Scandalized!: Risqué Business

by Lori Foster

  “Sure. I’m always up for pancakes.” She glanced over as he pulled out a chair and dropped into it, almost drooling as she took in his appearance.

  Only wearing his boxers, the chest she’d explored so thoroughly the night before was bare and tempting. Her fingers itched to feel the silky V of hair again, to follow the trail down his rock-hard abs to the elastic of his underwear.

  “I’m up for other things, too,” he said in a husky tone. Her gaze flew to his. The hypnotic blue of his eyes pulled her in, reminded her of just how incredible it had felt to slide down his body, to feel him inside her, to give over to their passion. Because she wanted to take him up on the sensual invitation so much, her words were harsher than she’d intended.

  “Pancakes are all that’s on the menu this morning, hotshot. You made your pitch, now it’s my turn.”

  As soon as she said it, Delaney mentally winced. Why didn’t she just give him his pants, slap him on the ass and send him on his way with a “nice job, stud”?

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. The cold calculation in them gave Delaney the shivers.

  “Your turn, is it? How so?”

  Tactless or not, she stood by her words. She had to. If she didn’t, she’d lose the bet. She wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d fall for her, but for once, she needed to prove to herself that she was strong enough to control a relationship. That she, masked or not, was enough to command the attention of a man like Nick Angel.

  “Your point was that great sex is based on lust alone. You have to admit, we had great sex.”

  His blue eyes defrosted just a tad. “I was starting to wonder if you were going to claim it was one-sided.”

  “Lie?” Delaney was actually shocked. Facts were facts, after all. She frowned as she flipped the last pancake onto a plate and carried it to where he sat, all rumpled male frustration, at her cozy little bistro table.

  “See, that actually supports my reasoning. We had sex—great sex,” she quickly added when his eyes went icy again, “but physical pleasure aside, we don’t know each other. Which is why I’m not taking offense at your allusion.”

  Delaney gathered syrup, butter and jam, not sure what he’d like, and placed them all on the table. Then she sat across from Nick and folded her arms over her chest.

  “But I don’t lie. Neither am I a pushover. Both of which are clear in my reviews, which is what started this. You’ll realize this after I prove my point in our little side bet.”

  Nick gave her a long look, even sexier than usual with his shadowed cheeks and sleepy-eyed irritation. “Which brings us back to your turn, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How do you plan to prove your point, then? To win the bet?” The obvious—to him—impossibility restored his usual affability. He gave her a grin and proceeded to slather butter and syrup over his pancakes.

  Delaney waited until he’d taken a bite, watching to see if he liked the food. His look clearly said he did, which gave her a baffling sense of pleasure.

  “For the remainder of our month-long fling, we’re dating,” she told him, hoping her tone sounded more implacable than apologetic. “We won’t be having sex.”

  *

  THE SHOCKED BURST of laughter hit him so hard and fast, Nick almost spewed pancake crumbs across the table. He had to cough, blinking to clear his watering eyes.

  “You’re kidding, right? Sex between us was incredible, and you think tossing it aside will win you the bet? Or are you banking on my death by sexual frustration as a win by default?”

  She had to be kidding. Nobody walked away from sex that good. A weird feeling he finally identified as panic hit Nick in the gut. He wasn’t ready to end it, wasn’t willing to give up the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. Of his body inside hers.

  Her lips quirked, but she shook her head.

  “My point was that emotion makes for better sex. We’ve had great sex already as…what would you call us, acquaintances?”

  Anger shoved aside the panic. Nick didn’t like that term. She made it sound like they barely knew each other. Which was bullshit.

  He knew her, dammit. He knew the sound she made when she came. He knew how she felt when her body gripped him, milking the last drop of pleasure from her orgasm. He knew her smile, her laugh, and thanks to watching her as she’d slept for an hour, what she looked like when all her defenses were down.

