to work. You’re a good girl, solid. You’ll do fine.”

Tess had been blown off before, but Mitzi was a maestro. Tess didn’t much appreciate the good-girl remark, either. It was the second time today she’d been called that, and it was making her feel like a virgin being groomed as a sacrifice to the advertising gods.

The gallows humor was meant to loosen the knots in Tess’s stomach, but it didn’t work. Was that why she’d been brought here? To be someone’s scapegoat? To draw fire? Every office had internal politics, and she already knew something about this company’s problems, but Mitzi seemed to be suggesting there was more going on. And Mitzi might actually be in a position to know. Her bathroom was the equivalent of a locker room/spa where people came to hang out and gossip.

Tess debated the wisdom of trying to pry more information out of the washroom attendant. Maybe it was a sign that the three women reappeared from the lounge, saying they wanted to look over Mitzi’s wares. Tess noticed how chatty and personal they were with her. One of them asked her about her acting job. Apparently she had a bit part in an off-off-Broadway play. Another kidded her about her sexy new haircut.

Tess made it a point to say hello to the women before she left, and to thank Mitzi again for the tea. A woman with enemies couldn’t be too careful.

Relief washed over her once she was out the door and heading back to her office. Maybe from now on she’d go to the downstairs bathroom. Better for the hypertension, which she probably had by now.

It was mid-afternoon on a Friday, and the twenty-eighth floor seemed quiet as she traveled hallways that curved and meandered to evoke the tributaries of a river. You could get seasick trying to get around quickly. The walls were covered with murals painted by some of the agency’s artists. One was a whimsical underwater motif with sea creatures who’d been given the faces of various staff members. Tess hadn’t figured out what the deeper meaning might be, but she hadn’t failed to notice that Gabriel was a dolphin. Better than a shark, she supposed.

Tess passed the art and production studio on the way to her corner office, but avoided looking inside. She didn’t want to be tempted. She loved seeing the ideas become reality, and this studio was spectacular, large and magnificently equipped. But she couldn’t dawdle any longer. It felt as if the entire day had slipped away from her, and tonight’s dinner was going to be another time-suck. Worse, she would be spending it with a bunch of people who made her nervous—and apparently had secrets that could blindside her. Great.

“Where is it?” Tess hesitated in her office doorway, talking to herself as she peered at her desk. Her heart jumped painfully. “Where’s my PDA?”

Her personal digital assistant was also her cell phone, but there’d been no place to attach it to her jumpsuit when she went to the Qigong session, so she’d left it on her desk. She’d set it on the lead-crystal box that had been her going-away gift from Renaissance. She specifically remembered doing that.

Tess didn’t have an assistant. She did her own scheduling via the PDA’s digital calendar and memo pad. It contained all her appointments, her address book, even her various passwords. All her vital information was stored on that contraption! She would rather have lost an arm.

She began to search her office, starting with the drawers of her desk, which was a rather strange-looking antique made of rattan and glass that creaked under any kind of weight. Actually, the entire office was strange, although Tess loved the wraparound windows that surrounded her from behind. She wasn’t as crazy about the enormous German Messerschmitt airplane nose coming out of the wall facing her desk. The last occupant had clearly been a World War II nut. There was a glass case of army divisional patches, of which the 101^st Airborne Screaming Eagle was her favorite. That was one pissed-off bird. If she could ever remember, she would have to ask why all the paraphernalia had been left behind.

She’d been told she could redecorate on the company’s budget, but there hadn’t been time to think about that. Meanwhile, she wanted to duck every time she looked up and saw the plane. She felt like she was about to be strafed.

“Where the hell?” She lifted a stack of account files and searched through the rattan baskets sitting on the credenza behind her desk. Nothing. The PDA had vanished. Maybe she hadn’t left it on the crystal box?

She noticed her quilted coat hanging on the coatrack and reminded herself to check the pockets. At the same time, she saw the blinking message light on her office phone. She’d missed that completely when she came in.

She picked up the receiver and punched in her voice-mail password. At least she had that one memorized. The disembodied electronic voice told her she had several new messages, and she raced through them until she got to one from Erica Summers. The CEO’s musical voice filled her ear.

“Tess, I just found out that Danny Gabriel can’t make our little dinner tonight. He left a message saying that he’d run into you this morning and was very favorably impressed, so didn’t feel a pressing need to attend tonight. Apparently he’s up against a deadline.” Erica sniffed. “We’ll just have to muddle through without him, won’t we? Looking forward to it, Tess.”

