BIG Temptation

By Robin L. Rotham

When the Mahoney Tower Tulsa’s general manager disappears, Jillian Fox calls headquarters for help. What she gets is a hotshot corporate investigator—and an inexplicable craving for things that are very, very bad for her. Something besides his monogram and size sixteen shoes tells her Barrett George could be BIG trouble, but resisting his aggressive pursuit turns out to be even harder than keeping her fingers out of the candy dish.

Barrett knows the skittish little accountant is probably smart not to trust him, especially if she’s looking for crappily ever after. But it’s been months since he got laid and her avoidance tactics only inflame his inner predator. Barrett’s sexual domination sparks Jillian’s complete sensual surrender and a primal attraction that puts both their hearts at risk.

But even as he tests the limits of her trust, the investigation heats up, exposing a conspiracy that places Jillian in harm’s way—and forces Barrett to face his greatest fear.

Reader Advisory: When Barrett gets his freak on with Jillian, you'd better have some ice water and a fan handy—it's four-alarm hot! Contains m/f/m ménage and all sorts of boundary-pushing.

** This book has been previously published. **

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin L. Rotham
• Release date: Jan 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370840281

Robin L. Rotham

When I complained of being bored the summer before 7th grade, my mother (who worked at a boookstore at the time) handed me a stripped copy of Victoria Holt's The Shivering Sands--and I was hooked. I became a voracious reader and an aspiring author, bringing home stacks of books from the library every single week. The next year, I did a school report on Ms. Holt and wrote to her asking for information. In reply, she sent me an autographed photo and a lovely two-page hand-written letter in which she encouraged me to follow my writing dreams. Sadly, both the photo and the letter were lost over many moves, but my writing dreams remained. At 14, I tried to write my first two romances. The first was about a federal agent masquerading as a bank robber, and a smart-mouthed customer who drove a custom baby blue Trans Am named Shark. The "robber" stole Shark as his getaway vehicle and the heroine, Nicki, dove in beside him. That was as far as I got--I could never see beyond their flying down the highway bickering as they were chased by bad guys. The second was a hot mess of an erotic Gothic paranormal involving an eighteen-year-old governess and the sixteen-year-old eldest son of the house, who made quite inappropriate advances toward her via astral projection while she slept. I wrote 100 pages front and back--IN PENCIL--before I hit that I HATE point in the story and shoved it under my bed. When I retrieved it two years later, the lead was so smeared I couldn't read it. The End. After that, I set my dream aside to address the more practical matters in life--matters like eating and putting a roof over my head. It took finding my own hero to reignite my passion for romance writing. More than 25 years after my last attempt, I bought a used laptop on eBay and wrote my first erotic romance. Mr Robin and I have been married for twenty-plus years; we live on a farm and have three wonderful offspring. I love to hear from readers, so don't be timid about dropping by my website or blog to say hi!

Book preview

BIG Temptation

Robin L. Rotham

BIG Temptation

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Robin L. Rotham

Cover art by Robin L. Rotham

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

About Robin L. Rotham

Dedication

BIG Temptation was my first novel and the book of my heart. It’s dedicated to Mr Robin, my first and only love and the heart of all my books.

Prologue

Maybe he should call Dad.

Barrett fidgeted with the candy-wrapper bracelet Kristi Farnham had fastened on him at recess, scooting it around his tanned wrist over and over as he stared at the white-painted panels of his parents’ bedroom door. The only sound in the sun-speckled hallway was his own loud breathing. He’d knocked and yelled at her about four thousand times, but Mom wouldn’t answer.

Riding his bike home from school today, all he’d wanted was to Hoover down the rest of the Oreos with about a gallon of milk and watch cartoons. Now all he wanted was for his mom to open this door and tell him everything was okay.

Why wouldn’t she answer him? She never slept through the baby crying. Even when she was having a really bad day, she never just let him cry.

When Barrett bounded through the front door a while ago, he’d heard his little brother screaming his head off and found him right here in the hall. Dusty must have finally made it over the gate because there was a big carpet burn on his forehead. Barrett had picked him up and hugged him, rocking and talking to him until he calmed down. Then he’d taken him downstairs and planted him in front of the Looney Tunes with some Cheerios on a paper towel and a sippy cup of milk.

