His Next Ex

  His Next Ex

  by

  Maren Smith

  Copyright © 2019 by Red Hot Romance, Inc.

  Prior Copyright © 2007 by Maren Smith & ABCD Graphics & Design

  Prior Copyright © 2002 by Discipline & Desire

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. authormarensmith@yahoo.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, and events are purely coincidental.

  Originally published under the title of The Next Ex. If you purchased that book, then you have this story.

  Cover Artist: Allycat Cover Designs

  To Todd, the man I simply cannot

  imagine my life without.

  Chapter 1

  Travis Dorsett owned one of the largest international distribution firms in the lumber industry. He was considered a powerful and influential man by his colleagues, a masterful strategist in the boardroom by his peers. He was a man who stood firm against opposition and always came out on top no matter how the odds were stacked. He was called The Mountain behind his back, not just for his broad and massive size, but because of his inflexibility. The Mountain never wavered, never backed down, and never lost. Ever. Not once.

  Until now.

  Fifty-seven restaurants in the down-town Seattle area and he had to come to this one, Travis thought bitterly. He forced himself to smile and extend his hand in greeting. “Maxwell.”

  Halfway out the front door of the Golden Goose restaurant, Max Bicos smoothly extricated himself from his two companions, Kuronabe Yuko and Tetsuo—Japanese businessmen that Travis had been in heavy negotiation with for more than six months now. He grasped Travis’s hand; a gesture the casual observer might have mistaken as friendly. Anyone looking more closely, however, might have noticed how the two clasped hands just a little too tightly and how neither man’s smile reached quite as far as his eyes.

  “Travis,” Max said, his smile broadening just a bit. “What brings you out of the gutter?”

  “Unlike you, I could never get used to the stench.” Travis squeezed Max’s hand as he asked, “How’s my wife?”

  “My wife now,” Max replied, and their hands abruptly parted. “Marsha’s fine and doesn’t speak of you at all.”

  Travis glanced to Max’s lunch companions. They bowed their heads, a polite gesture that he returned even as he fought to keep from showing his frustration. As the Japanese men climbed into the back of his opponent’s car, it was everything he could do to keep from laying Max out on the concrete sidewalk.

  “I’m moving up in the world, don’t you think?” Max asked with a grin. “Quite the stepping stool you’ve given me. I know this must be very painful for you to accept. Seeing them with me, I mean. You were so close to netting that account. But, sadly for you and fortunately for me, they have decided to go with the better man.”

  Travis clenched his fist.

  “Turns out, they prefer to do business with men who are stable, responsible and obligated. The strong family man type. You know the Japanese, business and family go hand in hand. I’m afraid they view you as something of a cold fish, what with your long line of broken relationships and that messy divorce last year. Imagine, they turned to me because… well,” he laughed, “because I have your wife.”

  “And all the nasty social diseases that come with her.”

  “Low blow, old friend.”

  “The truth hurts.” Travis cast a quick bow to the Japanese men as they glanced out at him from the back of Max’s car. “Have a good day.”

  By the window, Yuko impassively dipped his head in return, and Travis moved to the edge of the curb where his own car and driver still waited.

  “What about your reservation?” Max called after him, smugly bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. “These people charge whether you show up or not.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” Travis climbed into the back of the car and snapped, “Dorsett Building.”

  Half an hour later, as his driver pulled up to the Building’s front steps, it struck Travis that taking a client to lunch was a business tactic used to garner business, not celebrate a done deal. One quick call on his cellular phone to the Kuronabes hotel confirmed his suspicions. He set up a dinner appointment to discuss a suitable counter to Maxwell’s offer. Though they had to fly back to Japan that night, they invited him to visit their corporation in two weeks’ time.

  “That gives me fourteen days,” Travis said to no one in particular. Fourteen days to find a wife and change the Kuronabes’ opinion of him from cold fish to family man.

  And just when he thought he’d got his life back in order after Marsha, too. He shook his head in disgust, unable to believe he was about to dive headfirst right back into another mess of a marriage. He needed another wife like he needed another divorce lawyer with an alimony suit breathing down his neck.

  He stalked through the lower lobby of the Building, heading for the glass elevators. Strange. He had walked through this lobby a thousand times and never once noticed how many women worked here. A plump blonde sat at the switchboard, her pleasant round face smiling and animated as she helped a customer find the office number of the executive he sought. A brunette in glasses and a business skirt was bent over the water fountain. One of the three security guards stationed near the front entrance was a woman.

  He stopped to glance behind him, back out the large picture windows that overlooked the busy Seattle street. There were literally hundreds upon hundreds of women out there. The problem was finding one unscrupulous or greedy or desperate enough to agree to be his wife and further his ambitions.

  He stepped onto the elevator next to a tall, dark-haired woman. Not too old, he noted. Perhaps in her forties. When the doors closed, he used their reflections in the polished metal to study her hands.

  Damn. A ring.

