SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "We're supposed to be bumping and grinding, Gina. Screwing each other's brains out."

  Her face flushed. "Don't think you'll be taking your sexual frustration out on me."

  He held her gaze. He knew her mouth tasted as luscious as it appeared, and somehow that only made him angrier. "Why not? You caused it."

  "And you're a crude, unfeeling man."

  Unfeeling? He ached for her. He hurt so badly, he could barely breathe. "I have plenty of feelings." Too many, he thought.

  "This isn't easy on me, either." She tried to smooth her hair and gave up when she encountered a handful of disheveled curls. "I'm attracted to you, Flint. But I'm not going to sleep with you. I'm not going turn this into a real affair."

  Defensive, he jammed his hands in his pockets. "Did I say that's what I wanted?"

  "No, but I thought some tea would take the edge off. You know, to keep our minds from straying in that direction." She dropped her gaze to the floor. "Maybe you should just go home."

  Damn her. Why did she have to look so vulnerable? "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just been a weird night." First the show at the theater, and now he was in her apartment trying to establish a cover in case anyone in the neighborhood was watching. "If I leave now, it won't seem as if we made love. I've only been here for ten minutes."

  She didn't respond. She seemed shy, her gaze riveted to the floor.

  Unsure what to do, he shifted his stance. Part of him wanted to go home and never see her again, while another part imagined carrying her to bed.

  "So, is it all right if I stay for a while?" he asked, his voice a bit too rough.

  She glanced up, and they stared at each other. The energy between them remained thick, and so did the air in his lungs.

  Finally she nodded, and Flint forced a breath. He hadn't expected this to happen, at least not to this degree. He was so damn sure he could handle his attraction to her. But here he was, stuck in a state of arousal.

  "Maybe you should brew that tea," he said.

  "Will you drink some?"

  "Sure." He didn't particularly care for tea, but he knew she needed to refine the rest of their evening, to make it seem proper somehow.

  She turned away, and he sat on the couch and stared at the blank TV screen.

  When she returned, he noticed she'd laced the tray with heated muffins, sugar, cream, lemon wedges and honey. He wondered what she would do if he revealed that he had a honey fetish. That one of his fantasies was drizzling the sticky substance all over a woman's body and licking her until she—

  "Do you want a muffin?" Gina gestured to a flowered plate. "These are blueberry and those are bran."

  Guilty, Flint froze. "No, thanks." He kept his eyes away from the honey, especially when she spread some onto a muffin and nibbled daintily.

  If she moaned, he was going to lose it. He would jump right out of his skin.

  She sat next to him, picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. He tasted the unappealing tea and studied the flickering images.

  She changed the channel repeatedly, the way he did at home when he was bored. But he knew Gina wasn't bored. She was nervous.

  "Maybe we should watch a movie," she said. "I have a fairly large selection."

  She rifled through her videos and DVDs, and he figured she would offer a girly movie, a chick flick that would calm her down. He would rather get absorbed in guts and glory, in a good, old-fashioned war picture, but he decided to be polite and keep his mouth shut, something he rarely did around her.

  "How about this?" She held up The Caine Mutiny, and he stared at her in stunned silence. That was one of his all-time favorite films, a Humphrey Bogart vehicle about a crazed captain and his crew.

  "What's the matter?" she asked.

  "Nothing. I like that movie."

  "Me, too. I had a pug named Captain Queeg, but he died a few years ago."

  Again, Flint could only stare. "That's not my dog's name, but that's what I call him when he goes nuts and digs up the yard." Flint owned a Jack Russell terrier that kept his gardeners cursing into their shovels.

  "Oh, my God. That's so strange. My Captain Queeg wasn't crazy, but he loved strawberries."

  "Really?" They looked at each other and laughed. The strawberry scene in The Caine Mutiny was a classic.

  Without another word, they settled into the evening and watched an old movie, even though they were trying to fool the world into believing they were making long, hard, passionate love.

  * * *

  What had she gotten herself into? Gina sat in front of a lighted mirror, taking deep, anxious breaths.