He’d been up here trying to wake Mom up ever since, but she wouldn’t and his stomach was starting to hurt. His knuckles were hurting, too, even though he’d switched hands a couple of times.

He gave the doorknob one last try but it was still locked. Mom!

Not knowing what else to do, he headed back downstairs on shaky legs and wiped his palms on his jeans before picking up the telephone in the kitchen. Gripping the receiver hard, he ran a finger up the phone list on the wall and dialed the third number from the top.

Good afternoon, Mahoney, George and Butcher, how may I help you?

May I please speak to Anthony George? Barrett winced. He’d used his most grown-up voice but he still sounded like a ten-year-old kid who was about to start bawling.

May I tell him who’s calling, please?

His son, Barrett.

Hi, Barrett. Hold for just a moment and I’ll put you through.

It seemed like he spent forever twirling the kinked-up phone cord around his index finger before his dad answered.

Hey, big boy—what’s cookin’?

Relieved to hear that friendly greeting, Barrett blurted, Mom’s asleep and she won’t open the door.

Did you knock?

About five million times. Dusty got over the gate, ’cause he was on the floor screamin’ in the hall and I got him some milk, but Mom still won’t wake up.

Did you open the door and look at Mom?

Barrett’s stomach squeezed. Dad didn’t sound so friendly now.

It’s locked.

Son, listen to me. His dad talked really fast now. Police and firemen are on their way to you right now, and I want you to let them in, okay? I’ll be there in five minutes.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Barrett hung the phone up and trailed into the living room. Dusty was climbing the stairs, so he picked him up and carried him back over by the TV. There were Cheerios all over the carpet and the napkin was shredded.

Hey, don’t eat that, he groaned, swiping a ball of chewed-up paper towel out of his brother’s drooly mouth with a finger and wadding it up in the scraps. Don’t worry—Dad’ll be here soon and everything will be okay.

Everything will be okay. Why didn’t he believe that? He had a bad ache in his stomach, like last Christmas when he’d puked up his guts and had the Hershey squirts for two whole days. Mom had been acting really weird for a long time, almost since the baby was born, and he missed her being happy. He missed her shooting hoops with him and watching him wrestle and singing that dumb song about the teddy bears having a picnic. All she did now was cry and yell and hide in her bedroom.

The Roadrunner led Wile E. Coyote over the edge of another cliff, but Barrett could hardly breathe, much less laugh. His eyes kept wandering to the stairs. What was taking the firemen so long?

Suddenly his dad slammed into the house. Leaving the front door hanging open, he raced past both of them and took the steps two or three at a time. Dusty tried to follow, so Barrett scooped him up and started after his dad.

He was on the second step when he heard a loud crash. Tightening his grip on the baby, he hauled butt up the stairs.

Oh God, no! his dad cried. Jesus, Karen, please no!

Barrett was running now, huffing with the weight of the toddler in his arms, fear turning his bowels to water. It was really bad, he knew it was really bad. Stumbling over the splintered bedroom door on the floor, he landed in the middle of the room and stared into the master bath.

Jesus Christ, Karen, why? Why? Oh God, why would you do this? His dad was hugging his mom on the bathroom floor, and he was bawling, too. I love you so much, Karen, please don’t leave me!

Mom didn’t have any clothes on and there was red stuff all over the place. Was it blood? Barrett couldn’t see her face behind Dad’s chest, but she wasn’t moving.

Mommy? He was too big to call her Mommy and he never did any more, but he was so scared…

Barrett! His dad looked up at him, his face twisted and red. Oh God, son, please take Dustin downstairs and tell the firemen where we are.

Barrett didn’t want to go. He took a step toward the bathroom, the baby in his arms fussing at being squeezed so hard. Is Mom dead?

Barrett, don’t look! Just go tell—

Masculine voices calling out and the thunder of running feet echoed up the stairs, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his mom’s body, so limp and white on his father’s lap, until he was shoved out of the way by all the men who crowded into the bathroom.

His dad came out and plucked Dusty from his arms. Sinking to his knees, he held them both tight against him. His clothes were all wet and smeared with red, and he smelled weird and he was shaking so bad…

Oh God, Barrett, I’m so sorry, he sobbed against Barrett’s neck. So sorry.

