About That Fling

by Tawna Fenske

  “It could be.”

  Hell, he had no idea whether the hiring manager was male or female. Every e-mail message had been signed “Kendall Freemont,” and the one phone exchange he’d attempted had given him an automated messaging system with a robotic voice.

  It was possible the woman in the bar was Kendall Freemont, but more possible Adam just wanted an excuse to talk to her. He pushed himself off the barstool, legs propelling him in the direction of the mystery woman while his brain remained behind asking if this was a good idea.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Freemont?”

  The woman looked up and blinked at him with eyes so deeply blue, he forgot his name.

  She frowned at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “Kendall Freemont,” he repeated dumbly, knowing this couldn’t possibly be his eight-thirty appointment, but wanting to stay and talk to her anyway.

  “Hello, Kendall—I’m Jenna. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Her eyes were friendly and welcoming, not at all the expression of a woman who thought he was there to hit on her, or if she did think that, she didn’t seem to mind. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, and Adam forgot his name again.

  “No, Adam,” he blurted. “I’m Adam, and I’m meeting Kendall, but I’m an hour early. Actually, I’m not even sure if Kendall is a man or a woman, and I thought you might be her, but you aren’t.”

  It came out sounding more like a question than a statement, and Adam realized he urgently wanted her to be Kendall so he could have an excuse to sit down with her. She smiled, and he felt his fingers clench around the handle of his briefcase.

  “Nope, I’m not Kendall, but you’re welcome to hang out if you can’t find a table.” She tucked a little neon pink card into a pocket on the back of her phone case before pushing the phone aside. “Looks like my girlfriend had something come up at the last minute, so I’m just going to finish my Sangiovese and head home. Feel free to park it here if you want to nab my table when I leave.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.” Adam eased into the seat across from her and immediately felt his crotch vibrate. It took him a moment to realize he had a text message. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he glanced down.

  “This must be the night for people to get stood up,” he said. “My appointment just canceled on me. Too bad, I was looking forward to that Sangiovese.”

  “You’re a Sangio fan?”

  He shrugged and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Actually, no. I’m not even entirely sure what Sangiovese is. But I’ve been on a quest to try new things, so that seemed like a good one to add to my list.”

  Jenna lifted her glass and signaled a passing waiter. “This particular Sangiovese is a good one to start with. A little spicy, hints of strawberry and cherry, medium tannins. Very drinkable.”

  “In that case, why don’t you order another?” He nodded at her glass, which had only a tablespoon of liquid left in the bottom. Hardly enough to keep her here as long as he hoped to talk to her. “My treat. I’ve been flying all day and I’m wiped. Besides, we might as well drown our sorrows since we’ve both been stood up for the evening.”

  She seemed to hesitate a moment, one finger sliding over the pocket on her phone case. Then she smiled. “Sure, why not?”

  He ordered for both of them—two glasses of the Sangiovese she suggested and a cheese plate that sounded like the right thing to go with wine, though what the hell did he know? He’d always been more of a cocktail fan, or at least he was when he’d been married. They’d even bought a liquor cabinet and took turns trying out new recipes. That was back before things had gone to hell, before she’d decided she was done with him and moved on with—

  “So you’re not from around here?”

  Her voice jolted him off the dark path he’d been headed down. He met her eyes, trying not to let his gaze stray to her breasts. “What makes you think I’m not a Portlander?”

  “You said you’d just flown into town.”

  “Actually, I said I’d been flying all day. Maybe I’m a pilot. Or a pterodactyl.”

  “Excellent point. It’s also possible you live here and you’re returning home after traveling someplace else, but that’s clearly not the case.”

  Adam tugged at the knot in his tie to loosen it. “Oh? What gives me away as non-native to Portland?”

  She grinned and took a sip of wine. “Your tie is too straight, your shirt is too pressed, and you don’t appear to have any piercings or tattoos.”

  “Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

  He couldn’t believe how blatantly suggestive his words came out, and he almost apologized. But instead of tossing her drink at him, she grinned wider.

  “Maybe I’m not,” she said, her eyes darting to the bare ring finger on his left hand. “I’ll have to do a more thorough examination.”

  He let his own gaze stray to her ring finger, visibly bare on the stem of her wineglass. He brought his eyes back up to meet hers, and she gave him a knowing smile.

  “Now that we’ve gotten the obligatory ring check out of the way and reassured ourselves we’re not sharing drinks with a serial philanderer, tell me about yourself,” she said.

  Adam leaned back in his chair, not bothering to hide his intrigue. “How do you know I’m not a serial philanderer?”

  “No tan line where your ring would be, but there’s a tan line on your wrist. I saw it when you checked your watch a second ago.”

  The waitress returned and set down two glasses of wine, along with a platter heaped with at least a dozen mounds of fancy crackers, crumbly cheeses, and cured meats. He plucked an olive and a handful of crackers, arranging them neatly on the small plate in front of him.

  “You’re very observant,” he said.

  “I try.”

  “Are you a private detective? Clinical psychologist? International terrorist specializing in wine-bar espionage?”

