When her company hosts a Hollywood-themed party, Viola Howard dresses as her favorite actress. Problem is, nobody seems to know who that is. Just as she’s about to give up on a good time, along comes Elvis — actually Vi’s secret crush Jim Byers – who guesses correctly, and shows her exactly who is King.
Once the party’s over, however, can Vi and Jim go back to a working relationship, or will Jim as Vi to love him tender?
EXCERPT
Vi needed air. The crowd behind her had surged and closed in around her, turning an otherwise ebullient occasion into a stifling nightmare. Gathering her skirt close to keep it safe from snags, Vi shouldered her way toward the nearest exit and quick-stepped to the ladies’ room. Her heels clicked loudly against the lobby’s marble floor and she noticed one or two double-takes from passing hotel patrons, but she kept her gaze fixed on the feminine silhouette on the full swinging door before her.
After a few splashes of water on her face to cool her nerves, Vi dried off and tried to salvage her makeup. She left the bathroom and started slowly toward the ballroom when she noticed the music had ceased.
That quickly? Must have been a short set, or else she’d stayed in the ladies’ room recuperating too long. Vi frowned. The music could have served as a distraction for her co-workers, allowing her to grab her purse and leave the party altogether. She’d flag a taxi idling in the circular driveway in front of the hotel, and hopefully get home in time to wind down with a chapter of her romance novel before nodding off to dreamland. Hopefully the band would start up again soon.
Two steps away from the merriment, she startled at the sound of a deep, sexy voice.
“Hey there, mama.”
Vi paused in mid-step, her heel coming down hard on the floor. She turned toward that unmistakable drawling voice to find Elvis—Jim—swaying in place by the bank of elevators.
He swiveled and gestured with broad strokes, staying in character. Vi noticed how his forehead glistened with perspiration, as did the bare flash of chest exposed underneath the heavy, sequined jacket.
Yeah, Elvis looked hot no matter what, Vi knew. The guy could pull off the flamboyant costume—Lady GaGa’s grandfather goes to the Ritz—and still leave hearts fluttering in his wake.
He smiled at her, one side of his lip quirked higher than the other. Vi raised a brow in response, as though to project aloofness, but her pussy gave a squeeze anyway.
“I’m not your mama,” she said, and fisted her hands to her hips when she really wanted to cross her legs tight to keep her pussy from throbbing.
“I’ll say,” Elvis replied, spraying more confidence than sweat now. “Mama never looked that good in her Sunday best, and if she knew what I was thinking right now she’d bend me over her knee for a spanking. Speaking of…”
Oh, lord. Surely the real Elvis could have come up with a less disturbing segue into a pick-up line. She fought the urge to picture Jim bent over an old woman’s lap, howling with every slap rained down from a hand attached to a wobbling, blue-veined arm. If anything, the absurdity of the suggestion cooled her libido, and Vi bolstered her stance.
An elevator dinged and opened, and Jim/Elvis slipped his foot over the threshold. He crooked his neck, beckoning her closer. “Let’s go for a ride,” he said.
“I’m not headed that way, thanks,” Vi said, glancing back at the ballroom. In her mind, however, she cursed the spontaneity of her response. The fuck am I thinking? When she thought of how many women at GenSung whiled away breaks and downtime discussing Jim’s finest attributes—particularly the one below the belt—and fantasizing about skills unrelated to marketing, to have the chance to act on her own secrets desires should have had her changing direction.
All the same, how many times had the man looked past her to bring somebody else into his department, somebody less qualified?
Dare she say it, somebody white?
Vi looked away, then down at her heels. No, she’d promised herself she’d never play the race card. Marketing enjoyed the same balance of diversity as other departments at GenSung—she had no right to accuse Jim of impropriety. Still, his behavior now in contrast to what she experienced at work baffled her. How much had he drunk tonight?
“Carmen would be in this elevator in a heartbeat, you know,” Jim offered in a deep, Elvisian purr that tickled a trail down Vi’s spine. She felt her nipples tighten and scrape the lacy cups of her bra.
“Wild as she was, Carmen still had common sense,” she shot back.
“Me-yow.” Jim/Elvis chuckled. The far door slid a few inches and he waved an arm to hold it back. “What are you afraid of, little lady?” he asked. “That you might enjoy yourself?”
“What are you talking about? I’m having a great time tonight.” She hoped to high heaven it had looked that way to everybody else. Why couldn’t she step away from this conversation and get her purse? Nothing held her here, except the man’s cool stare appraising her from behind garish costume sunglasses and that large hand beckoning her closer. Vi bet he could palm one breast completely, and send his powerful heat raging through her until her body melted into him…
“Vi,” he said, and right then he had her. He spoke her name, using no phony accents or inflections that might imply jesting. He sounded sincere and serious, and too sensual for Vi to properly react in public view.
In the distance a collective cheer erupted from the ballroom, and Vi turned her head toward the music. The Beatles tribute band had started up again, and Vi caught the first thumping strains of “Get Back” vibrate the floor. When a second sharp ding signaled to her from the waiting elevator she stepped in that direction on impulse, stilling as that Elvisian snarl curled into a predatory leer.
“Vi,” he said again, and chilled her spine. His voice sounded odd coming from the flashy, rock star getup. Yet, Vi realized she could not resist the call, much as she wanted to curse her traitorous body for the way it reacted to the implied command. Behind her, the Beatles taunted her to stay the course to the elevator. Get back…get back…
He backed into the elevator car, never wavering his gaze. He seemed to pull her closer by way of tractor beam—Vi fixed on the smoldering glare enhanced by amber shades, the promise of a hard chest for touching underneath that sequined jumpsuit, and those sensuously swiveling hips.
Mercy.