  One down; half a billion more to go. How was he going to sift through them all in the next fourteen days? He was probably courting disaster by considering any of the women in this building as possible nominees for the position of his next ex. No, from now on he would only look for a woman outside the company, or at least one who didn’t work in his home office.

  Maybe he could advertise: Attractive, wealthy businessman seeks single woman for matrimony.

  And spanking. Lots of spanking.

  Couldn’t hurt to be honest. And anyway, if he was going to be desperate enough to advertise, he may as well get what he wanted.

  Of course, the papers would have a field day with an ad like that, especially if they found out who placed it. And once that became public knowledge, then there would be no way to hide the fact that he was marrying to snatch a business contract out of Max’s grasping clutches. An extremely lucrative contract, and one that he had poured a lot of effort into winning. But he wasn’t likely to fool his Japanese associates that way, and it certainly wouldn’t count in his favor if they did find out. It might even count against him.

  The elevator stopped on a lower floor. The brunette disembarked and another young woman stepped on, wheeling a janitor’s cart in behind her. At first irritated at being forced to make room for the bulky cleaning cart, Travis then found himself studying the woman.

  She was lovely, whistling softly as she bobbed up and down on the heels of her ratty sneakers, staring at the neon numbers above the elevator doors that indicated the passing floors. The nametag on the left side of her grey sweatshirt read ‘Jamie M.’

  He forced
his attention back to the closed elevator doors, only to find himself watching her in the reflection instead. He shouldn’t even consider it. She was definitely an employee, and in his home office to boot. And what had he just decided about employees, he told himself sternly. But a moment later, as the elevator made its slow ascent, he found himself looking at her again.

  She was a red-head; that was the first point in her favor. Travis generally did not like carrot-tops. He was attracted to blondes first, then brunettes. Red ranked somewhere between black-haired women and grey-headed ninety-year-old ladies.

  Her blue eyes were a point against her, though. He was very much attracted to blue eyes. However, they were framed by long red lashes that would constantly remind him of her carrot-top so he could probably live with that.

  The second point in her favor was her diminutive height. Standing several inches over six feet himself, Travis usually gravitated towards amazons, with long slender legs and nubile bodies that wouldn’t be crushed beneath his own. The shortest woman he’d ever dated had stood in at five foot six inches. He sized Jamie M. up and down, finally deciding she might be five feet even, give or take an inch, and maybe with heels on. He doubted if the top of her head came to his shoulders. He’d probably get a crick in his neck every time he bent to kiss her.

  Travis frowned. He banished that rebel thought from his mind. Kissing her was definitely not on the agenda.

  Although, were she so inclined, he wasn’t likely to reject the opportunity, either. He was only human after all.

  By rights, she should have been as stubby as she was short. But nature had been abundantly kind in that department and had formed her exquisitely with plump breasts that would be a pleasant handful, a trim waist, round hips, a pert little bottom that just begged to be turned over the knee and given a sexy slap or two… or twenty. Oh, who was he kidding? He could make a night out of smacking those pretty, little nether cheeks.

  Although she probably wouldn’t like it.

  Nope. Under the pale fluorescent elevator lights, she was really looking quite vanilla to him. Another point in her favor, since that would make it easier to leave in two years’ time. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life with a woman who didn’t share his interest in spanking, either for fun or otherwise. He’d done that already with Marsha and once was more than enough for Travis, thank you very much. There was absolutely no way that he would consider another life-long marriage without a means of accountability.

  Marriage for a year or two, now that was an entirely different matter. And he stepped sideways, looking at the reflection they made together in the silver shine of the elevator doors. She might not be the stuff that poets vied one another to write sonnets over, but she looked… well, she looked like someone’s wife. His, to be exact. He glanced at her hands, resting lightly on the handle of her cleaning cart.

  No ring.

  Perfect.

  He opened his mouth to introduce himself, catching himself in the nick of time and abruptly stepping back again. What in the world was he doing? He was a businessman for heaven’s sake, cool, calm, reasonable and—reputedly—somewhat intelligent. She was an employee in his main office, the stuff that lawsuits for sexual harassment were made of. If one intended to run a business without yielding half of everything one earned to a grasping woman’s lawyer, then one did so without seducing the staff.

  They reached the twentieth floor and Jamie M.’s destination. Whistling softly under her breath and without once glancing at him, she wheeled her bulky cart out of the elevator. As she passed him, Travis detected the faintest scent of baby lotion. Ooo, big point against her. He found himself not only liking the smell, but certain feelings began to stir in a place that gave credence to sexual harassment lawsuits.

  Yet, when the elevator doors started to close after she disembarked, Travis caught them and pushed them firmly open again.

  This was the data entry floor. There were over a hundred desks, placed side by side with little more than a three-foot distance between them for walking. Each desk had a computer, dictation recorder, phone, and an overflowing ‘In’ box. A community laser printer dotted the end of each row. Without a single cubicle to block his view, Travis watched Jamie over a virtual sea of hunched shoulders and rapidly typing fingers.

