by Mary Campisi
Oh, God, he hoped that was it.
“I think you should leave, Max.”
She stood three feet from him but she’d holed up inside herself so deep, he’d never reach her. Her taste lingered on his lips, an empty torment of what had just happened. He cleared his throat and willed her to look at him, but she wouldn’t.
He nodded, accepting her suggestion. “I think we should forget about this. Let’s just stick to business from now on. Okay?”
She bit her lower lip and nodded as well. “Good night.”
“Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.” He let himself out and didn’t take a full breath until he was in his own room. Damn, what the hell had he started tonight? It was too soon, there were still too many obstacles between them. He hadn’t even worked out a seduction plan. And what was that brilliantly stupid comment he made about sticking to business? Was it to remind himself he couldn’t get emotionally attached? Great. He’d lost focus and thought of nothing but C.C., and had forgotten his long-term goal.
He couldn’t let that happen again.
Chapter 5
“Have you begun executing the plan?” Rhyder Remmington’s voice slid through the line like a high school football coach drawing up plays for his star.
“Not yet,” Max said, wishing right now he hadn’t answered his phone. It was late. He was tired and didn’t feel like talking, especially about a damn plan that involved the woman he didn’t want to think about—even though he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since he’d gotten back to his hotel room.
“You need to get started.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” He’d gotten started in C.C.’s hotel room a little while ago, only none of it had been pre-planned. One minute he was telling her about mice and the next he had his hands up her sweatshirt.
“We don’t know how long it’s going to take to have success. There’s advanced maternal age to consider—”
“She’s only thirty-one.” Rhyder didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. There was nothing advanced or maternal about C.C.’s mouth, or legs, or breasts.
Rhyder sighed. “You don’t have to defend her. Just get the job done. I’ll send you a spreadsheet tomorrow with the number of encounters required for impregnation to occur. After every encounter, you will simply put an ‘x’ in the box and write the date.”
He had to be kidding. “You want me to track when we have sex?”
“That would be helpful. The chart isn’t as accurate as I’d like, but given the limited information available, I’m making assumptions.”
Assumptions? “What other information could you possibly need?”
“Height. Weight. Last menstrual period.”
“Can’t help you. Don’t know.”
“Not yet you don’t, but if you’re around her enough, you should be able to analyze her mood, any physical changes, such as bloating, puffiness around the ankles, basic information you can plug into the formula.”
“You’re crazy; you know that, don’t you?”
“I’m clinical,” Rhyder corrected. “But if you don’t like my plan, there is one other alternative.”
Max could never resist asking about Rhyder’s bizarre alternatives. “What would that be?”
“Have sex with the woman, whenever, wherever, and as often as you can.”
By ten o’clock the next morning, Max seriously doubted either of Rhyder’s suggestions would work. Not that he would have followed either one, but even so, in order to carry either one out, a person had to have a measure of cooperation from the other party.
C.C. sat across from him in the conference room of Crowell Limited, with drawings and a plate of cookies between them. She’d refused the chair next to him and probably would’ve opted for the one at the end of the table if she hadn’t needed to review the plans. She was ticked about last night, obviously, but apparently wasn’t going to talk about it. Who was she ticked at, anyway? Him or herself? Her aloof attitude annoyed him. There’d been two people in that hotel room last night and she might pretend to be Ms. Cool, but the cookies she’d inhaled since the meeting began were a dead giveaway.
“What do you think about a path leading to the pond and exercise track?”
How did she make her voice sound like an automated message? “Depends on how wide a path we’re talking about, what materials we’d use, where it would tie into the track.”
“Well.” She leaned in and her citrus scent drifted toward him. “I think it would start here,” she said, pointing to a spot at the corner of the drawing, “and end over here.”
The print was just large enough so she had to stretch out and bend over slightly, which gave him a quick peek at a scrap of red hidden beneath her navy blouse. Red…he liked red… Did she really think they could ignore what almost happened last night?
“What do you think?”
Was she wearing red panties too? Lacy ones like the pink pair he’d spotted in her room at the hotel?
“Max?”
“Hmmm?” Maybe she wore a garter, too.
“Is this how you picture it?”
How he pictured it was his hand skimming beneath the navy blouse and flipping open a few buttons to get to the red bra.
“Fine.” She straightened and smoothed her jacket.
Had she caught him peeking? He’d only been glancing—quickly. If she didn’t want him to look, she shouldn’t let it hang out. Oh, who was he kidding? He’d been desperate to see more.
“Call me when you want to get some work done.” She folded the drawing with quick efficiency, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I do not appreciate men looking down my blouse.” She pinched her lips so tight they looked like a pencil line.
“I wasn’t looking down your blouse.” It was a feeble denial which earned nothing from her but a scowl.
She jammed the prints under one arm and grabbed the plate of cookies, but not before she bit a huge chunk out of one.
Okay, he’d gotten to her. Max raised his hands and shrugged. “Guilty. I looked up and there they were. I mean, there you were,” he corrected. “I’m sorry I noticed.”
