by Mary Campisi
***
Of course, the man who had stolen her opportunity would have to stay at the same hotel. C.C. took the elevator to the eighth floor and stepped into the hall. Be nice, be nice. Act like you’re crazy about him, her father had said. She wanted to strangle both of them right now. Her father had no idea what he asked of her. Pretending wasn’t in her nature. If she were his son, he wouldn’t have handed the project over to an outsider or told him to act like he was crazy about that person.
C.C. adjusted the strap on her black cocktail dress. Roxie had tried to talk her into buying a red one, but thank God she hadn’t listened. Red was for people like Roxie who thumbed their noses at life and laughed, not C.C. who stuffed extra quarters in parking meters and never even jaywalked.
Act like you’re crazy about him. Right. She wet her lips and knocked on room 812.
The door flew open and Max Jerrnigan stood in front of her…too tall, too dark…too male…shirt partially unbuttoned to reveal an abundance of dark chest hair. Instinct warned C.C. to look away but curiosity glued her eyes to the patch of chestnut hair visible between the crisp folds of open shirt. A jolt of heat shot through her. She assured herself it was only anger, paired with resentment.
“You’re early,” he said, his expression unreadable. “I’m almost ready. Why don’t you come in while I finish getting dressed?”
“All right.” She stepped inside and her gaze shot straight to the unmade king-size bed. Big mistake.
He caught her staring. “Sorry about that.”
She yanked her eyes from the rumpled sheets and mumbled, “That’s fine.” Was it hot in here? She fanned her face and scanned the rest of the room while he disappeared into the bathroom. A briefcase and laptop lay open on a table in the corner. Fine. Business-related objects she could handle. She moved toward them, anxious to distance herself from the heat and the man. That’s when she spotted the black silk boxers tossed on the chair next to the table. Visions of a naked Max Jerrnigan flitted through her head.
What was wrong with her? This man was lead on a project she believed should have been hers.
Max emerged from the bathroom adjusting his tie. “So, are we going to get this over with now or just pretend until the night is over?” He moved closer, blocking her ability to think straight.
“Can I have my personal space?” She was caught between the bed and the man with nowhere to go.
He took a few steps back and waited. He would be a formidable opponent in the board room; she could tell by the light in his eyes and the determined set of his jaw. No wonder her father wanted him. She had a reputation as a powerful negotiator as well, but she doubted Grayson considered that when he offered Max the lead on the project. “I assume you’re referring to the plane ride.”
“Exactly.”
Those eyes sliced through her in ways that made C.C. wish she’d worn a sweater and a coat, not that they would protect her from his intense stare. Better to get it over with. “It’s really no big deal. We had a conversation on the plane—”
“You stood me up.”
“Oh, that.” She couldn’t tell him she nixed the deal when he told her his profession, so she said, “I forgot.”
The left side of his jaw twitched. Twice. “I see.”
“I didn’t think you’d really show. I mean, we exchanged casual conversation but it was all part of being polite and passing time.”
“Right.” And then, “What was the deal with the cookies? Were you trying to overdose me so you could humiliate me? Or laugh at me?”
He didn’t seem happy with either prospect. “Neither. I merely offered them to you. You could have said no or stopped before you turned green.”
“Believe me, I wish I had just said no.”
The way he said it told her he was talking about more than just cookies. Did he mean no to the obvious attraction they’d shared on the plane, which she now denied? Yes, she’d guess he did.
Max rubbed his jaw and studied her, as though she were an unidentifiable encumbrance. “Look, if we’re going to be working together, we need to clear the air. What’s really going on? You were all warm and chummy on the airplane and now you’re colder than a block of ice.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re like two different people. There’s C.C. who’s all soft and sexy and somebody I wanted to get to know better and then there’s Catherine, who I would be happy not to run into again for another thirty years.”
That stung. “Why can’t I be both?” She might be a bit reserved right now, but she was still the same person inside and anyone who cared about her or cared about knowing her would figure that out.
