The air between them thickened with desire, and she let it build. Delicious and distracting from business. She moved farther away from him, sat back in her chair. Keeping her hands off him was easier when there was some distance between them. “You’ll need to convince me of this project before I even worry the others. It’s my contract to approve.”
She watched his pupils dilate. “I’m offering you a huge opportunity to boost your businesses,” he said.
“Yes, you are. But you’re also planning to use our story to make a profit.”
He regarded her with gratifying respect. “It’s business, yes. But exploitation? No.”
“I intend to ensure it isn’t. I’ll be writing my own version of this proposal and watching out for any exploitation clauses in yours.”
“No contest, Kitty.” He grinned, confident and in charge. “I’ll argue every point with total integrity.”
“Brave man,” she said, his teasing eyes giving a whole new meaning to blue-sky thinking. “Lots of fighting ahead of us.”
“Yes. And respect,” he said, pulling her up from her seat. “And fun.”
“You approve of fun? I’m shocked.” She placed her hand over her chest where the low cut of her little red dress had disturbed him.
“I’m not as prudish as our paparazzi decoy rules suggest.” His hand moved up to caress her cheek. “That’s all for the cameras. But the private kissing was real.” His thumb outlined her mouth. Stoking her desire. “Yes?”
Attraction trumped caution when she was safe in her own home with this complexly principled man who was too hot to ignore. Her heart skipped a beat as his eyes held hers, and the world shrank to the caress of his skin on hers.
His thumb continued to circle. “You’re in charge.”
She kissed the palm of his hand, his skin warm against her lips. “You undermine all my best business instincts. Do you know that?”
He moved his fingers to run them through the silky fall of her hair. “I know exactly what you mean.” Then he stood and took her hand, pulling her up. “We need to be somewhere more comfortable.”
He’d said she was in charge, but she felt anything but sure of herself. Her body wanted him in her bed, but her head and heart counseled caution.
She kept hold of his hand, strong and assured in hers. “Walk this way,” she said, leading him away from the bedroom toward the sofa.
“Can’t. Haven’t got the heel height for it,” he deadpanned.
She turned, loving the humor he used to settle her nerves, and he pulled her against his chest. His kiss was hot, urgent, and he took charge as his mouth possessed hers.
Her response was instant, blistering through her reserve and anxieties as her mouth melted against his.
With one arm he held the length of her body tight to his, with the other hand he cupped the back of her head. She had no room to move, yet, desperate to be even closer, she molded herself to him.
He cocooned her body, bending her backward in the dance of desire they hadn’t indulged in at the wedding. He groaned, wrenching his mouth from hers and moved down to her neck.
She wriggled, mewed in complaint, as her mouth missed the attentions of his, and threaded her hands up into the thick waves of his hair. She thought she wanted more kissing, but as he lowered his lips to nuzzle her breasts, her body told her she was wrong.
The rasp of his jaw blazed across her flesh, and she wanted him everywhere. He seemed to understand, to feel the same as he loosened his grasp and his hands began to roam her body.
This was nothing like the gentle care she’d felt under the tablecloth. This was a tidal wave of shared sensation, of need. His hands followed the curves of her body, up over her hips, resting at her waist as his mouth nestled between her breasts. He murmured her name, and then, blessedly, returned his mouth to hers.
She clung wildly, never wanting him to move away again, as his hands claimed her breasts, and the kissing dissolved reality.
She lost track of time and place until he slowed the kiss and pulled his mouth from hers. They were both breathing heavily, their bodies still entwined as he pressed his lips gently along her hairline.
“I want you without the dress, Kitty.” He stroked her hair, cradled her head to his chest. Gentle again.
Yes, her body shouted at her. Yes. Now.
“No,” she whispered, nuzzling her head against his neck. “Not yet,” she added, to lessen the rejection.
He was overwhelming. Maybe he could mix business and pleasure, as long as it was private. But she knew she couldn’t.
He nodded, and they stayed in each other’s arms, cooling down like two well-raced horses, reluctant to leave the thrill of their chase.
He continued to cradle her head, occasionally caressing the length of her hair as she linked her hands at his neck, holding on to the last threads of their passion.
Finally, she shivered, reluctant to leave his arms but needing time away from him. Time to assert her usual independent self and get back to normal life.
She wanted to work with Rosco, but there was no way she should allow this delicious temptation to continue.
Slowly they drew apart, and Rosco collected his briefcase.
“You’ve been the perfect guest,” she teased, leading him to the door.
“I aim to please.”
He walked with his hand at her back, and she reveled in these last few minutes of contact because she knew it was something she couldn’t let happen again.
“I’ll call you in a week,” she said, unlocking the lift for him. “I have a couple of new projects to work on for a very picky publisher.”
“A week is a long time. Too long.”
She smiled at him as the doors closed. “We’re busy; it will go quickly enough.”
“I very much doubt that. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Eleven
Rosco gave Kitty two days before dialing her work cell phone.
“I’m picking you up for lunch,” he said when she answered. “You need a break.” And I need to see you, he thought, stirring his favorite one-pot lamb recipe.