Tess hung up the phone and swore softly. Gabriel had just blown her off, and he’d used the company CEO to do it. The guy had balls. He would be conspicuous by his absence at dinner tonight, an obvious sign to the board that he didn’t consider his new codirector important enough to bother with.

Tess had feared the dinner might not go well, but this was ridiculous. She took a deep breath, willing herself to let it go and get back to work. She still had to find her PDA. There was no time to waste on professional ego trips, and she felt certain that’s what this was. But a half hour later she’d given up on the search—and she was still steaming over Danny’s slight. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but her outrage, which wasn’t like her at all.

The desk gave out a noisy groan as she rose.

So, Danny Gabriel was impressed, was he? She was about to make an even deeper impression on him. It was almost four o’clock by her watch. He shouldn’t have left the building yet, if he truly had so much work to do. She had no idea where his office was, but she would search until she found it.

Chapter Three

Tess clicked down the hall in her high-heel boots, pencil skirt and black velvet Edwardian jacket. It was five-fifteen, and she had forty-five minutes before the limo was scheduled to pick her up for the reception. She’d decided to change into her dinner outfit and let Gabriel get a look at what he’d be missing—and call him on his blatant attempt to undermine her on her big night. You never got a second chance to make a first impression, and this was her chance with the company brass, which he very well knew. She even managed to get the kinks out of her hair with a special spray that relaxed and defrizzed. It had loosened her curls, and now they were bouncing all over her head. Extra-large silver hoop earrings and a kiss-my-ass attitude rounded out the look.

She’d also had two cups of Mitzi’s tea. No one could say Tess Wakefield didn’t live dangerously.

Check it out, Gabe, baby. This is the lady you kicked to the curb. Maybe you should watch your shins. She’s wearing boots.

Tess had never felt so tricked-out and sexy. It was almost fun. She figured it was the PMS or the tea, but either way, she had a few choice words for her codirector. She’d called the agency’s receptionist for directions to his office, which had turned out to be quite simple. He was on the opposite end of the building from her, in his own corner office.

The twenty-eighth floor was now a ghost town. Tess didn’t see another soul as she crossed the building. Everyone had gone for the weekend, but if Gabriel really had a deadline, he might still be around.

His office door was open when she got there, but she found no one inside. The room was mostly windows and traditional in style, which surprised her. She’d expected to find a dark, artsy lair, with decor that might even be mystical. One of the many rumors about him was that he had Native American blood. Instead, everything was ma-hogany, beautifully carved with reflecting-pool surfaces and damask upholstery. It reminded her of a federal court, except for the two walls of posters showcasing his ads.

Tess took a moment to check them out. He was very good, but she knew that. What struck her was the unexpected way the ads were displayed. On one side of the room, they were bright and upbeat, with vibrant colors and attractive models. On the other side, the ads had a dark edginess that bordered on sinister. But, even more perplexing, on the abutting wall hung just one poster—a misty pastel of a child in a swing, rising toward the setting sun. It almost looked as if she were going to slip off the seat and fly away.

What a strange juxtaposition, Tess thought. It was enough to make you wonder if Gabriel was bipolar. Mitzi had said he had a secret. Tess was curious whether the ads might have something to do with that, but there wasn’t time to explore. She turned and saw a set of double doors that led to what looked like a conference room. The doors were partially open, and she could see movement inside. Maybe he was in there, preparing for his deadline.

Tess peeked through the doors and saw Gabriel bent over a storyboard, probably checking out the sketches for a client’s television spot. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, opening the doors.

He glanced up at her and did a double take. She couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes narrowed. Whether it was appreciation or appraisal, she couldn’t tell, but his gaze was riveting.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Come in.”

“What?”

“You’re wearing boots, a skirt. It’s perfect.” He beckoned her over to him. “Come on in.”

Tess didn’t move from the doorway.

He took a chair from the conference table and rolled it to within a few feet of where she stood. She had no idea what he was doing as he positioned the chair in front of the doors.

“Right here,” he said. “Come over and sit down, please. I have something to show you.”

The please did the trick. She couldn’t resist conviction.

She walked to the chair, aware of him standing there with his hands on the leather back, as if he were about to give her a ride.

“Are you going to tell me why I’m doing this?” she asked, wondering what would happen to her very skinny skirt when she sat. Surely he wasn’t angling for that, a leg shot.

“All will be explained,” he assured her, “but not yet. That would ruin it.”

He stopped her before she could sit down. “Let’s fix that skirt first,” he said. “Here.”

He actually came around the chair and turned her toward him, then spun her skirt until the slit in the back was running up the side of her leg. With any encouragement at all, the opening would now reveal an eyeful of caramel thigh. Thank God for liquid stockings.

“Mmm, yes. Perfect.”