  Kerry stood behind her, putting the final touches on her hair. Flint's assistant had decided that Gina should wear her hair loose for the photo shoot. But that wasn't the problem.

  The wardrobe selection troubled her. A red silk nightgown clung to her curves, outlining her breasts and show-casing a pair of skimpy lace panties.

  "You're ready," Kerry said.

  Gina gazed at the other woman in the mirror, catching both their reflections. She wanted to back out, to say she couldn't go through with this, but she put on a brave front instead.

  She came to her feet and accepted the matching robe Kerry offered. She belted it with shaky fingers, and they left the tiny makeup room and entered the studio.

  The first thing Gina noticed was the prop that had been brought in for the shoot—a king-size bed, draped in red and white satin.

  She scanned the rest of the room and zeroed in on Flint. He leaned against a small table, chatting with Lewis, Kerry's slightly eccentric husband.

  Flint glanced over and spotted her. When their eyes met, her heart leaped to her throat. He wore a pair of faded Levi's and little else. His feet and chest were bare. His stomach corded in a six-pack of hard-earned muscle.

  Lewis turned, as well. "I see our lady has arrived on the set." He came toward her, but Flint remained where he was.

  "Would you like a glass of wine?" Lewis asked. "It'll help you relax."

  "Thanks, but I'm okay."

  He tilted his head, looking like the artist he was. He wore his bleached hair short and spiked, and both ears possessed multiple piercings. "Are you sure? This is a pretty heavy shoot."

  "I can handle it," she lied. "I don't need a drink." She wanted to down an entire bottle of wine, but her ulcer had been acting up for the past few days, and alcohol would only irritate her condition.

  "Then let's get started." Lewis instructed Gina and Flint to stand at the foot of the bed while he fiddled with his camera. Kerry adjusted the lights, leaving Flint and Gina to their own devices.

  Was Flint nervous, too? She'd never seen him so quiet.

  "This is strange, isn't it?" she said, struggling to make conversation.

  He nodded. "Yeah, it is."

  They both lapsed into silence. Gina glanced at the bed and noticed the lace-edged pillows. The stage was beautifully set, with two tall, wrought-iron candelabras on either side of the bed. Burning candles filled the room with scented wax, giving it a romantic ambience.

  "Okay," Lewis called from behind the camera lens. "It's show time."

  Flint took a step toward Gina, then skimmed her cheek, brushing her skin with the back of his hand. She liked the sweet, butterfly sensation, but the photographer wasn't impressed.

  "Come on, Flint," he coaxed. "You can do better than that. You collect erotic art. You know what this is all about."

  Gina lowered her gaze and stared at Flint's naked chest. She knew he collected erotic art, but somehow she hadn't let herself think too deeply about it. Now that seemed impossible.

  He reached for the belt on her robe, and she gulped the air in her lungs. What kind of erotic art did he favor? Slim, sultry women in provocative poses? Or hot, hungry couples engaged in illicit acts?

  He pushed the robe from her shoulders, and the garment fell to the floor. She stood before him, dressed in the clingy red nightgown, her nipples brushing the fire-tinged s
ilk.

  Somewhere in the back of her whirling mind, she heard a clicking sound. Lewis must be taking pictures, capturing the moment.

  Flint leaned in close and kissed her, and she ignored the camera. His mouth proved warm and wet, gentle yet demanding. He tasted of breath mints and beer, of masculine beauty and spring lust.

  "Take off his belt," she heard Lewis say.

  Yes, Gina thought. She wanted to touch Flint, and she hardly cared that Lewis and Kerry watched.

  She reached for Flint's belt and felt a shiver rack his body. They stopped kissing and stared at each other. She unhooked the silver buckle. The metal was cold, but his skin, that bronzed flesh, radiated heat.

  She pulled the leather through his pant loops, and Lewis instructed her to toss the belt onto the bed and undo Flint's jeans.

