by EC Sheedy
He touched her hair, tucked some curls behind her ear, and resisted the urge to sink his hands into it and do the planting she'd suggested. If he did, she'd come to him. He was certain of it. Instead, he glanced at her office door and added. "I'll find my own way out. See you tomorrow."
Still as a plank, she watched him go.
* * *
Ginger threw herself on her bed and beat on her pillow, then rolled on her back to harangue the ceiling.
Oh, the injustice of it. Six feet of sin, otherwise known as Cal Beaumann, showing up in her life just when she's bent on taking control. Obviously the Director Goddess of Womens' affairs was out having too many martini lunches.
And what in heaven's name was that "plant one on me thing" about? Sure, she was pushing his buttons, but she'd come dangerously close to pushing her own. Puckering up like a spinster looking for lip service had to be among the stupidest ideas of all times. And then the arrogant son of a baker hadn't even had the courtesy to kiss her.
That stung. That really stung.
But what really scared the sap out of her was that she'd actually wanted him to kiss her. Badly. She moaned, rolled over again and played dead, facedown on the bed.
Same old bad habits kicking in. Put her in proximity of a handsome face, a sexy smile—and a mind that doesn't think past the nearest bedpost—and she becomes the village idiot.
She forked her fingers through her irritating hair, shoved it behind her ears. And as suddenly as that, she relived the touch of Cal's finger teasing the skin of her cheek, stroking the line of her jaw. She got to her feet.
Standing, room center, she let her arms drop to her sides and trembled. His touch...
Her body and senses humming, half in longing, half in exasperation, she had to admit it; she was in major sexual upheaval, here. It was past time for a reality check.
She stomped barefoot across the bedroom carpet and stared herself down in the mirror over her bureau. She pointed a finger at herself. "Three months ago, Cameron, you made a decision to change your style and your attitude." She sneered at herself. "No more reckless relations with the muscle-bound set. Remember that?" She wagged her finger, metronome style. "You made a commitment, babe, and nothing's changed."
So Beaumann was a sexual tsunami. She'd handle it.
She yanked off her T-shirt. The diamond in her navel caught a shard of light, glittered and shadowed out. If she didn't know better she'd swear it winked.
Chapter 4
The next day Ginger got to Cal's theater at eleven-thirty. A determined fashion catastrophe in a shapeless brown suit, beige nylons, low-heeled pumps, and a hair knot on her noggin so tight blinking required advance planning, she'd arrived to find the theater doors open. She filled her mind with resolve, and walked in.
Inside, she stopped, her interest caught by the clever poster for Cinema Neo's opening film, No Friend At All. When Cal stepped up from behind, so close she felt his breath on her nape, she spun to face him.
His eyes scanned her, a dangerous half smile playing sexy games with his lips. His perfect lips.
Any thoughts of a businesslike conversation flew from her head like a bunch of disturbed sparrows. Her heart bumped hard into her rib cage, and something tightened between her legs.
"Where'd you get the suit, Cameron, army surplus?" He arched a brow. "And here I'd been led to believe you were going to revisit your closet."
She cleared her throat to make room for a lie and did up one black plastic button. "I did. This is it."
His grin was pure devil. He gestured with his chin at her suit. "It won't work, you know. If you wore a circus tent I'd still see what I saw last night under that muscle shirt. Your secret's out, sweetheart."
She ignored his words, his perfect lips, his perfect smile, his perfect everything and rifled through her briefcase, all business. "Here's the guest list for opening night. If you have any interest at all in promoting your premiere." Yes, she was sarcastic, and yes, he deserved it.
He took it and tossed it on his desk as if it were as relevant as last week's shopping list. "Later," he said and grasped her hand. "Come with me."
"What are you—"
"You'll see."
When she dug her heels in, he tugged harder.
In seconds, despite her ongoing protests, he'd dragged her into the belly of the empty theater and seated her center row.
"Wait here." He strode up the aisle, leaving her to fume at being manhandled.
