THIS PERFECT KISS

by Christie Ridgway

  "Help," she said. "The zipper's stuck."

  Rory swallowed. "Just take it off, then." He'd seen enough. Plenty. He was all lust again and that was what he'd wanted. Keeping his distance was safe. Anything more was dangerous.

  Remember? He wasn't supposed to touch her.

  "I can't," she said. "With the zipper where it is, I can't get the dress on or off."

  Oh, great.

  His feet were stuck, too. But after a minute he could force them to move, though he could almost hear the squelching sounds as the floor tried sucking him back to keep him from going to her.

  Because he shouldn't touch her.

  But, hey, the zipper was stuck, he told himself, trying to mollify his good sense.

  Her shoulders tensed as he approached, and her voice was breathy. "Just jiggle the tab a couple of times. I can handle it once you get it free."

  "Whatever you say," he murmured.

  And then he was close enough to feel the warmth of her body. Steeling himself, he reached toward the misbehaving zipper and her heat grazed his knuckles. He thought of the women he usually let into his life. Tall, Nordic females like Lisa, whose classy coolness he enjoyed melting in slow degrees. But Jilly was different. Jilly was already burning-hot. The representatives of the Blue Party would go blue in the face if they knew the kind of fever he was exposing himself to.

  When he grasped the zipper, one knuckle stroked the small of her back. She jerked, goose bumps breaking out over all that creamy pale, hot skin.

  Rory closed his eyes against the sight and gingerly wiggled the metal tab, willing the damn thing free.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. "Any luck?"

  He opened his eyes and his breath stirred the coffee-brown curl at her temple. No. No luck.

  No luck with the zipper, no luck ignoring the fire coming off her body, no luck controlling his lust for her.

  And with those green eyes on his face, he was having no luck remembering that she was only spicy hot sex and also not something else, something more, something sweet

  She licked her lips.

  No luck at all.

  "Jilly," he said, leaning toward her mouth.

  A car horn blared angrily outside the shop.

  She started, he started, their combined movements started the zipper working.

  Jilly stepped forward. Rory stepped back.

  Without looking at him, she dashed into the dressing room.

  Without saying anything, he headed for the shop's front door.

  God bless impatient L.A. drivers, he thought, turning the lock and slipping out. Because if he and Jilly hadn't been interrupted, anyone caring to look through the brightly lit shop windows would have had quite an eyeful.

  Rory didn't let himself think of what he might have had.

  * * *

  "You better see this, Rory," Greg said.

  Rory focused on his computer screen and opened his mouth to tell his brother to go away. It was Monday morning and he had approximately twenty more minutes before Jilly arrived and destroyed his ability to concentrate. Without her in the house, Sunday had been peaceful enough, if he didn't count the unbidden images of her naked back that kept flashing through his mind.

  "Rory," Greg said again. He'd crossed to the fifty-two-inch projection TV that Roderick had installed in place of a leather-bound set of Shakespeare. Grabbing the remote, Greg flicked on the TV and selected a channel. Even more mysterious, he slid a videotape into the VCR. "RECORD" flashed on the TV screen as it briefly displayed a logo: Celeb! on TV. Schlocky theme music swelled through the Bose speakers in the corners of the library.

  Rory looked back at his computer. "Hey, if you like the publicity, good for you, Greg. But I don't have time to watch right now."

  "This isn't about me, Rory."

  He looked up again, and an image on the TV screen struck him like a fist in the gut. A grainy, picture-of-a-picture type image, but a familiar one all the same. It had replayed in his own mind over and over since Saturday night.

  Jilly's naked back.

  Something cold slithered against the nape of his neck and that hovering, portentous cloud he lived with lowered about six feet.

  Rory slid down in his chair, closed his eyes, opened them, and stared at the TV again. He knew what had happened. Her Web cam. Jilly's naked back caught by her own Web cam. And just in camera range, his back, his hands reaching toward her. Christ, even with the poor quality of the picture, he could see his own damned hands were shaking as they appeared to be undressing her.

  He curled his fingers into fists when Jilly looked over her shoulder, completely exposing her face to the camera. Her eyes were dreamy, and just as the scene had replayed in his mind, she licked her full, pouty lips.

  "Fuck," Rory said.

  "That's what everyone will be thinking," Greg agreed.

  Rory frowned. "But why the interest in Jilly? What would—" But then the "why" struck him like a second belly-blow, as what was the back of his head, leaning toward her nakedness and her mouth, jerked around—that horn blast, he remembered—and it was Rory's own face that was caught on camera, completely exposed.

  "Fuck."

  "An activity made even more interesting when the would-be candidate of the Blue Party—the party that wants to put honor back in politics—appears about to do said activity in front of the Internet masses." Greg flicked off the TV's sound as the screen was filled by a big-toothed woman who apparently hosted the piece-of-crap program.

  He raised his eyebrows and held up the remote. "Unless you'd rather hear the speculation?"

