Wet Ride (Toys-4-Us)

• Title Page
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• About the Author
  

www.samanthacayto.com

ISBN: 978-0-9847919-1-0

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Wet Ride Copyright © 2011 Samantha Cayto

Cover art by Nicole Austin

This book printed in the U.S.A. by Samantha Cayto November 2011

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Samantha Cayto.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (
http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/
).

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is dedicated to the Sassy 7, of course! Without these wonderful women, I would not have written this story. They prove that no matter how old you are, there is always room in your life for new friends, and that friendship can thrive even when distance keeps you apart.

Emily Driscoll's face was going to crack if she kept the inane smile plastered on it a minute longer. She had to, of course. Smiling was the norm down here in Texas. Everybody was nice and polite and friendly even if they didn't really mean it. She supposed it was better than the reserved scowls of the north, although it meant she was never sure where she stood with people. She wasn't having any trouble knowing the thoughts of the man talking to her now, however. Mr. Travis' smile was a condescending one no matter which part of the country he sat his fat ass in. And when a man called a woman “sugar” wearing that kind of smile, well, there was no denying how little he thought of her. She held her tongue until he took a long enough pause in his pontification on how business really worked before jumping in.

“Mr. Travis,” she inserted in a sweet tone with a steely underline. “My company and I are aware of the long family history of your client's business. However, as important as longevity and reputation are, the core of the story lies in the financials.” She paused a beat before going in for the kill. “Yellow Rose's income statements show a business that is, shall we say, less than
robust
. My company is still interested in acquiring it, but the purchase price floated a few weeks ago cannot stand. I'm sure you will agree the new offer is fair given the circumstances.”

She waited as her words sank in. Travis's beady eyes narrowed as he stared back at her. The smile was gone. His client, Eric Horstmann, kept his gaze down on the stylized cowboy hat lying across his lap. She felt sorry for the man. He had tried hard to keep the company started by his grandfather alive and healthy. In the current economic climate, it wasn't surprising he hadn't succeeded. Now her job was to negotiate the best deal for her company. In business someone always won and someone always lost. Today she and her company had won. Her in-house lawyer, Bobby Weld, slouched in the chair next to her sporting a sympathetic expression, although she knew him well enough by now to know he was grinning gleefully inside. Like most business lawyers and business people she worked with, he had the instincts of a shark.

Emily sighed inwardly. It was late on Monday and she wanted to go home. The week was shaping up to be a long one. Then again, every week was a long one. Pushing back her chair, she stood up. Of course, the three men in the room followed suit. Sometimes the vestiges of chauvinism worked in her favor.

“Gentlemen, I suggest you take the week to think over my very generous offer. You can contact me next Monday morning with your answer and if it's a go, Bobby will get the documents out to you by Tuesday morning.” It would mean the following week would be particularly long, but what the hell? She had nothing better to do anyway. And wasn't that pathetic?

Travis gave curt agreement and filed out of the room with his client in tow. Bobby turned to her. “Emily, if I live to be a thousand, I will never understand how someone who looks like my maiden aunt can be such a hard-nosed negotiator.”

He had meant it as a compliment and Emily decided to take it as one even though she cringed inside. She didn't like looking so prim and proper and she didn't like having to play the killer all the time. It was her job, though. She had picked the career and pursued it with determination. Her reward was being an executive vice president in a large national company at the tender age of thirty-three. Her relocation to San Antonio had come with a big office, an even bigger raise and enormous responsibility. She was in charge of important business deals and playing with the big boys. Their rules insisted she be vicious and take no prisoners. She played her part extremely well. But it wore on her. Sometimes she longed for a chance to relax and let someone else take charge.

She buried the fantasy as she always did. Never in her life had she found a man she wanted to give up control to. She doubted she ever would. The attractive men she met always struck her as a little too prissy in their personal life to take command. The men she didn’t meet, the kind of guys that worked with their hands and viewed themselves in a more traditional way, scared her frankly. She figured that kind of man would want to dominate her outside of bed as well as in. With a tired smile, she picked up her papers and turned to Bobby.

“You may as well get started on the documents. Horstmann is wise enough to take the deal. He just needs some time to ease his pride.”

Bobby gave a two fingered salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

After dumping her work in her office and gathering her briefcase, Emily walked to the elevator bank and prepared for a short night of no sex. Tomorrow would come soon enough and the grind would continue.

