One Mad Night (8 page)

Ian found her waist with his hand and began to slowly slide it up her rib cage. “And you know those shoes you were wearing in the conference room today? I
definitely
noticed your legs in those shoes.”

“I am so onto you, Ian,” she said, and she touched two fingers to his mouth. “You must believe that
I
have a soft spot. I don't.”

“Then I guess that makes us perfect for each other, doesn't it?” he said as his hand slid up and cupped her breast. “Maybe, on this little snow island of ours, we can put aside our jobs and our competition and just, you know…enjoy the moment.”

She drew a slow, unsteady breath. “You really think that's a good idea?”

He thought it was perhaps the best idea he'd ever had. He'd thought his brilliance was in advertising, but
this
was his brilliance. He was melting inside, his body responding to the feel of her, to her scent, her sparkly green eyes, and her smile. “I think we'd be idiots if we didn't,” he said, and he meant it sincerely. He couldn't remember feeling this sort of sizzle in a very long time. He caught her chin in his hand, turned her face to his, and kissed her. He kissed her fully this time, and it sent a shock wave through him, pouring through every vein, every muscle.

Chelsea grabbed the collar of his shirt and held on, responding in kind, flicking her tongue against his.

If he'd known Chelsea Crawford could kiss like this, he wouldn't have screwed around—it was electric, pulse pounding. Ian was suddenly working on overdrive, an engine revved up too fast. He slid off the conference table, put his arm around her, and pulled her to him, sliding in between her legs. His body had sprung to attention, ready and waiting for whatever Chelsea would allow.

Ian was hopeful on that front, as Chelsea made a sound in the back of her throat that sounded very much like desire to him. All the male in him was rejoicing in the teamwork here, how two people could come together and make something
utterly
fantastic
happen, without any pretense of dates and late-night phone calls. It was meant to be, as if they'd been caught in this storm for this reason, and Ian thought he'd never been so excited in his whole freaking life. He completely forgot that he expressly didn't
want
to do this, that he felt guilty and sort of gross knowing what he knew, and that he never liked to get involved, especially at work.

He forgot all that because Chelsea felt and tasted so damn good, and she was different in that she didn't really even like him. That made her special, that made her incredibly desirable, and this was going to be one of the best nights of his life—

Until Chelsea suddenly slid off the table and out from underneath his touch.

“No, no, no,” he said, sensing doom, and he tried to draw her back. But Chelsea moved beyond his reach. “Come on, Chelsea,” he said, aware that he sounded a little whiny. “Don't go. If you don't want to do this,” he said, forcing himself to say those words, because how could she
not
, “that's cool. But don't be offended. Don't go. Let's just…let's just have another drink and watch the snow.”

“I'm not offended,” she said. “But I'm not an idiot, either.”

“Don't say that,” he said with a wince.

She flounced around and started for the door.

“Come on. Where are you going?” he called after her.

“For a walk!” she said, and she went right out of the conference room.

Ian groaned with physical frustration and slammed his fist down on the conference table. He instantly grimaced at the pain that caused him, stretching his fingers wide, fearing he'd broken a bone.

Chelsea slipped into the women's bathroom and gripped the counter edge, drawing deep, steadying breaths. She wasn't really thinking what she was thinking, was she? She wasn't seriously considering having sex with Ian Rafferty in the conference room…
was
she
?

“
Ohmigod
, I am,” she said under her breath to her reflection in the milky bathroom light. “You have totally lost your mind.” She used her fingers to try to repair hair that looked wild after a day of wind and snow and running around with salary charts. Her mascara had smudged under her eyes, which she quickly swiped clean with a tissue.

She was not going back in there. She wasn't. It was ridiculous! Not only was it inappropriate as hell, she should be using this time to go over her pitch, to review her ad. And besides, she was not the sort of person to have a one-night fling. She was a three-date girl—at least three real dates before she would even consider it. She was definitely
not
the type to have a one-time fling with an office mate who, until a few hours ago, she hadn't even liked.

But to hell with all that, argued the devil that had overtaken her body and was trying to snuff out her thoughts. Ian Rafferty was a very handsome man. And she liked him. Against all odds, she really liked him. It was shocking to her, but there it was—she was very attracted to a handsome,
likable
man. What was the world coming to?

“But it's such a bad idea, Chelsea,” she whined to her reflection again. “A really, seriously, stupendously bad idea. You know how it goes when these things happen in the office. Awkward meetings in the break room, gossip, sitting outside to eat your lunch day after day in the hope that you might see him? Because you know you will. You know how you are. You'll act like it's not a big deal when it is a very big deal to you. So yeah, no, Chelsea. Just
no
.” She shook her head at herself and walked out of the women's bathroom.

