“You’re unbelievable,” I whispered irately.
“Yeah, I think you whispered that in my ear Saturday night,” he whispered back, not, I noted, in the least irately.
It was safe to say I was done.
“I have a lot of work to screw up, Tack. Do you want to stop annoying me so I can do it?”
“Sure,” he agreed. I glared at him. Then, without warning and so fast I couldn’t avoid it, his hand was curled around the back of my head. He pulled me to him, leaned into me and I had to execute evasive maneuvers not to have a desk covered in coffee.
I forgot all about the coffee when I noted his eyes were so close they were all I could see.
“To be fair, baby, I’m givin’ you a warning,” he said quietly.
“Let me go,” I demanded just as quietly, mostly because I was freaking out.
“I want somethin’, I get it.”
“Let me go,” I repeated.
“Only once, I didn’t. That shit ain’t happenin’ to me again.”
“Tack –”
“You’ve been warned, Red,” he whispered and I watched his eyes drop to my mouth.
I held my breath and put pressure on his hand at my head. I was concentrating on both of these things so hard, I lost track of his other hand until I felt his fingers against my cheek. His thumb was sliding along my lower lip before I could do anything to stop it.
Then he released me, turned and without another word or look, he sauntered out the door.
When the door closed behind him, I sucked in breath, closed my eyes tight and kept breathing deep until I felt my heart slow and my lower lip stopped tingling.
Then I opened my eyes and stared at the door.
Then I whispered, “I’m not coward and I’m not going to be your plaything. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing but I do know I’m Tyra Sidney Masters and Tyra Sidney Masters is not a coward and she’s not a plaything. That’s what I know. So, Tack Whoever-You-Are, bring it on.”
Then I turned to the computer and royally screwed up the order.
Chapter Three
Only I Call You Red
“Hey, Lenny,” I called loudly to the mechanic (or body guy or whatever he was) closest to the door leading to my office. The big man in blue coveralls straightened, shoved back his welding mask and turned to me.
“Yo!” he replied.
“Do you know where Tack is?” I asked.
It was precisely thirty-seven minutes since my last encounter with Tack (I had timed it). I had the, what I was sure was screwed up, printed parts order in my hand along with the Sanskrit notes and a pen. I was hoping Tack had already taken off and when he returned, he’d promptly come in and fire me due to the lateness of the order being completed as well as the fact it clearly stated I had no clue what I was doing.
These hopes were dashed when Lenny’s eyes slid to the door of the bay and he jerked his head toward them.
“Out there, Tyra, Compound,” he yelled over the garage noise. I looked toward the door but couldn’t see anything so I walked down the steps and through the garage toward the doors.
Then I saw him. He was standing, back to me, at the line of bikes in front of the Compound. He was with two other bikers. There were more bikes there today. Eight, I counted as I walked across the forecourt, my heels clicking against the cement, my eyes squinting against the powerful, bright July sun of a Denver day.
I was ten feet away when the attention of the two bikers with Tack shifted to me and I was seven feet away when Tack’s body turned and his eyes hit me.
I will not blush, act like an idiot or a shrew. I will be professional. This is a job. Only a job. He’s my boss. He’s a handsome one but a jerky one and I slept with him but he’s just my boss. I embrace my inner slut. Sluts wouldn’t blush, act like idiots or shrews. They would just go about their business. Therefore, I am a slut and I am proud, I said to myself as I approached.