26

The music comes from within her purse.

It sounds like a cartoon’s about to start, as the opening music for Looney Tunes blares loudly.

“Darren.” She snaps to attention, slides off me, scoots next to me, and grapples for her purse. “That’s the investor.” Furiously, she rips the zipper open, snags her phone, and slams it to her ear. “Hi, Darren, how are you?”

She rearranges her voice as if she’s stripped the post-coital glow off it with paint thinner. It’s impressive the way she can go from minx to mogul in seconds flat.

There’s a pause as he chats, then she answers.

“Yes, it’s great. I’ve been running through some options, testing various concepts.”

Another beat.

“Definitely. Sure. Yeah. I can check out that place.” She scrambles for a pen in her purse, and I spot a box of tissues on the console. I reach for one, remove the condom, and put it in the rubbish bag hidden on the side of the door. A good limo driver truly thinks of everything. Maybe I’ll even mention that in my next blog: be sure to tip handsomely any driver who accommodates discreet disposal of prophylactics.

Truly cradles the phone against her head as she tugs down her dress. “Absolutely. When are you leaving? Sure, let’s get it done sooner.”

I zip my trousers and straighten my clothes, then find her knickers on the leather seat. I hand them to her as a small knot of frustration in me tightens. But I’m not sure why the knot is here, so I ignore it.

“Don’t think twice about it. You can call anytime. It’s not late at all. I work all hours.” One more beat. “Yes, the crowd is great tonight, as always. Thanks, Darren.”

She ends the call, heaving a relieved breath, as if she escaped from the boulder in the nick of time, grabbing her trusty hat before it was too late. “Glad I was able to answer that.”

“Why? Does he need you straightaway?”

She slides the lacy fabric back up her long, toned legs. “No, but still . . . I want to impress him, and I need to get my presentation and pitch ready a little sooner.”

“Is that why you told him you were at work? To impress him?”

She gestures from me to her, indicating our rumpled appearance. “He doesn’t need to know where I am or what I’m doing.”

“Well, of course. I wasn’t suggesting you tell him you just had the best sex of your life,” I say, a little more sharply than I intended, and then I understand my own annoyance—I wish the best sex of her life had rattled her so thoroughly that she’d ignored the call. I wanted her to be so blissed out she couldn’t remember her name, let alone that of the caller or the ringtone she’d assigned him.

Her eyes twinkle at my remark, and there—that look. It’s hard to be annoyed when she’s looking at me like she wants another round or three. “Is that so?” she asks. “Is that what it was?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She laughs, smooths a hand down her skirt, then looks at me from beneath her bangs, too seductive for words. Her voice is all soft and breathy. “Yeah, it was, Jason.”

No more annoyance.

This’ll do. This will do just fine, since I’m instantly drunk on pure masculine pride, courtesy of the injection she just gave me.

But there’s no time to indulge, since she zips right back to the topic. “Also, I said it because it’s better if he thinks I’m obsessed with work. He’s obsessed with work. He’ll be more inclined to sign off if he feels I’m the same way.”

“But you are obsessed with work,” I point out, since it’s clear she wants to talk about it. And that’s fine. It has to be fine.

“True.” Her acknowledgment sounds a little sad.

“It’s not a bad thing. I mean, no judgment. I’m the same. Business is what I need to survive, it seems.”

“Same here,” she says. “I get a little crazy when I don’t work. Like I’m a junkie who needs a fix.”

“I know exactly how you feel. I love the rush of hustling for new clients and new options. It’s like you’re coming down from a high when you’ve been away from it. Strange in a way, isn’t it?”

“It is. It becomes a need. A deep and powerful one. You know that saying? Work to live, don’t live to work? I don’t entirely see why that’s such a bad thing. Sometimes work is the thing that makes me happiest. It gives me a rush. That’s what I need it for. Do you know what I mean?”

Do I ever. She’s talking my language. “Like the thrill you get when you see your numbers grow, or you hear from someone who changed his behavior or attitude because of one of your columns, or when you get another chance to appear on a show you like being on,” I say with a wink, dropping that little nugget of good news into the conversational stew.

Her eyes widen with admiration. “That’s awesome. I’ll have to tune in. You’ll let me know when?”

“Absolutely. And thanks, I was pretty psyched when Ryder asked me to come back. So yes, I do get what you’re saying. It fulfills you.”

“Exactly. Work makes me happy. It’s gratifying to build a business, to nurture it, to see it grow. It’s reliable too. But I know that my mind-set isn’t something that usually meshes with other people’s.”

“Meshes? What do you mean?”

She shoots me a look like it ought to be obvious. “I’m thirty-five and single. I’m married to work at this point.”

“Is that how you see it? You’re single because you love work?”

“Pretty much, but that’s okay. I’m sure it’s different for you, being younger and, well, being a man.”

I nod thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. Society doesn’t seem to think it’s such an issue if a man is obsessed with work.”

“But when a woman is, that must mean she’ll never have anything else. Then again, maybe it’s true—I am somewhat obsessive. At least, that’s what my last boyfriend said when he ended things.”

I grit my teeth, thinking of Elias, a guy she was involved with a year or so ago. I used to see him at Gin Joint when he stopped by, always sidling up to the counter, making eyes at the sexy brunette. I hated him on principle.

“He said you were obsessed with work?”

“Yes. And he said he wanted to be with someone who had more of herself to give. He asked for me to cut back my hours, to work less. I said thanks, but no thanks. Work is good to me, so I’m good to work.”

“But you can’t be entirely obsessed. You’re not working tonight, after all. You were with me.”

“News flash—I worked all day. I worked for six hours before I caught the train to Connecticut for the wedding.”

“That surprises me, but of course, it shouldn’t, since you are, by your own admission, a workaholic.”

“And you’re the same. We’re wired the same way—to want, to chase, to go after things.”

I run my fingertips along the bare skin of her thigh, returning to my favorite topic. “Like I did with you tonight?”

She inches closer, her voice turning sultry. “You did go after me.”

“I wanted you. You wanted me. We both needed it.”