A few minutes later, the lights dimmed and Cal ambled down the aisle carrying a gigantic bag of popcorn. He took the seat next to her, lifted up the armrest that was between them, and looked up at the shining screen, a screen showing a multi-pierced, shaggy-haired young man skateboarding wildly along a busy New York street in the driving rain.
Ginger stared at Cal. "I came here to work in case you've forgotten." She tried for seriously sniffy, but couldn't tear her gaze from the big screen. She adored movies.
"This is work." Cal slouched in his seat, spread his knees wide, and set the bag of popcorn between them. He waved at the screen. "Opening night, Cameron, No Friend At All. This is what your PR efforts are all about. I thought you'd like a sneak preview."
Ginger shifted her eyes from the tempting hot buttery popcorn. Too bad she couldn't shift her nose. The aroma was heaven in a bag. And the man offering it to her was seduction in sneakers. "You should have asked. For all you know I could have appointments this afternoon."
He swiveled his head, glanced at her from under shadowed lashes. "Do you?"
She smoothed one narrow lapel. "No, but—"
"Relax, then. You're about to see the funniest damn film made in the last ten years."
"But—"
"Cameron, put a sock in it, okay?"
She glared, then looked down at the popcorn between his thighs. "I'd prefer some of that."
He looked at his lap, grinned. "I take it you mean the popcorn?"
"Leave the humor to the experts, Beaumann"—she jutted her chin toward the screen—"and pass the damn popcorn."
* * *
An hour later, Ginger had her knees propped against the seat in front of her, full possession of the popcorn, and was laughing so hard she barely noticed Cal's arm was draped along the back of her seat. When he rested his hand on her shoulder, she smirked.
He squeezed. Once. "Hell. You're wearing enough padding to repel the entire offensive squad of the Seattle Sea Hawks." He sounded amused.
"That's the idea."
"Waste of time, though."
"Oh, yeah. Why's that?" she asked.
"Because, all your efforts are for a lost cause..." He leaned closer and used his thumb to idly caress her nape in that shivery spot between her collar and knotted hair. She shouldn't be doing this. No. But his thumb was warm and expertly insistent as it worked its way up into her hair to softly rub the tense muscles at the base of the skull. When he pressed there, she closed her eyes, rolled her head back into his hand. She sighed, lost in the light, confident touch of his hands, until, his mouth to her ear, he whispered, "You and I are going to make love, Cameron, and all the shoulder pads in Saks can't do a damn thing to stop it." He ran his fingers into her hair and undid her complicated hair clip with the efficiency of an Indy pit mechanic. "And it's going to be great sex, unforgettable sex. I can taste you just thinking about it. But I'd rather taste this." He licked the side of her mouth.
Finally her brain engaged. She leaped to her feet and her hair tumbled over her face. She shoved it back and slammed the popcorn bag into his lap. "What do you think you're doing?"
He shifted in his chair. "Besides getting hard? Not much."
"Beaumann, I don't want this."
"Sit down. And quit sputtering like a spinster aunt." He gave her a stare worthy of the wiliest Baltimore detective. "It doesn't fit what's in the package."
She sat. "I am not a package, Beaumann, and you're not U.P.S."
"Okay, I'll bite. What are you?"
"Giv
e me my hair clip." She held her palm out and kept her mouth closed. She certainly didn't owe Cal Beaumann any explanations. He'd be the last man on earth to understand.
He slapped the clip into her hand, and she started to rebuild her image. Before she finished, Cal reached out, tugged gently on some still-loose strands of hair. He twirled them casually between his long fingers, and asked, "Explain, Cameron. Why does a woman with as much potential as you hide it behind bad hair, bad suits, and a bad attitude?"
"I do not have a bad attitude."
"At least you didn't try defending the suit. So give, Cameron," he said. "What have you got against sex? Scared?"
"Is that what you think I am? 'Scared'? Of You?"
"I don't know. I'm asking."
"Well, for your information, 'scared' isn't in the equation."
"What is? In the equation, I mean."
"Avoidance." She eased her shoulders higher.
"Avoidance." He looked puzzled.
