by EC Sheedy
It might have been past five and time to quit, but Ginger was so excited she could have worked for hours yet.
After she and Cal had settled the sticky situation of her wardrobe—or so he thought—they'd agreed on just about everything else, the ads, social media, the radio, the TV spots, even the tone and direction of the local interviews. He'd even agreed to Ginger's ideas for opening night: a Hollywood style premiere with limos, searchlights, the town's who's who in attendance, and a gala black tie post-screening dinner.
Cal had loved it.
Too bad his enthusiasm was so sexy. More than once in the time they'd spent together, she'd had to step away from the heat of him. Moments like when he sat on the couch, locked his hands behind his head and stretched out his long legs, seeming totally relaxed. And while he'd talked about crossover advertising all she could think about was crossing the room and straddling him—to give those jeans of his a quality control test.
Goddess, maybe she was a sex addict.
Cal stood, flexed and stretched until his chest expanded to fill his cotton shirt. "Good work today." He leveled his gaze on her—warm, unwavering and seductive. "You're damn smart. I like smart women." Something in his eyes shifted, turned silky and dark.
Ginger willed her stomach to quit kicking, was glad when Ellie interrupted with a knock on Cal's door. "Mind if I finish this bit of filing?" She held up a few sheets of paper.
"Give us a another minute, Ellie. We're almost done here." When Ellie left, he turned his attention back to Ginger. "About doing the website. Who do you recommend?"
"I'll do it myself. Work up some ideas tonight."
His head came up. "You know all that tech stuff?"
"Under these clothes lies a frustrated techie."
He gave her a speculative look. "Anything else under there a guy should know about?"
"No." She crammed her papers in her case and put a lid on her simmering hormones. "I think we're done here. You better move if you're going to meet your brother. Me, I'm going home and—" She stopped herself just in time. Given the way he was studying her, it wasn't the time to say you were going home to take off your clothes and sink into a bath, the place where she always did her best thinking.
"And what?" He ran his index finger along the seam from her shoulder to her elbow. His eyes were sultry, teasing. "Get into something not made with metal threads."
"Very funny." But she wasn't laughing when he ran his hand back up her arm and her skin got hot enough to bake pizza. He was coming on to her—an activity he seemed to find as amusing as she found it scarifying.
"You're the funny one, Cameron." But he wasn't laughing, or smiling, he was looking at her as if she were wearing a fuck me T-shirt and he'd overdosed on Viagra.
As if he were staring into the heart of his fantasy—and she was it. And if he looked at her like that, given the hippo tutu she was wearing, he either hadn't had sex this millennium, which she seriously doubted, or he'd committed himself to screwing any woman who breathed. And she was definitely breathing, too hard and too fast for comfort.
Trouble. With a capital T.
"Well, this 'funny' lady is heading home." She made it to the door in double-time. "I'll call you tomorrow. Let you know how I make out with the website." With her hand on the door, she got some courage, said flat out, "And you can save all those sexy looks for someone you might get into your bed. Which is not me. I told you, I don't do the hanky-panky with customers, Beaumann. Best you understand that. Totally."
"'Hanky-panky'?" Now he did laugh, a deep masculine laugh that rolled out of his chest on strong breaths. Ginger sucked up the urge to laugh with him. God, she loved men who laughed like that. Especially in bed.
"Good night," she said, keeping her lips tight and efficiently prissy, and nuking all thoughts of bed and Cal Beaumann from her head. She closed the door so quickly behind her, her skirt caught, and she had to open it again to free it. Cal was still laughing, and she was sure she heard him repeating, "Hanky-panky," but she didn't keep the door open long enough to confirm it.
* * *
When Cal stopped laughing, he put his feet up on his desk and kept the smile on his face.
One thing for sure, Ginger Cameron hadn't disappointed him. Once they'd got down to business, working with her had been fun. Electric. Of course, she'd ignored his request, hadn't changed her style—or whatever the hell it was—and still looked like a turn-of-the-century prison warden, but she was sharp as hell. He'd come to get a kick out of seeing her show up in her crazy retro clothes, each outfit more creative than the one before. Made him look forward to his tomorrows.
