His Sweetest Sin

Asshole. “I never would have pegged you for desperate. Are you really threatening to run and tattle on me to Ethan? I wonder what he would say if I told him I’m simply trying to keep our interactions purely professional?”

“Amelia.” Why does the way he says my name in that soft, slow drawl of his cause my nipples to tighten? “I heard you. This is lunch, forty-five minutes, an hour tops. We’ll be out, in public, where I’ll need to keep my hands to myself. If you want me to bring you lunch, I can do that, sugar. Just you and me in your office, no interruptions...hmm, sounds good to me.”

I shiver at how appealing he makes it sound, the way his deep voice slides down my spine, touching me where no one ever has. The idea of him physically touching me the way no one has before has me squeezing my legs closed against the astonishing wet heat there. “Yes, okay.” I spit out the words, needing this to end, fighting for control of myself, of the situation. The fucker chuckles, he knows what he’s doing to me. I slam the phone down on him, cutting the tie he’s wrapped around me.

My head falls into my hands. What the hell was that? What just happened? Why are my breasts swollen and heavy, my core wet and hot, my whole body hot, my skin too tight?

“Amelia?” Mary’s voice brings my head up as I squirm in embarrassment, careful to avoid her eyes. Her concern is clear. “Are you all right?” Nodding, words are too hard to form. I run a hand through my hair, surprised it’s still smooth, not as tangled as I am inside. Doubt is clear on Mary’s face, but when I don’t say anything else she nods. “Coffee?”

Again, I nod. “Please.” The word escapes from my tight throat.

The door is barely closed behind her before it opens again. Karen usually sends a message to let me know she’s on her way to my office. Fuck. Face still, her eyes run over me. “What’s going on with you and Christopher Baldwin?”

A flicker of disappointment in her eyes stiffens my spine. “As he’s my client until Ethan gets back, not a damn thing. We will have lunch today to go over strategy for a settlement meeting on Friday. I’m not an idiot. I’m also not a girl who is going to lose her senses the moment a man looks at me. I am a seventh-year associate with a client roster that brings in seventeen percent of this firm’s profits, and higher billables on a monthly basis than two of this firm’s partners. I do not need a lecture on how to interact with any of my clients. Will there be anything else today, Karen?”

Slowly, she shakes her head as her mouth slides into a half smile. “No, that will be all. Ethan would be proud of you. Don’t forget, Theo Rochester will be in tomorrow for a checkup, he loves the challah bread from Katz’s Deli.”

“Already ordered, along with his latkes.” I’m stamping down the desire to scream while pumping the air in victory. With a nod, she’s gone.

As soon as the door closes behind her, I deflate. Holy hell. When Karen said Ethan would be proud of me, she meant it. It also meant she was proud of me. Of course, just as I’m the verge of walking away, I get the approval I’ve worked so hard for.

I’m sure even if Karen weren’t gay she would have gone with the tailored pant suits in the men’s style in black, gray, and tan and bob cut her sandy blonde hair. In law, and in business, you went bitch or Madonna. Bitch was the dark suits, the shoulder pads, the take no prisoners and drinking scotch even though it burned. I went Madonna because I never believed I could pull off bitch. Madonna’s had it harder despite what the bitches thought. Clinging to our femininity w

asn’t easy, men doubted our skills, our intelligence, they grabbed our asses and breasts, assumed more was on the menu of services. Then there was the disdain of the bitches daring not to cover up the fact we were a woman, trying to succeed alongside men. It made it that much better though when it came down to settlements, to the courtroom when the Madonna could show she was still a bitch underneath. I know I had the Madonna thing against me from the beginning but slowly she’s seen I have what it takes underneath.

While I knew there were moments over the last few years where I impressed her, I never felt she was proud of me. I felt like I was the free gift with the purchase of Ethan. Yet, even as she gave me the better clients, the harder cases, the word “pride” never made it across her lips. Today is as close as it will ever get.

Mary taps on the glass. Unlike most of the offices, my glass walls facing the rest of the office are frosted, a holdover from the last lawyer who had it. I tell her to come in. Her relief is clear as she gives me the once-over. “What did Karen want?”

“To find out if I’m a dumbass. How does Christopher Baldwin know I lunch at Goldfinches and my schedule is clear from one to two?”

“Because I told him. I know you aren’t a dumbass. Ethan will be back in two weeks. It will take you that long to unpucker and give in to the gorgeous scoundrel.”

I gasp as Mary walks out with a laugh. Did she really just say that? Christ, and who the hell says the word “scoundrel” anymore? “Unpucker”? I cannot believe her sometimes. Mary used to be one of six admins who supported the associates on my old floor. She was here before I got here, she used to be a secretary to a partner.

Admins are employed by the firm, while the secretaries are employed by the lawyers, all salary and responsibilities negotiated between them. I asked Mary to become my secretary when I saw she was having problems keeping up due to her arthritis. It pissed me off people were saying her days were numbered when she knew more than half the attorneys in this building. I also love the way she doesn’t mince words and can sniff out bullshit from a hundred feet away. If Mary thought Chris was a good idea, it gives me yet another thing to think about.

I’m buried in a file, trying to figure out how Ethan put up with a dick client, when the door to my office opens without warning. Mary not letting me know he was here is such crap. The sight of Chris Baldwin leaning against the closed door has me blinking fast. Is this a dream? Yes, I dreamed about the arrogant asshole last night. Best. Dream. Ever.

He’s clean shaven today, all the better to see his dimples, which don’t detract from the pure sin of his smile. Gone are the jeans and sweater of yesterday; how the hell does he look so yummy delicious in a steel-gray suit cut to perfection? His shirt is light blue, with his silk tie a tight checker of gray and blue. Am I actually beginning to like the diamond in his ear? Bizarre. The man is sexy enough to be an advertisement. “Ms. Bishop, let’s go.”

“Fine.” Saving my work, I shut down. By the time I’m up he has my coat open for me, and I warily step closer to him to slide my arms in. He wraps the coat around me, then uses it to turn me toward him. The heat of him is turning my bones, my spine, my resolve to mush. There are six large buttons, and slowly, very slowly he fastens each one. His large, long fingers are nimble—I can’t take my eyes off them—until one of those fingers tilts up my chin, just a soft grazing of his skin against mine. Yet, I’m gasping at the burning sensation, at how I want more.

Fear kicks me hard, and I pull away. No. He’s a client. “Are we going or not?” I shoot for bored, but the breathless wobble is laughable.

The slow slide of his mouth up is kinder than I deserve. “Oh yeah, we’re going.”

He opens the door for me; I try to get out ahead of him except his long legs eat up the distance. A large hand finds the small of my back. Even though we are both wearing multiple layers, his body against mine, the scent of him teasing me, turns my skin hot and tight. Once we’re in the elevator I try to put some space between us, but he doesn’t let me. His hand never leaves my back, bringing me back in contact with him. Two women in the elevator eye him hungrily; I’m not proud of the way it sends me closer against him.

All the way to the restaurant he says nothing to me, instead chatting to the cabbie about last season. I refuse to care that he’s basically ignoring me.

Inside the restaurant the heat is welcome after the cold wind blowing outside. My back is beginning to hurt from holding myself so stiffly. I sigh in relief as we are shown to the back.

Then I slow, I never sit back here, this area is usually reserved for use only in the evenings. No one else is here. Biting my tongue, I sit down in the large booth. This is just lunch, a half hour, forty-five minutes tops. He’ll figure out I’m boring as hell, then move on to the next stripper ho he belongs with.

4

Chris