68 & Climbing

By Kate Douglas

Fashion designer Annmarie Weston is working under one of the tightest and most important deadlines of her career. Just when she gets her staff sewing at the perfect pace, a construction crew moves in to remodel the building next door, distracting her girls with their hunky bodies. The worse part is that every time the temperature rises, the guys take their shirts off and pretty soon even Annmarie gets lured into the enticing view...

Determined to put an end to the distraction, Annmarie confronts contractor Nick Marone and it isn't long before the two are spending way too much time locked in each other's arms, taking them both away from what they should really be doing.

About the Author:

Kate Douglas is the author of the popular erotic paranormal romance series Wolf Tales and Demon Lovers, the erotic SF series Dream Catchers and StarQuest, as well as the DemonSlayers series. She is currently writing the next book in the Spirit Wild series.
Kate and her husband of over forty years have two adult children and six grandchildren. They live in the beautiful wine country of Sonoma County, California, in the little town of Healdsburg.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Aug 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781937349134

Kate Douglas

A lifelong Californian, Kate Douglas has been lucky enough to call writing her career for most of her adult life, but it wasn’t until she discovered the world of the sexy paranormal that she really found her niche. She’s having such a terrific time creating more Wolf Tales for Kensington’s Aphrodisia line as the imprint’s lead author that she’s still waiting for someone to call and tell her it was all a big mistake. Now with her new DemonSlayers series taking off, she’s definitely having the time of her life. Married for almost 40 years to her very own hero, Kate is mother to two amazing adults and “Dabba” to five perfect grandchildren—and two granddogs. Kate gives credit for much of her success to the fantastic cadre of generous and talented authors who have helped her over the years. She is a firm believer in the philosophy of “paying it forward.” Kate loves to hear from her readers. You can find her on Facebook at facebook.com/katedouglas.author or email her directly at katedouglas.com. There you can also join her newsletter for updates on bookstore visits, signings, and contests for a chance to win books.

Book preview

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

69 & Climbing

Kate Douglas

This is a revised edition of a book that was originally published by Loose Id in 2004.

Copyright © 2004, 2011 by Kate Douglas

Cover illustration and design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-937349-13-4

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Books By Kate Douglas

About the Author

Prologue

A door slammed in the hotel room next to hers and loud voices dragged Annmarie Weston from a deep, exhausted sleep. She glanced at the clock.

12:36 a.m.

She rolled to one side and pulled the blanket up over her head.

Giggles. Incessant, irritating, mind-numbing giggles. Did women always giggle during sex? Annmarie glanced once more at the clock beside her bed.

12:38 a.m.

She was meeting her client for coffee and, hopefully, the final discussions on their contract in less than six hours.

She rolled over on her stomach and shoved the thin hotel pillow over her head, clamping it tightly against her ears. The giggling from the next room faded.

Annmarie sighed, dreaming longingly of her own bed in the little dormer room above her shop. Her own bed where she could sleep blissfully and quietly alone.

Her eyes burned behind her lids. Alone was good. Alone was okay, right? At least, when she was alone she got a good night’s sleep.

Sleep. Please . . . just a little bit of sleep. Was that too much to ask? Damn, she hated these blasted sales trips, hated the buyers with roaming hands and big egos, the slick come-ons, the groping and innuendo.

It was enough to turn her off men altogether—as if she even had time for sex.

Annmarie shifted into a more comfortable position and her eyes drifted closed, exhaustion winning out over the stuffy room and the muted voices from next door.

Two more nights and she’d finally get to sleep in her own bed.

The bed shook. Then shook again. A steady thump, thump, thump reverberated through Annmarie’s head as the bed next door bounced rhythmically against the wall.

Deep, painful-sounding groans, more giggles. Clenching her jaw, Annmarie reached over her head and pounded on the wall.

The banging continued—faster, harder.

The giggling stopped.

The groans grew louder.

Moaning, an agonized cry, the thump, groan, thump, groan, thump marking point and counterpoint.

A dramatic shriek echoed through the thin walls.

A man’s voice, breathless, uncontrolled. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

Finally, silence. Blissful, unremarkable silence.

Annmarie opened one eye and gazed blearily at the bedside clock. It blinked.

12:40 a.m.

