The Last Plus One Page 9

  “Are you kidding me? This is…”

  Her moan seemed to fill in his blank very well.

  And then she just gave up and gave in to the sensations. Yielded to the way Cruz’s big hands kneaded her hips in a really slow, languorous pattern, which should be relaxing—like a full body massage—but it was waking her up all over. Producing little flashes of electricity just under the surface of her skin. And there was so much skin where her top was riding up and up; the skin of her thighs as his hands roamed up and up; the tautness of his belly and—

  “Cruz, I…”

  She didn’t know what she was. Except for a sensate being made only of hot fire and liquid desire.

  His motions grew bolder, her enthusiastic response encouraging his. But not bold enough. Maggie was frustrated by his mouth dishing out these little licks and bites that left her gasping. Amazed. Desperate for more.

  And he gave it to her. Hands blazing trails up skin that didn’t quite feel like her own, like she was floating somewhere above her body watching in the flickering light of the flames. Go on, she told those hands, that beautiful couple burning up that narrow strip of mattress. Don’t stop, please…

  Lady Anne startled and yipped—it was as good as plunging into the Atlantic before sunrise. Holy. Shit. “I’ve got to take her out.”

  “In a minute.” Cruz’s plea was low, tender as the kisses he pressed again and again to her sensitive flesh, yet sharp as the teeth that discovered the center of all sensation where neck met shoulder. Maggie knew a minute wouldn’t be enough. Maybe an hour. The rest of the week?

  Surely infinity would cover it.

  But the low barks couldn’t be ignored. Maybe Lady Anne was a good chaperone after all, forcing her back into the reality of the moment. And not just a dog that needed out—the reality that included Cruz’s hands and lips all over her.

  Maggie squirmed to extricate herself not only from his hold but also this situation. It was too much, too fast. More than she’d ever experienced.

  She’d never felt this way, and she ordered her brain to focus on the data instead of the sensations. They were just hands, lips, nerve endings. There was nothing mystical in their union.

  Yet she was transformed.

  It had to be a fake high. Their longstanding partnership—friendship—just made it seem as though there was something bright and golden between them. Maggie was a wham-bam-thank-you-man kind of gal when she needed it, had always managed to avoid messy entanglements. This time would be no different. And really, nothing had even happened!

  It wasn’t real. It wouldn’t last, this explosive physical sensation layered on top of their easy affection.

  This feeling was just panic bubbling up through the fissures in her heart. It wasn’t anything more. Could not be anything more. It was science, logic—she’d just solved for X.

  Though science didn’t explain why if she couldn’t get her top back down she thought she might burst into tears.

  “Easy there.” What was he, a freaking clairvoyant? His touch gentled, shifted from arousing to comforting as he helped her right her pajamas. And that, right there, was reason number two why this was a disaster.

  She’d never been physical with someone she actually cared about. And she cared about Cruz. There was no way she could extricate herself easily from this. Oh sure, physically, it was a bit awkward with the bent bedframe and all, but emotionally—

  “Why does this have to be so hard?” Of course he, being one hundred percent male, laughed at her unintentional innuendo.

  And it pissed her off.

  That got her to standing. Without tripping in the tangled sheets or falling back on top of him. Victory was hers!

  Except her butt cheeks were probably hanging out. Why hadn’t she packed sexless pajamas? She righted her clothes and straightened her shoulders, trying to project hauteur as she looked down her nose at him. “Oh, please. That’s not even for me.”

  Maggie turned to pick up Lady Anne, but, typical dog, she turned to a sack-of-bones deadweight puppy the moment she started to lift her.

  He cleared his throat and she snapped up. Butt cheeks.

  “I beg to differ.”

  “No. You were in that…condition…while you were asleep,” she said, and turned to face Cruz, hands on hips. “It has absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  But he’d sat up on the edge of the mattress while she fussed with the dog, so his boxer briefs revealed the it in question—impossible to miss—and he seemed to have absolutely no shame. And why should he? His body was slammin’.

