by Kat Cantrell
But what he said was, “Sex.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a liar. The last thing you need to bargain for is a woman willing to get naked with you.”
“That sounded like a compliment.” He waggled his brows to hide how his insides suddenly felt wobbly and precarious. How had she seen through that flippant answer?
That was what he got with a smart woman, apparently.
“It wasn’t. Seduction is less of an art when you’re already starting out with the deck stacked.”
He had to laugh, though he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to say thank you for the backhanded nod to his skill set. “I’m not leaving here without an answer. Marry me and the scandal goes away.”
She shook her head, a sly smile spreading over her face. “Over my dead body.”
And with that, she pushed his foot from the gap and shut the door with a quiet click.
Dumbfounded, Hendrix stared at the fine-grain wood. Rosalind Carpenter had just rejected his proposal. For deliberately not putting anything emotional on the line, the rejection sure stung.
* * *
Roz leaned on the shut door and closed her eyes.
Marriage. To Hendrix Harris. If she hadn’t understood perfectly why he’d come up with such a ridiculous idea, she’d call the cops to come cart away the crazy man on her doorstep.
But he wasn’t crazy. Just desperate to fix a problem.
She was, too.
The big difference was that her father wasn’t working with his “people” to help her. Instead, he was sitting up in his ivory tower continuing to be disappointed in her. Well, sometimes she screwed up. Vegas had been one of those times. Fixing it lay solely at her feet and she planned to. Just not by marrying the person who had caused the scandal in the first place.
Like marriage was the solution to anything, especially marriage to Hendrix Harris, who indeed had a reputation when it came to his exploits with the opposite sex. Hell, half of her interest back on that wild night had been insatiable curiosity about whether he could be as much trouble as everyone said.
She should have run the moment she recognized him. But no. She’d bought him a drink. She was nothing if not skilled at getting into trouble.
And what trouble she’d found.
He was of the hot, wicked and oh-so-sinful variety—the kind she had a weakness for, the kind she couldn’t resist. The real question was how she’d shut the door in his face a moment ago instead of inviting him in for a repeat.
That would be a bad idea. Vegas had marked the end of an era for her.
She’d jetted off with her friend Lora to let loose in a place famed for allowing such behavior without ramifications. One last hurrah, as Roz had informed him. Make it memorable, she’d insisted. Help me go out with a bang, had been her exact words. Upon her return to the real world, she’d planned to make her father proud for once.
Instead, she’d found exactly the trouble she’d been looking for and then some.
It was a problem she needed to fix. She’d needed to fix it before she’d ever let Hendrix put his beautiful, talented mouth on her. And now memories of his special brand of trouble put a slow burn in her core that she couldn’t shake. Even now, five minutes after telling him to shove off. Still burning. She cursed her weakness for gorgeous bad boys and went to change clothes so she could dig into her “make Dad proud” plan on her terms.
Marriage. Rosalind Carpenter. These two things did not go together under any circumstances, especially not as a way to make her father proud of her.
After watching her father cope with Roz’s mother’s extended bout with cancer, no thank you. That kind of pain didn’t appeal to her. Till death do you part wasn’t a joke, nor did she take a vow like that lightly. Best way to avoid testing it was to never make a vow like that in the first place.
Roz shed the flirty, fun outfit she’d worn to brunch with Lora and donned a severe black pencil skirt coupled with a pale blue long-sleeved blouse that screamed “serious banker.” She twisted her long hair into a chignon, fought with the few escaped strands and finally left them because Hendrix had already put her behind for the day. Her afternoon was booked solid with the endless tasks associated with the new charity she’d founded.
She arrived at the small storefront her father’s admin had helped her rent, evaluating the layout for the fourteenth time. There was no sign yet. That was one of the many details she needed to work through this week as she got Clown-Around off the ground. It was an endeavor of the heart. And maybe a form of therapy.
Clowns still scared her, not that she’d admit to having formed a phobia during the long hours she’d sat at her mother’s hospital bedside, and honestly, she didn’t have to explain herself to anyone, so she didn’t. The curious only needed to know that Rosalind Carpenter had started a charity that trained clowns to work in children’s hospitals. Period.
The desk she’d had delivered dwarfed her, but she’d taken a page from her father’s book and procured the largest piece she could find in the Carpenter warehouse near the airport. He’d always said to buy furniture for the circumstances you want, not the ones you have. Buy quality so it will last until you make your dreams a reality. It was a philosophy that had served Carpenter Furniture well and she liked the sentiment. So she’d bought a desk that made her feel like the head of a successful charity.
She attacked the mountain of paperwork with gusto, cheerfully filling out forms and ordering supplies. There was an enormous amount of overhead that went along with running a charity and when you had zero income to use in hiring help, there was only one person to do the work—the founder.
Before she’d barely dug into the task, the lady from the first hospital Roz had called her back.
“Ms. Smith, so happy to speak with you,” Roz began smoothly. “I’d like to see what your requirements are for getting Clown-Around on the approved list of organizations available to work with the children at your hospital.”