And she kept walking, right around to the office foyer, where her things were still lying on the floor where she'd left them. The candy bars, her tote bag, her Very Expensive Shoes. Chelsea leaned down, untied the laces of her tennis shoes, and kicked them off. She took her new shoes from their protective sleeves and put them on.

“Who
are
you?” she muttered and began striding for the conference room. “When did you become this woman? When did you throw all your principles out the window for sex? Yes, okay, it has all the markings of being
fabulous
sex, but still.”

She reached the doors, took a breath, and put her hand on the handle. “You know what you are?” she said, and she yanked the door open, startling Ian as she walked in. He was still on the conference table, the highball glass dangling between his fingers. He'd pulled his shirttail free of his trousers and had undone a couple of buttons. He eyed her apprehensively, as if he expected her to come in and do something to his person.

But then his gaze moved down her body, to her legs, braced apart, and her shoes.

“I am an idiot,” she said, answering her question to herself.

Ian's eyes sparked. He slowly slid off the conference table, his gaze raking over her, taking in every inch of her. “Then that makes two of us. Like I said, perfect for each other.” He put down the glass.

There was no going back, Chelsea realized. Ian was moving toward her, his gaze wolfish. “Nice shoes,” he said, his voice low. “Don't take them off.” He reached for her—with eagerness, with desire—and Chelsea could feel something electric slipping through her. Excitement, relief, decadence—all the things that made every inch of her body sizzle with anticipation.

When he slid his hand under her blouse and up to her breast, her body took over all her thinking, and the next thing she knew, her blouse was open, his mouth was on her breast.

They performed an erotic dance around that conference room—Ian twirling her around, pushing her up against a column, and pressing his erection into her hips. Chelsea pushing him into a chair so that she could free his cock. Ian grabbing her by the hips and lifting her up to the conference table, caressing her legs as he moved in between them. Chelsea arching her back, pressing her tongue into his mouth, her hands in his hair, her breasts against his chest. And there were sounds coming from her, sounds of pure pleasure that she didn't think she made often. She was hot and wet, eager to go wherever he would take her.

Somehow, Chelsea's bra came off. Somehow, his shirt was gone, too, revealing a muscular chest and arms. His hands were wild on her body, caressing her breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding in between her legs and into her body. Chelsea's breath was deliciously short; she caught his head, kissed him deeply, biting lightly against his bottom lip as he melted onto the floor with her. She moved her hands down his body, over his chest, down his sides to his hips, and took him in hand, stroking him.

Ian groaned. His fingers sank deep in the soft folds of her flesh as he sank his body into hers, sliding deep. Chelsea wrapped her legs around his waist, her shoes dangling above his back. He filled his mouth with her breast and began to move. Slow and steady, tantalizing and deep.

“
Oh
God
,” she whispered as he moved so expertly inside her, his hand on her sex, moving with his body. It felt as if she'd never done this before, and maybe she hadn't, not like this. The feel of his body next to hers was more arousing than that of any man she'd ever been with. She opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her, his blue eyes gone dark. That look—one of utter desire—lit something deep inside Chelsea, in a place where nothing else mattered than this sort of connection with another person. It was moving, it was touching—it was so many things that she didn't want it to be and, yet, would be devastated to have missed.

He began to quicken the pace, and Chelsea began to move with him, meeting his rhythm, desperate for the release that was building. When she came, Ian followed her with a groan of ecstasy.

He sagged against her. After a moment, he pushed her hair from her neck and face and tenderly kissed her. “You amaze me,” he said, and he propped himself up to stroke her cheek.

His gaze roamed her face as he traced a line across her chin. “That was…something else.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea agreed, and she brushed his hair from his forehead.

He continued to take her in, his hand following his eyes, brushing against her breasts, caressing her abdomen, and kissing the inside of her leg.

Chelsea turned her head and happened to notice her bra on the back of a chair. Various pieces of clothing were scattered around the conference room. Chelsea couldn't help giggling.

Ian chuckled too and kissed her again.

There were so many conflicting thoughts running around Chelsea's head. She really liked him, and she wanted to say so. But there was the Tesla account and the tiny little voice in the back of her head that reminded her that Ian had warned he was the kind to play the field, that this had been a one-night stand for him.

“What are you thinking?” Ian asked her.

“That you're a surprising guy. And that I can't believe that just happened.”

“It happened. And it was spectacular.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling happily. “The only thing that could make it perfect would be food. I'm hungry.”

He laughed. “Lean Cuisine?”

“Great sex and Lean Cuisine. It's perfect.”

They picked themselves up off the floor and began to gather their clothing. But as Ian handed Chelsea her bra, he said, “This really is perfect, Chelsea.” He gestured to the two of them and the room, the windows. “We should have thought of this a long time ago.”

Chelsea laughed. If one was going to get stuck in a blizzard, this was the way to go, hands down.