  Chapter 5

  “I promise this is all for you.”

  It was really cute the way she tugged at the hems of her shorts. As if he hadn’t just had his hands halfway to the promised land and his lips skating up the line of her throat. As if he wasn’t sitting on the edge of the now-broken bed completely turned on by her. By what they’d just been doing. By what he’d give anything to continue doing at any opportune—or inopportune—moment.

  She rolled her eyes, but not before the flush on her chest deepened. “Take out the dog. I’m going to hit the shower.”

  It was fully five minutes before he could get himself under control enough to step out of their bedroom with Lady Anne in tow. Especially since his brain was intent on cataloguing each sound and scent that drifted from behind the closed door.

  Was that a sigh? The sound of her minuscule shorts hitting the cold tile floor?

  Some unidentifiable floral something that nonetheless smelled like Maggie had when she’d been all over him a moment before.

  The morning air was bracing. Just what he needed to clear his brain from the lust bomb that was his wakeup call. Cruz wished the ancient pooch was up for a run on the beach with him, but Lady Anne was barely able to pick her way through the soft grass at the edge of the drive. Where was that herd of dogs when you needed ’em?

  After the setter finished her business, he lifted her up the back stairs and eased his way through the screen door to the kitchen, setting her down by a bed he presumed was hers.

  “Almost too late for coffee, Griffin. Thought my Maggie would’ve taught you a better work ethic than to lounge away the best part of the day.”

  Mr. Kennedy’s huge laugh boomed over the cozy kitchen, and Cruz felt only a little bit awkward accepting a steaming mug of joe from the father of the woman he’d just been getting hot and heavy with before the old bedframe had given way. Aw, man. The bedframe. Might as well approach the situation head-on. No bullshit. Man to man.

  “We broke the bed.”

  Mr. Kennedy didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. More than likely, he’d heard it all from down here. Awesome.

  “The old pullout”—he winced at his verbiage—“a wheel on the trundle gave way. If you have any tools around here, I’ll take care of it. I know you’ve got enough to deal with.”

  Maggie’s dad poured another half a carafe of coffee into a stainless travel mug and dumped half a pound of sugar after. “You’re welcome to anything you find in the small shed over by the garage. If you’ll make Mrs. K another pot before you head out there. I’m already late as it is.”

  Lady Anne raised her head for attention as the old guy bustled out the door—never too late to shower affection on a loving pup. Cruz set about poking through the cabinets—these well oiled, thank goodness—to find the coffee grounds. He guessed at what Lou might prefer, and poured Maggie a cup with a splash of cream before heading up the stairs.

  She was still in the bathroom, the old exhaust fan whirling smoothly with the occasional metallic grind. Maybe he’d see about fixing that, too, once he went out to the shed.

  Checking his watch and calculating time zones, Cruz went to the desk to fire up his laptop. The screen was a yawning expanse of nothingness. Dammit. It had run out of juice the night before.

  For once he was tempted to say screw work and go back to bed, and besides, he hadn’t yet received his direction for day two of wedding festivities. They
were on a working vacation; nothing said they had to work all the time.

  So that was just what he did, hopping over the busted trundle to Maggie’s bed to wait for her. It was all soft and warm and Maggie-scented. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep when she came out, she’d slide in bed next to him, like she’d done earlier—except this time, the pleasure wouldn’t give way to panic and she’d stay.

  He didn’t even have to pretend to be asleep when she came out of the bathroom, because she was up and out in a flash, just like the whole morning hadn’t even happened, except when he rolled over sometime later, he noticed the coffee cup was gone.

  “Cruz? Are you awake?”

  There was a soft tapping at the door. Of course he was awake, and had been for a while. Carol had called to patch him through to a conference call not long after he’d woken to find Maggie gone for the day.

  “Oh sure. Come on in. I’m just working on a few things here.”

