Working Stiff: Casimir (Runaway Billionaires #1) (4 page)

She glared up at him and stepped toward him, crowding him back toward the door. “Yeah. Working on it,” she said. “Let’s talk in your office.”

“But I’m right here,” he said.

Rox put her hand in the center of his broad chest and pressed, intending to steer him out of her office. Even through his crisp shirt, his pecs rounded in toward his sternum. “Let’s go.”

He grinned down at her, his white teeth even and straight between his lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage—”

He paused, looking over her head.

Everyone was able to look over Rox’s head.

He asked, “Is that a cat?”

“Nope. No cats in here. Let’s go.”

He side-stepped, peering around her, and her fingers slid across his chest to his muscular biceps.

He said, “That’s a cat.”

Rox slammed the door behind him, not to keep Pirate, Speedbump, and Midnight from running out the door but to keep anyone from seeing them or hearing Cash. “Look, I’ve had a little problem.”

Pirate was peering around the corner of her desk with his one, good eye. His blond fur was rumpled on one side of his head where he had been sleeping on her feet. His ears—rounded on top from crumbling off due to frostbite and the stumps shredded from fighting—twitched toward Cash. He yawned, showing that he was missing one of his big canine fangs, too.

“It is a cat, right?” he asked.

“Um, yeah.” Rox started figuring out some new lies, just in case he didn’t believe the fifty or so she had already cooked up.

He asked, “You have a cat in your office?”

“It’s a long story.”

He squinted at Pirate. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s perfectly healthy.”

Cash frowned. “Is it one of those weird mutations that got turned into a breed?”

“He’s not a Scottish Fold. He had a rough kittenhood.”

“You can’t keep a cat in your office.”

“It’s just for another day or two.”

A black cat’s face appeared above Pirate’s blond head.

“There’s two of them,” Cash said.

“Um—”
Damn.
Rox needed a good lie about now. All the ones she had thought of seemed stupidly transparent.

Of course, right then, Speedbump sauntered around the other side of the desk and stretched like he was doing kitty yoga. His body arched so hard that the silver and gray stripes on his sides expanded.

Cash’s lips parted, and his eyebrows pinched in the middle. “There’s
another
one? How many more of them are there?”

“Three. Just three,” Rox told him. “I call them the motley crew.”

“It’s like a cat clown car under that desk.” He whipped his head around and faced her, his bright green eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Rox said, a reflex that she couldn’t have stopped. “I’m fine.”

“No, something is wrong,” he said, his British accent softening. He looked down her body to the toes of her high-heeled black pumps and back up to her face, searching.

“Really, it’s nothing,” she said.

Rox could see him winding up to lay out the facts of the case like the lawyer he was.

Cash pointed at the cubicle farm of admins outside her door. “Melanie or Sierra might decide to bring their cats to work. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sunbeam or Daffodil were hiding hamsters in their desks. Not
you.”

“It’s nothing,” Rox whispered because her throat was closing up.

He continued, “I can count on you to be professional in all things. I can take you to impromptu meetings with clients or other lawyers because I know that you’ll behave impeccably and you’re always dressed professionally.”

Her hands twisted together in front of her, and Pirate chose that moment to bonk his thick skull against her leg, begging for petting, because of course he did.

Cash said, “I can trust that you won’t dress like a sexy vampire on Halloween or sport foil hearts in your hair on Valentine’s Day. I can travel with you because I know that I won’t find you naked in my bed as if we’re on a nookie run on the firm’s expense account, and we can get the work
done.
I force HR to give you whatever salary you ask for because I can’t work with the other paralegals. They’re all over me and the clients and the opposing counsel that I bring in. They’re unprofessional. I
rely
on you. You’re my rock in this office. You wouldn’t bring
cats
to work unless something were terribly
wrong.
What is
wrong?”

Her eyes burned. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. I call bullshit, Rox.”

When he swore in that staunch British accent, it always made her giggle, and she gulped while she looked at the fluorescent tube lights on the ceiling and blinked.

“Rox?” His voice had softened.

