Talking Dirty With the Boss (Talking Dirty#3) Read online

Scowling, Marisa opened the e-mail and squinted at the screen. And a painful sense of realization stole through her. Oh bloody hell. Of all the e-mails to be sent to the wrong person it would have to be that one, to that person.

  Freaking fantastic. Nothing much embarrassed Marisa these days, but a blush burned in her cheeks now. She’d sent a stupid, sexy e-mail to uptight Luke McNamara, the top boss of the whole damn company. The only thing worse would have been sending it to the entire company.

  How had it happened, anyway? She could have sworn she’d put Leonard’s name in the box. Then again, the e-mail program usually auto-completed the address line so she didn’t have to type in the whole thing. She hadn’t bothered to check that it was actually Leonard’s address.

  Crap and double crap.

  She kept frowning at the screen, reading the e-mail over a second time. E-mail is for work purposes only.… Confine your correspondence accordingly. What a pompous ass. What the hell right did he have to tell her what she did with her e-mail anyway?

  Uh. Perhaps the fact that he owns the magazine you work for? And that stupid speech he gave the day he took over about the new e-mail policy?

  Well, yes. Apart from that…

  Marisa scowled at the screen. She knew the intelligent thing would be to ignore Luke’s prissy e-mail. Hit the delete key, send it into oblivion, and forget all about him.

  Him and that kiss that had rocked her little world on its axis. That had left her breathless and speechless and shocked. And almost trembling. All of which she hated. Not to mention the fact that he was telling her off.

  A tiny ember of anger shot out a spark.

  She stared at the screen a moment more. Then typed out a reply.

  Dear Mr. McNamara,

  Many apologies for the below e-mail. You were obviously not the intended recipient. It was to go to one of the IT staff. However, I can assure you that my e-mail was totally work-related. The licking of one’s hard drive can apparently make it go faster. Also, the color of my underwear is vital to the maintenance of my PC, which is what I was trying to communicate in the first place.

  Yours sincerely,

  Marisa Clair

  Work purposes only, huh? That’ll teach him.

  Marisa hit send with not a small amount of satisfaction.

  …

  Luke’s lunch meeting went on for longer than he’d anticipated, which was annoying. A longer lunch meant less time to study the figures for the Gibson Group portfolio. Annoying, because if there was one thing he liked to do, it was to make sure things were done properly and in the correct order.

  So to come back to his office to find yet another e-mail from Marisa Clair only made him even more annoyed. Because it would mean reading it and that would eat into the time he’d set aside for the Gibson portfolio and he had to read the e-mail because if he didn’t…

  Yes, tell yourself it’s the OCD.

  Of course it was the OCD. What else would it be? He wasn’t curious. Not in the slightest. Why would he be? He wasn’t interested at all in her.

  Tapping a key, he opened up the message, read it, frowned.

  He was pretty sure licking a hard drive and the color of her underwear were not work-related in any way, shape, or form.

  He sat back in his black leather executive chair. Sarcasm. That’s what it was. She was being sarcastic. Again. Well, he didn’t find anything amusing in sarcasm. Oh, he understood the concept. It just wasn’t one that particularly appealed to him.

  Women who understood the significance of a decent investment portfolio on the other hand, now that appealed to him. Women who were serious about their careers rather than a relationship, because he couldn’t manage to keep the OCD in check long enough to have a relationship. At least not if he wanted to keep the OCD secret. Which he had to. He was hugely successful and had enough business rivals who would exploit the hell out of it if they ever found out. So he kept it under wraps.

  Only a select few knew about it, and that’s how he liked it to stay.

  So yes, intellectual, career-minded women were what he preferred. Especially if they also enjoyed handing him the control when it came to the bedroom. Women who didn’t mind taking direction when the situation demanded also.

  Marisa might enjoy taking direction…

  Much to his irritation, a curl of desire licked up inside him at the thought. Which was ridiculous because a woman less likely to take direction than Marisa Clair he couldn’t imagine.