  Okay, she told herself. She could do this. But after releasing the first two buttons, she bumped a slight hardness beneath Flint's fly, and her fingers froze. He was partially aroused, turned on by her touch.

  "Keep going," Lewis prodded.

  She bit her lip and went after the third button. "Good," the artist crooned. "Now drop to your knees." Stunned, Gina gazed at Flint. He sent her a boyish smile, and her heartbeat skittered.

  This wasn't real, she reminded herself. This photo session was as phony as their affair.

  Sliding down his body, she landed on her knees and looked at him. She noticed a line of hair that started just below his navel and disappeared into the open waistband of his jeans.

  Gina wanted to trace it with her nail, but she didn't dare. Flint couldn't take his eyes off her, and she could barely breathe. This position left her dizzy.

  "That's perfect," Lewis said, pleased by what he assumed was their professionalism. "Okay, now, Flint, twist your hands in her hair. Yeah, just like that. And, Gina, play with his jeans. Tug at them a little."

  She did as she was told, and after the shoot ended, she came to her feet and teetered on a pair of stiletto heels.

  No one spoke, not even Lewis. He gathered his equipment, and Kerry reached for Gina's robe and handed it to her.

  The fading sun shone through the skylight, sending streams of gold across a stark white floor. Although the satin-draped bed remained unused, Flint's belt lay across it, reminding Gina of what they'd done.

  He turned away to fasten his jeans, and when he spun around, she glanced at his fly and felt her skin warm. She'd seen just enough to trigger her imagination.

  He cleared his throat, and she tightened her robe, wondering how they were going to face each other over the casual, late-day lunch they'd agreed upon earlier.

  * * *

  Flint stared at the road. Gina sat beside him, looking prim and proper, but he couldn't get the other image of her off his mind.

  The one of her on her knees. That tousled hair, those violet-colored eyes, the slim, silky nightgown displaying every curve.

  He would never be the same.

  Flint shifted in his seat. He was still aroused, still battling the body part that refused to behave.

  "I'm not really in the mood to deal with the public," he said. "So maybe we should skip the diner."

  "Do you want to get take-out?" she asked.

  Did he? Going to her house didn't seem like a good idea. And he wasn't about to bring her to his place, not when all he could think about was getting her on her knees.

  "Why don't we just eat in the car?" He motioned to a hamburger stand across the street. "Is that all right with you?"

  She nodded. "Sure. I could go for a milk shake."

  "Yeah. Me, too." Something cold, he thought. Something to douse the fire burning inside him.

  He headed for the drive-up menu, and they ordered the same meal. They did that fairly often, he noticed. They liked the same kind of food, the same movies, the same type of furniture.

  He parked in a shady spot, and they divided their lunch. When she ate a French fry and licked the salt from her fingers, he nearly groaned.

  Was she still wearing those wispy red panties she'd had on under the nightgown? Flint still wore the same jeans, the old, threadbare Levi's she'd had her hands all over.

  She glanced at him, and their eyes met. In the next instant they stared at each other in silence. He unwrapped his burger, but the sound of paper rattling made their discomfort even more obvious.

  Damn it. Say something. Break the tension.

  "It was weird, wasn't it?" he asked.

  "The photo shoot?" She toyed with a French fry. "Yes, it was."

  "But you did well, Gina." Really well, he thought, recalling the feel of her fingers against his fly.

  She dropped her gaze, and he realized how truly shy she was. The ice princess never failed to confuse him.

  "Thank you. You did well, too, Flint."

  He took a bite of his burger. "Thanks."

  "When will the pictures hit the tabloids?" she asked.

  "If everything goes according to schedule, they'll be in the next issue."

  "That soon?"

  "Yep. That soon." He squirted ketchup onto a napkin. "And the media attention we've been getting is nothing compared to the frenzy those pictures are going to generate."

  "So we better value our privacy while we've got the chance?"

  "Exactly."

  She dipped into the ketchup, and their gazes locked again. He wanted to kiss her, but he knew better. Their affair had been created for public display, not for quiet, breathless moments.