He ignored her question and asked one of his own. “You didn’t forget about dinner. Why’d you no-show?” His eyes were too blue, his voice too soft. She couldn’t think. His voice grew even softer, almost making her forget he’d just insulted her. “I thought we connected.”
She kept her gaze fixed on his chest. A buttoned-up chest, thank goodness. No swirls of dark hair peeking from the whiteness of a starched shirt. Much better and less threatening than those blue, soul-searching eyes.
He stepped closer and the fresh scent of his cologne swarmed around her. “Look at me.”
Had he ordered it, she would’ve refused, but she had no defense against the quiet plea in his deep voice. She lifted her gaze to meet his, half afraid he’d see the uncertainty on her face. If she had to pretend to be crazy about him, how could she protect herself from him at the same time?
He settled his large hands on her shoulders and in that same gentle voice said, “Tell me what’s going on, C.C. I’d like to understand.”
His breath fanned her face as his words cut off logic. If she lifted her face to his right now, would he kiss her?
Did she want him to?
She needed to get back in the dating scene so she’d know how to handle someone like Max Jerrnigan. There hadn’t been anyone since David. Even Roxie’s brother, Angelo, whom she’d studied with abstract appreciation as one would an object d’arte, hadn’t been able to elicit more than casual interest.
But Max Jerrnigan was dangerous. She didn’t even like him, she reminded herself. He was the reason her father hadn’t put her in charge of the project. But if she weren’t careful, Max would steal her objectivity, her logic and her mind, with his mere closeness and the intensity in those entrancing eyes.
C.C. stepped out of his reach, determined to put distance between them. “I work in a man’s world and I want to be taken seriously. I dress the part and I act the part.” She lifted her chin a notch. “Like one of the men.”
His lips twitched. “And you don’t think a woman can be taken seriously if she cracks a smile and shows her feminine side?”
“I don’t.”
“Ah. You’ve had issues with this before.”
The man was too damn intuitive. “I have.” That was all she’d admit.
“Well, if it’s any reassurance, I’ve never subscribed to a sexist work environment. As long as a person can do his or her job, I don’t care if she’s got three heads.”
Why couldn’t he have a nasally voice and a hare lip? Why did his words spill over her? But most of all, why did Max Jerrnigan have to be the one man who passed the cookie test?
***
Max slid a glance at the woman beside him as they pulled off the interstate and headed along the main road toward Grayson Crowell’s home. Actually, he looked at her long legs, illuminated by a scrap of moonlight as she pressed her foot on the accelerator. She wore shimmery hose, the kind that sparkled when she moved and made a man want to trace his fingers up and down her legs just to feel their sleek sexiness. The woman had great legs. Really great legs. She must’ve been a dancer when she was younger. Perhaps ballet. Or jazz. His gaze inched up her hips to her small, full breasts which were covered by the sleek black material of her dress. Who would have thought the C.C. on the plane would be Grayson Crowell’s daughter? Max had wanted to find her agai
n, now he wished he hadn’t. Actually, he wished C.C. and Catherine were two different people, not the same person pretending to be two different people.
A queasiness settled in his gut as he thought about C.C. and the deal he’d made with her father.
“It’s just another minute or two,” C.C. said, glancing at him.
She hadn’t spoken more than ten sentences since they’d left the hotel and all of those were related to the project. He’d answered politely and then just as politely shifted the topic back to more personal issues. “Why didn’t you just stay at your father’s house rather than the Hilton?”
She hesitated a second too long. “I thought it would be more comfortable for everyone.”
Hardly. There wasn’t an ounce of truth in that statement. “Meaning, you didn’t want to see him shacked up with the future Mrs. Grayson Crowell.”
“Not necessarily.”
He didn’t miss the way her lower lip quivered when she spoke. Women’s emotions were his specialty, even when he was trying to avoid them. “Come on, C.C., own up.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to see it.”
