Love and Brimstone

Chapter Seven

It didn’t take Taz long to get into a new routine. Normally not the earliest of risers, she found herself eager to be out of the house by five every morning. It allowed her time to use the exercise equipment with no interruptions. Apparently the valet staff worked twenty-four seven and were always ready when she arrived. The London trip washed out, but one morning midway through her second week, she was surprised to find someone already in the gym.

Matthias Hawthorne had worked up quite a sweat on the treadmill. She paused in the doorway and gulped. He wore headphones and didn’t seem to notice her at first. When he did, he waved, then went back to his jog.

Relieved, she made her way to an exercise bike on the far side of the room. Normally she ran the treadmill, but she was afraid she’d be too close to him and stare.

Even with his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him he was gorgeous. He had a nice body, just a few extra pounds on his abs, but his legs and arms looked firm and lean. Combined with strong, smooth hands and long, slender fingers…

She cut that thought off.

She wondered what it would feel like having his cock buried deep inside her pussy…

So not helping!

She closed her eyes and pedaled harder, faster, trying to banish the image. He was gorgeous. She hoped he didn’t make this his new routine. He was far too distracting.

Eventually she glanced his way again and saw him working a cool-down routine with weights.

Oh good, he’ll be going soon. She didn’t know if that was relief or regret twisting her stomach.

She finished on the bike and headed to a treadmill. Hawthorne smiled and waved her over.

Crap.

“Would you mind spotting me? I didn’t want to bother you before. I’d like to do a few lifts.”

“Uh, okay. Sure.”

He set up a weight bench for one-hundred pounds, and she stood behind him, trying not to stare down at him—

those gorgeous arms

—while he lifted. Her gaze drifted to his waist, to his shorts, and she realized his loose shorts didn’t conceal much. She shivered, wondering again what he was like in bed…

She mentally smacked herself. Don’t do this, Taz. Don’t screw this up!

True to his word, he was done in a few minutes. He looked up at her. She couldn’t move her eyes fast enough and caught the full-on force of his gaze, which melted her very soul. Her panties felt instantly soaked as her clit throbbed and her nipples tightened.

“Thank you, Ms. Proctor. I appreciate it.”

Then he sat up. She found herself stammering, “You’re welcome,” and returned to the treadmill.

He left. Ten minutes later she gave up trying to finish her routine. She was too rattled, too distracted.

Too damn horny.

She couldn’t forget the image of him walking out of the gym, his firm thighs disappearing under his shorts…

Urgh! It had been too long since her last boyfriend. That’s all.

Way too long.

She stopped for a cup of coffee at the cafeteria and rode the elevator up. Hawthorne would, hopefully, be in his office taking a shower.

Boy, wouldn’t I like to help him soap up.

Argh! This. Is. Not. Helping!

She retreated to her office and locked the door. Then in the shower she stood under water as cold as she could tolerate, trying to wash the image of Matthias Hawthorne’s delicious body out of her mind.

By week four, Taz had settled into her job and, fortunately, Hawthorne didn’t reappear in the gym. She relaxed, enjoying the work. She wasn’t in close proximity to Hawthorne for any great length of time and found each encounter easier to endure than the last.

But she still found him totally yummalicious.

One afternoon, Hawthorne knocked on her open door. She looked up. “Come in, Mr. Hawthorne.”

He smiled. “Up for a car trip?”

She tried to conceal her surprise. “Beg pardon?”

“I’ve got an issue up in Vancouver.”

“Canada?”

He laughed. “Washington state.”

“Oh.”

“Can you be ready to leave in thirty minutes?”

She nodded. “I need to get some things out of my car. We’re not flying?”

“I need to stay out of airplanes for a few days. I’m sick of flying. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.” Not if you don’t mind me barfing all over you out of sheer nervousness.

“Bring those other files with you, please. The ones we’ve been going through. We can talk about them on the way.”

“Right.”

She was glad she had her workout bag with her. Whatever she didn’t have she could pick up on the road. She packed, shut down her laptop, then called the valets to get what she needed from her car and put it wherever it needed to go. They were spookily…

Efficient.

She was waiting for him by the elevator twenty-nine minutes later. He smiled as he walked toward her, an overnight bag casually slung over his shoulder. She was still in her Versace suit and suddenly felt way overdressed compared to him. He wore jeans, tan white-soled boat shoes, and a blue pique-collared golf shirt.

“Nothing like the open road.” He smiled, and before she could protest, he grabbed one of her bags and carried it.

She thought they would take one of the larger cars, but she was wrong. Downstairs awaited a 1968 Mustang coupe, Acapulco blue. Her things were already inside.

“You’re kidding!” She stared, her jaw slack.

Hawthorne handed their bags to the valet. “Care to guess? I heard you’re a motor head.”

A race-car driver’s daughter, she immediately knew what he meant and shook her head. “If you tell me it’s only got a 200 under the hood, I’m gonna lose all respect for you, boss.” The Ice Queen had thawed. That was the most familiar she’d been toward him. “Is it a 390?”

It was a 1968 Mustang—could it get any better?

“You’ve got to be kidding. A 200? Please. 427. Four speed.”

She ran her hand over the door. Flawless. It was either cherry original or a very meticulous restoration. Smooth, no dings, no filler marks, not a hint of orange peel in the paint. The interior looked pristine, and with the exception of a CD player XM radio with an MP3 port, it was also original or a damn good restoration.

“How long have you owned it?”

She couldn’t read his smile. “A few years.”