  Beyond the physical, he knew she’d meet any challenge he threw out with intelligence and forethought. That she was probably smarter than he was, but so sweet with it he appreciated, rather than resented, her super-brain. He knew she liked chocolate and music and, though she’d surely disagree, she needed coddling and appreciation.

  Nick didn’t understand where the urge came from, since he rarely chose to spend time with women outside of bed, but he wanted to be the one to spoil and fuss over her. To bring her flowers for no reason other than to see her smile. To take her to the bookstore and watch her enjoyment, take her to a play and then listen to her analyze it afterward. Preferably in bed.

  He simply wanted to be with her.

  And that thought scared the hell out of him.

  The pancakes turned sickeningly in his stomach. Nick was a loner on purpose. Because people let him down, because they couldn’t be depended on. Especially women.

  Like it had been sluiced with a bucket of ice water, his carefully honed cynicism shook itself awake. So Delaney wasn’t that different from Angelina after all. Lure him in, get him hooked, then let the game begin. His ex had used sex to get a wedding ring. Hell, she used it for every damned thing she wanted. Only she called it love.

  He should be thanking Delaney for putting the brakes on, not getting pissy. After all, one night with her had him thinking crazy thoughts, all gooey and emotional. This break was perfect. He’d never spent time outside of bed with a woman without becoming irritated over their demands. This would be no different.

  “Okay, date it is,” he agreed. His stomach back to normal, he polished off the last of the pancakes. “I have to run to New York for a few days, so how about Wednesday night? I’ll pick you up around eight, we’ll do a show.”

  Her look of shock at his easy capitulation was priceless. Better yet, it restored his appetite. Nick gestured to his empty plate and gave her his pitiful, starving look. “In the meantime, can I have another batch of pancakes? These are the best I’ve ever had.”

  Much like the lady who’d made them. A fact he figured he’d have no problem ignoring…after one more serving.

  *

  “I THINK SEXUAL tension is almost a character in Ms. Duffy’s books,” Delaney insisted, leaning forward to make her point. “It not only moves the plot, but it keeps the reader, and characters, on edge.”

  Four weeks of “Critic’s Corner” had given her enough confidence to ignore the red light on the camera and let herself get into the discussion. She still hated it, but at least now she could ignore it. It was almost like being back in the classroom. Except, of course, for the short skirts, male attention and fact that everyone here seemed to assume there was more to her than her brain.

  “Don’t you think it’s frustrating to have that tension wind so tight? Not only for the characters, but for the poor readers who want them to just get on with it already?” Sean asked with a serious frown at odds with the topic. Delaney pressed her lips together to hold back a smile, since she knew he was trying to keep from snickering.

  “I think we both agree that, in general, withholding the culmination of the sex keeps the reader flipping the pages. Of course, like you say, it needs to be done right so the readers aren’t so frustrated they lose interest,” she said. Then, holding up the hardcover book so the camera could pan in on it, she continued, “Ms. Duffy, in my opinion, does a fabulous job. I’d love to hear what our viewers think, though. Go to www.wakeupca.com and share your opinion on today’s book discussion.”

  The camera light blinked off, letting her know her segment was finished. Sinking back in
her chair, she let the book fall to her lap and let the fake smile drop off her face.

  “You’re getting better,” the clean-cut blonde commented as he unhooked his microphone from the collar of his shirt. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure how you’d handle the ins and outs of a regular segment. Especially since you were so nervous on the air. But you’ve managed to keep it interesting and hold viewers’ attention. A few more weeks and you’ll be kicking butt.”

  Delaney stared. Her? Kick butt? More like fall on it. Even though she no longer felt physically ill before each episode, she knew she wasn’t in control. Not like she was in the classroom.

  “By the way, the producer wants to up the ‘Critic’s Corner’ to twice a week starting Monday. He figures between the Nick Angel bet snagging so much attention and how the ratings take a jump when your segment’s on, it’ll bump our numbers even higher.”

  Twice? Delaney gulped. But the words ratings jump rang in her head, so instead of protesting she nodded her agreement.

