Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Dinner,” Peter said.

  “Dinner?” She blinked up at him, pulled from her musings.

  “I’m going to buy you dinner on Wednesday. Until then it’s hands off. No kissing. Nothing. Just talking and getting to know one another.”

  She groaned. “You have to be joking.”

  He laughed. “Now who sounds like a man?”

  “What are we going to do until then?”

  “I don’t know.” He stepped out of arm’s reach. “How about we work on the plan for the newspaper? You had some really good suggestions. I’d like to talk them over with you.”

  Skating at Rockefeller Center, eating their Chinese food with chopsticks straight out of the carton as they watched all the activity below, had been more like what she had in mind.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “You give us today to play, and I’ll give you tomorrow to work. I promise not to touch.”

  Both brows raised, he stared at her in mock disbelief. Arms crossed, he studied her. “No touching?”

  She shook her head, solemn. “None.”

  “You swear?” He teased her, she knew by the glint in his eyes, and he stepped forward one pace, bringing them closer. “And what if you can’t keep your hands off?”

  “Me?” she gasped, laughing. “I don’t think the problem will be on my side.”

  “All right then, it’s a bet.” A solemn nod seemed to seal this fact in his mind.

  “What kind of bet?” Hands on her hips, she cocked her head at him. “Like if I touch you first, I lose?”

  “Exactly.” He was millimeters from her, his brandy-scented breath teasing her lips. “You touch me, and I get to do anything I want to you. Anything…” He tilted his head as if he was going to kiss her, and she involuntarily licked her lips. “At…” Another tilt, this time in the opposite direction. She clutched the counter behind her and tried desperately not to lean in to close the distance between them. “All.”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded.

  “Okay,” she rasped. “Deal. Same goes for me. You touch me, and I get to be on top.”

  He blinked twice and slowly drew back. They regarded one another, the air between them charged with sexual promise. Eventually one of them would forget or give in—do something spontaneous. Losing had never sounded so good, but she would play to win. She’d never lost a game on purpose and didn’t intend to start now. Not even with Peter.

  “All right.” His voice sounded no more cool and collected than hers had. He raked a hand through his hair and looked around. “Going back to the bedroom would be a bad idea.”

  Darting a glance at the tent his cock made of his pajama bottoms, she let out a shaky laugh. “Probably true. How about ice skating?”

  “What about lunch?”

  “We’ll have a winter picnic at Rockefeller Center.”

  “What about the press?”

  “What?” She was already moving past him toward her room. “You’ve never heard of sunglasses and a ski hat?”

  He snorted. “All right then, I’ll get dressed. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if the paparazzi catch on.”

  She poked her head out of her bedroom.

  “Wear something you wouldn’t normally. Something…” She shrugged. “Like Sid would wear on his day off.”

  “Which is?” He gave her a ridiculous little bemused frown that only made her heart melt for him more.

  “A cartoon T-shirt and purple sneakers?”

  A guffaw exploded from him. “And where would I get these instruments of my social demise, pray tell?”

  “You have a butler.” She grinned. “Let him buttle.”

  On his way toward her door, he waved his hand in an “I give up” gesture. “I’ll think of something. Just not cartoons.”

  “See you outside in fifteen?”

  “Fifteen,” he confirmed and closed the door.

  Oxygen and energy seemed to leave the apartment with him. Georgia stared at the door long after he’d left, wondering how she’d ever live without him.

  * * * *

  Peter sat on the bench facing the apartment door, elbows on his bouncing knees as he waited for Georgia to emerge. When she stepped out of the building, she paused. Then grinned.

  He stood and held his arms out from his sides, turning for her inspection. Black long underwear peeked through all the strategic holes in the ripped and faded blue jeans hugging his ass. He knew, because he’d checked himself out in the mirror before deciding he looked a sexy kind of ridiculous. For him anyway.

  On top he’d donned a red-and-gray-checked plaid shirt over a turtleneck and had thrown on an ancient leather bomber with a woolly collar. Fingerless gloves, vintage aviators, and a black knit cap completed the ensemble along with his only pair of boots—steel-toed construction boots that looked exactly as if he’d worn them to every job site he’d ever visited. Which he had.

  “Wow.” Georgia whistled low, handing him the bag of Chinese food. “You dress down nice.”

  He gave her a sweeping glance. Ice skates slung over her shoulders, she wore a winter-white miniskirt with tights and a cherry-red sweater that hugged her breasts as if the wool had been spray painted over her chest. On top, a white Tam o’ Shanter with a red pom-pom completed the sex-on-a-stick look.

  “You look like a candy cane,” he said, his voice throaty.

  She apparently caught his unspoken double entendre, and a slow smile spread across her face as she brought her chest millimeters from his.

  “Good,” she whispered, clearly playing cock-tease, then stepped back. “Shall we?”

  The temperature was warm, but not so warm they would forget it was winter. Unusually, no wind blew up the avenue to pink their cheeks. The low cloud ceiling promised more snow, but the air hadn’t gone damp yet. They’d probably have to take a cab back, but for now they could walk.