Barrett’s stomach twisted as he stood there watching the men try to save his mother. It was too late. He knew it. He’d waited too long.

Tears burned in his eyes and he blinked hard. It wouldn’t do any good to cry now—she was gone. His mom was gone and she was never coming back.

Swallowing the sickness in his throat, Barrett wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and felt Kristi’s bracelet scrape his cheek. Without bothering to look at it, he tore the braided cellophane off his wrist and let it tumble down his father’s back to the floor.

Chapter One

Hotels were just like people—you couldn’t tell from the way they looked that something was seriously wrong inside.

Shifting his Suburban into park, Barrett left the engine running while he inspected the Mahoney Tower Tulsa. Sunlight reflecting off the building’s copper windows made him squint even through his sunglasses, but from what he could see, it looked like business as usual. A few cabs and a limo were lined up in the parking circle, and a uniformed attendant manned the valet stand despite the brutal heat of an August afternoon. If the lush, manicured lawns and blossoming flower beds were any indication, other employees were hard at work, too.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t some kind of weird shit going down in the hotel.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, he put on his regular glasses and stowed the sunglasses in the overhead compartment. Then he gathered up the employee files from the passenger seat and shoved them into his messenger bag. He’d had to skim them on the drive from Kansas City, since he’d barely walked in the door when Carla dropped the case in his lap, but judging from what he’d read, there was probably more going on here than just the disappearance of the general manager.

His stomach rumbled. Too bad he hadn’t stopped for something to eat on the way down. Burger King beckoned from across the street, but it was too late now. The staff meeting had started ten minutes ago. Not that he minded being late—employees’ reactions to his tardiness were always interesting—but he wanted to look around the common areas before he made his appearance.

Tucking the bag behind the passenger seat, he braced himself and shut off the engine. Without cool air blasting him from the vents, he broke into a sweat before he even got the door open. Shit, and he’d thought Kansas City was bad. Why couldn’t it have been the San Francisco manager who disappeared? Or Seattle? The coast was great this time of year.

By the time he made it through the revolving door, sweat was rolling down his temples. Fortunately, the lobby felt like a meat locker. It was a wonder his glasses didn’t fog over in the chill.

Whistling through his teeth, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a little stroll around the main level. The Tower was scheduled for a facelift next winter, but it still looked pretty damn sharp. From the high, coffered ceiling to the marble-tiled floor, everything gleamed like it was well taken care of. Shiny greenery fluttered in the breeze from the fountain, the cherry furniture in the conversation groups glowed from a recent polishing—hell, even the nap on the area rugs stood at attention like it had never been walked on.

The scents of lemon oil and coffee filled the air, and as he passed Mirabella, his stomach growled urgently at the savory aroma drifting from the restaurant’s closed doors. Damn, he didn’t know what was cooking, but he sure as hell knew where he was eating tonight.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Inside, a blonde in a cheap business suit was too busy putting on lipstick to get out, so like the gentleman he occasionally was, Barrett stuck a hand out to keep the doors from closing. When she saw him in the mirror, her eyes widened. Rolling her lips as she put the cap on the tube, she looked his reflection over thoroughly before turning.

Hi, she said with a seductive smile, dropping the lipstick into her purse.

He grinned back. Isn’t this your floor?

Not if you don’t want it to be.

Honey, this is definitely your floor. Barrett let his smile grow hard and hers disappeared at once.

I was just leaving, she said as she swept by.

She didn’t look back but strutted directly through the front door to a waiting cab. Barrett rolled his eyes at the cloud in her wake. Nothing said working girl like a shitty Giorgio knockoff, and hell if she didn’t smell like she’d just bathed in the stuff—right after she humped the Chiefs’ starting lineup. Hopefully some punk would be kind enough to put a bullet in him before he got that desperate for sex.

Can I help you, sir?

Barrett focused on the front desk. The spit-shined coed behind the counter wore a pleasant smile, but she watched him with wary eyes. He didn’t blame her. His monogram wasn’t BIG for nothing, and he probably looked like he was sizing up the joint for a robbery. The girl’s stock went up a couple more points when he realized her finger was poised over the alarm button.

I’m Barrett George.