Maybe too much so.
He took his feet off his desk.
Next up? Another meeting with Ian, his impatient brother with the calculator brain who thought an evening spent reviewing financial statements was better than an orgasm.
Cal didn't agree. But if Ian wanted a Cinema Neo update—again—he'd get it. Cal wondered about Ian's suddenly heightened interest in the business, but chalked it up to him simply wanting to be informed about his investment. Fair enough.
From his small office window, he spotted Ginger walking toward her car, and found himself intrigued by the way her hips bumped against that god-awful canvas skirt she'd encased herself in for today's meeting.
What the hell was under all that damn yardage anyway?
He tilted his head for a better look, imagined long shapely legs—leading to exactly where a man wanted to be.
While he considered the possibilities, she dropped her car keys, and when she bent over to pick them up, he glimpsed a perfect backside.
He whistled softly and let out a long easy breath.
Temptation waved a flag, yelled about how much fun it would be to peel off some fabric layers and uncover the real Ginger Cameron. He countered temptation by reminding it what a bad idea it was to mix business with pleasure. Temptation responded with a dissertation on women, sex, and the value of play in relieving stress. Very logical, temptation—and profound.
If it was true all work and no play made a dull boy, by now Cal figured, he was the equivalent of a petrified couch potato. Finding out what made Cameron tick—under the clothes and between the sheets—was exactly the kind of play he needed right now. Hell, he hadn't had sex in so long he'd probably forgotten how to do it.
He smiled. Not a chance. Any man who could forget the lush enticing curves of a woman, the bone-melting heat and welcome home nestled at the apex of her thighs, had to have had a lobotomy. Of course, he wasn't absolutely certain Ginger actually had curves—but it would be entertaining to find out. And he couldn't think of a better time to start than right away.
He'd drop by her place tonight, after his meeting with Ian, and see how she was making out with the website.
God, but he was brilliant when he set his mind to it. He grinned and looked at his watch. A couple of hours with Ian and he'd be at Ginger's door.
* * *
As it turned out, Ginger's house was on the beach about ten miles down the road from the hotel where he and Ian had dinner. A dinner that hadn't gone well.
Cal was left with the gut-wrenching feeling his number-crunching brother had his own agenda. One that didn't line up with his. Cinema Neo might be Cal's passion, but to Ian it was just another money machine. No matter how many times Cal told him he wasn't interested in selling, Ian kept harping on it. Trouble was, there was too much of Ian's money in the business and not enough of Cal's. And if Ian really wanted out, there wasn't much Cal could do about it. It bugged the hell out of him.
He pushed the worry aside. He'd deal with Ian if and when he had to. Tonight he wanted to deal with Ginger.
Where her house sat, the road ended in a dark patch of fir and tall hemlock. Moonlight exposed a sprawling old cedar-shaked house. A black carriage lamp dangled precariously on a tilted fence to cast a yellow light on the driveway entrance.
Even though it looked as if every light in the house was on, it was well after
nine o'clock. Cal knew there was a good chance she'd slam the door in his face, but even that would be fun.
He stepped out of his Cherokee into the chill of a September wind coming in off the ocean. He shuddered; after months in the Pacific Northwest, he still wasn't acclimated to the cold night air.
He looked for a bell or button but didn't find either, so he knocked.
The door opened, abruptly and wide, and Ginger stood in a fall of light, her face pale under a mass of loose, disheveled honey-red hair that rested on bare shoulders. She wore black sweatpants so big Cal figured she picked them up at a heavyweight boxer's garage sale, and a white cotton muscle shirt so small it must have come from a Barbie dress-up kit. The skimpy shirt showed off straight shoulders and long elegant arms leanly muscled.
Whoa... Cameron did have a body. And more.
She had breasts.
Cal's jaw didn't drop but his gaze sure as hell did—well below the line a sexually correct modern male's should.
