supervisor. Hell, he could buy the damn company and fire every man who worked there.
“Entirely. Seems I was just too much of a distraction, so it was best for everyone—including me, for my personal safety—if I left.”
“Jesus Christ,” Damien muttered. Lifting his water glass, he half drained it, trying to cool himself off. He was stunned by the idiocy not only of her male colleagues, but also of a higher-up who would hear about that bet and react by firing the victim. If the man had been one of his employees, Damien would have hit the roof. Not only was it wrong on a moral level, but the guy had also just opened up his employer to serious lawsuits.
When he felt capable of being rational, he said, “Call your lawyer.”
“I can’t afford one.”
“I’ll call my lawyer.”
“Thank you, but no.” She offered him a small, humorless smile. That, and her slumped shoulders, told him how crushed she was by this entire situation. “I just want to forget it ever happened,” she said. “I got severance, and I’ve been promised excellent references.”
“All to keep you from suing or making trouble.”
“Yes. Normally, I’m good at making trouble.” She traced the tips of her fingers across the condensation on her own glass. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”
He watched her long, slender fingers, so delicate and feminine, but also strong. He sensed she wasn’t so much giving up as she was choosing what she thought was a better option.
“I’m sorry. And I’m goddamn angry. Let me help you.”
“I don’t need any help.”
Used to taking care of things, and bothered that he couldn’t in this situation, Damien bit back a frustrated retort. She was independent, he respected that. But he couldn’t stand the idea of anybody getting away with that kind of bullshit, especially when Viv was the injured party.
Their drinks arrived. Damien glanced at his watch. “Twenty-nine-and-a-half minutes,” he pointed out before sipping, enjoying the icy bite of the alcohol.
Remembering her comment in the garage, she smiled. “Okay, I officially resign from Man Haters Anonymous. At least for the rest of the day.”
Lucky him.
“Now, back to your situation...”
“I meant what I said. I know men like to solve things—boy, do I ever know that. But I have already made up my mind.”
As if she sensed he was about to argue, Viv tossed her hair, lifted her chin and managed a real smile. He suspected she was trying to downplay her sadness and humiliation as she said, “I must say, though, I’m not happy my good behavior went to waste. I was so nice, so plain and sweet while trying to get those guys to lose interest.”
Plain she could never be. He doubted sweet was used to describe her very often, either. No, she was spicy.
“The deck was stacked against you because of that bet. You could have come in to work literally wearing a nun’s habit and it wouldn’t have changed a thing.”
“I understand that now. But I gave it my best shot, believe me. Though, I didn’t think of the habit angle, and I should have, given my Catholic-school upbringing.”
Something else they had in common. “Nuns are terrifying.”
“No kidding. My second-grade teacher, Sister Margaret, wouldn’t have recognized me over the past several weeks, I was so demure. If she had, she’d probably have fallen over dead of shock that her predictions of my future wickedness hadn’t come true.”
He sipped again, wondering just how wicked this woman could be. “Future wickedness, huh? Did she believe you were destined for damnation?”
“Or prison.”
He chuckled.
“You think I’m kidding? Yeesh, let a nun catch you in a coat closet with two boys, playing my-underwear-are-better-than-yours, and she’s pegged you as a bad girl for life.”
“Were they?
She cocked her head. “Were who what?”
“Were yours better than theirs?”
Snorting and rolling her eyes, she said, “Well, duh. Angry Beavers beats Darkwing Duck or Animaniacs any day.”
He had just taken another sip of his drink but her response made him swallow the wrong way, and he had to cough into his fist, half laughing, half groaning. When he could speak again, he asked, “Your parents let their seven-year-old daughter wear Angry Beavers panties?”
“Caught that, didja?” she replied with a snicker. “They worked a lot, raising six kids, five of them strapping, athletic, eating-them-out-of-house-and-home boys.”
Ouch. Five brothers. He wondered where she fell in the Callahan family lineup.
She continued. “Because of my parents’ work schedules, my oldest brother had to take me back-to-school shopping that year. He didn’t want to be caught by any of his high school friends in the little girl’s department at the mall, so I had free rein when it came to choosing panties. Heh. But hey, better than Ren and Stimpy, right?”
“I don’t know, ‘happy-happy, joy-joy’ seems like a good underwear motto.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“I don’t think they make Ren and Stimpy drawers in my size.”
“Bummer. That would be a wicked-good theme song to have in your pants at all times.”
They laughed together, and Damien found himself relaxing more than he had in ages. Strange, considering the fact that he was sitting here, drinking gin and tonics, with a gorgeous woman he wanted to take to bed, and they were talking about childhood cartoons. He hadn’t had a completely normal childhood, given his family’s wealth, but he’d enjoyed the occasional after-school Nickelodeon binge, and remembered fighting with his sisters over who got to watch what.
Funny that this new stranger made him remember those days, so far in his past he’d nearly forgotten about them. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a conversation like this. Lately, all he talked about was business when at work and shopping and finances when with his family. He avoided relationships, knowing he wasn’t cut out for them, but, on occasion, he did talk sex with women who expected nothing more from him.
This one had him talking cartoons.
He suddenly realized he liked her. Quite a lot. Not just because she was strong and independent after going through hell. Not just because she made him laugh. It was also because he suddenly realized she’d done what she’d set out to do. She’d distracted him from the issue of those two buttons and that tumbling sea of hair. Clever girl.
“So, Wicked Viv—”
“Vixen Viv,” she interrupted.
“Even better. So, Vixen, was Sister Margaret right about your wickedness? Are you planning to seduce me?” he asked, not letting her evade the subject this time.
He kept his eyes focused directly on hers, so he saw the way they flared. She licked her lips, and a faint pink tinge rose in her cheeks. He knew she wasn’t blushing; that wasn’t embarrassment or modesty.
It was heat.
And he had his answer.
“Are you saying you would have to be seduced?” she finally asked.
“No, I’m not saying that at all.”
Seduction implied having to be coerced or convinced to do something. That wouldn’t be the case with Viv. He’d been attracted to her at first sight, and his interest had heightened with every passing minute.
It