  Peter’s fingers curled in on themselves as he and Georgia walked side by side. Fuck this bet, and why had he made it? He wanted to hold her hand so damned bad, and they weren’t even an hour into their voluntary challenge. A challenge he’d instigated for the sole purpose that he wanted to think with his brain and not his cock for once.

  And yet, when he thought about it, he usually used his brain around women, which was exactly why his heart never committed. Georgia didn’t know that, however, and he wanted her to be certain he was with her for her and not for the sex. After that blasted social-gossip piece, he knew he came across as a randy playboy who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Who had to pay for it because of his insatiable sexual appetite. Which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He had to pay for it to avoid intimacy. Intimacy that he very much wanted with the woman who crossed Fifth Avenue beside him.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” she asked.

  He hefted the white plastic bag he carried and pretended to consider it. “We forgot drinks.”

  “That, I can remedy.” She pointed to a coffee shop across the block. “But I think there’s another one closer to the Center.”

  “Coffee. Good idea.”

  “I believe peppermint cocoa is customary.”

  “Is it?” He smiled down at her, thinking how the taste of peppermint on his tongue might be his undoing.

  “Definitely.” She nodded solemnly, but the twinkle never left her eyes. Large and luminous, they seemed to look right through him, compelling him to reveal things he’d never shared with anyone, perhaps not even himself.

  “Why did you go to school in the US?” he asked, wanting to talk about her. He’d had enough of his own personal revelations over the past three days to last awhile. Or at least the next ten minutes.

  Her smile faltered, and she shook her head as if clearing away some clouds. They walked several more minutes. He was holding open the door to the coffee shop for her before she spoke again.

  “The answer to your question is fraught with drama and dark family secrets. Some of which I’ve already related.” Though tarn
ished with false bravado, her grin returned as she swept past him. They reached the line, and she said over her shoulder, “If I tell you the full story, I’ll have to kill you. Still care to know?”

  He reached for her lower back, intending to rub there in soothing circles. Just in time, he stopped and snatched his hand away. Sweat popped out on his brow as he realized how easy it would be to get used to touching her—to being a part of her life she depended upon.

  They ordered and retrieved their beverages from the barista. Cocoas in hand, they hit the pavement once more, and she began talking.

  “I was seven when I noticed something was wrong with my parents’ marriage.” Her gaze had taken on a faraway cast, and she clutched her cocoa in both red-mittened hands. “We went on holiday and all slept in separate rooms—I with my nanny, which wasn’t so unusual, but they had their own rooms. For the upper classes it’s not so unusual, but for my parents…” She gave a wry laugh as her pace slowed down. “Let’s just say my mother loved my father more than was normal for the circles they ran in.”

  He couldn’t help but notice her use of the past tense. “Are your parents divorced?”

  “Yes.” Georgia shook her head, the flirty bob of her pom-pom inconsistent with the gravity of her expression. “She ran off when I was ten.” She cleared her throat and took a sip of her cocoa. “But that’s giving away the punch line, I suppose.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Peter said.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago, and we weren’t close. But the worst part was Dad bringing home any woman he wanted after she left. It was impossible to round a corner without catching him in some depraved act. Sometimes more than one woman at once. And there were other things…events…where there were multiple couples. I confronted him about it once. He laughed and told me when I was old enough he’d issue me an invitation.”

  White-knuckled rage buckled the lid of Peter’s artisan beverage. He deliberately relaxed his grip. He’d barely managed to bite back a dismay-laden expletive. Georgia kept talking, cutting off any intelligible response he might have managed to form.

  “I saw families on American television shows behaving like, well, families. I wanted normal parents so very badly.” She gave a rueful smile. “I was addicted to The Brady Bunch.”

  There were so many things he wanted to say. About understanding why decorating a Christmas tree—an activity he’d long since taken for granted—seemed to mean so much to her. And he got it about why she worked at the two-bit paper rather than ask her father for help in making her way. That he understood her determination to be independent.

  Instead he said, “You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

  They’d arrived at Rockefeller Center. He and Georgia leaned on the wall, elbows on concrete, watching the colorful buzz of the skaters below. The shoosh of skates and children’s laughter rose up with the carols playing in the background. Above, the giant tree glowed with yellow-gold lights, showcasing the best of the Christmas splendor New York City offered.

  “It was my nanny who convinced me to go away to school. She was leaving me that year anyway.” Sighing, she stared stolidly into the distance. “Sometimes I wish I’d taken pictures of my father and his conquests. Sent them to the papers. I’d have relished standing on the sidelines, watching his social life go up in flames.”

  The parallels to his own situation with the gossip columnist struck Peter between the eyes. He cringed. No wonder Georgia had thought he’d only gotten his just desserts. In her world, with everything she’d experienced, and without knowing him, she had seen a man treating relationships and love with cavalier disdain.

  “God. No wonder you hated me when we met.”

  She laughed. “You could tell?”

  He cocked a brow at her. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

  “No. I suppose I wasn’t.” She cleared her throat and broke her stare. “But I didn’t hate you. Hated myself for wanting you despite what I thought I knew, but I didn’t hate you.”