She took in more air. It was now or never. "If you must know, I'm taking a two year sabbatical from sex." She grit her teeth. "And I intend to avoid men who like a woman for a good time, not a long time."
"And that's me?" He gave her a thoughtful look. "Something you've decided by just looking at me?"
His words echoed. He was reminding her of what she'd said when he'd tried to throw her out of his office during their first meeting. "Can you deny it? Are you in the market for a double ring ceremony?"
He laughed. "Not this week."
"There you go." She shrugged a padded shoulder. "You've proved my point. You came to my house for sex. You're coming on to me now—for sex. And when you get what you want you'll leave."
"I usually stay for coffee."
"Very funny."
He studied her a long moment. "Burned, Cameron? Some guy leave scorch marks on his way out?"
More than one. And for a second the pain and embarrassment of it stalled her thoughts. "You could say that," she muttered.
"That's tough." He ran his finger along the shell of her ear, tugged lightly on her lobe, and nodded. "But maybe you had the wrong idea going in. Maybe you should have left some marks of your own." He touched her jaw. "And maybe you should stop leading with your heart and just have some fun."
She didn't want to admit she'd tried that, and it hadn't worked. "I can't. And I won't."
"I see."
"Good. Then you'll back off." She stood, keen to escape those magician fingers of his currently turning her gray matter into gruel.
Cal stood, too, and faced her. "I don't think the two year thing will work."
"Says who?" They were perilously close. So close she plainly saw the one imperfection in his soap-star handsome face, a half circle scar just under his jaw. It was forgotten when he lifted her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.
"Says me."
He kissed her, brushed his lips over hers with the deftness of a consummate artist. "Ever make out in a movie theater, Cameron?" he whispered against her mouth.
Her breath quivered in her throat, her heart raced, then pounded an irregular jungle rhythm against her ribs. She told herself to pull away, but she wasn't listening. She tried to stiffen in his embrace, but her muscles, soft as butter and melting fast, refused to comply. He had the mouth of a kissing god. She was in the arms of a man who knew what he was doing and how to do it. She was toast.
He deepened the kiss, took her mouth completely. His tongue licked her lower lip as if it were candy, then slipped inside to mate with hers in hot plunging strokes. With the first stroke, she was wet and wanting, with the second she nestled closer to the hard ridge between his thighs. When he lifted his head to smile down at her, his eyes dark and heavy, every neuron, cell, and nerve in her body was waving white flags of surrender. If he stopped holding her, she'd have crumpled to the floor, a thoroughly kissed rag doll to whom two years had just become an eternity.
He shifted his mouth to her throat, her ear, took her lobe in his teeth, tugged, while his warmed breath murmured into her ear.
Ginger slid her hands over the taut muscles in his back, paused at the ridge of belt encircling his lean waist—with no memory of how her hands had arrived at this danger zone in the first place. She was burning. Her face was flushed, and her neck where he kissed and suckled was flame hot.
And she was so close. Close enough to glide her hand between them, cup the impressive weight that lay thick and pulsing behind his zipper. Breathless, she looked up at him. He bucked into her hand and cursed. When he opened his eyes, he settled them on her with grim purpose. "This place is okay for an appetizer but—"
A blast of rap music signaled the end of the movie and the beginning of the credits.
Ginger, as if emerging from the shadowy depths of an enchanted forest into noon sun on a desert, stepped out of his arms. Wordless, she stared at him.
His expression was determined; his voice when he spoke was gruff. "Tonight, Cameron. I'm coming over tonight. Try to wear something... accommodating."
* * *
At nine o'clock, sitting like a stump in her darkened living room, Ginger heard Cal's knock on her door. Her body jerked, and she swallowed until her throat hurt.
Promises, especially ones you make to yourself, don't go down easy.
She been through her closet, and a storm of decision making, too many times to count since she'd left Cal. Would she sleep with Cal or wouldn't she? Red satin tank top or tweed pants? Ten minutes ago, for the third time, she'd armored herself in baggy beige wool slacks—that scratched like rioting fire ants—and a muddy brown turtleneck a size too big that threatened either strangulation or heat exhaustion. She'd chosen them in an I-won't phase.
