Marie Donovan - Sex By The Numbers

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.”

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.”

He grudgingly looked up and eased away from her. “Sorry about that. Your plan worked too well on me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a man, aren’t you?”

Her deprecating tone rubbed him raw. “Some men, like me, for example, can think of other things besides ‘flashy stuff on top.’” He could, couldn’t he?

“Funny, Sugar didn’t mention you were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” She gave him a sympathetic look.

He was speechless for several seconds. Gay? She thought he might be gay? Then he saw the corners of her full red lips pull into a tiny smirk. Ah, playing games with him. Well, he could play, too. “No, I’m not gay. I just go for a different type of woman. No offense to you, of course.”

“None taken.” Her smirk disappeared as quickly as her clothing in his imagination. “So what type do you go for?” she asked.

“Um…” He couldn’t very well tell her the truth, which was that he liked tall, leggy brunettes. And tall, leggy redheads. “Petite blondes.” That would get her good. According to his sister, tall brunettes always hated short blondes, especially when short blondes took all the tall guys. And he was tall.

She curled her lip delicately. “And you don’t get a crick in your neck bending over those petite blondes?”

He shrugged. “Not everything is done standing. But anyway, time to get to work, Cherry. See if you can’t find a pad of paper so we can make some notes.”

Keeley didn’t quite stomp off to her desk, but her gait was definitely stiff. He eased into his chair so she couldn’t see how her tight ass in the tiny skirt was making him stiff, too.

“PETITE BLONDES, my ass.” Keeley yanked open her desk drawer and found a yellow legal pad. Not everything is done standing. That big ox would squash one like a blond bug. She hoped he stayed awake long enough after sex to let the girl roll clear. She bet Dane liked being on top. Bossy guys often did, until they were shown the advantages of being on bottom.

Her nipples tightened under her thin white top and her black thong was becoming suspiciously moist. Hmm. Maybe thinking about how Dane liked to have sex wasn’t the best way to spend her first morning at the office.

And he was waiting for her. She grabbed a felt-tip pen so as not to leave indentations in the paper below. The old trick of rubbing pencil over the pressed-in marks still worked, and she didn’t trust anyone here.

She closed the drawer, but before she could return to the office, trouble arrived in a two-thousand-dollar suit.

“And you are?” Charlie Bingham raised a black brow.

Good morning to you, too, creep. “I am Cherry…” Shoot, she’d forgotten to think of a last name for her alias. She’d never needed one before. “Cherry Smith.”

“Cherry? How…interesting.” His tone implied that Cherry was the goofiest name ever. As if he hadn’t lost his virginity to some snooty broad named Buffy, Muffy or Trixie. “And you actually work here? At Bingham Brothers?”

“Yes, indeed. I’m the executive assistant to the new controller-in-training.”

“Dane Weiss.” He said that with the same lip curl as someone would say “dog doo.”

Dane moved next to her, his presence an instant comfort. How long had it been since anyone had backed her up? “Good morning, Charlie. I see you’ve met my executive assistant, Cherry.”

Binky’s grandson gave her an insolent once-over. Rude little shit. She took a great deal of pleasure in looking down at him from her towering Lucite high heels.

“Why am I not surprised, Weiss? Trust you to find the flashiest assistant possible.” He laid on the word assistant with a snotty tone.

Keeley fought the urge to roll her eyes since she’d heard it all before, and from nastier specimens than him, but what was interesting was Dane’s reaction. A flush roiled up his neck and onto his face, the tips of his ears reddening. Was he embarrassed?

Then she saw his clenching fists. Nope, angry. Really angry.

“This young lady is my executive assistant. You may call her Miss, uh…”

“Smith,” Keeley supplied.

“Or better yet, don’t call her anything at all. If you have something to say, you tell me, instead of bothering her with your bad attitude, Charlie.”

Keeley’s eyes widened so fast her fake eyelashes popped loose at the edges. Dane was defending flashy, trashy Cherry. How sweet.

“Don’t call me Charlie!” The dark-haired man was turning a matching shade of red. “My name is Charles Andrew Bingham the Sixth, and you call me Mr. Bingham, dammit!”

“Mr. Bingham is your grandfather, Charles Andrew the Sixth. Maybe I’ll call you Chuck.”

Keeley smothered a grin at the outraged expression on Charlie’s face. Chuck was even worse than Charlie.

“I’m on to you, Weiss,” he said, hissing Dane’s last name. “You think you can waltz in here and con my senile coot of a grandfather, but you can’t fool me. You’re up to something, and I’ll keep my eyes on you until I find out exactly what.” He shot his fancy French cuffs and strode out of the office.

Keeley laughed. “Way to fly under the radar, Dane. I thought for a second the two of you were going to have a real honest pissing contest here in the office.”

Dane spun back to her, the blood sinking from his face and returning it to his normal color. “We’ve had words before.”

“No!” She pressed her hand to her bosom in mock surprise. “And here I thought you had a special gift for making friends and influencing people. Or didn’t they teach you that in business school?”