When she glanced at him, the whole room swam from the water in her eyes.

“Are you
crying?”
he asked, panic rising in his voice.

“No. I never cry.” Something dropped out of her eye and splashed on her cheek.

“Roxanne!”
Footsteps clomped on the carpet, and Cash’s horrified face blocked out the lights. His hands hovered near her shoulders but grasped the air. “Did Grant hit you? Was there an incidence of abuse? Did you have to leave him in the middle of the night?”

“No. He would
never.”
Really. He would never. The other figments of her imagination almost never hit her, either. She almost laughed at that.

“Are you
sick?”
Cash asked, his eyes horrified.

“I’m not sick. Why would I bring my cats to work if I were sick?”

“I don’t know. Comfort? The thought worried me.” Cash’s shoulders lowered, and his hands dropped to his sides. “All right, whatever it is, you can tell me. No matter what it is, I’ll help you.”

He was standing really close to her. They never stood this close together. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, sure, when they were going over paperwork or sitting at a table, negotiating a contract. On airplanes, they always flew first-class, so the seat armrests were solid all the way down to the cushions.

They never touched each other, though, unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, as little as possible. It was one of the unspoken rules of their relationship that kept them friends, good friends, and nothing else.

The light scent of his cologne, sweet wood and delicious spices like cinnamon and vanilla, mixed with the warmth drifting out of his suit, even though he wasn’t ranting.

They didn’t stand this close together, ever, and Rox’s forehead only came up to his chest, even though she was wearing heels.

If she leaned forward, she could rest her forehead against his chest.

His low voice was gentle, almost like he murmured to her, “We’ve been friends too long for this. Tell me what’s going on.”

She couldn’t quite open her throat enough to talk.

He raised his hand beside her shoulder, and for a minute, she thought he was going to wrap his arms around her.

She should step back if he did. She should gently push him off of her and not let anything get out of hand.

Rox leaned forward two inches and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

It was ridiculous that the square inch of contact of her forehead against his suit jacket suffused comfort through her. She hadn’t told anyone what was going on, and the isolation was the worst part.

She breathed in the subtle scent of his cologne and natural musk.

Her shoulder warmed, and she realized that, instead of wrapping his arms around her, he was stroking her shoulder and upper arm. He whispered somewhere near her hair, “Roxanne, tell me. I’ll help you.”

“Something stupid happened,” she admitted.

He took a deep breath, and his chest expanded. She angled her head, and his suit brushed her cheek.

Cash asked, “Did you have an auto accident? Is there a legal problem, perhaps you panicked and left? I can help you with that. I’ll bring the full power of this firm into play.”

“Nothing like that. It’s just—I got evicted from my apartment.”

A pause.

Which lengthened.

He finally asked, “You live in an apartment?”

“I’ve really only been making good money the last couple years, and I was saving for a down payment for a house, but I bought the car.”

“I don’t need to know this.” He shook his head and stepped back to peer down at her. Her forehead chilled. “Why would you be evicted?”

“They found out about the cats. The lease said no pets. And the eviction notice was effective immediately. They put a bolt on my door. I just took my cats and some clothes and left.”

“You can’t be evicted without due process. An eviction proceeding usually takes months, even if there is a lease violation.”

Cash looked down at their feet.

Pirate leaned so hard against Rox’s leg that her knee almost buckled, and his bottle-brush tail coiled around her thigh like a furry snake.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask why you even have cats, then,” he said, “if the lease forbade them.”

“I volunteer at an animal shelter on Sundays. These guys were so sad. They needed someone to love them. And I did. So I took them home.”

“Even though your apartment had a no-pets policy.”

“I figured that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than to get permission.”

“I don’t think you received either.”

“Look at this little guy.” Rox hoisted him into her arms, burying her fingers in his deep fur. Pirate tucked his forehead under her chin and purred hard. “He was so depressed, living in that little cage for months. How could I just walk away from him?”

Cash stared at the cat—at his ruined ears, the blank fur where his eye used to be, and the scarred pits where he was missing some of his yellow fur—and his eyebrows rose with skepticism. “I’ll leave that to your judgment.”

