Hell on Heels (Hotel Rodeo #1)(15)

“Tell you what, Ty, since you’re so hell-bent on keeping the hotel, I’ll make you a deal.”

“What kinda deal?’ he asked warily.

“I’ll give you sixty days to buy me out. Fair market value less two and a half percent. I’ll cut you that break, but I’m not about to lose my ass on this. If you haven’t found financing by that time, I’m selling to the highest bidder. In the meantime, you have to agree to keep the place running.”

“What about the bonus you offered?”

Her gaze was level with his chin, requiring her to crane her neck. She hated the advantage his height gave him. It was the reason she always wore heels—to level the playing field. She was five foot seven. Her stilettos made her close to six feet, which allowed her to stand nose to nose with most men, and even gave her a slight advantage over Evan, who was only four inches taller than she was, but Ty had her by half a head.

“The twenty grand you refused?”

“No, the ten I accepted along with the—”

“Okay,” she blurted. “You already called my bluff. I’ll give you the twenty. Half now and the rest in two months. I’m being square with you here, Ty. Let’s make this happen.” She almost groaned as Evan’s favorite words spilled from her mouth. She’d been his protégé for five years. It would probably take as many for the stink to wear off.

Ty cocked his head in thought.

She waited, fighting the urge to tap her heel.

“All right,” he said at last. “I can accept that deal . . . with the provision that I still have the last word on operations.”

“Absolutely not! I’ll make all the final decisions.”

“That ain’t gonna fly with me, Sugar. Tom let me have free rein. If you want me to stay, you’ve got to let me handle things my way.”

“Equal say,” she countered. “Partners. Just like you and Tom.”

He shook his head. “Tom and I are like-minded, but you and me? We’re never going to see eye to eye on anything.”

“Probably not,” she agreed.

“Look, Ms. Brandt, one of us has to wear the pants in this relationship.”

“Wear the pants? What chauvinistic bullshit! I can’t even believe you said that!”

“Told you I’m old-fashioned. ’Sides,” his gazed roved slowly and suggestively down her body, “you look mighty fine in a skirt.”

She fought a ridiculous surge of satisfaction that he’d taken notice. “Don’t you know I could call you out for sexual harassment?”

“Could you now?” He stepped into her space. “Maybe you need a bit of sexual harassment, Ms. Brandt,” his voice was suddenly low and smooth as silk. “As a matter of fact, I think you need a whole lot of it.” She retreated a step. He advanced two. “You see,” he continued, backing her up to the desk, “I was raised in the belief that anything worth doing is worth doing right.”

His hands came down on the desk, braced on either side of her. His musky masculine sent washed over her, sucking the air out of her lungs. Evan wore outrageously expensive Clive Christian 1872. Ty Morgan wore “pure cowboy” vintage 1982—earthy, tangy, and tantalizing.

“I don’t understand,” her voice came out breathless. He was way too close, not just invading but dominating her personal space. “You’re not making any sense.”

He smirked. “Then I guess I need to couch this in terms you’re sure to comprehend. The way I see it, Ms. Brandt, we’re now negotiating a merger.”

“A merger?” she repeated dumbly. Then understanding kicked her brain into gear. “Let me go, Ty.”

A taunting grin slowly stretched his mouth. “But I’m not touching you, Ms. Brandt.” That part was true. His body loomed over hers, but he wasn’t actually touching her. He held her only by his sheer, seductive force of will. “That’s not to say I don’t want to touch you,” he continued lazily, his face hovering inches from hers.

“This is totally unprofessional.” Her breath hitched as he wedged a denim-clad knee between her thighs.

“Yup. Sure is.” He released a hand from the desktop and slid it into the space he’d created between her thighs. His gaze held hers as he ran it slowly up her leg. Evan had smooth, meticulously manicured hands. Ty’s were big, callused, and rough on her skin.

“No panty hose, Ms. Brandt?”

“It’s too damned hot for them here,” she murmured, her heart pounding as if she’d run the New York Marathon. She shut her eyes on the sensation of his fingers inching slowly upward. She should push him away, but for some inexplicable reason, she couldn’t bring herself to move. What the hell was happening?

“It’s hot, all right.” His voice rumbled low in her ear, sending an echo of ripples down her spine. His fingertip traced the lace edge of her panties and then skimmed lower. She squirmed with a little moan. “How long has it been?” he asked.

Her eyes snapped open. “My sex life is none of your damn business.”

His fascinating green and gold-flecked eyes held hers captive as he teased and stroked her silk-covered mons. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve decided to make it my business.”

“You need to stop this. Now,” she gasped, growing almost frantic.