She rolled her eyes. Four minutes, start to finish. She’d have to let Jean know she was right. Men were only good for reaching stuff on the top shelf and lifting heavy things.

Oh yeah . . . and fixing sewing machines.

A deep snore reverberated from the next room.

A few moments later, the snoring was joined by the unmistakable buzz of a vibrator.

Picturing the woman in the next room taking care of herself next to her sleeping lover might have been comical at some other time. Now, it merely lulled Annmarie into sleep.

Chapter 1

Why’s it suddenly so quiet out there?

Don’t know, boss. Check the temperature.

Excuse me? Annmarie slipped her reading glasses down her nose and frowned over the top of the wire frames. Jean Alexander may have been her best friend since second grade and her secretary for almost as long, but sometimes she still drove Annmarie batty. You want to run that by me one more time?

Jean’s smile looked downright smarmy. You heard me. The temperature. How hot is it? And I don’t mean the steam rising from your collar, m’dear.

Jean waddled across the polished oak floor and peered at the thermometer hanging from the fire escape outside Annmarie’s office. Yep. I thought so. Sixty-eight degrees and climbing. She stretched, arched her back and rubbed her very pregnant belly. That explains it.

That explains nothing, Jean. Please. Sit down. Every time you stand up, I expect that baby to fall out on his head.

Trust me, childbirth is not that easy. Grumbling, Jean rubbed the small of her back. Her. Her head . . . I told you, the doctor said Emma’s a girl.

Okay . . . her. So? Annmarie gestured with a flip of her hand. Do you intend to explain the temperature analogy . . . sometime within this millennium?

So, the wheels of industry, including the sewing machines at Weston Designs, grind to a halt when the outside temperature hits the high sixties. Jean left off with a very pregnant pause.

Annmarie slowly shook her head at Jean’s ambiguous reply, stood up and headed for the door. Ten sewing machines should be humming away right now. Ten young women, residents of a shelter for troubled girls, should be busy assembling the sleek business fashions Annmarie designed. Instead, the only noise coming from the workroom sounded like one large, collective sigh.

Jean’s soft chuckle grated on Annmarie’s already exhausted and tattered nerves.

It started just after you left on the sales trip, Jean said.

Annmarie took a deep breath and turned her head to glare over her shoulder at Jean. Do you have to sound so smug? It’s terribly unbecoming, especially when you make absolutely no sense at all. What started?

The temperature-dependent, hormonally driven work stoppage at Weston Designs. It’s become a definite issue.

Annmarie frowned. I don’t need this. Really, I don’t. Damn, that last trip was a bitch.

Jean shook her head. More jerks with roaming hands?

You got it. In a nasal voice, she said, ‘Sure, Annmarie . . . sweetheart. We’ll order your line. Join me for a drink and a little nooky?’

Annmarie ground her teeth when Jean laughed. It’s not funny. I do not put out . . . for anyone. She rubbed her eyes and ignored the little voice in the back of her mind. The one reminding her that might be part of her problem. Problem. Sewing machines. Temperature? Oh, yeah.

Okay. You said this started right after I left? She took a deep breath and let it go on a long, ragged sigh. Not that I understand. You have to admit, it’s a new phenomenon. I mean, since when have the wheels of industry been tied to fluctuations of hormones and daily temperature? Annmarie stared baldly over her shoulder at Jean.

Since the construction crew started work on the old boardinghouse next door. The corner of Jean’s mouth twitched with a barely controlled grin. Once it warms up, the shirts come off.

Annmarie mouthed a disbelieving What? then quietly opened the door. Just as quietly, she crossed the hardwood floor of the workroom. Ten young women, the entire workforce of Weston Designs—unless you counted old Fred, who kept the sewing machines running and the water dispenser full—filled the narrow fire escape stretching along the east side of Annmarie’s newly renovated brick tenement building. Not a single sewing machine hummed, not a head turned at her entrance.

Girl, that man is gorgeous.

Gorgeous is not an adequate description.

He looks more than adequate to me.

Look at the chest on the blond dude. I’d die for a chance to . . .

Chest nothing . . . look at the package he’s carrying in those tight . . .

Ladies, isn’t there something else you should be doing right now?