  She laughed, a sound so sweet and musical he wanted to break out a book of knock-knock jokes just to hear her laugh again. “International terrorist. I like that. Much more exciting than my real profession.” She took a sip of wine and set her glass down. “I think I’m going to claim that as my job for the rest of the evening. Thank you for the idea.”

  “Glad to aid with a positive career change.”

  “I’m an international terrorist and espionage expert who invented a patented wiretap that doubles as a wineglass.”

  “A winetap?”

  “I see you’ve heard of it.” She leaned forward in her seat, and Adam caught sight of a flash of black lace down the front of her dress. “So how about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What’s your fantasy job for the evening?”

  “Hmmm. How about a chef?”

  She smiled over the rim of her wineglass. “I think you can do better than that. Something sexier.”

  “Sexier,” he repeated. He picked up his own glass, emboldened by the liquid and by the sound of that word coming from those perfect lips. “I’ll be a gigolo.”

  “A gigolo?”

  “A high-class gigolo. My client—an esteemed senator from California—was meeting me here this evening for a rendezvous, but she got cold feet when she saw the media camped outside waiting to do a big exposé.”

  “I hate it when that happens.” Jenna reached for a piece of cheese. She chewed thoughtfully for a while, then took another sip of wine. “It’s just as well. As a terrorist spy, I would have been forced to report any illicit activity to the government, and the next thing you know, the senator’s face would be plastered all over CNN.”

  “No, not CNN,” Adam said, keeping his eyes on her face as he unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. “In addition to being a sought-after gigolo, I’m also a billionaire media mogul who owns most of the major news outlets around the worl
d.”

  “You don’t say.”

  He nodded and picked up his glass again, taking a careful sip of wine as he forced himself to hold a serious expression. “Yep. CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS—they’re all mine.”

  “BS?”

  “That one, too. Also all the newspapers and magazines in the world. I write all the articles for most of them. Very tedious work.”

  “Good job on last month’s Cosmo cover story on finding your G-spot with a golf club and a pair of stilettos.”

  “Thanks. I initially planned it for Sports Illustrated, but we couldn’t get Arnold Palmer to wear the stilettos.”

  “Maybe for next year’s swimsuit issue,” she said. “I just turned down the opportunity to pose for the cover, so I know they’re looking for someone.”

  Adam snapped his fingers in mock recognition as his brain flashed on an image of Jenna in a bikini. “That’s right! I thought I recognized you as an international supermodel. I saw your GQ cover last month, and I really love that photo spread you did for the Journal of Mutation Research and Genetic Toxicology.”

  “Shh!” she said, bringing a finger to her lips. “It’s part of my cover as an international terrorist. Don’t tell.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  She crossed her legs under the table again, and Adam tried not to stare. The supermodel thing wasn’t so off base. God, she had amazing legs. He wondered what her real profession was, then decided he’d rather not know. There was something to be said for the thrill of reinventing oneself. He sipped the last of his wine and signaled the waitress for another.

  “This wine is really good,” he said. “Fruitier than I was expecting. Seems like something you’d drink with lasagna or spaghetti.”

  “Good call.” She smiled over the rim of her own glass. “The grapes were actually grown in the Chianti region of Italy, and there are a lot of similarities between a good Sangiovese and a good Chianti Classico.”

  “You also work as a sommelier when you’re not spying for the Russians and posing for Vogue?”

  “No, I own ninety percent of the vineyards in the world. I stomp all the grapes myself.”

  “No wonder you have such great legs.”

  She grinned and sipped the last of her wine. The waitress paused at the table to ask if she wanted another glass, and Jenna nodded.

  “Just half a glass, though.”

  “A full glass for me, thank you,” Adam said. “I have to catch up.”

  He turned back to Jenna, who was nibbling a piece of cheese. “Try the prosciutto. It’s really good.”

  “This brie is amazing.” She smeared some on a cracker, then looked up at him. “So how about you?”

  “I don’t know that I’d call myself amazing, but I try.”

  She laughed and bit into her cracker. “No, I mean when you’re not gigolo-ing for politicians and writing Cosmo quizzes, what sort of hobbies do you have?”

  “Ah, I have a diverse range of talents and interests. I crochet office furniture, train and breed fighting beetles, and make abstract potato art. Maybe you’ve seen one of my gallery shows?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She took a sip from her new glass. “I must’ve run across it in the Ashmolean when I was at Oxford earning my doctorate in aromatherapy.”

  “Was this before or after you attended ninja training camp?”

  “Before the ninja thing, but after I won the Ultimate Fighting Championships by strangling a man with my thighs.”

  “Good skillset for an international spy.”

  She reached for a piece of prosciutto and Adam tried not to get distracted by the delicate fingers and the lovely, fine bones in her wrist. Whoever this woman really was, she had beautiful hands. He shifted in his seat and kicked over his briefcase, which landed with a smack on the tile floor.

  Jenna looked at it, then back at him. “Good thing you didn’t have a bomb in there.”