  God, he really needed to stop thinking about her in conjunction with sex because now it was getting even more inappropriate than it already was.

  Luke leaned forward, reading over the e-mail for the fifth time. Weirdly, it seemed to bring to mind her mouth. The lush curve of it. The red lipstick that covered it. And the burst of electricity that had gone through him as he’d kissed it.

  What color underwear had she been wearing underneath that green dress of hers that night…?

  No. He did not want to know. And he did not want to carry this conversation on any further.

  She needed to stop this e-mailing business immediately.

  Quickly, Luke typed out a reply.

  Dear Marisa,

  You’ve already been warned once about e-mails to relevant IT staff. Besides, the color of your underwear should not relate to the maintenance of your computer. To do so would make no sense. Please desist in the use of company e-mail for this discussion.

  Sincerely,

  Luke McNamara

  CEO McNamara Financial and Compass Media

  With any luck that would make her stop.

  After he pressed send, Luke checked the time, then closed his e-mail program to prevent any further unscheduled electronic incursions.

  Then he opened up the Gibson portfolio documents and tried like hell to dismiss Marisa Clair and her underwear from his mind. Because he couldn’t afford any distractions that might derail his attention from his company.

  McNamara Financial gave him structure. Gave him focus. It always had.

  He was the master of his condition, it wouldn’t master him.

  Never, ever again.

  …

  Marisa put her latte down on her desk and slumped in her chair. She’d spent the whole afternoon in a meeting with Ben, which had meant a late afternoon tea—barely enough time to nip down the road to her favorite café for her usual caffeine hit.

  Yet for all that she’d been busy, the day had dragged.

  Ah well, not long now. Then she could get home, put on her new dress, go out with some friends to the new cocktail bar that had opened down on the waterfront. Maybe pick up a hot guy.

  The thought somehow wasn’t as exciting as it used to be, and she had no idea why.

  Going out on the town, partying with girlfriends, and picking up guys had been something she’d really enjoyed. At least until Christie had found Joseph. And then for some reason all that frenetic socializing and flirting and one-night-standing had started to seem a bit sad. A bit desperate.

  Which was weird because settling down definitely wasn’t on her agenda. Still, she seemed to have lost her appetite for the fun stuff and that was aggravating. Mainly because it made her aware of all the other stuff in her life—or rather, the lack of other stuff in her life.

  Marisa sighed, reflexively checking her e-mail. Only to find another reply from Luke.

  A burst of unexpected and—it had to be said—unwelcome excitement swept through her. Which was lame, because getting excited about receiving an e-mail from him meant she must be extra, extra sad.

  She glared at the screen. Dear God, “the color of your underwear should not relate to the maintenance of your computer.” Was he freaking serious? No, surely he wasn’t. No one could be that humorless.

  Why would I want to dance with my phone?

  Oh yeah. They could.

  Her midafternoon slump seeped away.

  No, she would not desist in her use of the company e-mail for this discussion. She was restless and piss
ed and he put the ass in pompous ass. Time to wiggle the stick up his butt.

  Sitting up straight in her chair, she whipped off a reply.

  Dear Luke,

  I assure you that the question as to the hue of my undergarments is vital to my job. I cannot do my job without a computer, thus I need to keep said computer running at its optimal level. In order to do this, adequate communication and ensuring prompt responses from the relevant IT staff is needed. The quickest and easiest way to ensure this, I have discovered, is to make sure the relevant IT staff are kept up to date as to the color of my panties. The type of undergarment I wear also works. For example, a red thong ensures a quicker response than plain white cotton hipsters.

  Yours sincerely and very seriously,

  Marisa Clair

  P.S. What color undies are you wearing?

  She hit send. And for a minute, as the e-mail left her out-box, a small doubt wormed its way into her consciousness. Sending stupid e-mails in direct contravention of company policy to her über-boss wasn’t exactly the right way to go about ensuring a long and fulfilling career as Ben’s PA. Especially when she’d had a couple of HR warnings already.