* * * * *

Emily pulled into the driveway of her new home and nearly rear-ended a paneled truck parked in front of the garage. Slamming on the brakes, she leaned forward to stare out of the windshield at the intruding vehicle. It clearly belonged to a workman of some sort. She strained her memory to figure out what was going on. Then she remembered. Her decorator, Sue, had said the contractor hired to redo her master bathroom was scheduled to start work today. Not that she had met the man. She had hired Sue to sketch out plans for the renovations, help her pick tile and fixtures and hire the best person for the job. With her work schedule as hectic as it was, Emily had no time to see to the details herself. Better to pay someone else to do it. She turned off the engine and lugged her briefcase out of the car.

As she walked to the front door, she saw the side of the truck said “
Brandt and Son, General Contractors
.” She hefted her bag higher on her shoulder and rolled her eyes as she opened the front door. She figured she was in for a whole lot of country music and butt cracks for the next few days. She called out as soon as she entered the spacious ranch house she had bought.

“Hello?” It felt funny warning someone she was coming into her own home, but she could hear the sounds coming from the back where her bedroom and bath were located. The last thing she wanted to do was startle Mr. Brandt or his son into shooting a nail through his hand.

“Hello, I’m home!” she called again and dumping her bag in the living room, continued down the hall. She walked through the bedroom and poked her head into the doorway of her soon to be new master bath. Already the expanded room had been roughed out. She could see where the double sinks and counter were going in. Beyond that was the space where her super colossal shower would be encased in wavy glass. With Sue’s help, she was creating her own personal grotto, a refuge from the rat race she lived and worked in. The thought of standing between the multi-headed jet panels, being bombarded with hot water, made her body shiver with delight. Too bad she’d be hanging out there alone, but she wasn’t going to go
there
.

A sound caught her attention. She peeked around to the right and saw the soles of a beat up pair of work boots attached to folded legs encased in worn jeans. Looking farther up, she saw a small, tight ass, a tool belt and a worn black t-shirt molded to a muscular back. Thick arms moved squares of tile into place in the corner of the shower’s floor. A man was measuring and gauging their placement. Shaggy dark hair outlined an angular face with tanned skin and a straight nose.

Seeing him caused her body to still. Her eyes fixed on him, her heart did a quick tango. Her body, already a bit warm from her short time in the Texas sun, flushed with heat. Her skin slicked with perspiration. She stood staring at his hands, watching how they placed the tile, made them move this way and that. He stared at them, studied them and contemplated their placement. All she could think was she wanted to be that tile. She wanted his strong hands on her body, posing her, holding her in place, commanding her.

She must have made some kind of noise because he turned abruptly and stared back at her. For long seconds, neither of them said anything, their gazes locked as if in a contest of wills. He was the first to crack.

“Oh, hey, you must be Ms. Driscoll.” He stood up and wiped his hands against the front of his thighs. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I saw your truck so I called out,” she said not really paying attention to her own words. Her eyes followed the movement of his hands. Now that he was standing, she could see he was tall and lean. She swallowed hard and forced her eyes up to his face. “Where’s your son?” she asked rather inanely.

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “My son?”

“Brandt and Son. It says it on your truck.”

His face lit up with a smile. It transformed him from merely handsome to downright gorgeous. “Oh, right. I’m the son. My father retired a few years ago and it seemed pointless to change the name of the company. Besides, I may have a son one day who joins me in the business.”

“Or a daughter,” she replied in a knee-jerk reaction. She had fought her whole career against the notion she was in the wrong place as a woman.

He grinned again. “Or a daughter.” Running his hand through his hair, he added, “Of course, then I would have to change the name. I’m Kevin Brandt, by the way.” He held up his dirty hands. “Best not to shake.”

“I’m Emily Driscoll.” And she was damn glad to have an excuse not to shake. Just looking at this man had her hot and bothered. Touching him would probably cause her to burst into flames.

Kevin’s body tightened as he stared back at his new client. When the decorator had described Emily Driscoll as a hard-as-nails business woman from up north, he’d pictured buttoned down, prim and plain. Two-thirds of his speculation was spot on. The woman was encased in a pant suit and a plain white blouse with a high collar. It was the kind of clothes that said “
don’t touch
” but man, was he itching to do just that. This northern gal was anything but plain. Her clothing did nothing to hide the luscious curves underneath. And her face was arresting. Pale and oval-shaped with surprising brown eyes considering her blond hair, it was the kind of face one could picture on a water nymph.