Beautiful breasts. Firm and peach size. And a waist he could span with his hands. Hell, this was more than he bargained for—as was the stirring behind his zipper.
She looked shell-shocked. "Beaumann?" She immediately reached behind the door, came up with a ratty old navy cardigan from the same garage sale she'd found the mega sweatpants. In seconds the breasts and tiny waist were enveloped in sagging wool. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
For a second he couldn't remember; his mind was still processing measurements. "I thought I'd come by and see how you were making out."
She attacked the cardigan buttons with shaking hands. "It's late."
"I know."
"You should have called."
"You're right."
"Being agreeable doesn't make it okay," she said and fumbled with another button.
"So do I stand here until it is okay, or are you going to invite me in?"
She closed the last button, tugged the sweater down around her hips, and stepped back. "Come in, then—but next time call."
He raised his left hand, crossed his fingers. "I promise."
A smile lifted her lips, and he was surprised when she let it stay. Cameron wasn't much into smiles. "You're a real piece of work. Do you know that?" she said.
"And I'd say, speaking as a man who's just had a glimpse of paradise," he toyed with her top sweater button, "you're a pretty special piece yourself."
She slapped his hand away. "Do not lech after me, Beaumann. For your information, I have legs like tree trunks and an ass the size of Wyoming."
"I don't think so. From that much too brief preview, I'd guess everything is in just the right proportions."
"Previews, as you should know—being in the movie business and all—do not tell the whole story."
"True. But they sure as hell pique the curiosity."
She rolled her eyes. "Men. One boob sighting and they're set to ready."
"One?" He cocked a brow. "I could swear I saw two." He moved toward her. "Maybe I should do a recount."
"A Neanderthal to his bones. Lucky me." She backed away from him.
He grinned, watched her guard go up. He decided to switch gears before she booted him out. "Come up with any ideas for the website, yet?"
"Let's go to my office," she said, and this time the look she gave Cal bordered on triumphant. "You're in for a surprise." She started down a hall. "Follow me."
Cal figured he'd already had his big surprise for the night, when Ginger opened the door wearing a form-fitting muscle shirt, but he dutifully followed her down the hall, studying Wyoming all the way.
* * *
Ginger still reeled from the shock of having Cal show up on her doorstep. And there she was, tank-topped and half naked. And hadn't he had a darn good look? Then, of course, he'd acted like every man on this side of the primordial soup. He'd grinned like an idiot and put promises in his eyes. Naturally she'd gone all shivery and weak. She didn't even have Tracy here as a buffer; she was visiting her parents for a couple of days.
Goddess! But she was predictable. For three months she'd had her sexual thermostat nicely set to zero, and one Cal Beaumann smile sends it through the roof. She was hopeless. What was it with her, anyway? she grumped inwardly. Why couldn't some sincere, safely-suspendered CPA work this kind of magic? Make her skin tingle, her heart race, and her tummy go all funny and tight. Why did it have to be a piece of mouthwatering beefcake with a side order of Texas-size ego?
Doomed. She was doomed.
"This is it." She nodded into the room that was once a three car garage until the prior owner had revamped it into his studio. It was this office, fireplace on one wall, windows that overlooked the beach on two others, that made Ginger hock her unborn children to get into the place.
Cal looked around. "This is great." He smiled again, that crazy breathtaking smile that made her heart jump and her stomach sink into molasses.
"I like it."
He strolled to the fireplace. The small fire Ginger had set earlier had died down, so he picked up a piece of dry cedar, stoked the fire, and laid the fresh wood across the now crackling flames.
She would have protested if she weren't mesmerized by the way the firelight played over the strong angles of his face—how his jeans hugged the muscles in his thighs and butt when he bent over to tend the flames.
"Nice place to work." He stood, leaned against the mantel and tucked his hands halfway into his pockets. His glance slid to the daybed in the corner; he arched a brow.
"I spend a lot of time here. I nap," she said.
He grinned. "I can think of better things."
She worked up a glower. "What do you want, Beaumann? Exactly?"