“I could have saved you some time, Ms. Carpenter,” the liaison replied and her tone could only be described as frosty. “We already have an approved group we work with. No need for any additional ones.”
That threw Roz for a loop. “Oh. Well, we’d be happy to go on the backup list. You know, in case the other group cancels unexpectedly.”
“That’s okay,” she cut in quickly. “That almost never happens and it’s not like we have scheduled times. The clowns come in on a pretty casual basis.”
This was not a good conversation. Unease prickled at the back of Roz’s neck and she did not like the feeling. “I’m having a hard time believing that you can’t use extra cheer in the children’s ward. We’re talking about sick kids who don’t want to be in the hospital. Surely if your current clowns come and go at will, you can add some of mine to the rotation. A clown is a clown, right?”
The long pause boded badly. Roz braced for the next part.
“To be frank, Ms. Carpenter, the hospital board would not appreciate any association with a charity you helm,” Ms. Smith stated bluntly. “We are required to disclose any contact a patient has with outside parties, particularly when the patients are minors. The clowns must have accreditation and thorough vetting to ensure we’re not exposing patients to...unseemly influences.”
Roz went hot and then cold as the woman’s meaning flashed through her. The reputation of the charity’s founder preceded her apparently. “I take it I qualify as an unseemly influence. Then may I be as frank and ask why you bothered to call me back?”
“Strictly in deference to your father. One of his vice presidents is on the board, if you’re not aware,” she replied tightly. “If we’ve reached an understanding...”
“We have. Thank you for your candor.” Roz stabbed the end call button and let her cell phone drop to the desk of a successful charity head. Too bad
that wasn’t who was sitting at it.
Wow. Her hands were shaking.
And because her day hadn’t been crappy enough, the door she’d forgotten to lock behind her opened to the street and Hendrix Harris walked into her nightmare.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped, too off-kilter to find some manners when she’d already told him to step off once today. “This is private property. How did you find me?”
Not one perfect brown hair out of place, the man waltzed right in and glanced around her bare-bones operation with unabashed curiosity. “I followed you, naturally. But I didn’t want to interrupt your phone call, so I waited.”
“Bless your heart,” she shot back and snatched up her phone to call the cops. “You have two seconds to vacate or I’m going to lodge a trespassing complaint.”
Instead of hightailing it out the door—which was what he should have done—Hendrix didn’t hesitate to round the desk, crowd into her space without even a cursory nod to boundaries and pluck the phone from her hand. “Now, why would you do a thing like that? We’re all friends here.”
Something that felt perilously close to tears pricked beneath her lashes. “We’re not friends.”
Tears. In front of Hendrix. It was inexcusable.
“We could be friends,” he announced quietly, without an ounce of flirt. Somehow that was exactly the right tone to burn off the moisture. “Friends who help each other. You didn’t give me much of a chance to tell you how earlier.”
Help. That was something she needed. Not that he needed to know that, or how grateful she was that he’d found a way to put her back on even footing. She didn’t for an instant believe he’d missed her brief flash of vulnerability and his deft handling of it made all the difference.
The attitude of the hospital lady still chilled her. But she wasn’t in danger of falling apart any longer, thank God.
“Because I have a zone of crazy around me.” She nodded to the floor, near his feet. “There’s the perimeter and you’re four feet over the line.”
Problem being that she liked him where he was—one lean hip cocked against her desk and all his good stuff at eye level. Naked, the man rivaled mythical gods in the perfection department. She could stare at his bare body for hours and never get tired of finding new ways to appreciate his deliciousness.
And dang it, he must have clued in on the direction of her thoughts. He didn’t move. But the temperature of the room rose a few sweat-inducing degrees. Or maybe that was just her body catching fire as he treated her to the full force of his lethal appeal.
His hot perusal did not help matters when it came to the temperature. What was it about his pale hazel eyes that dug into her so deeply? All he had to do was look at her and sharp little tugs danced through her core.
It pissed her off. Why couldn’t he be ugly, with a hunchback and gnarled feet?
Which was a stupid thing to wish for because if that was the case, she wouldn’t be in this position. She’d never have hooked up with him in Vegas because yes, she was that shallow and a naked romp with a man built like Hendrix had righted her world—for a night.
Now she’d pay the price for that moment of hedonism. The final cost had yet to be determined, though.
Hendrix set her phone down on the desk, correctly guessing he had her attention and the threat of expulsion had waned. For now. She could easily send him packing if the need struck. Or she could roll the chair back a few inches and move the man into a better position to negotiate something of the more carnal variety. This was a solid desk. Would be a shame not to fully test its strength.
No. She shook her head. This was the danger of putting herself in the same room with him. She forgot common sense and propriety.
“Since I’m already in the zone of crazy,” he commented in his North Carolina–textured twang, “you should definitely hear me out. For real this time. I don’t know what you think I’m proposing, but odds are good you didn’t get that it starts and ends with a partnership.”