  Rory closed his eyes and waved the nauseating thought away. "Believe me, I can guess what it is." He groaned. "What the hell am I going to do?"

  He thought of his good buddy, campaign director Charlie Jax, and groaned louder. The man was going to skewer him, and who could blame him? Sexy Internet interludes didn't enhance Rory's reputation or that of the Blue Party.

  "You need to do something quick," Greg said. "I hate to break more bad news, but it was Mrs. Mack who alerted me to the program. She also said the press is gathering at the gates."

  Rory groaned again. "And Jilly's expected any moment."

  The phone on his desk started to ring, and Rory eyed it as if it were a poisonous snake. "Don't pick that up. And go tell Mrs. Mack we're not answering the phone today." He belatedly looked at his brother. "Please."

  There was sympathy on Greg's face. And a trace of something else—glee?—that made Rory think of countless games of hide-and-seek and cops and robbers when two boys had the run of a house filled with adults, but still the most responsible person in the huge place had been Rory himself.

  He shrugged away the memories, shrugged away the resentment that he hadn't experienced any boyish glee in a million years, and vaulted out of his chair. With Jilly almost certainly nearing the house, he needed to run interference.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Rory approached the gates at the bottom of the Caidwater driveway just as Jilly's red woody was trying to nose its way through the milling throng of reporters and paparazzi on the other side. Christ. Southern California, politics, and the Kincaid name brought them out in droves.

  Both types of vultures were there, piously earnest journalists in cheesy jackets and gleeful paparazzi in jeans and T-shirts so rumpled, it looked like they'd slept all night in the bushes.

  Which they probably had.

  He set his back teeth as they lifted their cameras—each complete with a powerful lens that seemed as monsterish and threatening as the eye of a Cyclops—in the direction of Jilly's car. If her windows hadn't been tinted, they would have had her.

  Of course, the rattling, flashy red car was damning enough.

  He pressed the button on his side of the driveway and the gates opened, giving one inattentive reporter a gratifying slap on the ass. Keeping to his side of the drive—the private property side—he waved to encourage Jilly through, all the w
hile ignoring the whirr-click of camera shutters and the shouting voices of the carrion-eaters come to pick his bones clean.

  "Rory!"

  "Mr. Kincaid. A question about the Blue Party—"

  "What's your stand on Internet pornography?"

  Snickers.

  Hit the gas, Jilly, he thought impatiently. But still she inched along, apparently a lot more worried than he would have been about bruising kneecaps or crushing cameras.

  Finally he couldn't stand it. "Get the hell out of the lady's way!" he yelled.

  And immediately realized his mistake. The lady. The throng surged around the car, their interest diverted from him and focused completely on the cherry-red wagon that was now forced to a complete halt.

  Of course, because he wasn't the only one who could make a dumb move, Jilly rolled down the window and stuck her head out.

  click click click click click click click click

  She blinked in consternation, her wild hair zigging in every direction and her mouth, painted the same sin-red as her car, falling open. Her gaze ping-ponged over the crowd and then found him. "Rory?"

  He moved toward Jilly, pushing into the reporters who surrounded her, six deep and five across. Through the car's open window Rory could see she had a kind of Annie Hall look going. There was a tie around her neck. She wore a man's vest in a red paisley pattern. But she'd forgotten a shirt, he thought with resignation, staring at her bare arms.

  But then she shifted to lean farther out the window and he spotted a white sleeveless T-shirt beneath the oversized vest. Oh, great, he thought, resigned again. The T-shirt was a tight one.

  He sighed, shouldering his way past a skinny kid who smelled like he'd been sifting through garbage cans. Well, there was one thing you could say for Jilly. She was never a disappointment. This week's tabloid readers had a treat in store.

  The reporters were shouting over one another, some calling her name and asking questions about herself, others asking questions about her political views. Rory tried moving faster through the crowd, afraid of how she might respond. The paparazzi continued clicking away, too, and when one called out, "Lick your mouth, Jilly, baby," Rory saw a red deeper and hotter than the shade of Jilly's lipstick.

  Using his shoulder like a linebacker, he shoved the dirty-minded asshole away and finally found himself beside her door.

  She bit her fat bottom lip. "What's going on?"

  He shook his head. "We gotta get out of here." But there wasn't any place to go. They were surrounded, reporters and photographers pressing against them so closely that Rory couldn't get out a private explanation let alone get the car door open.

  "Come on." He reached into the window and grabbed her upper arms to urge her from the driver's seat.

  She pulled back and her voice rose. "What are you doing?"

  click click click click click click click click

  "Jilly, just cooperate with me here," he said through his teeth. Ignoring another protest, he reached for her again, then hauled her light weight out the window and into his arms.

  To realize he was stuck with her. The press had no intention of giving him any room to set her down.

  Or even to take a breath.