He’d received insinuating emails about his business ethics, and the tabloid photos of Kitty were attached.
He was sure they were from his Sandford Palace contract opponent—rubbish aimed solely at him to undermine his business nerve. He didn’t plan to tell Kitty unless he had to, knowing how she felt about her privacy.
And he needed to ensure she would agree to accompany him to a Sandford Palace interview if the duke and his wife insisted on meeting him and his “mystery woman” before they finalized their selection for a publisher. He wouldn’t rush into appealing for her help with that, but if necessary he would convince her. Her creative talent and natural poise would be a natural fit for any Sandford Palace meetings.
Leaning against the countertop in his townhouse kitchen, he imagined her sitting at her giant computer screen, refining her digital work. “Are you Gerbera Girl at the moment, or Kitty Mayfair?” he asked.
…
Kitty’s heart leapt at the sound of his voice. She’d been thinking of him and didn’t want him to hear any attraction in her response.
“Who’s speaking?” she asked, buying some simmer-down time. “I can’t just take off for lunch with any unknown man.”
“It’s the person who knows you eat muesli bars and drink red wine under tables.”
“Hmm… Is that a threat?” she asked in a stage whisper. “That’s the sort of information that could ruin my professional credibility. I have a contract with Rosco Redmond to protect.”
“Ah. Rosco. A complicated man.” He clicked his tongue. “Your only hope to save your reputation is to meet me for lunch.”
The laughter in his voice licked at her desire. She should resist, but temptation won. “How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be on the river path in thirty, carrying gerberas.”
“What color gerberas?”
“Orange and yellow.”
“Ni
ce.” Her favorite flowers and lunch. Who could resist?
“Don’t keep me waiting,” he said.
“Will we be walking far?” She was already planning what to wear. Heels, definitely, if they weren’t trekking.
“Just to the car.”
“Okay.” She ended the call, hit save on her computer, and scrambled, laughing, toward her wardrobe. She wasn’t letting his sexy blue gaze tempt her beyond a working relationship. But he was always so put together, her home office sweats wouldn’t do.
She riffled through the rack, and the oversized orange zipper of the lacy shift she’d worn at the wedding snagged her attention with good memories. Her inner vamp had been over-egged that evening with Ethel-inspired injustice. She laughed out loud as she stripped off her sweats.
Now. Favorite black leggings, favorite black boots, new black bra, and the same lacy shift. Perfect.
She smoothed the fitting lines of the outfit and opted for color over the black. The long chili red-swing coat she shared with Rosa.
The coat’s high neck buttoned up over the orange zipper and its maxi length covered her boots. Kitty stuck her hands in the coat’s deep pockets to twirl in front of the mirror for maximum swing. City living with four new sisters had certainly upgraded her wardrobe and encouraged her new infatuation with high heels.
Satisfied, she threw her wallet and phones and keys into a bright red tote, took the private lift to the ground floor, and slipped among the lunchtime shoppers heading for the river path.
The wind blew the first autumn leaves at her feet, and she concentrated on the uneven flagstones taking her down to the river.
There, leaning on the iron railings, with the dark river behind him, stood a man in a long black coat, with his collar turned up against the wind, watching her.
He carried the biggest bunch of gerberas Kitty had ever seen, all yellow and orange, and arranged in a goldfish bowl.
Rosco.
Kitty’s breath caught at the sight of him. His grin softened those chiseled features, drawing her to him. She threw caution to the autumn breeze and ran the last few steps between them.
He wrapped one arm tightly around the glass bowl and reached out to offer her a one-armed hug. She stepped into the embrace, and they kissed both of each other’s cheeks. It would look like they were just old friends to any watching eyes, but her lips quivered with the need to devour him, and she felt that same intensity in the way his eyes met hers.
How quickly that rapport had grown. She felt light as air, and his sparkling blue eyes told her he felt the same.
It felt so good she was tempted to ignore all her misgivings about the risks a personal relationship with Rosco represented. The paparazzi focus, the family complexities, the need to explain her distasteful family history.
This was just a companionable business lunch. She’d enjoy it.
“The flowers are beautiful,” she said, stepping away to avoid crushing them. “Wherever did you find so many?”
“Three florists and a pet shop.” He tapped the glass bowl with successful shopper’s pride.
“Great shopping skills for a boy,” she teased, hiding a niggle of unease. A huge bouquet of colorful flowers would attract attention from anyone. He must be very confident their threat of paparazzi was over. Or, even more worrying, he was hoping for more photos to be leaked now that a “mystery woman” was good for his image. She tried to brush off that thought—surely not. He hated the paps, too.
She stroked the soft petals of one sunshine-yellow flower. It looked far too innocent to be anything other than a genuine gift acknowledging their private time together.
“Learned the shopping secrets from my sisters,” he explained. “I was a useful bag carrier on their expeditions.”
He pointed across the walkway toward the street. “The car is just around the corner.”
The wind ruffled his brown hair, and he looked boyish and carefree as he led her to the car, waited while she belted in, and handed her the flowers to balance on her knee.
“Are you all right,” she asked. “I’ve been worried about your Sandford Palace bid.” She needed to know the latest. That paparazzi episode was still unsettling.