  The door opened and Maggie’s mother was standing there with a parcel in her hand.

  “This came for you at the big house. They almost didn’t let it through. It wasn’t on the approved list of couriers or vendors or tradesmen, but Maggie recognized the company.”

  She handed it to him, and he looked down at the label. It was from the courier service SD9 preferred. “Oh, good, I’ve been waiting for this.” He tore the strip of paper off the flap of the envelope. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s no problem at all, Cruz Griffin. I just can’t tell you how happy my husband and I are that you’re here with Maggie. This can’t be easy for her.” She paused and straightened the cuffs beneath her sweater. “It’s been so long… Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, no. I know all about it.”

  Or, at least, he thought he did. After yesterday, he was beginning to.

  She bent to straighten the bed he’d made a few hours before—after he’d fixed the trundle as best he could without a blowtorch. He hoped it held tonight.

  Or maybe he didn’t.

  And maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about sharing a tiny bed with a woman when her mother was straightening the already-straightened blankets on top.

  “Is everything okay, Mrs. Kennedy?” At her expression, he hastily corrected himself and called her by first name. Her too-bright smile went a bit wobbly before she put on a poker face.

  “It’s more than okay now, thank you.”

  And with that cryptic remark, she turned to leave.

  Leaving him staring down at his face on the cover of a glossy magazine. Jesus. He’d forgotten they said there’d be a possibility he’d be on the cover. He and Maggie had approved the shots of the office for the feature—and the candids they’d snuck of him at work—but they’d been tiny proofs and he hadn’t anticipated seeing… Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.

  The copies would show up on the internet tomorrow. On newsstands the day after. And then, he hoped, would line recycle bins the next.

  But if it helped having his face everywhere as they launched Estrella’s Club, it would be worth it. It had been something he’d dreamed up back when he still lived in London. Before grad school and SD9. Before Maggie.

  He would have never gotten it off the ground without her.

  Cruz eschewed the table of contents; the jumble of words and numbers wouldn’t help as much as the red sticky note Carol had placed in the pertinent spot. She’d sent two copies. The other, he knew, would be in pristine condition. But this one would be annotated within an inch of its life with highlights and underlines and other sticky notes with things for him to consider. Pull quotes she thought he ought to authorize for use in promo for the project. That kind of stuff.

  Cruz put the annotated copy down and reached in the envelope for the clean copy. Flipped through the pages until he saw a flash of something familiar—ah, there; he paged back to the beginning of the article, skimming over the words until they swam in front of his eyes and he had to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep from swimming right along with the ink.

  He focused on the images instead.

  It was like a spread from an architectural digest. There were the requisite shots of their new headquarters—a once-abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the Texas capital. They’d worked to bring some life—and other businesses—back into the neighborhood.

  Damn, he wished Maggie was here reading over his shoulder. She’d be over the moon with how everything looked. Should’ve saved it for when he saw her next.

  But the interior shots urged him to keep flipping pages. The photos captured their new office suite’s efficiency—and the way it catered to the way they worked as a team. Cruz hadn’t given much thought to the office other than loving it once they’d moved in, and telling Maggie she was a genius for executing it all while staying on budget and giving them a space that somehow fit both their personalities.

  But when he looked at the pictures, it was like seeing their office for the first time.

  Even when she was not there, she was there. Every single thing in the photographs—even the damned stapler set just so on the right side of her desk—was all Maggie. And not just because she had a hand in the design and execution. But because she’d poured herself into it, like she had from day one. Before SD9 even had a name.

  The next page was largely text, a few scattered photos of some overly styled shots of his work treadmill. Like he’d been the first exec with a treadmill in his office. And there was a goofy picture of him in a suit and sneakers that he had definitely not approved but had probably gone over well in Carol’s annotated version. But the next page? Wow. If he thought seeing his face on the cover was something, this triptych was another thing altogether.