***

In Brad's office, which was beginning to feel as familiar to Chelsea as her own cubicle, they dined on more Lean Cuisine—agreeing to leave two in the freezer so that Brad wouldn't be completely pissed—and a jar of pickles she'd found in the break room.

They talked like old friends.

Ian asked about her desire to write, and Chelsea admitted to Ian that she had a book she'd been working on for several months. She was always a little reticent to say that out loud, and in fact, the only other person she'd told was Brody, who had advised her to focus on advertising. Ian was interested in the book and what her plan was once she'd finished it. “I know an editor at Random House,” he said.

“You do?” she asked, surprised and elated by this.

“Dated her,” he said. “I'd be happy to ask her if she'd take a look if you want.”

“Well…how did it end between you two?”

He laughed. “We're good. It was mutual.”

“Then I accept your offer. That would be fantastic!” Chelsea said. “Thank you! What about you? Have you written anything?”

“Nah,” he said with a charming grin. “I think about it, but I'm not as disciplined as you. Most days, it's all I can do to work here.”

They talked about the accounts they'd had too—the lessons learned, the worst and best accounts in their career thus far. Ian was most proud of his work on the luxury vehicle brand Infiniti. He was proud of the increase in sales after he'd taken over the campaign. Chelsea's best account was a small regional cupcake chain. “I love the idea I came up with—a premenstrual woman on the hunt for a cupcake fix but one that wouldn't add to her water weight woes. And the benefits of having that account were excellent—some of the best cupcakes I've ever had in my life. Plus, they were able to open up three new stores after those ads ran.”

“That reminds me of—” Ian started, but then the lights suddenly flicked on. They both gasped with surprise as they looked around at the flood of light. And then they looked at each other. Ian was clearly thinking the same thing as Chelsea, because he jumped up at the same time she did. “I'll get this—you get the conference room!”

She didn't have to ask him what he meant—they both moved as if they expected a SWAT team to burst in and discover they'd made themselves at home in the corporate offices amid empty Lean Cuisine trays and vodka bottles.

When Ian joined Chelsea in the conference room, Chelsea couldn't help but laugh. “I think we're safe.”

Ian helped her close the big cabinet doors. She fastened the little latch and turned around, her back to the door. Ian was still standing there, an affectionate smile on his face. “So what do you think, Crawford? Are things going to change between us?”

“Are you referring to our rivalry?”

Ian took her elbow in hand and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Are we rivals?”

“Of course,” she said, pausing to allow him to kiss her. “Have to be. It keeps us on our creative toes.”

“I like this version of us better,” he said, and he kissed her again.

“Me too.”

He paused in his languid kissing of her and stared down at her as if he were trying to discern something. “We could see where this goes.”

Chelsea smiled. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She straightened his collar and shook her head. “It would never work, Ian. It would be weird. Think about it—depending on who gets the account tomorrow, it could be really awkward.”

“Wow,” he said, and he looked, remarkably, a little hurt.

“I'm sorry,” she said with a wince. “I'm just being practical.”

“Practical? There wasn't one thing that happened tonight that was practical, and I, for one, really liked it. I don't know how it would work, but I don't want to throw away what happened here between us.”

He had a point. “Okay,” she said. “Can we let it stew a little?” She twirled a bit of his hair around her finger. “I mean, tomorrow, we might feel differently.”

“Yeah,” Ian said, and his arms slid away from her. “About tomorrow…”

Chelsea's stomach immediately began to sink. “What about it?”

He sighed uneasily, and her gut sank lower.

“You were right. I do know something.”

Chelsea's breath caught. And then she punched him in the chest. “I
knew
it!” she cried. “Why didn't you tell me? What is it? What did that dirtbag Jason tell you?”

“Not Jason,” he said, shaking his head. “That's true—Jason hasn't said anything to me.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and, for the first time since Chelsea had met him, he looked uncomfortable in his skin.

“Okay, then who?” she pressed.

“Brad,” he said.

Chelsea felt sick.

“He called me yesterday. He told me the partners had made up their minds and they are giving Tesla to me.”

That was impossible. It made no sense! Chelsea looked wildly about the room. “But we haven't even
pitched
—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “That's the part that sucks the most. They are going to have us present our ads…but they've decided.”

There were no words to describe her emotions. Chelsea felt betrayed, emotionally shattered, and nauseous with disbelief at the shamelessness of it.

“Chelsea,” Ian said quietly, and he reached for her, but Chelsea batted his hand away.

“How could they?” she asked, folding her arms tightly around her, feeling cold. “My work on this account is
good
.” She began to pace, trying to work it out in her head, where it had gone wrong. “Safety and innovation come together in this car,” she said to Ian, reciting part of her pitch. She'd been over this. Her pitch was good, the ad was good, it was all so
good
. “It's a marriage of lifestyle to vehicle.”

She had pictured the partners as she spoke, had imagined them looking at each other with expressions that said,
how
did
we
miss
this
?