  With this many clacking keys, ringing phones, and more than a hundred laughing, gossiping women, the noise level was all but deafening, and yet Jamie paid little attention to any of it. She simply steered her cleaning cart to the middle of the first row of desks and tapped the wheel brakes down with her foot. Weaving her way between crowded clerks and office chairs, she began emptying trashcans and recycling bins.

  The seat of her jeans was so worn; it was a wonder they did not split every time she bent over. Her sneakers weren’t much better, either. There was barely enough material stitched together to keep them on her feet. His mouth tightened briefly. While the company dress code did not require daytime janitors to look glamorous, they didn’t have to look homeless, either. But that also was perfect. She obviously needed money, and that was one thing which he had in abundance.

  There was a beep from the intercom above his head. “Hey, who’s holding up the elevator?”

  That was when Travis became aware of the small group of people to either side of him, waiting patiently for him to decide whether he was going up or down. Suddenly irritated again, he let go of the doors, sealing out the sight of Jamie M.’s beautifully upturned and entirely too-spankable backside. Though he had spent several minutes watching her, not once had she so much as glanced in his direction. He wondered what she was thinking about so intently.

  ***

  “Come here, young lady,” the man told her sternly.

  Jamie sifted through her trash cart, her hands fairly flying as she sorted the garbage from the recyclables. As her daydream spun webs of fantasy over the monotony of her life, a soft smile curved her generous lips. Eyes drooping half-closed, she was the very depiction of seduction as her imagination took her from the data entry pool to the private living room—no, kitchen, No! Bedroom—yes, to the private bedroom of an as-yet-unknown Mister Right.

  He reached up to take her hand as she drew near and pulled her to the foot of his bed. A small wooden paddle was already waiting there. As he sat on the end, he maneuvered her to stand between his knees, taking her smaller hands in his, his eyes locking firmly with hers.

  “You were late to work again this morning, weren’t you, Jamie?” he said, his tone calm and reasonable and set in that Your-Bottom-Is-In-Danger-Here voice.

  Jamie felt herself tense and her breath catch in the back of her throat. She was not so lost in the daydream as to reach back and protect her cringing backside with her hand, the way she’d likely do if ever this scenario were to play out in real life. But her fantasy self had no such inhibitions. And in fact, she didn’t use just one hand, she used both.

  “Yes, sir,” she told Mister Right, her voice quavering and soft.

  “Why were you late?” he asked, still calm, very authoritative. Oh yeah, Mister Right was authoritative all right, and he was giving her a Look that matched his tone. It was loving, but stern, and it made her knees go weak, her heart pound, and her hands turn palm-up over her defenseless bottom.

  She swallowed hard as she whisperingly admitted, “I—I over slept.”

  He only nodded, his mouth tightening as he reached up to unfasten her jeans and tug them all the way down to her knees. She moaned when he did the same to her panties, baring her to view, and her hands darted forward to cover her exposed front. He didn’t allow that for long though. As soon as her panties were worked down past her knees, he took her hands in his again.

  “Jamie, this makes three times this year.” With patient rationality, he asked, “What did we decide would happen if you were ever late to work again?”

  “You—” Her eyes fell to the wooden paddle, no bigger really than the palm of his hand, sitting on the bed beside him. “You said you wo
uld sp-spank me.”

  “Is there any reason you can give me why I shouldn’t follow through with that?” Mister Right asked. When she shook her head, he transferred his hand to her arm and the command came, “Over my knee, young lady.”

  Oblivious to those working around her, Jamie reached for another trashcan. She was not quite successful in stifling a soft, half-wistful, half-apprehensive groan.

  At the desk beside her, a woman paused in the middle of typing a memo to cast Jamie a sympathetic smile. “Don’t I know it. I’ve been doing this so long, yesterday I sorted my kids into categories and cross-referenced them for my husband. He told me to ask for vacation time.”

  His hand came to a brief, warm rest on the curve of her right bottom cheek. He rubbed a small circle over first one bare summit, and then the other, as if drawing an invisible bull’s-eye that only dominants could see. “I would much rather be doing this for fun.”

  Clutching his leg with both hands, Jamie squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She didn’t say anything; she couldn’t say anything. And when his hand abruptly left her skin, her entire body braced to receive the first hardy swat.

  “Looks like you’ve lost your admirer,” said the woman next to Jamie, craning her neck to see the now closed elevator doors beyond the shoulders of the woman sitting in front of her. When no response to her observation was forthcoming, she turned back to Jamie. “Jamie, honey?”

  Smack!

  The woman raised her voice, “Jamie!”

  Jamie jumped, dropping a half-full recycling box to the floor even as she cried out, “Ow!”

  The office came suddenly and sharply back into focus, and she turned a slow hot shade of red as she saw those nearest to her turning in their chairs to look at her in surprise.

  Concerned, the woman next to her asked, “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

  Jamie quickly stuck a finger in her mouth. “Paper cut. It’s nothing. What did you say?”