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  He Shouldn’t Be Kissing Lucy…

  his assistant, his friend, the one person he didn’t want to offend because, as he often joked, she knew where the bodies were buried.

  But she felt good. She smelled good. And she tasted amazing.

  Since puberty, he’d had his share of fantasies. But no dream, no matter how erotic, could ever live up to what was happening right here, right now.

  If they didn’t stop soon, it would be too late.

  But he had no intention of stopping. The ground would have to open up and swallow him whole. This elevator that had trapped them so securely would have to break from its cables and crush them like pancakes. Because unless an act of God pulled them apart, he was going to make love to Lucy Grainger.

  Finally.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire, where this month we have six fabulous novels for you to enjoy. We start things off with Estate Affair by Sara Orwig, the latest installment of the continuing DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS series. In this upstairs/downstairs-themed story, the Ashtons’ maid falls for an Ashton son and all sorts of scandal follows. And in Maureen Child’s Whatever Reilly Wants…, the second title in the THREE-WAY WAGER series, a sexy marine gets an unexpected surprise when he falls for his suddenly transformed gal pal.

  Susan Crosby concludes her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Secrets of Paternity. The secret baby in this book just happens to be eighteen years old…. Hmm, there’s quite the story behind that revelation. The wonderful Emilie Rose presents Scandalous Passion, a sultry tale of a woman desperate to get back some steamy photos from her past lover. Of course, he has a price for returning those pictures, but it’s not money he’s after. The Sultan’s Bed, by Laura Wright, continues the tales of her sheikh heroes with an enigmatic male who is searching for his missing sister and finds a startling attraction to her lovely neighbor. And finally, what was supposed to be just an elevator ride turns into a very passionate encounter, in Blame It on the Blackout by Heidi Betts.

  Sit back and enjoy all of the smart, sensual stories Silhouette Desire has to offer.

  Happy reading,

  Melissa Jeglinski

  Senior Editor

  Silhouette Desire

  Blame It on the Blackout

  HEIDI BETTS

  Books by Heidi Betts

  Silhouette Desire

  Bought by a Millionaire #1638

  Blame It on the Blackout #1662

  HEIDI BETTS

  An avid romance reader since junior high school, Heidi knew early on that she wanted to write these wonderful stories of love and adventure. It wasn’t until her freshman year of college, however, when she spent the entire night reading a romance novel instead of studying for finals, that she decided to take the road less traveled and follow her dream. In addition to reading, writing and romance, she is the founder of her local Romance Writers of America chapter and has a tendency to take injured and homeless animals of every species into her central Pennsylvania home.

  Heidi loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 99, Kylertown, PA 16847 (a SASE is appreciated but not necessary), or e-mail [email protected]. And be sure to visit www.heidibetts.com for news and information about upcoming books.

  To Maureen Child and Leanne Banks—

  Friends and fellow Desire authors, you’ve inspired me more than you can ever know.

  Thank you for your wonderful stories that remind me of why I love this line so much, and for all the great advice you’ve offered this past year.

  And to my Absolutely Fabulous editor, Melissa Jeglinski—Thank you for taking me under your wing, teaching me the ins and outs of the Desire line and making me love what I’m writing even more than I did to begin with.

  With many thanks to fellow WRW member Sandy Rangel for her help with the research for this book and willingness to share her firsthand knowledge of the Georgetown area.

  And always, for Daddy.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  One

  Lucy Grainger tapped softly in warning on the front door of Peter Reynolds’s town house, then used a key to let herself in. Gathering the morning mail and paper from the foyer floor, she made her way past the den that held her office to the large kitchen at the back of the house. Setting the paper and mail alongside her purse on the island countertop, she started a pot of coffee and began clearing away some of last night’s mess.

  It wasn’t her job to clean up after Peter. He did have a housekeeper, after all, who dropped by once a week to do laundry and dishes and relocate some of the dust that settled on miscellaneous surfaces. But Lucy was so used to taking care of him that it seemed only natural to move a few dirty dishes to the sink or throw away a near-empty carton of milk that had been left out of the refrigerator too long.

  From there, she walked back toward the front of the house, up the stairs, and down the short hallway that led to Peter’s bedroom. He might have slept in, especially if he’d been up late working on some computer program or another. Or maybe he’d simply forgotten to set his alarm clock—again. But his bed was empty, the sheets tangled and nearly stripped off the mattress.

  Only one place left to look. Lucy eased the bedroom door closed and walked across the hallway in the opposite direction to Peter’s home office.

  Less conservative than the den, Peter liked this room because it was small, private, and casually decorated to his personal tastes. Which basically meant unadorned walls painted periwinkle-blue with white trim, a three-part desk taking up one whole corner, and low tables of sliding file drawers lining the remaining three. Every available surface was filled with assorted computer equipment, ongoing work projects, and Peter’s collection of original Star Trek action figures.