She grinned, and for once she forgot how attracted she was to him. “You aren’t cruel enough to coop me up in this all the way to Vancouver and back and not let me drive, are you?”

He tossed her the keys, startling her, but she caught them. “Let’s go,” he said.

Sure she was dreaming, Taz tried to read Hawthorne’s expression as she passed him, swapping sides. She adjusted the driver seat, her legs a little shorter than his. She kicked off her heels and put them on the floor behind her seat. Brake and clutch, she shifted it into neutral. Then brake and gas, she fired it off. It roared to life immediately.

Taz closed her eyes and gripped the wheel. She hadn’t been in one of these in…years. Her dad’s ’65 Mustang had a 260 engine. She still remembered one of the few times he picked her up from school, when she turned sixteen, the afternoon he taught her how to drive.

One of the few things he did as her father that Robertson didn’t have to.

He’d sold it when she was eighteen. It nearly broke her heart, but he’d wanted her to have a larger, safer car with airbags, the whole nine yards. Every time she saw a classic Mustang it always struck a melancholy chord, reminding her of the best of her father.

I wish I still had that car.

Praying she didn’t make an ass out of herself and stall it—or worse, grind the gears or screw up a shift—she adjusted the old-style seatbelt to fit and roared out of the parking garage.

Hawthorne encouraged her to floor it on the freeway when they were north of the city. She wound it up, and soon they were doing eighty. She liked her Accord, and the corporate Town Car was nice.

But there was nothing like a muscle car.

She noticed at a gas stop it had a Florida license plate on the back. “I usually keep it down there,” he explained, “but I’ve missed driving it. I had it shipped. It arrived last week.”

They made good time up I-5. He directed her to a small hotel south of Sacramento. He checked them in, and for the first time, Taz felt truly comfortable around him, like she wasn’t going to pass out from forgetting to breathe. She called Robertson from her room before dinner and updated him on her location.

“Have fun,” Robertson said. He sounded like he was smiling. She knew that tone of voice all too well.

“Don’t read anything into that, buster.”

“The fastest way to your heart, dear, is a big-block V-8. Especially a Mustang. I’m surprised you didn’t drool.”

God, he knows me so well! She giggled. “You and I are going car shopping next week. I forgot how much fun they are.”

“Have a safe trip, sweetheart.”

Hawthorne knocked on her door, and they went to eat. She brought the files, and they spent two hours over dinner, talking business.

“Ms. Proctor, I appreciate your attention to detail. And even more, your appreciation for a fine car.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to get familiar with him. “If you want, you can call me Anastazia.” She always pronounced it Anna-stay-zhia when introducing herself, because to say “Ahna-stay-zhia” just sounded too pretentious when she wasn’t British, even though it was her preference.

He eyed her over his coffee mug. “So, are you an Anna-stay-zhia, Ahna-stay-zhia, or Anna-stah-sha.”

The last he said with an affected Boston accent. She shuddered, laughing. “I like the second.”

“I notice you don’t pronounce it like that.”

“It always sounds better when others say it. My”—Friend? Male nanny? Guardian pro-temp?—“adopted dad says it like that.” That was the first time she’d referred to Robertson in that way, but it fit.

How sad is it that I don’t meet enough new people in my life to have ever had that problem before?

Hawthorne raised his eyebrow. “You’re adopted? I thought your parents—”

“He basically raised me,” she quickly interjected. “He started working for my parents when I was a baby. He was their business attorney, but Mom said he was the only one who could get me to eat without a fight, so he took over. He became their majordomo. Ran the house and tried to keep them in line, too.”

She studied her hands. “I loved my parents, but they were pretty busy. He was always there, he took care of me. He’s like a dad to me. When they died, I sold the house and got a condo and begged him to stay. I don’t have any other relatives. I don’t think he does, either. He’s my family.”

“He sounds like an admirable man.”

“Of course, he always called me Taz growing up. I was only Anastazia when I was in trouble.”

“Tasmanian Devil, eh?”

She laughed. “Well, I was hell on wheels. Considering who my parents were, Mr. Hawthorne, it’s amazing I’ve made it this far.”

“Matthias, please.”

And there was her unease, back with a vengeance. Muscle cars be damned.

“I, uh, no offense, but I’ve only been working for you for a few weeks now. Frankly, I’m not comfortable calling you that yet.” He could use her first name if he wanted to. She didn’t mind, because he was the boss. She just didn’t want him getting the wrong idea.

Yet.

“I understand. What are you most comfortable with me calling you?”

Darling, dearest, booty call, Mrs. Hawthorne, anytime you want, oh baby—

“My first name is okay.”

“But never Anna-stah-sha.” He laughed. Pahk ya cah in the yahd.

She grinned. “Lord, no.”

“Very well.” He paid their bill and helped her carry the files back to her room. He stopped at her door, where he handed them over. “Seven in the morning. We’ll eat downstairs before we hit the road again.”

“That’s fine.”

“Good night, Anastazia.”

The sound of her name on his lips made her shiver. His accent sounded slightly British, now that she thought about it. She wasn’t sure where he’d grown up, but her name sounded beautiful when he said it.

“Good night,” she managed.

He turned without hesitation—

Oh rats, I mean oh good, no awkward attempt to kiss.

—and walked several doors down to his room, where he went in without a backward glance.

She closed and locked her door and leaned against it while she tried to catch her breath. He was being a total gentleman, completely professional. Absolutely…

Wonderful.