Her entire face turned red—almost the same color as the scrap of bra he’d spotted. “Please don’t notice. We have work to do, Max. This project is critical. To both of us.”
Pretend he didn’t notice that scarlet scrap of lace clinging to those small, perfect breasts? He inhaled. “Sure. No problem.”
“I thought we were supposed to stick to business. Isn’t that what you told me last night?”
Had her voice wobbled just the tiniest bit when she said that? As though she was disappointed? Damned if he could tell. “That’s what I said. It’s what you want.” Pause. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” The pencil line of her lips moved.
“Good. Me, too.” He was such a liar.
“Max—” she looked down at her feet, “—can we just forget about last night?”
Sure, that was like asking if he could forget what a cold beer tasted like after working all day in the scorching heat. “No problem.”
“It was just a kiss,” she murmured.
Just a kiss? Hardly. She had her tongue in his mouth, he had his hands under her sweatshirt. It was way past a kiss. “So you didn’t feel anything?”
“No.”
Something in her denial sounded false. He’d pull the truth from her, even if he had to make her angry to do it. He couldn’t help himself. “You haven’t kissed many guys, have you?”
“What?”
He could tell that comment annoyed her. Good. She might just lose control and let the truth slip out. Max shrugged and feigned indifference. “I could tell you weren’t very experienced.”
“Really?” Her gaze sliced him. Yup. She didn’t like that remark one bit.
“Uh-huh. No big deal; it’s not like I’m going to broadcast it.” A pause. “Not much passion there eit
her.” Lie. Lie. Lie.
She slammed the plate of cookies and the drawings on the boardroom table, and advanced on him like a she-wolf. “I don’t know how to kiss? I can’t evoke passion?” She stopped when she was within eye-gouging distance and spat out, “I had my tongue in your mouth. I had my body pressed against yours.” Her voice grew louder. “You had your hands under my shirt. I was writhing against you.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Did you hear me? I was writhing.”
The woman talked about sex like she owned the word. “Yes,” he managed. “You were writhing. And your tongue was in my mouth.”
She let out a self-satisfied hmmmph. “I know how to kiss. And I know about passion. Oh, yes, I do. It’s all inside. Here.” She pointed to the left side of her navy blouse. “Buried deep.”
Buried deep. Interesting phrase.
C.C. leaned toward him, her honey-brown eyes large, her breath falling on his skin in quick, little puffs that smelled faintly of chocolate. “I’m an expert on passion.”
“Show me.” His voice turned gritty and hard.
She inched closer, clasped his face between her hands and lunged at his mouth. Not a sophisticated, demure kiss but a fierce clashing of teeth and tongue and raw sensuality that sucked at his logic and made him dizzy. She drove her fingers into his hair, massaging and kneading as she thrust her body against his, sliding along his chest in a breath-stealing motion.
This was passion.
Raw. Explosive. Incredible.
And then it was over.
C.C. jerked back, her face pale, her perfect bun lopsided. She straightened her blouse which had come partway undone to reveal delicious scraps of red. Max remained silent, his gaze trained on her mouth as she opened it, closed it, opened it again. She smoothed her bun and said, “That was passion.”
That was sex with clothes on. “Yes.” He tried to be as matter-of-fact as she was. “That was passion.”
C.C. nodded and said, “Very well. I think we’ve covered enough today.”
***
Seven hours and six triple chocolate cookies later, C.C. stood in front of her bathroom mirror. What was happening to her? She slipped out of control whenever Max Jerrnigan was near. Why did he have that effect on her? No man had gotten under her defenses since David, but this man made her furious one second and desperate for his touch the next. These uncontrollable sensations had to stop. Visions of a dark-haired, blue-eyed baby flashed through her brain with such speed and force, she grew light-headed. Max as the father of a baby, her baby? Ridiculous. Insane.
She closed her eyes and waited for the light-headedness to pass, but the more she tried to push away the thought of Max and a baby, the more intense the visual, until the ache in her womb morphed into actual physical pain. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t even like the man, did she? Maybe Roxie was right, that she refused to let herself like him because if she did, life could get complicated and messy and she could start thinking about love and long term and a family. He might tell her that he wanted the same things and just when she opened up enough to believe him, he could crush her.
Tears slipped down C.C.’s face. She couldn’t risk that kind of heartache again—she might not survive.
Chapter 6
C.C. eased the black silk stocking up her thigh and fastened the clasp on the garter belt. She breathed slowly, concentrating just the way her yoga instructor had taught her. Once. Twice. Three times.
It didn’t help. She yanked the second stocking from the bed. Nothing would help tonight. She’d buzzed through three cookies hours ago and their calming effect had already started to wear off.
Why had she let her father talk her into attending the Northern Virginia Businessmen’s Banquet? She was too new to represent him at such an event. People would ask where he was and then they’d ask what she did, what she was doing, and why she’d left such a lucrative career in Chicago, and she could hardly tell them she’d left because her ex-boyfriend—who had a pregnant wife he never told her about—hired in as her boss. She pulled on the other stocking, gouging the silk with her nails. “Damn.” A giant snag shot along the top of the stocking. She’d convinced her father she was ready to join him at Crowell Limited, but was she? Look how badly she was handling her first client. Granted, Max Jerrnigan was not an ordinary client, but she should be able to handle him.
