Wet and Ready by Cherise St. Claire Page B

it was that skin—light brown and radiant—that transfixed him.  There wasn’t a nick, scratch, or mole on that baby smooth face of hers.  He figured she was a combination of something: black, white, Native-American, Brazilian, hell, he could believe she had a little of his own Italian blood considering the jet-black hair she wore in a prim, matronly bun.  He didn’t know her heritage, and at the moment he didn’t care.  Beauty was beauty.  And this exotic beauty was quite unexpected.
    Nervously, she blinked at him but held his gaze.   What a shame to hide those hazel beauties behind overly long bangs.
    “How old are you?” he asked.
    “Excuse me?”
     DeMarco wasn’t in the habit of repeating himself and even a fine female like Reese Worthington wasn’t going to make him change his ways.
    He waited.
    She cleared her throat.  “I’m twenty-five.”
    Twenty-five?  Surely a woman of that age had more style savvy than she’s demonstrating. 
    “Reese.  May I call you Reese?”  She nodded.  “Is there a reason you’d stand two feet behind me instead of in front of me?”
    DeMarco watched as the muscles in her thin neck strained.  She licked her lips and DeMarco felt his groin stir.  Was she tempting him on purpose?
    “Well?” he growled when she’d refused to answer.  She jumped at the sound of his voice.  DeMarco had to remind himself to use his softer side when he wasn’t in the boardroom.  In the boardroom, where he ran the eighteen companies of his business empire, he refused to edit himself, despite the few women who sat on his executive committee.  Want to run with the big boys, then you’ve got to learn how to go the distance without crying about the bumpy terrain along the way.  DeMarco had learned that it wasn’t the women on his board that had turned out to be the biggest pussies. 
    Finally, Reese found her voice.  “I’m not comfortable around water, Mr. Diamond.”
    At first, DeMarco thought perhaps he’d misunderstood.  He looked at his Olympic-size pool with his initials handcrafted into the bottom.  Then his eyes scanned the entirety of his property.  As beautiful as his back lawn was—with the flower gardens, the guest quarters, the Hudson River out in the distance, the private wood—the pool area was certainly the most striking in his mind.  He’d had Casa Diamond custom built two years ago and he was proud of it even though he was rarely here.  He preferred his penthouse in New York or the Malibu beach house.  Even when he was here, he never sat and lounged by the pool.  DeMarco smiled ruefully.  Lester Mint was probably calling New York’s best psychiatrists right about now to ask if his boss had gone nuts.  DeMarco was perfectly sane.  But something was troubling him and he’d decided to take time to meditate on his little problem.  His eyes found the still waters again.  Never would he have imagined that this pool, which sparkled like jewels, would be a source of consternation.
    “You don’t know how to swim?” he asked.
    She shook her head.  “But enough about me.  What can I do for you, Mr. Diamond?”
    Oh baby.  There’s no limit as to what you can do for me.
    DeMarco let his eyes wander over her.  Reese shifted her weight from one leg to the other.  She seemed unaccustomed to having a man openly appraise her.  It was endearing to see a woman so lovely appear so shy.  DeMarco didn’t trust it because he knew better.
    “Reese.” DeMarco stood and approached her.   And what is this, now?  Is she blushing beneath that golden skin?   DeMarco’s six-four frame towered over her.  He knew he looked better at thirty-two than many men ten years younger, thanks to his grueling six day-a-week workout.  But it was still reassuring to know that his strong Italian features appealed to the opposite sex.  “As my assistant, you should know how to swim.”
    “The job description didn’t mention anything about swimming.  It’s a