  Then again, she didn’t really want a long and fulfilling career as Ben’s PA. She’d only taken the job so she could start paying off the debts she’d been left with after Alistair had gone back to his wife. Then she’d start doing what she’d wanted to do when she’d been a kid—be an artist. Perhaps go to university and get a degree in fine arts. Work with glass as her father had.

  The little vase sparkled annoyingly, reminding her of those forgotten dreams. The dreams she’d turned her back on to make her mother happy after her father had died. Exchanging art for beauty pageants, modeling, and a career in front of the camera.

  A career cut short after Alistair, bitter at the end of their affair and blaming her, had bad-mouthed her to the whole industry. Logically she knew that it hadn’t been her fault because it wasn’t like he’d told her, “Oh, and by the way, I’m married.” But she still hadn’t been able to kick the feeling that she was somehow responsible for the whole mess her life had turned out to be.

  Realizing she was fingering the glass bead she wore on a chain around her neck, Marisa dropped her hand, tore her gaze away from the vase, and took a gulp of coffee instead. Whatever, that was the past. She was done being a failed model and a married man’s mistress. She was following her childhood dreams now. Dreams of creating art. Creating fragile beauty out of liquid.

  “Mar? Can you come and help me with this spreadsheet?”

  “Sure, Ben.” She put her cup down, pushed herself out of her chair. “Coming.”

  …

  Luke finally finished the Gibson analysis around five. Later than he would have liked, but not by much. A couple of minutes. Which left him ten minutes to deal with his e-mail rather than fifteen. But that would be okay. He’d keep his responses quick, which would mean he’d be on time for an after-hours meeting with another couple of clients.

  Opening up his e-mail program, he was pleased to see there weren’t many—most of the time, Lisa dealt with his mail. One from Caleb Steele with more details about this crazy auction idea his friend had dreamed up. It was a skills auction, with all the proceeds going to a charity that helped underprivileged kids achieve their dreams. Luke had agreed to donate his financial skills to the project since managing money was a particular gift he had, and one he enjoyed passing on to other people. Especially people who didn’t have much money to start with.

  But it wasn’t Caleb’s e-mail that made him stare. It was the one from Marisa Clair. What? Again? What the hell was the woman doing?

  He should be angry. Not excited. Or curious. Or full of a strange kind of exhilaration that had him reaching for the mouse to open the message before he could think.

  He should definitely be deleting the bloody thing.

  But he didn’t. He read it instead.

  It took him a moment to make sense of it. On the surface, she seemed completely serious but then, as he read the word “panties,” he knew she wasn’t. Oh no, she was teasing him again.

  Now he should be angry, or at the very least, supremely irritated.

  Except he wasn’t either of those things. His mind wouldn’t let the issue of her panties and her computer alone. He kept having visions of going down to the Total Tech offices and demanding to see what color she was wearing today. Of her sliding up her skirt, revealing soft white thighs, and…would she really be wearing a red thong?

  Luke cursed. Viciously. He didn’t swear in the normal of scheme of things, not because he was a prude, but because he didn’t let his emotions get to the point where swearing was necessary.

  Yet it seemed vital now. He was starting to get hard, for Christ’s sake. Because he could not seem to get the image of Marisa and her little red thong out of his goddamn head.

  This woman was driving him crazy. Not what he wanted when crazy was what he was trying to leave behind.

  Still cursing, Luke began a response. He didn’t bother with the salutation this time, just got straight down to business.

  The color of my own underwear is none of your concern. I direct you once again to company e-mail policy.

  Yours sincerely,

  Luke McNamara

  CEO McNamara Financial and Compass Media

  He sent the message, along with an Internet link regarding the proper use of company e-mail, then proceeded to handle the rest in his in-box. But a minute later, a reply from her pinged back.

  Luke swore. Again. He should have closed the program, but now it was too late. He had to read it and he had to answer. Immediately.

  He opened up the e-mail.