  Inside, the computer tower hummed softly from its home on the floor, telling her she was right about Peter’s location. With one arm folded beneath his head, Lucy’s boss slept hunched over his cluttered desk. He wore an old gray T-shirt and plaid boxers, his sandy-blond hair ruffled and sticking up in places—probably from all the times he’d run his fingers through it in frustration during the night.

  Lucy’s own fingers clenched at her sides as she fought the urge to flatten those spiky spots or slide a palm down the strong curve of his spine.

  She sighed. This was the problem with working for a man she had half a crush on. The line between employer and potential lover got blurrier by the day.

  But only for her. Peter didn’t see her as potential lover material. Most of the time, she didn’t think he saw her as a woman at all.

  As a secretary, an assistant, the person he ran to when he needed just about anything, yes. But as an attractive, interested, flesh-and-blood woman? He’d never glanced up from his computer screen long enough to notice.

  Then again, that was one of the things she loved about him—his passion for software design and starting his own company from the ground up. He was brilliant and already had corporations from around the world calling him to help work bugs out of their systems or simply get things running more smoothly. But what he loved most was designing his own games and programs, and that had been his focus for the past two years, ever since she’d started working for him.

  Reaching past his sleeping form, she collected several empty cola cans scattered over the desktop and on the floor. He drank too much of this syrupy stuff, especially when he was busy and became nearl
y obsessed with a particular project.

  Two of the aluminum cans slipped from her grasp and rattled as they bounced against each other on the way to the carpeted floor. The noise startled Peter and he shot upright. Blinking sleepily, he looked around as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  He rubbed a hand across his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

  “A little past nine. How long have you been working?”

  “I started after dinner. Around six, I guess.”

  Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and stretched. His knuckles nearly grazed the ceiling as he raised his arms high above his head and stood on tiptoe. The posture puffed out his chest and showed the taut, well-defined muscles of his calves and thighs.

  A ripple of awareness shot through Lucy, but she pretended not to notice.

  “I was working on that GlobalCon glitch. It took me longer than I expected, but I think I took care of the problem.”

  She moved to the wastebasket near the door and dumped the soda cans in, making a mental note to recycle them later. “So those were billable hours you spent last night. What time did you finish?”

  “Damned if I know.” He scratched a spot on his chest and yawned again. “The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was about 3:00 a.m.”

  She nodded, wondering if GlobalCon and all of Peter’s other clients realized just what a bargain they usually got with him. Sure, he was expensive, but he was also the best. And since he rarely remembered to log the times he began and ended his work for them, the bills she sent were generally best-guess estimates.

  “Why don’t you go lie down for a couple of hours. You look exhausted.”

  The grin he shot her swept right down to her toes and curled them inside her plain navy pumps.

  “Nah. Now that I’m up, I might as well get showered and dressed.”

  Peter in the shower. Now there was an image she needed floating around her brain the rest of the morning. As though he didn’t already keep her wide-awake most nights.

  “Besides, I want to call GlobalCon and let them know I took care of their problem, then see if I can make any more progress on Soldiers of Misfortune.”

  Soldiers of Misfortune was Peter’s latest obsession, a virtual guerilla warfare game with enough blood and guts to keep adolescent boys entranced for hours. Lucy tried to work up a modicum of outrage for his perpetuation of teen violence, but she played the games herself from time to time and had to admit they were fun. And so far, she hadn’t snapped and committed any acts of mass destruction.

  Careful not to touch him, she moved around the office, collecting the rest of the clutter from Peter’s long work night. “Don’t forget to try on your tux and see if it needs alterations before tomorrow night.”

  Halfway out the door, he froze. Twisting his neck just far enough to look at her, he asked, “What’s tomorrow night?”

  “The City Women benefit against domestic violence. You’re giving a speech and receiving an award for your support of the organization and donations of refurbished computers to local battered women’s shelters.”

  He’d spent weeks upgrading old systems so women who were trying to escape unbearable situations could train for new jobs to support themselves and their children instead of feeling forced to return to abusive husbands.

  His eyes closed, chin dropping to his chest. “Damn, I forgot. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get out of it,” he said, shooting her a hopeful expression.

  She bit down on a smile, not wanting to encourage him. “Not unless you want to disappoint hundreds of grateful women and children.”

  With a sigh, he rested his hands on his hips. “Fine. But I’m going to need a date.”

  A stab of pain hit her low in the belly. Followed quickly by envy and regret.

