Tempting the Billionaire by Jessica Lemmon Page A

hang with his friends. How was he supposed to know that the one day he left his mother unattended she’d have a seizure?
    “Shane?”
    He jerked out of his thoughts and focused on Crickitt’s curly head peeking through his door.
    “Didn’t you hear me knock?” she asked.
    Shane busied his hands stacking the notes back into his wire in-basket. He muttered an apology and put on a fake smile. “Come in.”
    “Is something wrong?” She scanned his face, her brow furrowing.
    “Oh, uh…headache,” he lied. He never traipsed down briar-filled memory lane. Not at home, and certainly not at work. Thankfully, Crickitt interrupted his full-on nosedive. He could practically smell the ozone burning around him.
    “Lucky you.” Crickitt clapped her hands and rubbed them together Mr. Miyagi style. “I can help.”
    “With what?” he asked as she crested his desk.
    “Your headache, silly.”
    “Right.” His imaginary headache, which, ironically, was developing this very instant.
    Crickitt placed her hands on each of the arms of his chair and spun him to face her. As she hovered close, he couldn’t escape the sugary scent of her. His mouth watered. She didn’t look like a woman who’d minutes ago gone a few rounds with her scumbag ex. Her eyes were bright and clear, her face relaxed.
    She leaned in, feathering his hair away from his temples and placed the first two fingers of each hand on either side of his head. Her touch was expert, tantalizing. He felt her breath on his forehead as she muttered, “You are going to thank me so hard .” His gaze traveled to her lips, where she wore the most adorable cheeky grin. He forced his eyes away from her mouth before he hauled her into his lap and kissed her senseless.
    Then a strangled groan escaped his lips.
    Speaking of hard.
    “Told you,” she said.
    Her voice sounded a mile away. Probably because all he could hear was the thundering of his blood supply as it traveled from his brain to his lap. He should tell her, or at least avert his eyes. But no amount of self-talk enabled him to look away.
    Either she’d purposely undone it, or a button had wriggled free of its closure, because when she’d leaned over him, her shirt gapped open, giving him an eyeful. He clamped on to the armrests on his chair, eyes delving into all the smooth skin laid out before him like rolling fields and amber waves of grain. He had no idea of the bevy of femininity she’d been hiding beneath those poly-cotton shirts of hers. But now he had proof.
    Two handfuls of C-cup proof.
    Crickitt continued to caress his temples, completely unaware that with each stroke, she sent his blood pressure rising.
    Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to think of something, anything , else, but the persistent image of her breasts encased in a—God help him—black lace bra had burned into his retinas and was currently playing on the screen of his eyelids.
    “Better?” she asked.
    “Mm-hm,” he grunted, wondering if steam was billowing from his ears.
    “Give it five minutes.” Her voice was low, husky, sexy . She slid her hands away to rearrange his hair, the innocuous touch sending a drove of blazing hormones straight to the Promised Land.
    He spun out of her touch and promptly pulled his chair to his desk to hide his now obvious reaction to her.
    “You look better already,” she said, propping her hands on her hips.
    The opening in her shirt was far less exaggerated but no less erotic.
    “Thank you,” he said, finally finding his voice. It took every ounce of willpower he owned to keep his eyes on her face. She’d gone beyond driving him crazy, he was there. Fit-me-with-a-straitjacket-and-call-me-Patsy mad about her. But what, exactly, could he do about it? She was standing in his office . He was in no position to act on any of his impulses.
    She turned to the guest chair and lifted a manila folder. “I didn’t come in here to massage your head, believe it or not.”
    Or sleep with me ,