Her eyes flickered over his clothes. Oh, I’m sorry, she said. I didn’t recognize the— I mean, we expected you at…

Pink bloomed in her cheeks and he grinned. No problem—I’m used to it. So, no Friday casual around here, huh?

No, sir. She reached for the phone. The rest of the staff is up in Summerhall F. I’ll call up there and—

Thanks, but I’ll head up and introduce myself in a minute. He ambled over and rested an elbow on the desk’s cool, polished surface. Checking out her nametag, he said, So Amanda, did you see the lady who just left?

Hand-me-down suit, loud purse, slutty shoes?

He stifled a smile. There was nothing wrong with her powers of observation.

That would be the one, he said. Is she here a lot?

She bit her lip. Define a lot.

I’ll take that as a yes.

Never mind. Any word on Alderton? At her mute headshake, he straightened and touched his fingers to his brow in a small salute. Carry on.

Since his knee was stiff from the long drive, he bypassed the elevators and headed up the curving staircase, wondering what other nasty little surprises awaited him. That rumble in his stomach was turning to a burn, so he pulled a roll of antacids from his pocket and peeled off a couple, grimacing as he chewed them up. He liked wintergreen, but all they’d had at the convenience store this morning was fruit-flavored.

At the top of the stairs, Barrett hung a left into the conference wing and headed down the hall. Voices drifted from the open door to Summerhall F, so he slowed his approach to get a preview of the conversation.

I don’t know how long he’s going to be here, a whiskey-smooth female voice declared. All they said is that Mr. George will be the interim GM while a new management team is assembled.

That had to be the hotel’s accountant, Jillian Fox. He took a covert look around the door frame and nearly purred in appreciation. A redhead, his favorite flavor. She leaned against a table at the front of the room, her posture patently defensive. Though her short-sleeved shirt was buttoned almost to her throat, her crossed arms framed a promising abundance of feminine flesh, and her trim calves stretched a long way between the conservative hem of her business skirt and a pair of low-heeled pumps.

Tall, stacked, and a redhead—shit, it was like he’d phoned in his order ahead of time. Too bad they were working together. Maybe after he’d wrapped up this case, he’d spend a night or two unwrapping her.

"What’s that supposed to mean, new management team? a man asked. The asshole tone raised Barrett’s hackles, but he couldn’t get a look at the speaker without revealing his presence. What the hell’s the matter with the old management team?"

Jillian’s eyes bugged as she threw her hands up. What management team, Darwin? Our general manager’s been AWOL for almost a week now and we haven’t had an assistant manager in over three months.

Ah, Darwin Patton. His was one of the files that had caught Barrett’s attention.

Hey, money lady, don’t get all snooty on me. We have a tight team right here and this place is running just fine without some corporate fancy-pants sticking his nose into things. After a few murmurs of agreement, he continued, Why’d you have to go and call them, anyway? We’ll probably all be out on the street looking for another job once this new team shows up.

Gee, I don’t know—maybe because the pay period ends next week and there’s no one in-house to sign our checks?

You could have signed them.

Barrett’s brows went up. Hell of a suggestion from the security chief.

The last time I checked, forgery was against the law, Darwin, but thanks for the vote of confidence.

Oh, come on. It’s not like you’d be—

Drop it, Darwin.

There was a little grumbling and then someone said, Miss Fox?

Yes, Berta?

Can you tell us anything about Mr. George?

Barrett was tempted to step in, but he made himself wait. Jillian Fox had handled the security twit without any help and he was reasonably sure she wouldn’t blow his cover. Besides, he wanted to hear what she had to say about him.

* * * * *

Jillian shook her head at Berta’s question. I’ve never met the man.

But have you heard anything? Mike asked.

Actually, she’d heard from one of the executive secretaries in Kansas City that the hotshot investigator they were sending down had a reputation for being a hard-core player, but she wasn’t inclined to pass on that bit of news, especially at a staff meeting. And since Barrett George apparently wanted to play secret agent man, she even had to keep the fact that he was a hotshot investigator to herself.

It really was lonely at the top.

Not a word, she said flatly. I assume the executive suite is ready, Berta?

Sorry I’m late, came a deep baritone from the door.