  Did ratings translate to charisma or whatever it was Professor Belkin wanted in his assistant head? This meant she was making progress. Her smile so big it ached, she thanked Sean and, after removing her own microphone, made her way through the chitchatting crew back to her dressing room.

  When she got there, Delaney eyed her baffled reflection. So this was kicking butt, huh? Apparently it agreed with her, since, if she did say so herself, she’d never looked better.

  Which made her laugh. She, who’d never cared about appearances, was rating her look. Of course, the credit for her grin, glow and weird habit of breaking into giggles all went to Nick. Or at least to the incredible sex she’d had with him.

  A surge of excitement shot through her when her cell phone rang. A quick glance quelled the hopeful flutters in her stomach, but didn’t squash her good mood.

  “Mindy, hi,” she said as she slid out of her skirt. As much as she was starting to enjoy her fancy professional look, she was much more comfortable in the stylishly casual look she and Mindy had come up with that combined her old style—or what there had been of it—and her sexy new one. Nice-fitting jeans, kicky flats and fitted tops that made good use of Delaney’s new favorite accessory—her push-up bra.

  “Hey, how was taping?”

  They chatted while Delaney changed, then wiped away her TV makeup and redid it with a surprisingly deft hand. She was getting good at this stuff, she realized.

  “So I’ll see you Friday night?” Mindy asked.

  “What’s Friday night?”

  The silence made her frown. What had she forgotten?

  “Faculty soiree. You didn’t actually forget, did you?” Mindy asked hesitantly. Her voice was muffled, telling Delaney she’d started chewing on her fingernails. “That’s the reason behind this makeover, remember? To show the dean and Professor Belkin that you’re perfect for the assistant position, not that other gal.”

  Delaney dropped into her chair. Shit. She’d been so caught up in the TV show and her games with Nick, that she’d almost forgotten that it was all for the promotion.

  It’d been a week and a half since she’d fed him pancakes and put conditions on their fling. Because Nick’s business in New York had hit a snag, their date had been postponed until this Friday night.

  Like a pouty child, she poked out her lower lip and sighed. She felt as if she’d just heard she couldn’t play with her favorite toy. Or, in big-girl terms, her favorite boy toy.

  Delaney winced at the thought, since it, and the constant state of sexual awareness she’d been in since that night with Nick, all supported his stupid lust theory.

  “Are you going to attend?” Mindy’s words were so garbled, Delaney figured she was probably working on at least two nails at this point.

  “Of course.” After all, the faculty soiree was what counted. Her teaching, her career, her promotion. Those were the real her, those would last. All the rest of this, while wonderful, was only here for the summer. Come fall, she’d be back in her real world. Albeit definitely commanding more attention. “Like you said, that’s what this is all about.”

  It was, she assured herself a few minutes later when she’d hung up. The makeover, the TV spot, even the bets with Nick were all for one reason. To give her the edge she needed to refute Professor Belkin’s—and more importantly, her father’s—estimation of her ability to command a classroom full of people in a way that would boost the English department’s numbers and prestige.

  This—she looked around at the miniscule dressing room—was only temporary. She needed to remember that. She glanced at the book on top of her bag, one of Nick’s review picks. All of it, the bets, their relationship—if great, out-of-this-world sex based on a bet could be called a relationship—was temporary. Stepping-stones to her real goal.

  She thought of Nick, the way he’d smiled as he stroked her body to a fever pitch, the way his eyes had turned smoky-blue when he came. His place in her life was as real as her cleavage. She needed to keep that in mind.

  If she did, maybe it’d make breaking her date with him just a little easier.

  *

  NICK GLARED AT his laptop screen, tempted to slam it shut. But breaking the computer wouldn’t help. Not with his hideous case of writer’s block, nor the sexual frustration that was probably the cause of the writer’s block.

  He looked around the hotel room, trying to find a diversion. But other than ugly art and the bed, there was nothing. Deliberately nothing. As usual, he’d requested the TV be removed before he’d checked in, and had also had the Internet blocked.