“Still waiting on the palace contract. But I’m being proactive about new contracts, as you know.” He smiled at her, teasing again.
“I won’t let you forget my Bedouin project,” she said, watching his face carefully, so close to hers in the car. Was it risky for them to be out in public together? She hadn’t thought to check for paps when they’d met on the bridge. “You’ll tell me if there are any more gossip snaps I should be warned about?”
She felt him pause and searched his profile for the truth. “I don’t have any new details.” He turned to face her with concern and a touch of temper firming his mouth. “I wish I could guarantee the future, but I can’t. So far, there haven’t been any new photos of us, and I haven’t seen a camera anywhere.”
“Thank goodness. I haven’t found anything more online, either.” Kitty allowed herself to be partially reassured as he pulled the car out into the traffic, but their vulnerability to future gossip nagged at her. And Trinity St. George would always be a potential threat.
She took a deep, deliberately relaxing breath as the leather interior of Rosco’s low silver coupe enveloped her in quiet comfort.
“Cool car,” she said, blocking out the rest of the world. “Nothing like the noisy, you-know-you’re-driving-an-old-classic juddering of my little Dolly.”
“Your Citroën looks just right for you.” He grinned but kept his concentration on the traffic. “How long have you had it?”
“Long time. Long story,” she said, wishing she hadn’t introduced the subject. She knew Rosco wouldn’t let it drop, so she continued. “It was my first big buy before I took off around the world. I left it with a friend for years.” He didn’t need to know how much she loved it and how much courage it had taken to buy it. To break a two-year stubborn refusal to spend any of the small inheritance left after her mother’s house was sold and the debts paid. “I was eighteen and totally into retro.”
“Cute and quirky,” he said. “Has it got a name?”
Kitty laughed. “Of course.”
“Not just Dolly, then?”
“No.” She winced. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh.”
He crossed his heart when they drew to a stop at traffic lights and turned his mock-serious eyes to hers.
“Buttercup,” she said.
“Very appropriate,” he said with a nod, tongue-in-cheek.
“I was young. First car love.”
“It’s such a girl name.” He emphasized the “girl” with an adolescent sneer.
“Thanks,” she said. “I am a girl. And proud.”
“So you should be,” he said softly, all mockery gone.
Kitty gave his driver’s profile an uneven little smile and turned to look out the window to hide her sudden emotion.
A handsome man to tease her rotten, to make her feel special. Someone to stick up for her when she’d needed it most. She’d never had that in her life. Never missed it. Until now.
The lunchtime traffic passed in a blur, until Rosco turned the car onto a quiet street she recognized immediately. He parked outside his townhouse and turned to her.
“Are you okay,” he asked with real concern.
She nodded, realizing how her nerves must show on her face, as all the memories this house brought on reminded her of scenes she’d rather forget. Scenes from childhood and from the paparazzi ambush still fresh and confronting. She thought she’d never have to visit here again.
“Sit there. I’ll get the flowers.”
…
He rounded the front of the car, not taking his eyes off Kitty’s tense face.
She looked stunning today, her brown-black hair a glossy fall against the smart red coat. Her eyes had shone with the life and laughter he was beginning to trust. Wanted to trust that they could be friends,
that she would, if required, be his willing partner in this relationship ruse to land the Sandford contract.
But suddenly that sparkle had gone. And it didn’t take a genius to work out it had something to do with his house and her memories.
All of that was a piece of the Kitty puzzle he intended to solve today.
He opened the car door.
“Why are we here?” she said with a trace of rattling in her voice. “There are tons of restaurants where we can have lunch.”
“I don’t think either of us wants the paps catching us with spinach in our teeth,” he quipped. He held the door open and waited.
She narrowed a glance at him, grudgingly ackowledging he was right, and sprang out of the car. She stalked up the porch steps to wait for him by his front door, glaring at the entrance to his house.
He unlocked it one-handed, grimly hanging on to the glass bowl. The minimal water he’d added to cover the stem tips would be a mini tidal wave if Kitty chose to throw it at him. He tried to keep his tone casual, to calm her down as he placed the flowers on the hall table. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Kitty pinched her lips together in silence. He’d give her a little longer, but he would find out her secrets.
“It’s just lunch,” he said over his shoulder as he strode down the hall.
“Don’t walk away from me, Rosco Redmond.”
“Too late.”
Kitty followed him, her heels click-clacking across the parquet at a racing clip. How did she do that?
“Lamb and rosemary,” he said, heading to the kitchen. “You’ll like it.”
Her heels kept pace. “I’m not hungry.”
“I am.” He put the kitchen central breakfast bar between them. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward the line of high stools, then removed his overcoat and threw it over one of them.
She rammed her hands deep into her coat pockets, glowering at him.
He turned his back, switched on the heat under the pot of pre-cut potatoes, reached above the bench to take a plate from the crockery cupboard.
He didn’t want her angry enough to bolt, but he wanted to keep her simmering enough to talk. He might be able to allay her concerns about the latest paparazzi developments if he knew exactly what worried her. Did she really have that much to hide?
Tangling with the London Tycoon Page 12