  He righted the briefcase with his toe and swirled the wine in his glass. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “Secret spy sense. Also, I’m telepathic. I can read your mind.”

  “Oh yeah?” He took a drink of his wine, surprised to realize he’d nearly drained the glass. He wasn’t tipsy—not by a long shot—but he did feel bolder. More daring.

  He smiled at Jenna and watched something spark in her eyes.

  “Okay, then,” he said, holding her gaze as he leaned toward her over the table. “What am I thinking now?”

  She paused, looking hesitant. There was something about her posture and the primness of her dress that made him think flirty banter wasn’t her usual fare, and he felt his ego do an absurd fist pump at the thought of it.

  Seeming to decide something, she ran a finger over the rim of her glass and leaned toward him across the table. “I have to say, I’m a little shocked. Well, shocked and intrigued.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, your thoughts are rather . . . explicit.”

  Adam smiled as something surged from his brain to his lower extremities. “Guilty as charged.”

  “You are a gigolo, so I suppose it goes with the territory. Still, I wasn’t aware your services extended to strange women you’d only just met in a bar.”

  “I’m an equal-opportunity gigolo.”

  “I see.” Her finger made a slow journey around the rim of the wineglass, circling one way, then the other. Adam felt his mouth begin to water.

  “What do you normally charge for your gigolo-ing?” she asked, her tone casual as her eyes slid to her phone again. It was face down, so she wasn’t checking messages, and it crossed Adam’s mind to ask about the neon pink card she’d tucked there.

  But instinct told him to stick with the subject at hand. “First round of gigolo service is on the house. I’m toying with the idea of a buy-one-get-one-free coupon in Ladies’ Home Journal.”

  “Very sensible of you. A gigolo with marketing skills.”

  “And telepathic powers. Did I mention I can read minds as well?”

  She looked up at him through her lashes, her fingertip poised on the rim of her glass. “Oh? So what am I thinking now?”

  Adam swallowed, hoping like hell he was reading this right. Hoping he hadn’t misjudged this whole flirtation and the signals she seemed to be sending. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “You’re thinking the same damn thing I am.”

  She nodded and licked her lips. “I’ll get my coat.”

  Chapter Two

  The instant his eyes snapped open, Jenna was ready. She twisted the bedsheet in her fingers, steeling herself.

  “I don’t normally do this,” she blurted.

  He blinked at her, green eyes registering surprise, then confusion, then approval. She flushed and tugged the sheet up over her breasts, wondering if she should have opened with “good morning.”

  She licked her lips and tried again, conscious of his liquid gaze, of the pleasant warmth in the thin layer of bedding that separated them.

  “I don’t normally hook up with strange men I meet in bars, I mean,” she said. “I had a couple wild months in college, and two or three flings in my twenties, but since I turned thirty a few years ago, I’ve been so focused on my career that I’ve only had time for the occasional monogamous relationship—well, and one broken engagement—but that was two years ago and I’ve really only ever had one other one-night stand in my whole life, so really, this is foreign territory for me and I’m a little uncomfortable.”

  He nodded, taking in her blur of words. Or her disheveled hair and makeup. Really, she should have planned better, should have run to the bathroom first and splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth with a fingertip. God, she was so out of practice.

  “Hello.”

  His voice sounded low and husky, and Jenna remembered all over again why she’d fallen into bed with a s
trange man.

  Was it wrong that she kinda wanted to do it again?

  “Hi,” she replied, feeling absurdly shy. “Hello. Hi there. Howdy.”

  He smiled again, and her stupid heart did a somersault in her chest. She wanted to feel embarrassed, but instead she just wanted—well, him. Again. At least two or three more times.

  He sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from his chest to reveal the sculpted muscle and fine dusting of hair she’d had such fun exploring the night before. She remembered how it felt pressed against her breasts and wondered if there was any chance she’d get to enjoy that again.

  Adam closed his eyes and yawned, stretching in a way that reminded her of what it felt like to have those muscular arms anchored on either side of her body, pinning her down on a hotel bed as she gasped and writhed beneath him.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “You’re staring.”

  “Sorry.”

  He smiled. “Don’t be. About anything.”

  “Right.” She swallowed. “Um, the thing is—”

  He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her close and silencing whatever excuse she’d been ready to make. She thought he was going to kiss her and her whole body arched with approval—to hell with morning breath—but he stopped short and smiled into her eyes instead.

  “How about we skip this part?” he asked.

  “Which part is that?” She squirmed against him, then stopped as her hip bumped something hard beneath the covers.

  “Not that part, though you did spend most of the night becoming intimately familiar with it. I’m also well-acquainted now with your parts, which means we’re now downright friendly.”

  She flushed. “Yes, well—”

  “So how about we skip the routine where we pretend we had too much to drink and regret it and wouldn’t do again. Because I didn’t and I don’t and I would. Repeatedly.”

  She blinked, a little surprised by his words, or maybe it was his body. His hand slid over her hip and she shivered in spite of the warmth. She couldn’t find any words, so she nodded. “Are you suggesting we consider this more than just a one-night stand?”