Every Last Secret(42)

“I’m over here!” His voice came from the pool deck, and I sprinted up the deck’s side steps and skidded to a stop when I spied him.

I inhaled sharply. “Matt. Don’t move.”

He lay awkwardly on his stomach in the grass, his arm bent back at an impossible angle, his face gray with pain. Beside him were pieces of an iron railing. I glanced up and spotted the hole in the upper balcony. Pulling my phone from the robe pocket, I quickly dialed 9-1-1.

“I’m getting an ambulance, Matt. Try not to move.”

I wrapped my arms around my chest, hugging the material to me as I told the operator their address and what had happened. I ended the call. “They’re on their way. Said less than five minutes.”

“Call Neena,” he rasped.

I was already dialing her number and growled in frustration when it went straight to voice mail. I ended the call and tried again. Same result. Glancing at my watch, I called the main receptionist at Winthorpe Tech, relieved when William’s assistant answered the phone.

“Ashley, it’s Cat. I need to speak to Neena. Do you know where she is?”

“Of course, Mrs. Winthorpe. She’s in a meeting with your husband. I was told not to disturb them.”

I frowned. “Are they in his office?”

“No, the boardroom.”

The boardroom. The only location in the building, except for the closed labs, where visual privacy was afforded. Was it a coincidence? “I need you to interrupt them. There’s been an accident, and I need to speak to Neena immediately.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Winthorpe. May I put you on hold? I’ll get her right now.”





CHAPTER 26

NEENA

I stood behind William’s boardroom chair, the heavy leather piece pulled away from the conference table, and kneaded the taut muscles in his neck. “That’s it. Inhale slowly and hold.” I counted to three in my head. “Now, exhale as slowly as possible.”

I found a knot of tension and kneaded it with my thumb, the tight bundle of nerves uncoiling. He finished his exhale and groaned. “God, that feels good.”

Of course it did. If I had him naked, I’d work over his entire body. He’d be moaning my name and swearing allegiance to me for life. Soon, I promised myself. Soon. I glanced toward the locked boardroom door and wondered how much sound carried outside it.

“Tilt your head back against the chair.” He obeyed, settling his long frame against the leather, and I placed my hands on top of his head, softly running my fingers through the thick chunks of his hair, my nails scraping lightly against his scalp. “Let the tension leave through your head. Release any stress or fear and send it up to the universe.” I kept the rhythm slow and methodical, giving him just enough and letting him want some more. Lifting my hands from his head, I circled the chair and stopped before him. “Close your eyes.”

“Always ordering me around . . .” He sounded drugged, and I applauded myself for taking the next step and introducing him to meditation. I’d been working with the team on positive affirmations and the law of attraction—and William, while slow to accept the idea, was gradually coming on board.

I tugged on his hair gently, and his eyes dragged open. In those dark depths, I could see the need, a fissure of chemistry flaring between us. I reached forward, trailing my fingers down on his lids, a little surprised sparks didn’t fly where my touch landed. His mouth fell slightly open, and I imagined it skimming across my skin, over the new lingerie I was wearing. I picked up his wrist and turned his large hand over in mine, his watch sliding down his wrist. He tensed a little, the cords in his wrist flexing, all senses tuned in to my touch.

“Keep your eyes closed,” I ordered. “Breathe shallowly. Repeat your mantra.”

I set his hand down on the high arm of the chair and ran my fingers along the folds and seams of his sleeve, bringing more of his tension out the tips of his arms. “Release your stress through my fingers. Any worries, any fears. Just let them go. Everything is as it should be, and everything will be okay.”

I repeated the action with his other arm, and there was no tension now, his limbs loose and fluid. His breath slowed, his chest barely moving below the mother-of-pearl buttons on his stiff blue dress shirt. I bumped his knees with mine, opening them. When I gently sat on his right thigh, I watched his face, but there was no response, no objection—another boundary easily crossed when patience was used.

This morning, I’d dressed for him. A knee-length pencil skirt with a slit on one side. Hosiery that stopped at my upper thigh. A knit sweater that hugged my large breasts.

I ran my fingertips in soft patterns across his face, tracing the lines of his strong nose, his fierce features, his masculine jaw, the stubble of a missed section of his shave. I moved in small circles across his forehead, wide and gentle strokes over his cheeks, and whisper-soft brushes across his lips.

His eyes opened, and I could see the flecks of darkness in his brown eyes. Darkness and need. Want fighting with hesitation. I forced my fingers to keep moving, to trace the line of his mouth, to zigzag over the rough texture of his lips.

“I can’t . . . ,” I whispered, knowing that it would spur him on, give him the challenge, let my unsurety distract him from his own.

His gaze sharpened, and I felt his hand as it crept off the arm of the chair and curled around my back, bringing me closer to him. “You can.”