Page 15 of Cupid Loves Curves

As always, a sense of pride and accomplishment overcome me as I walk past the long line of gold and platinum records that line the walls of the office. It’s been years since I was actually in the copy room, but Abby is more than enough reason to go to this part of the office.

Since the moment she came into my office, I’ve been consumed with desire for Abby. These urges are distinctly inappropriate for me to have for an employee – even if she’s a temp. The Board would have my ass if they knew what I wanted to do with Abby.

“Are you settling in okay?”I smile at Abby, cursing myself using such a lame line to talk to her. But damned if I don’t feel like a teenager around her. I don’t even know the last time a woman had this kind of effect on me, especially one who’s a virtual stranger.

It's a long moment before Abby turns to me and her cheeks are flushed when she does. She smooths her hands over the waistand hips of her dress, and an animal desire unleashes inside of me. I need to claim Abby for my own.

“I’m fine, yes,” she says, though her voice sounds strained. The copy machine stops its grating noise and she picks up a large stack of paper. “Is there something you need?”

What Ineedwould make HR scream…

“I don’t have a new task for you. Seems Cheyenne has you covered on that front.”

“She does, yes.”

“Abby, I’m going to come right to the heart of the matter. You have this air of…combativeness. It’s is crystal clear there is a lot you’d like to say, but aren’t. What’s going on?”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” she says in a rush, her blue eyes blinking rapidly. “I haven’t meant to offend. What did I do?”

“Don’t worry, you’re not fired or anything like that.” I smile at her, but that doesn’t seem to put her at ease in the slightest. “It’s more what you haven’t done. Walk with me back to my office.”

When we’re back in my office, Abby stands in front of my desk, holding the contracts tightly against her spectacular chest. Fuck. What I wouldn’t do to get lost in those amazing tits of hers.

“Have a seat, please. Actually, let’s sit on the couch – it’ll be more comfortable.”

Abby arches her eyebrow at me, then sits at one end of the couch. Wanting to respect the boundary she’s set, I sit with plenty of space between us.

“Is this going to take long? I think Cheyenne will kill me if I don’t finish her list by five o’clock.”

“Cheyenne can wait. If she wants to take issue with your work today, she can talk to me.” I pause, hearing the harshness in my voice. “Let me be clear. I know Cheyenne can be…demanding. You have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

A sound like a choked laugh comes from her and for a moment, there is amusement on Abby’s face.

“If you say so.”

“Abby, what’s going on? It doesn’t take a genius to see that there is alotthat you’re not saying.”

“Do you really want to know?” Now, Abby looks at me and the raw fierceness in her eyes makes me pause. Something says that I might regret asking, but I have to know.

“I do, in fact. Yes.”

“First of all,” she says, turning and pointing to the platinum record for the song Pussycat Royale above the couch. “There is someone missing from the credits on that.”

“What?” Pussycat Royale was an unexpected hit by one of the first women-led bands in the 1980s. The song was the first single by Ace Records to reach the top of the charts. Pussycat Royale was conceived as a novelty, and a definite one-hit wonder, but it made the women very famous and very rich.

“It’s missing the name Ophelia Moore. She’s the one who wrote the song.”

“What? No. It was the producer who wrote the song.”

“The hell it was!” Color rises in her cheeks and Abby stands, then starts pacing my office. “My mom wrote that song! She wouldn’t sleep with the…producer,” she says the word like it’s poison,“and so he stole the song from her. That bastard completely destroyed her career and wiped her from the fame she earned.”

For once in my life, I have no idea what the fuck to say. Dealing with angry people isn’t fun, but I know how to do that. Most people are angry for the wrong reasons and it doesn’t take much to handle them. But this? There is a palpable fury coming off Abby. Worse, I’ve heard rumors about what she’s claiming, so I know she’s not lying to get attention.

“Fuck. Abby. I’m sorry. I really am,” I add when she huffs and then walks over to the window behind my desk and stares out into the city. “I’d heard the rumors, but they were before my time. I’m not even sure Morris Orange is still around anymore. He went reclusive in the nineties.”

“He’s still around. Pardon my language, but that motherfucker owns the rights to a full album of songs that my mother wrote. He promised her the world, got her to sign a contract giving this label the exclusive rights to those songs, and then he reneged when she wouldn’t sleep with him. I’ve been trying to get those songs back since…” her voice catches, fury giving way to sadness, “since she died last year. He’s said he’ll sell them back to me if I come up with fifty-thousand dollars.”

“Do you trust him?”

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