He rubbed his jaw, a jaw with an intriguing ten o'clock shadow, then set his eyes on her as if she were a hero sandwich and he hadn't eaten in a month. "You really want to know?"
She suddenly didn't, but she wasn't about to fold under the challenge in his eyes. And she had asked the question. "Yes."
"I want you, Cameron. I think we'd be good in bed. Damn good."
His directness rocked her; she probably looked like a gasping guppy. "You can't just waltz into my house and ask for—"
"Sex?" His voice was calm, his eyes wickedly teasing and filled with enough raw sensuality to stop a heart at a hundred paces. "Why not?" He stepped close to her, looked but didn't touch. She could smell him, the cedar on his hands, the salty ocean wind in his hair.
"Because—" she stopped, too flustered and warm to say any thing remotely logical. She had to get him out of here. Now. "Because I don't want to talk about... sex."
"Me, either. I'd rather do it. And I think you would, too." His gaze traveled over her, heated and faintly amused, then locked with hers. "You're like one of those trick packages, Ginger. You know the kind. Lots of wrapping. First the big box, then the smaller box, then the smaller"—he caressed her cheek with his knuckles—"until there's just one small box left. The one containing the perfect gift."
Ginger couldn't take her eyes from his.
"We'd be good together, you know." His eyes shuttered as he looked at her mouth. "And I'd be good to you. Very good."
Her stomach dropped. She opened her mouth, closed it. Her heart thundered around in her chest as if it were a tornado looking for an arena to de-roof. This was crazy. "I, uh, think you should—"
He traced a finger along her jaw, gave her a white-hot smile. "Get started?" he finished for her.
She swallowed, hard. "Go," she blurted out. "I think you should go." She took a step back. "Sex... between us is a seriously bad idea. As for me—" she took a breath. "I've been working on the web design for hours, and now I just want to go to bed." She straightened and her lips firmed to stubborn. "Alone," she added.
Cal twisted his mouth to avoid smiling. Ginger's face was fever pink. He almost had her. Actually, he was pretty sure he did have her—if not tonight, soon. He closed the distance she'd put between them. "That's a hell of waste. You might want to reconsider
that."
She looked at his groin, eyed the bulge he knew was thickening at an alarming rate behind his zipper. She licked her lips, then shook her head. "Men," she said under her breath. Definitely more of a curse than an accolade. She leveled her gaze at him as if it were a firearm. "What I can't figure out is why you're coming on to me. There must be a dozen women in this town who'd leap at the chance to sleep with Cal Beaumann, soap star."
"Former soap star," he corrected. "And maybe it's you I want. I've never met a light hiding under a bushel before."
She cocked that firearm stare. "There's no light. There's just a serious woman, pursuing a serious career." She paused. "I want to do my job, not the client—if you get my drift."
He ignored her. "Add to that you smell so damn good"—he bent over, put his face close to her throat, under her ear where he could breathe her in—"like some exotic food." He touched his lips to her neck, soaked up the giving sigh of a ready woman. He damn near came out of his jeans.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" She pulled back abruptly. "Okay. That's it. Let's do it. Let's get it out of our systems." She lifted her face to his. "Plant one on me, Beaumann," she instructed, then puckered up like a country school teacher.
Cal studied her stubborn chin, and considered the offer—and a temptingly luscious mouth—while trying to ignore the gyrations and leaps of his feverish below-the-waist brain cells. Still... she was fighting this thing between them and there was a chance kissing her now would be a waste of her time and his.
"Well?" Her eyelids popped open. She looked annoyed.
"Well, what?"
"You didn't kiss me."
"No, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"I didn't come here for a kiss, Ginger."
"Oh, right, I forgot, you came for sex—the recreational kind, with no strings attached." Her tone was droll.
"Is there any other kind?" He managed a grin, but her barb hit home. That was exactly what he wanted. At least, that's what he'd started out wanting. His mistake was assuming she'd want that, too, that her sexual need was as strong and demanding as his own—despite the dress-up routine she used to hide it. Damn it, he still believed that.