That had not come across. Whatever he had in mind, she’d envisioned a lot of sex taking center stage. And that she’d have to do without because she’d turned over a new leaf.
A partnership, on the other hand, had interesting possibilities.
As coolly as she could under the circumstances, she crossed her arms. Mostly as a way to keep her hands to herself. “Talk fast. You’ve got my attention for about another five minutes.”
Two
Hendrix had been right to follow Rosalind. This bare storefront had a story behind it and he had every intention of learning her secrets. Whatever leverage he could dig up might come in handy, especially since he’d botched the first round of this negotiation.
And the hard cross of Roz’s arms told him it was indeed a negotiation, one he shouldn’t expect to win easily. That had been his mistake on the first go-round. He’d thought their chemistry would be good trading currency, but she’d divested him of that notion quickly. So round two would need a completely different approach.
“What is this place?” he asked and his genuine curiosity leaked through. He had a vision in his head of Rosalind Carpenter as a party girl, one who posed for men’s magazines and danced like a fantasy come to life. Instead of tracking her down during an afternoon shopping spree, he’d stumbled over her working.
It didn’t fit his perception of her and he’d like to get the right one before charging ahead.
“I started a charity,” she informed him with a slight catch in her voice that struck him strangely.
She expected him to laugh. Or say something flippant. So he didn’t. “That’s fantastic. And hard. Good for you.”
That bobbled her composure and he wouldn’t apologize for enjoying it. This marriage plan should have been a lot easier to sell and he couldn’t put his finger on why he’d faltered so badly thus far. She’d been easy in Vegas—likable, open, adventurous. All things he’d assumed he’d work with today, but none of those qualities seemed to be a part of her at-home personality. Plus, he wasn’t trying to get her into bed. Well, technically, he was. But semi-permanently, and he didn’t have a lot of experience at persuading a woman to still be there in the morning.
No problem. Winging it was how he did his best work. He hadn’t pushed Harris Family Tobacco Lounge so close to the half-billion mark in revenue without taking a few risks.
“What does your charity do?” he asked, envisioning an evening dress resale shop or Save the Kittens. Might as well know what kind of fundraiser he’d have to attend as her husband.
“Clowns,” she said so succinctly that he did a double take to be sure he hadn’t misheard her. He hadn’t. And it wasn’t a joke, judging by the hard set of her mouth.
“Like finding new homes for orphan clowns?” he guessed cautiously, only half kidding. Clown charity was a new one for him.
“You’re such a moron.” She rolled her eyes, but they had a determined glint now that he liked a lot better than the raw vulnerability she’d let slip a few minutes ago. “My charity trains clowns to work with children at hospitals. Sick kids need to be cheered up, you know?”
“That’s admirable.” And he wasn’t even blowing smoke. It sounded like it meant something to her and thus it meant something to him—as leverage. He glanced around, taking in the bare walls, the massive and oddly masculine dark-stained desk and the rolling leather chair under her very fine backside. Not much to her operation yet, which worked heavily in his favor. “How can I help?”
Suspicion tightened her lush mouth, which only made him want to kiss it away. They were going to have to fix this attraction or he’d spend all his time adjusting her attitude in a very physical way.
On second thought, he couldn’t figure out a downside to that approach.
“I thought you were trying to talk me into marrying you,” she said with
a fair amount of sarcasm.
“One and the same, sweetheart.” He gave it a second and the instant his meaning registered, her lips curved into a crafty smile.
“I’m starting to see the light.”
Oh yes, now they were ready to throw down. Juices flowing, he slid a little closer to her and she didn’t roll away, just coolly stared up at him without an ounce of give. What was wrong with him that he was suddenly more turned on in that instant than he had been at any point today?
“Talk to me. What can I do in exchange for your name on a marriage certificate?”
Her smile gained a lot of teeth. “Tell me why it’s so important to you.”
He bit back the curse. Should have seen that one coming. As a testament to her skill in maneuvering him into giving up personal information, he opted to throw her a bone. “I told you. I’ve had some fallout. My mother is pretty unhappy with me and I don’t like her to be unhappy.”
“Mama’s boy?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned. Who didn’t see the value in a man who loved and respected his mama? “There’s no shame in that. We grew up together. I’m sure you’ve heard the story. She was an unwed teenage mother, yadda, yadda?”
“I’ve heard. So this is all one hundred percent about keeping your mom happy, is it?”
Something clued him in that she wasn’t buying it, which called for some serious deflection. The last thing he wanted to have a conversation about was his own reasons for pursuing Roz for the first and only Mrs. Hendrix Harris.
He liked being reminded of his own vulnerabilities even less than he liked being exposed to hers. The less intimate this thing grew, the better. “Yeah. If she wasn’t in the middle of an election cycle, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But she is and I messed up. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get this deal done. Name your price.”
“Get your mom to agree to be a clown for me and I’ll consider it.”