  His cell phone rang. He was so grateful for the distraction, he didn’t even check the screen when he answered.

  “Nicky?”

  Son of a bitch. That’s what he got for giving in to his frustration. Automatic resentment and anger twisted a tight, ugly knot in his gut.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Sweetie, I need your help.”

  Of course she did. She wouldn’t have called for any other reason.

  “I’m getting married….” She gave an expectant pause for his reaction.

  Nick stayed silent. Not because he was worried he’d say something ugly. Nope, simply because there was absolutely nothing left to say. The woman had more weddings under her belt than Nick had books published. Her marriages lasted about the same length of time it took him to write one, too.

  “Jeremy is so sweet, Nicky. He’s the perfect man for me.” Translation—he was rich. “There’s just one teensy thing. He’s a writer. His manuscript is wonderful. Well, I assume it is. I haven’t actually read it, of course. I mean, like I told the silly man, I don’t even read yours.”

  Oblivious to the insult and, as always, not interested in his input, his mother babbled on about her future husband, her future plans and her many new purchases.

  Pain he refused to acknowledge sliced through Nick. He swallowed and shifted his jaw, knowing a rebuke was useless. He’d never registered on his mother’s radar unless she wanted something. When he was growing up, it’d been to get him to play the fatherless waif to her tragic single mother in another con to snag a new husband. Now, it was money and favors. Because she played him just as easily as the men she chased, he knew he’d give her whatever she wanted. Which only pissed him off more. Proof positive that emotions were only there for the woman’s advantage. Guys were just screwed.

  Nick eyed his laptop and ground his teeth. This was the price of procrastination. The writer’s block he’d been mourning suddenly dissipated. As always, two minutes of conversation with his mother and he desperately wanted to lose himself in the safe, sane world of his stories.

  “Nicky,” his mother asserted at the end of her monologue, “I need a little favor.”

  Finally, the point. He hoped like hell it was a favor that would require his signature on a check and he could be done with it.

  “I want you to get Jeremy a book deal. Maybe one like you have. You know, with a really big advance. We’ll do publi
c appearances, TV, media events. It’ll be so fun. An author and his wife, the tour. Doesn’t that sound perfect? I’ll…we’ll make a fortune.”

  “I’m not an agent or a publisher, Lori.” The term Mom was only used when she was playing a role. Otherwise, she preferred her given name.

  “I know that, Nicholas. I just wanted some help. It breaks my heart to think Jeremy won’t see his dream come true. I never saw my dream, you know. I had to give up my biggest wish to become a dancer because, well, you know, because of you.” Her sigh was a thing of tragedy.

  More like because of a broken condom, but whatever. Nick’s fingers itched for his checkbook. Why couldn’t she just want money? It would have been a clean, bloodless favor. Knowing protesting would only incite more emotional blackmail, he sighed.

  “Send me the manuscript and contact information. I’ll forward it to my agent.”

  Having gotten what she wanted, his mother tossed off a perfunctory thanks, fast-forwarded through her goodbye and hung up.

  Nick needed to write like an alcoholic needed a drink. Desperately, insanely, unthinkingly.

  But instead, he gave in to the need to wipe away the ugly feelings left from the call. He lifted the phone again. Even as he told himself he was being ridiculous, he punched in the number from memory.

  “Hello.”

  “Delaney,” he said in greeting, adjusting the pillows behind him and leaning back on the ugly floral bedspread. “How’s it going?”

  “Nick?”

  He pulled a face at her shock. What? He couldn’t call? Shifting on the pillow, he had to give her credit. As a rule, he didn’t call women.

  “I got your e-mail about changing our date from Friday night. How about Saturday instead?”

  “Saturday’s good,” she agreed slowly. He heard the uncertainty in her voice and told himself it was because she didn’t understand why he hadn’t just emailed her the suggestion. It couldn’t be because she didn’t want to see him. He didn’t think he could take any more slams to his already fragile ego.