  Well, if that wasn’t a revelation that made him blush. He said nothing and followed her gaze to the skaters below. They were both quiet for a long while. He wanted to give her space to come down from the intense emotions her remembrances doubtless brought with them, and he needed to just be with her. Connecting with and processing the information she’d shared.

  No matter what he’d done to screw up his family life, he’d always been able to respect his parents—had known they’d placed him and his brothers first, above their own wants and needs, since time immemorial. What a frightening thing it must have been to be a child and not have a parental figure watching out for her.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at Georgia, who chewed her lip.

  “Do I disgust you?” she asked.

  The frown that snapped his brows together almost painfully made him flinch away. “What?”

  She shrugged. “What I told you about my father. It’s pretty abominable.”

  “Georgia…” He sighed her name, saddened she could think her parents’ actions reflected upon her. “I admire you for your strength of character and your sheer determination to get out of a bad situation.”

  Her faraway gaze told him she wasn’t absorbing his words.

  “Look at me,” he said, wanting to make her understand.

  “I’m not a saint,” she muttered.

  Slender shoulders curved inward, as if they might fold forward to protect her heart. He silently vowed he’d touch her and break the bet if she wouldn’t look at him.

  “I want to kiss you,” he said.

  Georgia snapped her chin up to stare at him. Lips parted, color high, and decked out in all that red and white, she presented the prettiest picture of a Christmas package he’d ever seen.

  She raised both brows, her gaze taking on a wary cast. A little breathless, she said, “You’ll lose the bet.”

  He leaned toward her lovely face. “Not if you meet me halfway.”

  “You’re calling a stop?” She searched his face, no doubt for signs of mischief.

  “It’d be a little difficult to skate and not touch you.” He grinned, hoping if he used humor he might be able to entice her away from the precipice of her darker thoughts. “What if I need to rescue you from falling on your pretty little butt?”

  She gasped, but her lips twitched upward and her eyes renewed the sparkle he’d longed to see.

  “Me?” she asked, decreasing the distance between their lips. “Hardly. I’m a flawless skater.”

  “All right then,” he murmured. “You can rescue me.”

  “All right then,” she echoed, staring into his eyes.

  Then he pressed his lips to hers. In a clinch straight out of a Hollywood film, he lifted her off her feet with the band of his arm at the small of her back. Pressed along his front, she sighed into his mouth while he felt every delicious curve. Her arms twined around his neck to bring him closer, and he groaned into her mouth, his tongue probing the moist heat there. She tasted sharp and sweet, of bright peppermint and earthy chocolate.

  “You’re delicious,” he said, lifting his head.

  She gazed up at him, stars in her eyes, completely adoring. His formerly frozen heart melted thoroughly, leaving only a puddle behind.

  “Spend Christmas with me and my family,” he said.

  At her beat of silence, his pulse skipped. Adrenaline surged. What if she didn’t—

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  For the first time in twenty years, Peter looked forward to the holidays. He smiled so broadly his face hurt. “Thank you.”

  Merriment danced across Georgia’s expression. “Don’t thank me yet. You have no idea what I’ll give you for a gift.”

  “You’re my gift,” he said, taking her in his arms once more. “And I can’t wait to unwrap you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Georgia stepped out of Peter’s embrace. “Let’s skate.”

 
He frowned down at her, wondering if he’d said something wrong.

  “I want to get back to not touching you sooner rather than later.” She leaned in and whispered, “So you can lose the bet.”

  Blood surged southward at her suggestive tone. He watched after her as she walked away, her hips swaying more than usual. Biting back a curse at the tightness of his jeans, he jerked his coat lower and went to the skate rental stand as Georgia sat, pulled off her boot, and worked on replacing it with a skate. When he returned, she had both skates on, but neither was laced or tied. He made to sit on the bench next to her, but she cleared her throat. When he looked at her, she stared pointedly at her feet. He followed her gaze, and she waggled her skates.

  “Lace them, please?” she asked with enough sweetness to make him narrow his gaze with suspicion.

  Despite his misgivings, he knelt before her and took her laces in his fingertips. As he did so, Georgia let her opposite thigh fall open, her short skirt revealing the apex of her white tights. Through the flimsy cotton he could clearly see the outline of her pussy. Full, pouting, and wet. He swallowed down a groan and swept his gaze up her torso to her face.

  She licked her lips.

  His cock jerked as if she’d made direct contact.

  “Careful,” he muttered, “or I’ll put more than coal in your stocking.”

  A cat’s-cream grin spread across her face. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

  If he thought everyday Georgia was sexy, then seductive Georgia set his blood on fire. Everything about her—from her eyes to her throaty whispers—was designed to seduce a man out of his mind. He couldn’t think with her looking at him that way, much less plan out the steps to his victory. If she wanted to play dirty, then she had no idea what she was in for. First, however, he needed to find a way to regain the upper hand.

  Taking her ankles in both hands, he jerked just hard enough that she slid forward on the bench and had to lean back on her palms. He maintained his hold on her right ankle with one hand while he braced with his other between her legs. She looked down, saw how close his fingers were to her pussy, and sucked in a breath. His shoulders, he knew, blocked the crowds from seeing what he was doing, but Georgia could very clearly tell where he intended to go next.