Marie Donovan – Sex By The Numbers (страница 7)

“That’s what Dane said. In fact, Binky’s paying me a clothing allowance to disguise myself so Charlie won’t recognize me from previous networking events.”

“Clothing allowance?” Sugar straightened. “How much?”

“A bundle. But I haven’t had time to spend it since I got stuck filing a bunch of tax extensions this weekend. I do have enough old outfits to get me through a few days at Bingham Brothers.”

“Your old outfits?” Sugar raised her eyebrow.

“I still fit in them, you know.” Geez, it wasn’t as if she’d porked up.

“Not exactly office wear.”

“I know that. Nobody will suspect the newest bimbo secretary of auditing the accounts, and besides, Dane told me to wear more revealing clothing.” He had no idea what he was in for tomorrow.

“Dane’s the boss. I know you’ll knock his socks off.”

Keeley drained her glass. “Maybe I’ll knock his pants off instead.”

KEELEY UNLOCKED the door to her second-floor walk-up apartment and hung her waist-length brown leather jacket on a hook in the narrow foyer. She walked into the small kitchen with its metal 1950s cabinets and tossed her keys on the gold-speckled Formica counter.

Her vintage 1905 greystone was one of the few buildings left untouched by the renovation bug sweeping through the Ukrainian Village neighborhood. Her landlady lived downstairs and had successfully resisted her sons’ attempts to move her into an assisted living home and sell out to a rehabber. Of course, once everything was overdeveloped, Ukrainian Village would lose the qualities that made it a fun place to live—reasonable rents, decent parking and a laid-back, yet hip atmosphere.

Keeley grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed into the bedroom to decide what on earth to wear on her first day as an undercover bimbo.

She opened the tiny closet and reached past the white-and-cream high-neck blouses, brown, black and gray suits, and the sensible neutral pumps and subdued silk scarves, to the clothes she never wore anymore, but hadn’t been able to let go of.

She pulled out skintight sleeveless tops in fuchsia, red and lime-green, skirts so short they were illegal in certain jurisdictions and the literal kicker, four-inch high stilettos and platform heels in black, white and clear plastic Lucite.

If bimbos ever got together and wrote a dress code, she could comply perfectly. She stripped off her khaki pants and cream-colored blouse and exchanged them for a low-cut white top, black miniskirt and black open-toed heels with rhinestone ankle straps.

She took a few experimental steps across her bedroom, her old sashay falling into place. The heels were higher than she was used to, but the rhinestones still sparkled nicely, if not as much as they had under the stage lights.

She stopped in front of the mirror. Something was out of place. The clothes were okay, her bod still fairly decent, but it was the hair. Too brunette.

She reached up to the top shelf—easy to do in her platforms—and picked a round white box. Blowing the dust off, she set it on her bed and studied her emphatic hot-pink printing on the top. Property of Cherry Tarte!!! She shook her head at the juvenile writing. At least she hadn’t drawn hearts to dot the exclamation points.

She removed the lid and lifted out her absolutely favorite red-haired wig, its luxuriant waves cascading over her hands. Brenda Starr-red. Rita Hayworth-red. Ann-Margret-red. And of course, stripper-red.

Pulling the wig on, she tucked her hair under it and stared at her reflection. “Hello again, Cherry,” she said to herself. “Bet you thought you’d never come out of retirement.”

For it had been the infamous Cherry Tarte, Keeley’s alter ego, who had paid for her accounting degree by baring it all for the boys at the Love Shack. It was ironic, to say the least, that she’d use Cherry’s persona for what could be the biggest accounting job of her career.

And it was all thanks to Dane Weiss and his need for a bimbo forensic accountant. She couldn’t wait to see his face when his new executive assistant started work tomorrow morning all tarted up. Or rather, “Cherry-Tarted.”

4

RUNNING LATE WAS not the way Dane wanted to start his pseudocareer at Bingham Brothers, but he’d stayed awake late going over the background materials from Binky. Probably a whole lotta nothing, but he always needed to know about the major players before he walked into a new place.

Dane paid the cabbie in front of the LaSalle Street skyscraper that housed Bingham Brothers and punched the elevator button to take him to the offices on the upper floors.