Max settled back against the leather seat of her rented car. “I don’t blame you. If my old man tried to pull that, I’d have a fit. Besides, my mother would kill him.”
C.C. pressed her foot on the gas and the car lurched forward.
“Hey! I was just joking!” He grabbed the door and braced his feet against the floor mats. The woman had a temper. “Slow down. I want to live to see my next birthday.”
“She’s thirty-four.” She zipped around a pickup truck. “That made him twenty-eight when she was born.”
Okay, so this wasn’t a good subject, but maybe he could lighten it up. “I guess he doesn’t like gray hair.”
She swerved around an SUV. “Not funny.”
Or maybe not. “Slow down or I’ll be the one with gray hair!”
She eased her foot off the gas. “Sorry.”
Max shifted in his seat and studied her profile. “You’ve got a very nice nose.”
She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
“And big honey-colored eyes,” he managed, trying to ignore the reaction to that observation in his crotch.
Her glossed lips curved into a tiny smile and Max found himself wondering about those lips, wondering about the tongue behind the lips, too. “You should smile more. You have a very nice smile.”
Her lips flattened.
“Now you look too serious, like a scientist.”
“I like looking like a scientist,” she said. “Actually, a mathematician.”
“Why would any woman want to look like a mathematician—” he scanned her legs again, “—when she could look like an incredibly sexy tormentor to the entire male species?”
She threw him a disgusted look and said, “That’s exactly why.”
“What?” He liked her hands, too.
“The last thing I want to do when I’m in a meeting is look like a sex toy. When a man looks at me, I want him to see more than a body. I want him to see my brain.”
“Can’t he see both?”
She gripped the wheel hard. “No.”
“Oh, I get it.” A wave of unreasonable anger washed over him. “Maybe you should paste your diploma from Wharton on your forehead. While you’re at it, include your SAT and ACT scores, just in case, and don’t forget the IQ score, either.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She turned down a side street and headed toward a Georgian-style mansion. That had to be the place. But then, wasn’t this exactly what he expected Grayson and Catherine Crowell’s home to look like?
C.C. followed the circular drive and jerked the car into park at the entrance of the mansion.
She wanted to be here less than he did. Too bad. They were stuck with each other and they were going to get through it. Max grabbed her arm and forced her to face him. “Do you really think all men are incapable of conducting business with a beautiful woman?”
She pinched her lips together and stared at him. “In my observations, beautiful isn’t always a necessary prerequisite. Being female is.”
“Who hurt you, C.C.?” He kept his voice soft so as not to scare her. He leaned closer, brushed the back of his knuckles along her neck, to the swell of her breasts. He shouldn’t kiss her…not yet…
“Max! Max, my boy!”
They sprung apart as Grayson Crowell bound down the steps and descended upon the car. Grayson flung open the passenger door and boomed, “I was wondering when the hell you two would get here.”
Max stepped out of the car and shook Grayson’s hand. “It was my fault. Sorry.” No explanation beyond that. What could he say? I almost kissed your daughter and it had absolutely nothing to do with the deal?
“Well, come on in. Maggie’s chomping at the bit, worried her gravy will be thicker than paste.”
“Maggie’s your fiancée?” Max couldn’t remember her name.
Grayson looked startled. “Hell, no. That woman’s too mouthy for a wife.” His voice softened and he added, “But she’s a helluva good cook and housekeeper.”
C.C. laced her arm through her father’s and said, “She’s the only woman I know who can boss you around.”
“If it weren’t for her skill in the kitchen, I’d give her the boot.”
“And starve,” C.C. said.
Max didn’t miss the tenseness in C.C.’s voice. Who was responsible for it? The future Mrs. Grayson Crowell? Or Max? He cleared his throat and shifted his attention to the Crowell residence. Mansion was indeed a more fitting description. When they entered through the double cherry doors, he wished Rhyder were here to see the black marble entrance, the twenty-foot-plus vaulted ceilings, the double winding staircase, the fountain in the center of the foyer.