Shouldn’t she?
C.C. prided herself on dissecting the emotion out of every situation so all that remained were logical conclusions. Except where Max was concerned. He stripped her focus, making it difficult to see anything but those stunning blue eyes and that haphazard, sexy grin. Her stomach flip-flopped in a way that had nothing to do with tonight’s event.
No. She would not think of Max Jerrnigan and she would not imagine his strong, tanned hands inching up her thigh in slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers rimming the lace of her garter belt, his toned body leaning closer, his breath falling out in harsh, choppy gusts, his half-closed eyes devouring her.
She shivered. Max. She fell back on the bed and imagined his body covering hers, his mouth hard and demanding as he forced her lips open, his legs entwined with hers, his hands stroking and kneading…
The insistent banging squashed her fantasies.
“C.C.! Are you okay?”
She sprung off the bed. Oh, God, it was Max! “Just a minute!” She bolted to the closet and yanked out a black jacket and skirt.
“C.C.!” More banging.
“Just a sec.” She shimmied into the skirt, snatched the jacket and buttoned it up as she made her way to the door. “Sorry,” she said as she opened the door. “I must have fallen—” The rest of the sentence froze as she stared at Max.
He grinned and stepped inside. “I know, I know. I look ridiculous in this penguin suit.”
The man looked like he belonged on top of a wedding cake. C.C. fingered the lapel of her own suit. “I feel a little underdressed.”
He took in her dark jacket and skirt. “You probably should wear shoes.”
A ridiculous laugh spilled from her lips. “I meant the suit.” What did she know about gala business events? She’d always confined her out-of-office business contacts to meetings over lunch. Except with David—and look where that got her.
“May I have a look at your closet?”
“My closet? Why?” The thought of Max Jerrnigan perusing her clothes made her light headed.
“Just curious. Tonight’s a big event and since you’re representing one of the industry’s largest development moguls, you want to do it properly.”
“You can look but I’m not trying to impress anyone with my looks.” She wished he’d stop staring at her like she was someone’s cause. Did he know his eyes were the color of the Caribbean? Of course, he did. Men like Max always knew those things because silly women told them. She sighed and yanked open the sliding door. A woman’s closet never lied, not even a hotel closet. C.C. Crowell was boring. Period. “Surprise,” she said with a wave of her hand. Black. Black. Navy. Black. Black. Gray. She’d had color in her closet once, but she’d tossed it all two years ago. She preferred to follow the female cardinal, blending in to her surroundings in an effort to avoid danger.
“You went out on a limb with this one, didn’t you,” Max said, fingering the lapel of a dark gray suit.
What was wrong with it? Men wore them every day. “When I’m conducting business, I don’t want any distractions.”
“So if you dress like a man, a guy will think you are one?”
He smiled down at her and the room grew twenty degrees warmer. “No. I’m just saying I like to keep business pure and focused.” She tried to ignore the way the crisp whiteness of his shirt made his skin look so much darker. “Men wear gray, and black, and pinstripes. It shows they mean business.”
“Ah.” Max lifted out a finely striped black suit. “They’re all business,” he said, avoiding her eyes, “like we are.”
C.C.’s chest tightened and she found it difficult to speak. He’d been
referring to the other night. So, he hadn’t been able to forget it either. “You, Max Jerrnigan—” she pointed to his chest, “—are an aberration.”
“Excuse me?”
“You. Me. This thing that keeps happening between us. That’s an aberration.”
“Ahhhh. The kissing?” His lips twitched.
She nodded.
“The closeness.” His voice dipped as she double pumped another nod. “The touching?” He ran a finger along her cheek and she jumped back.
“Yes. All of those things. Aberrations.”
Max smiled and the full force of his persuasive charm spilled over her. “C.C., those aberrations are normal between a man and a woman.”
She shook her head so hard, a chunk of hair slipped out of her bun, resting against her neck. “Not for me they’re not.”
“Oh, so you’re above the human species?”
“I’m just different. That’s all. More in control.”
His smile faded. “That is such a bunch of bull. You are no more in control than the man on the corner selling hot dogs.”
“That is absolutely not true.”
Max moved a step closer. She took two steps back.
“The only difference between you and that man is he doesn’t let fear control him. He’s afraid he won’t make a buck but he still goes out there every day. You hide behind your pompous self-control and never venture past it.”
“I am not afraid.” Oh, but that was such a lie. She was petrified of making another mistake and choosing the wrong man. She had more confidence in her cookie test than she did in her own ability to spot the right man.
He pointed to the suits hanging in her closet. “These reek of fear. Somebody must have burned you bad.” He must have seen something in her expression, because he said, “That’s it, isn’t it? Some guy hurt you and now you’re hell bent on closing out the rest of the male population.”
“That’s not true.” But it was exactly true.
His gaze narrowed on her. “Prove it.”
“What?” She pulled her jacket closer, took a step back until she touched the wall.