Cal knocked again and she headed down the hall.
She saw him through the glass in the door. His collar was up against the wind, and his hair, catching her porch light, shone as the gusts from the ocean blew strands of it over his forehead. He combed it roughly with his fingers but kept his gaze fixed to hers. Waiting.
She thought longingly of the red satin, took a breath and opened the door. God, he was so beautiful.
He made no move to come in, and his voice was dark and soft when he said, "If you don't stop chewing that lip of yours, you're going to draw blood." He lifted her chin, looked into her eyes. "Ease up, sweetheart."
Now, a lot of men had called her sweetheart, but no one said it like Cal. Somehow he managed to soak the word in honey and promises. Somehow he made the word sound endearing—for the first time.
Somehow he made it sound... sincere.
She couldn't respond of course, because whatever faculties were left after her "sweetheart" analysis weren't enough to spell her own name, let alone plot her next move.
Cal bent his head, brushed his lips over hers in a kiss that would take first place for brevity in the Guinness Book of World Records. Two seconds, tops. He stepped back and gave her uniform a long look. "I came because I said I would. Have I made a mistake? Do you want me to go?"
Aghast at the idea, she couldn't answer.
Apparently he took her silence for agreement. He nodded. "Fair enough. See you... tomorrow."
He turned to leave. "Coffee," she blurted. "You can come in for coffee, can't you?"
"It's not coffee I want, Ginger. I figured you knew that."
"You don't want coffee?" Stupid response number four thousand nine hundred and eighty-six.
"If I come in and we have that 'coffee'"—he smiled, and her heart stopped mid-beat—"I'll be angling for dessert over the first cup."
"Like sweet things, do you?" She started to breathe, and she started to want. Badly.
He leaned down and kissed her on the tip of her nose, her cheek, then that shivery spot just under her ear. "Definitely," he murmured there. "And I know exactly where to find enough sugar for both of us."
Ginger trembled, and her stomach did the most fluid and wonderful cartwheel. Finally the definitive answer she wanted. Yes! She grasped the front of his jac
ket, pulled him inside, and closed the door with her foot. "As it happens I'm right out of coffee. Not a bean in the place."
"Thank God." He pulled her into his arms. She watched his face as it moved nearer to hers, saw his eyes grow serious and dark in the timeless moment before their mouths joined, hot and uncontrolled. Her last semi-rational thought was a jumbled idea about leaping and a net would appear.
Please, she added, fading further into his kiss, the easy seduction of his tongue... make it a very, very big net.
He kissed her thoroughly, didn't hide either his need or his impatience. Their tongues met and their tastes and breath mingled. The sharp clean smell of his woodsy aftershave enveloped her, weakened her. It drifted up her nose like a sexual incense, transparent and volatile. She slid her hands up the front of his leather jacket to the back of his neck, ran her fingers through his thick silken hair, breezy and clean from a recent shampoo. A woman was a goner when a man smelled as good as he looked.
With Cal's mouth on hers, Ginger's heart pounded up and into her ears. She pressed herself to him, flush and needy.
But close wasn't close enough. She pressed harder into the heated length of him, knew there was open hunger in her eyes when she lifted her misty gaze to his intense one. Every feminine sinew and nerve in her body strained and spiked, fired by anticipation, the seductive promise inherent in Cal's hardened masculinity.
Cal pulled back, his eyes black in the dim light of the entrance lit only by a nightlight near the door. He took her face in his hands. "You do have a bedroom, don't you?"
"Huh?"
"A bedroom." He touched her lips with his tongue, kissed her again, and whispered roughly, "One of those places where a woman takes a man when she wants to have her way with him."
Ginger forced herself to blink, got lost in visions of exactly what way it would be, couldn't speak. He pulled her against him and kissed her again, then moved back. "I'm dying here, Ginger."
She grabbed his hand. "This way." She towed him down the hall and into her bedroom—to the big awkward moment, the unavoidable segue between the heat of kisses and the turning down of cool sheets for the purpose of hot sex.
