Lassoed (Steele Ranch 5)

I startled when I felt a meaty paw on my knee beneath the table.

Startled, I moved it away, but the action only parted my legs, which had Alan sliding his own bent leg in between.

My gaze flicked to his and the blue eyes had darkened and the mild CEO was long gone. Instead there was a man who had interest. Desire. Both of which were completely unreciprocated. And he’d called me Nat. No one called me Nat at work. Ever. I doubted he wanted to be called Al.

“Can I get you both some appetizers to start?” the waitress asked as she approached the table, blocking my retreat.

While his knee was just between mine and not any higher, it was enough to give me the creeps. Trying to get my legs back together was an impossible task; it only made his eyes flare and the waitress think I had ants in my pants.

“Let’s get the spinach dip and another round of drinks.” Alan lifted up his whiskey on the rocks.

“Oh, no. I don’t want anything.” I lifted my hand, palm out. “In fact—”

“In fact, bring the spicy wings. I like doing things with my hands.” Giving the waitress a broad grin, she nodded, her smile plastered on, then glanced at me. The look she offered screamed Is this guy for real? Perhaps she could tell I wasn’t interested, and not just in the dip. Or what Alan could do with his hands. As if the idea of him eating wings was remotely attractive.

I sighed again, flicked a gaze at the two at the bar. They were talking to each other—not close as if they were there together—but glanced my way once again.

Alan leaned in, which pulled his knee back. Quickly, I shut my legs and slid closer to the edge of the booth.

“We’ll talk merchandise,” he said, surprising me.

I frowned. “What? You want to talk about the new line?”

Reed and Rose was a small boutique lingerie company. It had been started by Alan’s in-laws in the sixties. They’d begun with one shop downtown but had since grown to include three stores locally. I’d been hired as a sales rep to get the items—high-end bras, panties, negligees and other feminine underthings—into chain stores with the business plan to spread regionally and potentially nationally.

I’d had suggestions for a new direction in design, shifting from the staid, trousseau-style items and into a sexier and more sophisticated line, but had been shut down by Alan. Until now. I reached for my briefcase on the seat beside me.

“You want to see the drawings from the art department?” I’d worked for months with them and the other design teams to come up with this new direction. It was a team effort we were all excited about, but hadn’t been able to get traction with the higher-ups to make it happen.

His hand landed on mine, stilling my motion. I lifted my eyes to his as I pulled mine out from beneath his, saw over his shoulder that Mr. Big Hands’ eyes narrowed at the action.

“This isn’t the place to pull those kinds of drawings out. Right?”

I glanced about. The restaurant was high-end, but not ritzy. It was on the first floor of a downtown hotel, convenient for our drinks with the client since it was near his office. The renderings were hand drawn and tasteful, but they were of lingerie.

“Tell me about them instead.”

I took a sip of my water, considered his earnest expression. He seemed to really want to hear about what I’d been working on, pushing for, all these months.

“Okay, well…” I went into detail about the line, the bras, the matching panties, the colors and fabrics. When I started on the demographics and marketing research, he cut me off.

“Is this something you would wear?”

I flushed hotly. I loved lingerie. It was my weakness and the reason why I’d taken the job at Reed and Rose in the first place. While I had the degrees and work experience for the position, having a career in an industry I loved was a definite perk. I’d always liked to have pretty, sexy things under my work clothes, but they were for my satisfaction—and possibly the pleasure of a man I allowed to see them—but not for discussion.

Alan’s attention shifted to my chest and I knew then he’d only listened to my pseudo-presentation so he could segue to me and what was beneath my professional veneer. I’d dealt with sexism before. Sexual harassment like Alan’s that never quite crossed the line. While I’d had conversations with HR about him, his words hadn’t been enough to do much to shut him down, especially since the company was owned by his wife’s family.

I never wore revealing clothes. I was cautious about it, especially in the industry. Especially with Alan as a boss. My dress was fitted—I was tall and lean with only small curves—but not clingy. While it was sleeveless, it was high necked and fell to my knees.

“Any professional woman would find the line appealing,” I countered neutrally.

Alan leaned in further, the scent of his cologne and the whiskey from his breath had me pressing back into the cushioned booth.

“Are you wearing the black mesh number you described?”

I pushed out of the booth, stood, grabbed my clutch. We were so not talking about my panties. “Excuse me, I need the ladies’ room.”

I fled across the restaurant without looking back, leaning against the bathroom sink, staring at myself in the mirror.