It was a long elevator ride, and he yawned, partly to pop his ears and partly because he needed to. Even after he went to bed, he’d dreamed of the brunette stripper from Frisky’s. Not particularly unusual for a guy who’d been celibate for a few months, but the part that had really woken him up sweating and hard was when she turned to face him. It had been Keeley Davis looking at him with a sexy, come-hither look.

And he was the guy who had asked her to dress sexier for the office? Granted, it was to fool Charlie Bingham, but Dane was the one who would be working with her fifty or sixty hours a week.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped into the cool gray lobby of Bingham Brothers and approached the middle-aged receptionist with her apricot helmet of hair. No teenage, nail-filing receptionists for them. This lady had probably been the company’s telephone operator since the age of plug-in switchboards.

“May I help you, sir?”

Dane introduced himself and quickly found himself in possession of a photo ID badge and directions to his new office. She showed him how to swipe himself in through the security system and, presumably, the time clock as well.

He thanked her and passed into the offices, threading through several columns of cubicles and pushing through the door marked with his name. He stopped in surprise.

A mob of guys stood around the desk where, he surmised, Keeley sat. Judging by the way their backs were to him, he guessed they weren’t waiting to greet him with a rounding chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Unless she was running the office betting pool, Dane would gamble that they were all chatting her up.

“Good morning.” His loud tone cut through the noise. The men jumped away guiltily, parting like the Red Sea to reveal a redhead. And what a redhead she was…her long, glorious waves falling over her shoulders and her breasts, brushing the edges of some Grand Canyon-deep cleavage flashing from a tight, white blouse.

Where was Keeley?

“Good morning, Mr. Weiss,” the redhead purred.

Oh, dear God, it was Keeley. She’d made her hazel eyes look wider and greener, her coy brushing of eyelashes dark on her cheek. She even had a little Cindy Crawford mole near the corner of her mouth. Real or drawn on, he didn’t care. It was a point on a map, leading the way to her full, red lips.

She smiled at the men flanking her. “Sorry, boys, playtime’s over. Looks like the boss is here.”

Her husky tones rolled over the male crowd, pulling them further into her spell. He had to clear his throat and glare pointedly at the outer door. They straggled out, some giving him nasty looks, some gazing longingly at her. He was sure to be one popular guy at Bingham Brothers.

He grabbed Keeley’s elbow and steered her into his inner office. Holy cow, where was the rest of her skirt? She had to have at least twelve inches of visible thigh. Her black micro-micro mini barely covered her ass when she was standing. If he started at her knee and stroked upward on those firm, toned thighs, he could slip his hand under that skirt with room to spare.

“Good morning, Mr. Weiss. I’m your new assistant, Cherry,” she singsonged. “How do you take your coffee?”

Ice-cold and down his pants, that’s how. “What the hell is this getup?”

“Exactly what you asked for—younger and lighter. Nonaccountant clothes.”

He sat on the edge of his desk, flabbergasted. Yeah, he’d asked for it, all right. But what had he gotten? “You’re so far from accountancy, you’re not even the same species. Where on earth did you get that outfit?”

“A little something I had in the back of my closet.”

“Yeah, right. Where’d you go shopping, the stripper store?”

“You mean the store where your sister gets her design ideas?” Her tone was syrupy sweet.

He rubbed his jaw. She had him there. “Okay. But attracting attention wasn’t what I had in mind.” He lowered his voice and leaned over to her. “How are you supposed to conduct a covert audit when nobody can take his eyes off you?”

“That’s the plan.” She gave him a sly smile. “It’s like a magician’s sleight of hand. You distract the audience with flashy stuff on top while the serious business goes on below.”

“Flashy stuff on top?” His gaze was drawn to the low-cut vee of her blouse. Her cleavage had some kind of gold glitter lotion highlighting the full curves of her breasts. The lotion was perfumed, too, as he greedily inhaled her warm, sexy scent.

The base of her throat moved as she swallowed hard. “Dane?” She snapped her fingers in front of his line of sight and pointed to her face. “Up here.”