Oh, hi, Ms. Weston, we just . . .

I mean, they’re so . . .

They’re . . .

They are none of your business. Your business is getting that order finished before Myers and Bold decides they don’t want to carry my line anymore. Now back to work.

Yes’m.

Slave driver, Jean whispered as, laughing and teasing, the young women headed back to their workstations. Aren’t you at least going to look and see what all the excitement’s about?

I am not into ogling half-naked men. Annmarie glared at her friend, then broke into a reluctant grin at Jean’s knowing look.

I remember ogling a few with you back in college.

That was different. I was young and foolish then. Besides, look what ogling got you into. She stared meaningfully at Jean’s bulging middle.

Actually, I got into nothing. Leo got into me. That’s how it works, you know. Of course, it’s been so long, you’ve probably forgotten the mechanics of the act.

It has not been that long.

Your last date, as I recall, happened before Sam was born. He’s almost three, by the way.

I am perfectly aware of your son’s age. I’ve been busy. Getting a new business off the ground doesn’t leave a whole lot of time available for fun and games. Annmarie nervously wiped her hands along her short cotton skirt. Not that there was anything wrong with being single at thirty-four, which made her barely one year older than Jean. Nothing at all. Except Jean had a husband who adored her, a beautiful little boy and a baby girl on the way.

Annmarie looked around the workroom. She had Weston Designs and a business loan that often looked like the budget overrides for Boston’s notorious Big Dig. Not much there to keep a woman warm at night.

Besides, not every date ended in the bedroom.

In fact, Annmarie could count on two fingers the number of dates that had. With that depressing thought in mind, she smiled at Jean. I don’t have time to fulfill your sexual fantasies, m’dear.

Well, it’s not my fantasy we’re talking about. You, m’dear, are not too busy to take a look at this. Jean grabbed Annmarie’s arm and propelled her out onto the fire escape.

This is childish and stupid. Annmarie glanced over the edge of the railing, intending to satisfy Jean with one quick look.

Oh my. Had she said that? Annmarie’s hand went to her throat. So, this is what all the fuss is about.

Half a dozen young men performed as many different jobs on the sagging building next to Annmarie’s. She knew the old boardinghouse had been slated for renovation, had even considered renting one of the upscale offices for her own use once the project was completed.

She hadn’t realized, however, that work had begun while she was away on her trip, nor had she considered the impact of six bare-chested, broad-shouldered, handsome, suntanned, young construction workers on the productivity of her equally young, multiethnic force of female employees.

Pretty cool, huh, Ms. Weston?

Oh, yeah, she muttered, tearing her gaze away from one particularly broad set of shoulders. Did you need something, Lil? she asked, suddenly all business.

Just another look, ma’am. Lil giggled, took a quick peek over the fire escape and waved. A tall, blond Adonis grinned and waved back, then returned to his labors.

C’mon, Lil. Jean grabbed the young woman’s arm. We’ve got orders to fill. You can check out the scenery when it’s time for your break. She herded the giggling young woman away from the fire escape, but managed a glance that spoke volumes to Annmarie as she left.

Annmarie watched as Jean hauled Lil back to work. Damn. This really could be a problem.

Jean nodded.

Annmarie hated when Jean was right.

Even now, though her business fashions for women were winning awards and the name Weston Designs was showing up with regular frequency in high-end magazines and newspaper articles, Annmarie knew her success, or failure, was only a missed order away.

A loud crack caught her attention. A man shouted, another cursed. She glanced over the railing just in time to watch a pile of lumber slowly tumble from the back of a flatbed truck and spread out in a messy pile across the cobblestones.

With a lot of joshing and teasing, a couple of the young men began restacking the lumber. Annmarie watched them a moment, fully aware of the healthy male bodies she was going to be contending with over the course of the renovation.

Somehow, she had to figure out how to keep her girls interested in finishing the new order for Myers and Bold. It wouldn’t be easy, not with the gorgeous new neighbors offering up more beefcake than she’d seen in a year.

They were definitely a terrific-looking group of young men. Too young for her, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to look. Sleek and well-muscled from working outdoors, there wasn’t a single couch potato in the bunch.

For instance . . . her gaze was drawn to the broad shoulders and lean hips of the largest man on the