  He remembered the exact moment the photos were taken—quite a feat, since he’d spent hours and hours between his office and the makeshift studio they’d set up in the conference room next door and had been largely bored out of his mind the day of the shoot.

  Maggie had been in the office while they were setting up. It was a Saturday, and she’d come in to okay the final setup and direction along with their head of PR and some folks from his foundation. The office was a circus, and he’d hated every moment. Plus, he’d just been out of the makeup chair, and they were fussing with something. The light. Some prop. His left eyebrow. Something. And he’d finally bellowed for everybody nonessential to get out.

  Which they did, immediately, even though he had lifted his voice in an apology the next moment. When Maggie tried to walk out the door, the art director bent all his attention to sweet-talking her into staying, being in the shoot. Cruz remembered she’d gestured to her crazy piled-on-top-of-her-head hair and SD9 men’s tracksuit and demurred with something that sounded a lot like “hell no.” And Cruz had laughed like a loon.

  Looking down on the page, that was the series of images they’d run with. Him looking at Maggie. Him laughing at something Maggie said. His face once Maggie left.

  That last caught him like a fist to the kidneys. Brought a stab of something so sharp, so painful, he knew, in that moment, if she wasn’t with him every day, it wouldn’t be worth it.

  Pictures don’t lie. His face didn’t either.

  And this morning…

  There would be other companies. Other technologies. Some other executive team snatching up Company Y, making the DOD contract happen. But there wouldn’t be another Maggie.

  With a hand that was none too steady, he picked up his phone, swiped through his contacts—bypassing Carol completely—and hit call.

  “Rey. Call it off. Withdraw our bid.”

  There was a hollow sound on the other end of the line. An absence of noise. Until it came roaring back. “Withdraw? What?”

  He ignored the rest of Rey’s diatribe, cutting him off with a curt explanation. “We are bowing out. Let Flintock Inc. have them. Sudhir will take them all the way.”

  “Patch me in a videoconference, Cruz. You can’t be serious. We c
an’t just stop something that’s been in the works for over a year. Is Maggie there? Jesus, put me on speaker.”

  Cruz looked down at the third picture. That profound emptiness there.

  No, he had to do this—to step out and declare himself.

  “Pull. The. Offer.”

  “Dammit, Cruz, we—”

  “I want to see the bid retraction paperwork by the end of the day. My inbox alone. Right now, throttle everything back. Quietly. We’ll execute it next week when we’re back at HQ.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Maggie’s smile felt like one of those fake toothpaste ad smiles. The kind with the little burst of light that went ding. But instead of going ding, she was afraid hers would just crumble. Or at least her molars, anyway.

  She might have to go back to sleeping in her mouth guard if she were going to spend much more time in the presence of the wedding planner from hell. Who happened to be Laurel’s best friend. Which meant Maggie couldn’t roll her eyes or snap her fingers at her or say, Look, this isn’t working, let’s figure out something else.

  Oh, and it wasn’t like anything wasn’t working perfectly. This was a Ramsey event, wasn’t it? Even God Almighty and the heavens themselves had been ordered to produce a week of beautiful Maine summertime a few months ahead of schedule for the June bride. There was just a lot of tension between Maggie’s mom—who had acted as Mrs. R’s aide de camp for decades—and the new upstart.

  Which meant there was now a lot of tension between Claire and Maggie.

  Everything was fine. Ding.

  Everything was all wrong. Like putting on last year’s swimsuit to find the elastic shot or a hole in an embarrassing place. Functional, but just wrong.

  At least today the Wedding Weekend activities were, mercifully, limited to a command performance on a yacht tonight.

  “If you’re worried about cell coverage on the boat, I’ve got this.” Claire waved what looked to be a nautical map in the air. Maggie couldn’t imagine what one had to do with the other, but she’d lost the will to care. Especially since Claire seemed to be directing her comment to Cruz, who sat there in all his rippling-muscled splendor.