  Luke,

  I have perused the company e-mail policy (thank you for your helpful link) and nowhere does it mention that talking about underwear via e-mail is forbidden. Especially when it’s technically work-related. The connection between my undies, the IT department, and my computer is this—there are ways to get men to do things for you, and flashing my underwear at them does the trick nicely. Especially when one is wearing a red thong.

  Marisa.

  P.S. I can already tell what color your underwear is. Gray.

  Luke’s jaw tightened.

  A thong. Well, that was an image he didn’t need.

  Are you sure about that?

  An annoyed sound escaped him, something hot and restless creeping over his skin.

  Why was she e-mailing him? This conversation had no relevance whatsoever to anything. And why was it so damn irritating to know she was right about his underwear? How ridiculous.

  He needed to delete the e-mail. Ignore her.

  But he couldn’t. Like he couldn’t ignore things that weren’t centered or weren’t in order. If they were out of alignment he’d have to move them, change them around until he was satisfied. A controlled environment meant control over his OCD and he had to stay in control over his OCD otherwise it would start to become noticeable.

  Which meant he couldn’t ignore this e-mail, not if he wanted to be able to concentrate on his job for the rest of the afternoon. Not if he wanted to remain functional.

  Tell yourself that. Tell yourself it’s got nothing to do with that kiss if that’ll make you feel better.

  Luke reached up to where his tie knotted at his throat. Pulled at it.

  Why was it so damn hot in here? Someone needed to open a window.

  In no way relieved by the slight loosening of his tie, Luke glared at his computer.

  He was stupid. She’d already had a couple of stern HR warnings and he should have come down hard on her right from the get-go. Yet he hadn’t, giving her leeway right, left, and center. Well, leeway was over. It was time to get heavy. He was the boss after all, a fact that she seemed to be ignoring.

  He thought for a minute. Then sent her a reply.

  You should not need to flash your underwear to get help with your computer. And if you persist in using the e-mail system for di
scussions such as this, there will be consequences.

  There, that should get her thinking about the error of her ways.

  He moved the mouse, preparing to shut down the program. But as he did so, the computer chimed, signaling a new e-mail message. From Marisa.

  Goddammit.

  I’ve found that men work better with a suitable incentive. Also, you stop first.

  A suitable incentive? What kind of suitable incentive? God, he could think of one right—

  Stop thinking of her underwear, you damn fool!

  Luke growled and shot off a short, decisive response.

  This is your last chance. Desist from this conversation, otherwise you’ll have to explain yourself in person. In my office.

  …

  Marisa stared at the screen. Explain herself? In his office? What. The. Hell? For sending the wrong e-mail to the wrong person? Okay, granted, she was pushing the boundary by keeping the conversation going and yes, probably not the best idea considering he owned the damn magazine and everyone in it.

  But still. He kept treating her like a naughty schoolkid.

  You’ve only got yourself to blame. He did tell you to stop and you didn’t.

  Logic did nothing to ease the anger simmering inside her. He was so patronizing and made her feel so stupid. And if there was one thing she hated, it was being made to feel stupid. Yes, okay, it was wrong to keep doing this but she couldn’t seem to let it slide.

  Unable to stop herself, she hit reply.

  There’s no need for jealousy. Say the word and I’ll show you my underwear any time you want.

  She pressed send then stared at the screen, waiting for a response.

  Sure enough, twenty seconds later, an e-mail appeared in her inbox.

  Tomorrow morning. 9:30 a.m. My office.

  Marisa swallowed.

  Serves you right, idiot.

  It was too late to start regretting it now. He’d warned her, but she’d ignored him, letting herself get carried away by her anger.

  And by the fact that you’re hot for him.

  She pulled a face. Hot for him? As if. Uptight rule-followers like him held no interest for her. None at all. She liked laid-back and easy-to-talk-to guys. Charming guys. Guys who wanted nothing from her but mutual satisfaction. She didn’t want intensity or chemistry or whatever the hell else was going on between her and Luke. Not after Alistair.