What kind of people had elevators in their homes? And fountains? He shot a quick glance at C.C. who shrugged out of her black shawl as though the opulence surrounding her were so commonplace she could ignore it. This was a far cry from Pittsburgh where Max had grown up in a worn-out two story with bad plumbing and drafty windows.
“The fountain was Catherine’s idea,” Grayson said as he ran his fingers along the edge of the white marble fountain. “She liked the sound of it at night, said it helped her fall asleep.”
Max wondered if she still had problems sleeping. A vision of her lying naked in the rumpled bed at his hotel flashed through his brain. He shook his head and concentrated on the ornate crown molding along the ceiling. “My partner would love this house,” he said, turning so his line of vision didn’t include C.C.’s long legs.
“Maybe we’ll have to invite him here,” Grayson said. “This would make an exquisite backdrop for a wedding, don’t you think?”
“Uh, yes, I guess it would,” Max said, working his fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. Weddings, talk about weddings, even insinuations about weddings, made him jumpy.
“What do you think, Catherine?” Grayson turned to his daughter. “Could you picture yourself getting married here?”
“I don’t picture myself getting married,” she said in a crisp voice.
“Come, come, dear.” His soft voice belied the business mogul’s ability to squash opponents with a mere flip through his Rolodex, “You might be almost thirty-two, but you’re beautiful and brilliant, isn’t she Max?”
Max swept his gaze over her small breasts, followed the slender cords of her neck and settled on her moist lips. “Yes,” he admitted, grudgingly, “she’s beautiful.”
C.C.’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to say this.
“Well, well, well,” Grayson Crowell murmured.
“Max!” The woman’s voice pulled him down and under, erasing the last three years of his life. “Max! Is it really you?” He lifted his gaze to the top of the spiral staircase and the woman who stood dressed in shimmering red, black hair flowing along milk-white shoulders. She was more beautiful than he remembered.
“Hello, Ca
ndy.”
“Max?” Grayson inquired. “You two know each other?”
“Yes,” Max said. “We certainly do.”
Chapter 4
The woman descended the staircase with the elegance of royalty, her smile dazzling and aimed at Max.
“I never expected to see you again.” She stood on tiptoe and grazed her lips over Max’s cheek, leaving a faint smear of red.
“You look great,” he said, “but then you always did.”
Candace’s smile grew even more dazzling. “Thank you, Max. Coming from you, that’s a true compliment.”
“Are you two going to tell us how you know each other, or should Catherine and I play twenty questions?” Grayson asked.
C.C. didn’t need twenty questions to figure out how Max and Candace knew one another. She’d bet her entire stock portfolio they’d slept together. She tried to squash the thought but it wouldn’t die.
“We met on a project a few years back,” Max said, his voice as noncommittal as his expression.
Candace slipped an arm through Grayson’s and added, “We dated.”
“That was a long time ago,” Max said, glancing at C.C.
Why was he looking at her? Because she’d figured out his past relationship with her father’s fiancée? What did she care if Max had dated one the most beautiful women C.C. had ever seen? Somehow, she could see it, much more than she could picture him with someone else, say herself, for example…
“A lifetime ago,” Candace said with a touch of sadness. Then she turned her attention to C.C. and held out both arms. “Catherine. Your father has told me so much about you. I’m delighted to finally meet you.”
C.C. had no choice but to hug the woman. “Thank you,” she managed, hugging and then quickly disengaging herself from Candace’s embrace. “I’ve been anxious to meet you, too.” Not exactly true, but her upbringing dictated politeness.
Candace’s hazel eyes sparkled. “Thank you. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet sooner. I wanted to fly to Chicago last month, but your father wanted to wait.”
Really? He’d never mentioned a thing about visiting her.
