invaded his
body and made such a suggestion? He’d be damned if he knew. Perhaps
Annie’s panicked expression, that frightened deer-in-the-headlights
look had prompted his momentary lapse of sanity. Who knew?
Regardless of his motivation, the fact
remained that he was the one who was pulling a stint as a
contortionist on the couch—not her. Nope. Presently Annie was
sprawled out in a gigantic bed designed for sin, sleeping
peacefully while he, on the other hand, would undoubtedly end up in
traction.
A vision of Annie spread amid a tangle of
sheets came to him suddenly. That coffee colored hair spread over
one of those pale pink pillows. Her plump breasts covered only with
a whisper of see-through fabric. Feeling a definite stirring in his
groin, Mitch cursed. Considering that he didn’t have the room to
twitch, much less stir, only irritated him further.
Mitch told himself that there was no room for
sexual attraction in this already bizarre chain of events. Wanting
Annie Witherspoon would be the end of his career at Hightower
Advertising. Furthermore, he suspected Uncle William would have his
hide. That’s enough, Mitch, he told himself. Stop thinking about
her that way. Stop thinking that she’s in the other room, only a
few feet from where you are.
Mitch sighed at the futility of that thought.
Telling himself not to think about Annie as a woman was like
telling a sugar addict not to think about sweets. Nevertheless,
he’d sworn off the fairer sex for a reason. He had to keep his goal
firmly in mind.
And from what he’d been able to discern this
evening over dinner with Les Peters, getting the little cowboy to
cooperate was going to be every bit as difficult as remembering
Annie was his adversary. Les had smoothly fended off every subtle
inquiry about the Winning Wiener campaign. Suspiciously so, in
fact.
In fact, Mitch had gotten the distinct
impression that Les was more interested in playing matchmaker than
getting a good hot dog campaign. He’d thought about discussing his
suspicions with Annie, but had changed his mind. He didn’t have any
proof of his deduction, just a strong gut feeling. He doubted Annie
would put much stock in his instincts—hell, she might even tell Les
of his suspicions. Wouldn’t that go over well?
Mitch made another vain attempt at getting
comfortable, then resigned himself to the fact that it wouldn’t
happen on this piece of doll furniture. He exhaled mightily and
pushed a hand through his hair. Mitch knew he had to get up very
early in the morning to put anything over on Annie Witherspoon.
With that last thought, he managed to drift off into a fitful
sleep.
Tuesday morning made its appearance entirely
too early to please Mitch. Between that damned couch and the
recurring dreams of Annie, he’d gotten very little rest. Wincing in
pain, he cracked one eye open and rubbed a hand over his stubbled
face. Even that minimal movement sent a wave of agonizing pain
through each and every muscle of his body—particularly in his back,
he noted grimly. He took a deep breath and heaved himself up,
swallowing a mouth of expletives.
Limping his way through the quiet
house—undoubtedly Annie was still sleeping peacefully—a current of
irritation worked its way through him. Why had he agreed to this?
And not just the couch. Why had he agreed to this whole ridiculous
contest? Even though he’d sold his half of Micronet, he could still
design software. He could open an entire new business for that
matter. True, he wanted to be back at Hightower, to contribute his
part to the family business that he been around longer than he had.
To be part of something that was bigger than himself. But was it
really worth this grief?
Mitch entered the bathroom and hesitated at
flipping on the light. No need to wake up sleeping Beauty, he
thought churlishly. After finishing necessary business, Mitch
stepped into the shower and adjusted the tap to a temperature that
might ease his aching muscles. Seconds
body and made such a suggestion? He’d be damned if he knew. Perhaps
Annie’s panicked expression, that frightened deer-in-the-headlights
look had prompted his momentary lapse of sanity. Who knew?
Regardless of his motivation, the fact
remained that he was the one who was pulling a stint as a
contortionist on the couch—not her. Nope. Presently Annie was
sprawled out in a gigantic bed designed for sin, sleeping
peacefully while he, on the other hand, would undoubtedly end up in
traction.
A vision of Annie spread amid a tangle of
sheets came to him suddenly. That coffee colored hair spread over
one of those pale pink pillows. Her plump breasts covered only with
a whisper of see-through fabric. Feeling a definite stirring in his
groin, Mitch cursed. Considering that he didn’t have the room to
twitch, much less stir, only irritated him further.
Mitch told himself that there was no room for
sexual attraction in this already bizarre chain of events. Wanting
Annie Witherspoon would be the end of his career at Hightower
Advertising. Furthermore, he suspected Uncle William would have his
hide. That’s enough, Mitch, he told himself. Stop thinking about
her that way. Stop thinking that she’s in the other room, only a
few feet from where you are.
Mitch sighed at the futility of that thought.
Telling himself not to think about Annie as a woman was like
telling a sugar addict not to think about sweets. Nevertheless,
he’d sworn off the fairer sex for a reason. He had to keep his goal
firmly in mind.
And from what he’d been able to discern this
evening over dinner with Les Peters, getting the little cowboy to
cooperate was going to be every bit as difficult as remembering
Annie was his adversary. Les had smoothly fended off every subtle
inquiry about the Winning Wiener campaign. Suspiciously so, in
fact.
In fact, Mitch had gotten the distinct
impression that Les was more interested in playing matchmaker than
getting a good hot dog campaign. He’d thought about discussing his
suspicions with Annie, but had changed his mind. He didn’t have any
proof of his deduction, just a strong gut feeling. He doubted Annie
would put much stock in his instincts—hell, she might even tell Les
of his suspicions. Wouldn’t that go over well?
Mitch made another vain attempt at getting
comfortable, then resigned himself to the fact that it wouldn’t
happen on this piece of doll furniture. He exhaled mightily and
pushed a hand through his hair. Mitch knew he had to get up very
early in the morning to put anything over on Annie Witherspoon.
With that last thought, he managed to drift off into a fitful
sleep.
Tuesday morning made its appearance entirely
too early to please Mitch. Between that damned couch and the
recurring dreams of Annie, he’d gotten very little rest. Wincing in
pain, he cracked one eye open and rubbed a hand over his stubbled
face. Even that minimal movement sent a wave of agonizing pain
through each and every muscle of his body—particularly in his back,
he noted grimly. He took a deep breath and heaved himself up,
swallowing a mouth of expletives.
Limping his way through the quiet
house—undoubtedly Annie was still sleeping peacefully—a current of
irritation worked its way through him. Why had he agreed to this?
And not just the couch. Why had he agreed to this whole ridiculous
contest? Even though he’d sold his half of Micronet, he could still
design software. He could open an entire new business for that
matter. True, he wanted to be back at Hightower, to contribute his
part to the family business that he been around longer than he had.
To be part of something that was bigger than himself. But was it
really worth this grief?
Mitch entered the bathroom and hesitated at
flipping on the light. No need to wake up sleeping Beauty, he
thought churlishly. After finishing necessary business, Mitch
stepped into the shower and adjusted the tap to a temperature that
might ease his aching muscles. Seconds
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