  She finally ate the fry, leaving him fixated on her mouth.

  "Do you have an extra set of keys to the brownstone?" he asked.

  She blinked. "Yes. Why?"

  "Because I need a set."

  She blinked again. "Why?"

  "So I don't have to wait for you to let me in. Once the media frenzy starts, the reporters are going to follow us. I don't want to be stuck on your stoop with cameras flashing in my face."

  "I've never given a man keys to my house before."

  "I'll give them back once this is over." He took another bite of his burger, then paused to swallow his food. "I've never given anyone keys to my place, either."

  Gina tilted her head. "Not even Tara Shaw?"

  Flint didn't want to talk about the past. "That was ages ago. And I was staying in Hollywood at the time."

  "Which means what?" She righted her posture. "I can't figure you and Tara out. I'm not even sure that your affair with her was real."

  Suddenly irritated, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "My relationship with Tara is none of your business."

  "Why? Because you were faking it? Just like you're faking it with me? You're probably not capable of a real relationship."

  Flint snarled. As usual, the ice princess had tossed his attitude in his face. "Me?" he retorted. "What about you? You probably fake orgasms."

  "I do not, you big jerk."

  Then prove it, he wanted to say. Climb onto my lap and—

  "I can't wait until this phony affair is over." She moved closer to the window, as far away from him as she could get.

  "You and me both." But that didn't stop him from wanting her. "Hurry up and finish your food. I'm taking you home." He didn't need the aggravation of being near her, of fighting the pressure in his loins.

  "Fine. I'm done." She jammed her half-eaten meal into the bag.

  He followed suit and peeled out of the parking lot, barely giving her time to latch her seat belt. Speeding through traffic, he cursed to himself.

  Women were nothing but trouble.

  "You drive like an idiot," she complained.

  "So sue me." He had a fast car and raging hormones. That gave him the right to be an idiot.

  He turned onto Paul Revere Way and shoehorned his way into a parking spot. They both exited the Vette at the same time.

  She gave him a haughty look. "What are you doing?"

  "Walking you to your door."

  "Don't bother. I can manage just fine without you."

  "To
o bad." He strolled beside her. The brownstone was at the other end of the street, and he was determined to get her there. And, he supposed, to annoy her on the way.

  He reached for her hand, and when she tried to pull away, he held it tighter. "We're on a public street, Gina. So be a good girl and play your part."

  She bit her nails into his skin.

  "Are you one of those women who claws a man's back, too?" he asked, giving her a smug smile.

  "Wouldn't you like to know?" She tossed her head and dug her nails deeper into his hand.

  At this point he would take what he could get. Pain, pleasure. He didn't give a damn, as long as it gave him a forbidden thrill.

  When they reached the brownstone, he grabbed her and pushed her against the door.

  "Don't you dare—"

  He cut her off with a kiss. A brutal, desperate, open-mouthed kiss.

  She didn't fight him. She took his tongue with the same fury, the same passion, the same angry heat that welled inside him.

  He rubbed against her, showing her how hard he was. She slid her hands around his waist and pulled him even closer.

  They practically ate each other alive, sucking and licking and hissing like a couple of alley cats.

  And then she shoved him away.

  "I hate you," she said.

  "I hate you, too." He shot the words back, aching to make love to her.

  Without another word, he turned and walked away. Did he hate Gina, or hate what she did to him? Somehow, they seemed like the same thing.

  * * *

  Six

  « ^ »

  Three days later, Gina sat in the community living room at the brownstone, waiting for Flint to arrive.

  Another date.

  She didn't know how much more of this she could take. They'd avoided each other since their last heated encounter, but he'd finally called and insisted it was time for another public appearance. So here she was, attired in a short, body-hugging dress and a pair of spiky-heeled pumps that added three inches to her already towering height.

  She'd purchased the outfit to get back at Flint. She knew the show of legs would drive him crazy. And the push-up bra she'd chosen shoved her breasts up and almost out of her dress, giving her an extra boost of cleavage. Flint would be lusting after what he couldn't have.