Jillian jumped to her feet, silently cursing the heat that rushed to her cheeks. A mountainous man in horn-rimmed glasses and a polo shirt was strolling toward her, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. Good Lord, Abby had said he was tall, but she hadn’t mentioned he was built like a linebacker. She’d expected more of a low-rent James Bond, but obviously her concept of a hard-core player needed updating.

Maybe Abby had meant to say hard-core football player—the guy had definitely been eating his Wheaties.

But no, she’d said specifically, and with obvious relish, that he was a breast man, a detail that had taken some of the shine off Jillian’s excitement at finally getting a little help down here. She’d been tearing her hair out for weeks and the last thing she needed was some corporate Lothario talking to her chest for an indefinite period. Her mother had always been flattered when good-looking guys couldn’t drag their eyes from her cleavage long enough to notice she had a brain, but nothing turned Jillian off faster.

Except maybe being spied on. How long had he been out in the hall listening to them talk?

Swallowing, she forced a smile. Mr. George, I presume?

Live and in person. His disarming grin was no doubt designed to put everyone at ease, but it made her wish she’d worn her blazer. You must be Jillian Fox.

He pulled a sun-browned hand from the pocket of his khakis and offered it to her. Fighting the urge to wipe her damp palm on her skirt first, she shook it firmly.

Unbelievably, his bright green gaze remained firmly focused on her face. She’d totally psyched herself up to ignore a subtle but insulting inspection of her figure and hide her distaste for the man behind a plastic smile. The fact that he seemed more interested in deciphering her expression threw her off big-time, and she lowered her gaze to his square chin in self-defense.

It was stubbly. Either he hadn’t shaved today or he was one of those guys who had to do it twice a day. The masculine shadow went halfway down his thick neck, and below, a smattering of dark hair sprouted in the open collar of his shirt. The way the hunter-green cotton hugged his wide shoulders and round biceps left no doubt that he was in very good—

Her eyes widened as they jerked back up to his. Oh hell. She’d been checking him out, and the amusement sparkling in his eyes said he’d definitely noticed.

Talking while she ground her teeth wasn’t easy, but she pulled it off. Nice to meet you, sir.

Call me Barrett.

I don’t think so.

Jillian straightened her spine and pulled her fingers free of his, reaching immediately for the bulky ring of keys on the table.

Tag—you’re it. She dropped them into his hand and headed for the rear of the conference room. She could feel his gaze boring into her back, and though she’d been walking successfully for nearly thirty years, she became excruciatingly aware of her gait. Trying to minimize the sway of her hips, she slipped into a glide step, only to realize it didn’t work nearly as well in pumps as it had in her marching shoes.

Crap! This was just one more reason why she’d never even considered entering a pageant. The minute she was the center of attention, things that she usually did by rote—things like walking and breathing—suddenly took intense concentration.

Just walk, for God’s sake—it’s not that hard!

Since most of the aisle seats were occupied, it took an eternity to reach a vacant row. She slipped into a chair at the back and put her hands together in her lap to still their trembling while she tried to get her breathing under control. What in the world was wrong with her? He was just a man. A womanizer. She had no business letting him affect her this way. After all, she had another date tomorrow night with Paul Danner, the doctor of her dreams. She should be concentrating on letting him affect her this way.

Pretty quiet around here today, Mr. George commented. He stood right where she left him, both hands in his pockets once more.

Mike held up a hand. Michael Greeley, sales. We’ve got two large groups checking in after six.

Guess I’d better make this quick, then—thanks, Michael.

He flashed a toothpaste-commercial smile and Jillian’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to fix Paul’s kind, patient face in her mind’s eye and was dismayed to realize she couldn’t quite recall it.

Hi, I’m Barrett George, he continued. I’m a Scorpio, I’ve got a degree from Notre Dame, and my turn-ons are contact sports, horror novels, and imported beer. My pet peeves are square pizza, round ice cubes, and telemarketers who think my name is George Barrett. I’ve been with MGB for almost five years now and I look forward to getting to know all of you. Any questions?

There were a few muted giggles and snorts, but no one said anything.

Moving on. Has anyone heard anything from Arlen Alderton?

Jillian didn’t expect any affirmative responses but glanced around anyway. Everyone looked studiously ignorant.

"All right, then is anyone having any problems that I need to address