It was almost erotic the way he said that word, perfect. Like a man whispering something dirty in a woman’s ear.

He sat her in the chair and knelt in front of her, apparently to do some more adjusting of her person.

She pulled back as his hand grazed her leg. “What are you doing?”

“Relax,” he said, “trust me, please, this is important.” She wasn’t as taken with his conviction this time, but she was very curious.

“Unbend your knee. Here, like this.” He inched her left leg forward a little and then propped her sleek laced boot on its spiky heel, with the tip pointing in the air.

“Good,” he said, rising to look at her. He nodded, murmuring something about how perfect this was under his breath.

Interesting that she had to focus on what he said. It was entirely possible he was doing that on purpose, making her listen. He had a reputation as a persuasive pitchman, a closer, as they said in sales, but there was nothing overtly aggressive about him. Even now, he came across as supremely laid-back, and yet he radiated energy. It was like droplets sizzling on his skin.

She’d heard all the rumors, that Danny Gabriel was deadly smart and blindingly handsome, almost his own species. She’d heard them. She just hadn’t wanted to believe them. No wonder they needed someone to corral this guy.

He studied her, his features knit in concentration.

“Lean back and support yourself on the arms of the chair,” he said, giving her direction as if they were on a photo shoot. “Good. Now relax and arch your spine. Can you give me a little more bend? Try to relax and arch your spine.”

Tess drew herself up and felt the chair move. “The wheels are going to roll out from under me.”

“Here, I’ll steady you.” He moved behind her and gripped the chair. “Try it again,” he said. “Lean into the arch and tilt your head back. God, yes, that’s great.”

Tess’s spine bowed with tension, locking her in place. At that moment, all she could see were the edges of him, a blur. But when his head came into her line of sight, and he looked down at her, she suddenly felt vulnerable. She started to sit up.

“No, wait,” he said. “This is important. Look at me. Look at me, Tess.”

She held on to the chair, steadying herself. As she gazed up at him, she could feel her jacket fall open and her skirt creep up. She was balancing herself with the heel of one boot. Her other foot had lifted off the floor.

What must she look like? What the hell was he doing?

“How much longer?” she asked, annoyed. “I can’t hold this.”

“Just a few more seconds.” He pulled the chair back toward him. “We’re almost there, and you look hotter than hell. Don’t think about anything but that—how hot you look. Amazing.”

His voice dropped low and sexy. He was still murmuring as he bent down and fitted his mouth to hers in a weightless kiss. Tess’s grip tightened. Her whole body quivered as she struggled to get up, but there was no way possible. All of the laws of gravity and physics were against her, and with his mouth locked to hers, she couldn’t move.

“Perfect,” he whispered against her lips.

Tess’s body reacted to the extreme vulnerability of her position. Her flesh felt as if it had caught fire. Her nipples zinged to life, hardening instantly, and the cotton crotch of her panties should have been steaming they were so damp. What was happening? She could feel herself lubricating down there, blushing with shock and excitement.

He broke the kiss, freeing her, and Tess sat up too quickly. Dizziness washed over her. She’d been upside down so long the blood had left her head.

“What kind of stunt was that?” she asked, fighting to get her bearings.

“No stunt,” he said.

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? What do you mean yeah? This is an office. We’re coworkers. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“True, but let me show you why I did it.”

Before she could catch her breath, he was standing in front of her. Tess stole a glance at his crotch—and hated herself for it. Did she really care whether or not he’d been as turned on as she had? There was no hope for her.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing to her legs. “It’s perfect.”

The man was a broken record. “What’s perfect?”

“What you did when I kissed you.” He knelt next to her. “Look at how you’re sitting—the way you raised your right leg and hooked your toe under the left.”

Tess saw that the tip of one boot was tucked under her other calf. “So what?” she said. “I was trying not to fall over.”

She settled both feet on the floor, still too dizzy to stand.

Gabriel rose and went to the double doors, drawing them together but not closing them. He left an opening about six inches wide, and then he came back to her.

“When I saw you in those boots it gave me an idea for an ad,” he said.

“An ad? Why didn’t you just say that?” So much for being turned on.

“It wouldn’t have worked. I had to catch you off guard to see what your legs would do. Can you imagine what a shot that would be for your Faustini ad? Think print campaign, maybe even billboards.”

He gestured toward her chair and the door, setting the scene. “You’re sitting there, like that, but the camera’s outside the doors, which are open just enough to show your legs levitating.”

She sat forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Imagine someone standing outside these doors, looking in. What would they see through that opening? Your legs, right? Your boots, Faustini boots. It’s the perfect tease.”