Page 3 of Sleeping with Her Enemy (49th Floor 2)

On a superficial level, he couldn’t blame them. Amy was hot as all get-out—he’d concede that. She had the kind of tall lankiness that’s awkward on girls when they’re young, but when they grow into their long, lithe limbs, watch out. Bouncy blond hair, slight curves to take the edge off her otherwise sharp angles. Frankly, it was hard to look at Amy Morrison and not imagine what it would be like to fuck her. If you kissed her hard enough, you could muss up that perfect little rosebud of a mouth she always had painted dark red.

But then she’d open that perfect little rosebud of a mouth and ruin everything. It was probably some kind of karmic law of the universe that such a scorchingly hot girl had to be a smart-ass.

He thought about that mouth as he waited for the elevator to come back. She used it just now to sneer at him, but she hadn’t been wearing lipstick.

Which was weird. Amy always wore red lipstick.

Maybe he’d been imagining things, conjuring up a phantom image of Amy au naturel. He took a few steps toward the Winter Enterprises’ reception desk. What was that noise? It grew louder as he rounded the corner, heading for the executive wing where Amy and Jack’s offices were.

And then it resolved itself into crying. Sobbing, in fact.

He came to a halt in front of Amy’s office.

“Amy?”

She’d been standing at the window, but at the sound of his voice, she turned and lifted gorgeous, devastated blue eyes at him. Black streaks of mascara painted her usually porcelain cheeks. She looked like she’d teleported in from the 1920s. Her shimmery white-silver dress was short and edged with fringe like a flapper’s, and she’d done her hair in that kind of wavy style he associated with silent film stars.

And, indeed, her lips were bare. He’d never seen her without the signature scarlet pout. He’d always wondered what she looked like when she first woke up. He was a man, after all, and it was impossible not to. But he always came to the conclusion that Miss Self-Righteous Frostypants actually slept in her lipstick.

Something was wrong. Really wrong.

She swiped her hands across her face, which only smeared her ruined makeup more. She would never want him to see her crying. He should probably leave. Amy Morrison was a royal pain in the ass, to be sure, but it wasn’t any fun beating someone who was already down. He took a step back.

But then she spoke, her voice small and vulnerable when it was usually confident and, well, a little bit grating. “He left me. Mason left me at the altar.”

He hesitated. On the one hand, who could really blame the guy? But on the other…

“Well, fuck that asshole. He was never good enough for you anyway.”

Chapter Two

“Think about it. He looks at vaginas all day. Like, professionally. For a living.” Amy thunked her empty beer bottle down on the bar and turned to Dax. She was in that strange limbo where she was sober enough that she was still in her right mind but tipsy enough to say things she otherwise wouldn’t. “Do I really want a husband whose job it is to look at vaginas all day?” Dax opened his mouth, so she held up a finger. “I know what you’re going to say. I know what you guys call him.”

Dax signaled the bartender to bring them another round. “And were we so off the mark? It sounds like”—he paused, presumably for dramatic effect—“Dr. Vajayjay turned out to be not quite the upstanding paragon you always thought. You remember that time at your engagement party when he was showing pictures of scars from hysterectomies he’d performed?”

Mason had been unnaturally proud of his surgical skills. “What I remember about my engagement party is you showing up uninvited.” Her blood boiled just thinking about it. “And what was your gift? I can’t quite remember. Oh, wait. It was a pair of noise-canceling headphones for Mason and the business card of a divorce lawyer for me.”

He shrugged. “I thought that party needed a little livening up. Anyway, my point is that Mason was deadly dull.”

“Dax, in addition to having the mental age of, like twelve, you are so amazingly self-centered, it takes my breath away. How can someone who’s such a womanizer presume to criticize someone like Mason?” She braced herself for a snarky reply, for him to heap even more insults onto her fiancé.

---