“I couldn’t,” she said, scratching him under the chin, and Pirate closed his yellow eye in happiness.

“And the others?”

“Same thing. They needed me.”

A slow smile crept over Cash’s face. “It would not have occurred to me that you would rescue three motheaten cats at some risk to yourself. You’re a sweet person, Rox.”

“I am not. You take that back.” She set Pirate down on his paws. He sat and washed his flat face with a paw.

Cash watched the cat smear spit on his face. “So where have you been staying?”

“That’s kind of the problem,” she admitted.

“Oh?” His query was laced with wariness, and he began watching her more closely again.

“I couldn’t find a hotel that took animals, and I swear to God,
all
my friends are allergic or have aggressive dogs or something.”

Cash looked horrified again. “So where have you been staying?”

“I’ve been sleeping in my car and showering at my gym.”

“In your
car?
You can’t sleep in your car in
Los Angeles.
There are homeless persons, and vagrants, and criminals. It’s not
safe.
You can’t
do
that.”

“I didn’t have any other options,” she said.

“Of course you did. You could have called
me.
I’m not allergic to cat hair—”

“It’s actually the dander, not the hair.”

“—and I don’t have a dog to frighten them.”

Rox fidgeted, digging her toe into the flat carpet. “But, you’re a guy.”

“Does not follow,” he said, his eyebrows drawing farther down. That was lawyer-speak for something illogical or that he couldn’t understand.

“I can’t ask a
guy
if I can come sleep on his couch. It
implies
things.”

“Gender propriety rules do not apply when you are
homeless.
This is
appalling.”
Cash ran one hand through his hair.

And yet she had no choice. There was one damn good reason why she hadn’t told him. “And, you’re
you.”

“What on Earth is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“You’re
Cash Amsberg.
You’re
that
guy in the office.”

His brilliant green eyes lit with anger.
“What guy?”

“The
guy. The guy who everyone has—you know.”

He rolled his eyes and raised his hands. “Rox, it’s
me.
It’s
just me.
We travel together every month. I’ve certainly never assaulted you.”

“Well, there was that one time in Japan that you dragged me into your room—” she mused.

“I carried you out of the bar on the night when you discovered sake. I held your hair back. That night was like the aftermath of a frat party.”

“You took my clothes off.” This was one of their comedy routines. They’d been through it a dozen times, but Cash was still ranting so much that he didn’t recognize it.

He insisted, “It was an act of charity to take that vomit-soaked blouse off of you, and I got you into one of my tee shirts before I rolled you into the bed.”

She was trying to repress a smile at his sputtering. “You stayed in my room when I was too drunk to give consent.”

“I slept on the floor to make sure you didn’t choke to death on your own vomit, and it was actually my room.”

“That’s still not consent.”

“I have never behaved improperly or even suggested such a thing.”

Cash was well into a good rant. His ears were even turning pink. Rox blinked hard, trying to get the teary crap out of her eyes.

God, he smelled good, like cookies and fresh lumber and something darker, masculine, and clean.

He demanded, “And where is your husband during all this? Is he sleeping in his car, too? Or has he gone to stay with someone and left you out in the cold?”

It wasn’t particularly cold in early autumn in Los Angeles, especially with three traumatized cats who had slept draped on top of her while she reclined in the passenger seat, but that wasn’t the point.

Rox said, “Grant is on a month-long shoot in Thailand. He’s been gone for over a week. He doesn’t even know. I didn’t want to worry him.”

Cash’s deep voice rose, along with his hands. “Good God, Rox. So you were alone, in your car, with three cats, and you didn’t
call me.
I can’t bear it.”

“It didn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

His voice rose further. “Damn you and your bizarre Southern proprieties.
Get
your cats.
Get
your things. We’re taking everything to my place so that you can concentrate on work the rest of the day, and then you’ll stay in my guest suite until we can find a
proper
apartment for you that accommodates
pets
so this doesn’t happen again. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”