  Peter had dated hordes of beautiful, successful ladies. Models, actresses, news anchors, real estate agents… He was handsome, funny, charming, and—though he was still striving to build his software company into one that would rival the best of the best—wealthy enough to catch a single girl’s attention.

  Lucy told herself it didn’t hurt to see him with all those other women. Except when she came to work in the morning and discovered them still in his bed, or just leaving, or found a stray pair of panties while cleaning up between the housekeeper’s visits.

  “I’ll go through your Rolodex and see who might be available.”

  A minute ticked by while Peter stood in the doorway and she lifted the now-full plastic bag from the metal trash can.

  “No,” he said, startling her. “I don’t feel like putting on a show for someone who just wants to be seen with the great Peter Reynolds.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sure the City Women will understand if you attend alone.”

  “I have a better idea,” he announced, turning around to face her. “You can come with me instead.”

  He said it as though he’d decided to have chicken for dinner over steak, and Lucy couldn’t help but feel like the feathered creature unfortunate enough to be dragged to the chopping block.

  If he’d meant it as a real invitation, if he’d even once looked at her as though he wanted her on his arm for the evening because he was attracted to her, she might have considered it.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She’d have jumped at the chance and prayed he didn’t lose interest before the main course.

  Shaking her head, she gathered the edges of the garbage bag together to keep the items from falling out and headed for the stairs, brushing past him with barely a millimeter of space to spare. “No, thank you.”

  “No? What do you mean no?”

  His voice, raised in surprised indignation, followed her down the steps. As she rounded the newel post and headed for the kitchen, she noticed he was hot on her heels.

  “Lucy, you can’t possibly mean to leave me to my own devices. I’ll drown in a sea of shiny, happy people. You know how much I hate crowds and public speaking.”

  “You should have thought of that before you agreed to be there.” She set the trash from his office on the countertop and began separating it into the plastic recycling bins set in one corner.

  “God, that coffee smells good,” he murmured, tossing a longing glance at the pot that had just finished dripping. “Look, I can’t go alone. I need you with me. There are going to be some very important people in attendance. People who could turn into future clients or help get Reyware and Games of PRey off the ground. You’re my assistant. You know our software programs and intentions for the company almost as well as I do. And no one works a room like you do. People love you.”

  When she didn’t respond, he continued, sounding more desperate by the second. “Consider it in your job description. I’ll pay you overtime. You can take the appointment book and set up a dozen meetings with potential backers for the next month.”

  Ah, yes. She was, indeed, his assistant. And if he was making this into a work-related affair, then she had no choice but to go with him.

  But she didn’t have to make it easy for him.

  Turning from the recycle bins, she leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You won’t be so impressed when I show up in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to a high-priced charity dinner.”

  Relief washed over Peter’s features and he slapped his hands down flat on the marble island as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. “Not a problem. I’ll take care of everything. Or rather, you’ll take care of everything, but I’ll foot the bill. Here…”

  He reached back, as though digging into a hip pocket, then realized he was still in his boxers. Shaking his head, he rushed to assure her. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a credit card. I’ll get you two credit cards. Buy whatever you want.”

  Then he came around the island, reached her in three long strides, and wrapped her in a hug tight
enough to crush her ribcage. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He punctuated each adulation with a kiss to her temple.

  Lucy’s knees grew weak and she let her eyes drift shut as the heat of his body seeped through the thin material of her white blouse, short navy skirt and stockings.

  Oh, sure. She could spend the evening with this man and remember it was nothing but business. No problem. And maybe after performing that small miracle, she’d practice turning water into wine.

  Peter slugged back his sixth cup of coffee since Lucy had awakened him this morning and punched the computer mouse to send the cache of e-mails he’d composed in the last half hour.

  He was learning that it wasn’t easy taking care of himself. She’d only been gone two and a half hours, but she was usually around during the day to answer the phone and come when he called, so he was finding it difficult to carry out his normal routine.

  He’d finally given up answering the telephone when it rang every five minutes, and was now letting all calls go directly to voicemail. Lord knew Lucy would be better able to deal with the messages when she got back. And even though she often went through his electronic mail for him, forwarding only those that required his personal attention, today he’d done it himself. He wasn’t completely helpless, after all.

  The snail mail, however, was a different matter. No way was he going anywhere near that pile of paper cuts. Lucy would let him know if there was anything he needed to see.

  From his office upstairs, he heard the front door open and a wash of relief poured over him. Thank God. Now he could lock himself in his room and concentrate on his real strength—program design—instead of dealing with the other odds and ends of getting through the day.

  Crossing his office threshold, he stopped on the second floor landing and watched as Lucy struggled to close the door while balancing assorted shopping bags and boxes in both arms.

  Looking up, she spotted him and blew a stray strand of straight black hair out of her face. “You could offer to help, you know.”