through the first and noted cryptic scribbles in its margins. Shorthand? Her chair squeaked as she rolled it back from him, ostensibly gaining a safer distance.
Pausing in his perusal, he glanced at her. “Are these yours?”
“I told you. I do research-type stuff. Fact-checking.” Her gaze remained steady, though she stumbled over her words.
“On me? For an already published piece?” He perched a hip on her desk and thumbed through more pages. “How interesting.”
Damn, but he’d bought the paper in the nick of time. Had they been planning another piece on him? God only knew what they’d have dredged up and flung at his reputation this time around.
Several minutes went by during which he flipped through the magazines. With each cavalierly worded lampoon of his character, all of which he’d assumed Carl would’ve shown him but hadn’t, embarrassment that this woman—and hell, the whole first world and probably select parts of the second and third—knew very intimate details of his private life churned his temper.
He dropped the magazines on her desk with a thump. The stack slithered into an untidy pile to cover a bare stretch of weathered blond oak. Georgia lifted her chin, its delicately rounded point tapering to the twin blades of her regal jaw. Faint blue veins ran like lacework up her neck, branching to pulse points below her ear. One of those points fluttered. “Look, Peter…”
He narrowed his eyes at her use of his name. “Mr. Wells.”
She pressed her lips together, flattening the peaks and valleys into a straight line. He practically heard her think Whatever . Oddly, the word registered in his mind in an English accent. He frowned and barely managed to shake Gigi Montrose’s dulcet tones out of his head as Georgia continued.
“Try not to let your paranoia run rampant.” Her sarcasm registered as a verbal slap.
The expression he leveled at her was deliberately bored. “Careful. Insubordination isn’t the way to my good graces.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything more tempting to offer.”
Without conscious thought, he swept her with his gaze, saying wordlessly, Oh, but you do…
Really? You just went there? her narrowed stare asked.
He blinked and erased any sign of interest so completely from his face that he knew she wondered if it had ever been there. Across the room, all eyes were on them. Sounds of work had stopped entirely. No keyboards clacked. A phone rang but went unheeded. Peter shifted his attention over his shoulder to his employees, and everyone scattered like he’d pulled a pin on a grenade and thrown it into their midst. As they went back to their foxholes, he returned his focus to Georgia.
“That’s two.” He held up two fingers. “Three’s my limit.”
She opened her mouth, and he dared to lean in and press his upheld fingers against the moist heat of her mouth. Big mistake.
Regions south of his belt jumped up and took notice, but he repressed a flinch. “Do yourself a favor and be quiet.”
When he withdrew his fingers, she gaped at him. He stood and walked away before she found her voice. After all, nothing good could come of him firing her. He’d put money on her knowing more than she let on, and at the very least she had access to people he needed to meet. One way or another, either she would put him in touch with Gigi Montrose or she’d feed him the name of his nemesis. Regardless, he planned to win every skirmish along with the whole damned battle. Even if he had to load the cannons himself.
* * * *
Peter pressed the chrome weight bar above his chest and focused on the burn. One week later and he couldn’t get Georgia Whitcomb or Gigi Montrose out of his head. A pair of jade-green, then gray-green, eyes flashed in memory. His arms began to shake too soon. Racking the weight, he cursed, then grabbed his sweat towel to press to his face. Immediately visions of both women rolled over him once more.
He tossed the towel aside and reached for
Pausing in his perusal, he glanced at her. “Are these yours?”
“I told you. I do research-type stuff. Fact-checking.” Her gaze remained steady, though she stumbled over her words.
“On me? For an already published piece?” He perched a hip on her desk and thumbed through more pages. “How interesting.”
Damn, but he’d bought the paper in the nick of time. Had they been planning another piece on him? God only knew what they’d have dredged up and flung at his reputation this time around.
Several minutes went by during which he flipped through the magazines. With each cavalierly worded lampoon of his character, all of which he’d assumed Carl would’ve shown him but hadn’t, embarrassment that this woman—and hell, the whole first world and probably select parts of the second and third—knew very intimate details of his private life churned his temper.
He dropped the magazines on her desk with a thump. The stack slithered into an untidy pile to cover a bare stretch of weathered blond oak. Georgia lifted her chin, its delicately rounded point tapering to the twin blades of her regal jaw. Faint blue veins ran like lacework up her neck, branching to pulse points below her ear. One of those points fluttered. “Look, Peter…”
He narrowed his eyes at her use of his name. “Mr. Wells.”
She pressed her lips together, flattening the peaks and valleys into a straight line. He practically heard her think Whatever . Oddly, the word registered in his mind in an English accent. He frowned and barely managed to shake Gigi Montrose’s dulcet tones out of his head as Georgia continued.
“Try not to let your paranoia run rampant.” Her sarcasm registered as a verbal slap.
The expression he leveled at her was deliberately bored. “Careful. Insubordination isn’t the way to my good graces.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything more tempting to offer.”
Without conscious thought, he swept her with his gaze, saying wordlessly, Oh, but you do…
Really? You just went there? her narrowed stare asked.
He blinked and erased any sign of interest so completely from his face that he knew she wondered if it had ever been there. Across the room, all eyes were on them. Sounds of work had stopped entirely. No keyboards clacked. A phone rang but went unheeded. Peter shifted his attention over his shoulder to his employees, and everyone scattered like he’d pulled a pin on a grenade and thrown it into their midst. As they went back to their foxholes, he returned his focus to Georgia.
“That’s two.” He held up two fingers. “Three’s my limit.”
She opened her mouth, and he dared to lean in and press his upheld fingers against the moist heat of her mouth. Big mistake.
Regions south of his belt jumped up and took notice, but he repressed a flinch. “Do yourself a favor and be quiet.”
When he withdrew his fingers, she gaped at him. He stood and walked away before she found her voice. After all, nothing good could come of him firing her. He’d put money on her knowing more than she let on, and at the very least she had access to people he needed to meet. One way or another, either she would put him in touch with Gigi Montrose or she’d feed him the name of his nemesis. Regardless, he planned to win every skirmish along with the whole damned battle. Even if he had to load the cannons himself.
* * * *
Peter pressed the chrome weight bar above his chest and focused on the burn. One week later and he couldn’t get Georgia Whitcomb or Gigi Montrose out of his head. A pair of jade-green, then gray-green, eyes flashed in memory. His arms began to shake too soon. Racking the weight, he cursed, then grabbed his sweat towel to press to his face. Immediately visions of both women rolled over him once more.
He tossed the towel aside and reached for
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