  Hitching her closer to him, he gritted his teeth and turned, battering through the crowd with his back, making his way in the direction of the gates. Though he was expecting the worst, something about the sight of the woman in his arms seemed to alter the group's mood. As he carried Jilly, walking backward so he could make certain they weren't followed, the reporters' aggression died and their shouted questions did, too.

  Rory was still afraid to put her down, afraid she'd try to get back in her car or get snatched by one of the overeager reporters for a one-on-one exclusive. Maybe she was worried, too, because she had her arms looped tightly around his neck.

  Her light, gentle perfume was in his lungs and even under the press's rabid eyes he appreciated the ride of her round butt beneath his hand. Jeezus, but she was one sexy armful. And this was the closest he'd been to it, with thirty-plus overinterested parties as witnesses.

  Not to mention the—what? thousands? millions?—who would see what they wanted to in that replay of their Internet escapade.

  Damn.

  He paused by the button that would slam the gates shut on the intruders. To free a finger to press a button, he shifted Jilly against him. His mouth inadvertently brushed the smooth, hot skin of her temple.

  Hot. She was so damn hot.

  "Hey, Rory!"

  This voice was friendly, and for some reason, he looked toward it as his finger reached for the button.

  The reporter wore an appreciative, between-us-guys grin. "You got something special going on with her?"

  Rory looked down at Jilly, and he saw her as the reporter did—her wild curls, her lush mouth, the abundance of her breasts. He couldn't help a smile from breaking over his face. He couldn't help it, because, hell, he was holding the sexiest, hottest armful in memory. Why shouldn't he appreciate it? Especially when their hand had been dealt the minute they'd been caught on the Web camera, and especially since he'd already determined how they were going to have to play out this disaster.

  "Oh, yeah," he called back to the grinning reporter, his gaze not leaving Jilly's surprised—no, stunned—face. "Something special. Something really special."

  And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he'd not been planning it from about two minutes after he'd seen that goddamn segment of Celeb! on TV, Rory dipped his head and kissed Jilly's tempting, sin-colored mouth.

  click click click click click click click click

  The sound of another round of camera shutters barely penetrated Rory's consciousness. He'd meant to make it a playful, good-to-see-you kind of kiss, but Jilly's full breasts were pressed so softly against his chest and her mouth was as hot and sweet as melted candy. He pressed harder, for a deeper taste, and she obeyed his need, her lips softening enough for him to press them open with his tongue.

  Fire.

  It was licking at his feet, burning through his veins, as he thrust his tongue inside her mouth again. She moaned, and her fingernails scratched the nape of his neck.

  Rory dipped deeper into her mouth.

  Red hots. Jilly tasted like red hots and he had an unquenchable craving for their cinnamonspice heat.

  Clang.

  The sound of the gates closing broke their kiss. Her chest heaving, Jilly stared up at him, then at the reporters now locked out. She dried her wet mouth—made wet by him—with the back of her hand.

  "What's going on?" she said hoarsely.

  He let her slide down his body and her right hip brushed his aching erection. He bit back a groan. Every one of his muscles felt hard as a rock.

  "What is going on?" she asked again.

  But not nearly as hard as it was going to be to break the news of their little … dilemma to Jilly.

  * * *

  "'Little dilemma'?" Jilly tasted the words because it was better than tasting Rory's kiss, that demanding, world-spinning kiss still lingering on her lips. Even now they continued to throb. "What 'little dilemma' are you talking about?"

  Rory sat on the edge of his desk in the library, looking delicious and maddeningly calm in a pair of chinos and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was spinning a videotape with his long fingers and didn't look like he even remembered kissing her. Which meant he'd probably forgotten entirely about coming to her shop late Saturday afternoon.

  Fine. That meant he'd also forgotten how she'd made a fool of herself by letting on she'd known about his Friday night plans. Maybe he'd forgotten too, how she'd nearly jumped through the ceiling when he'd touched her naked back.

  She breathed out a little sigh of relief. She'd been embarrassed about giving away her sensitivity to his touch and worried how he might react to the knowledge. But it didn't seem to be on his mind at all. It appeared her worries were over.

  She frowned. E
xcept for this "little dilemma" he was talking about. "Okay, Rory, spill."

  A strange expression moved over his face. Then, without a word, he crossed to a television and VCR. The videotape went in, the TV went on. Celeb! on TV splashed onto the screen, and then the image changed to her naked back. Rory's hands. Her face, looking back at Rory and wearing a clear expression of yearning. Then Rory's gorgeous blue eyes and exotic cheekbones.

  "No." Her first thought was to deny what she was seeing. "That's not… How the heck—"

  "Your Web cam," Rory said shortly. "I assume you forgot to turn it off, just like you forgot to lock your door when you closed that night."

  Oh, crud. Jilly flushed, guilty. He was right. She hadn't remembered to turn the camera off right away and then Rory had arrived, driving everything rational from her head. A little groan escaped her mouth as their images began replaying on the television screen. She looked away, unwilling to see that kiss-me expression on her face one more time.

  "No," Rory ordered. "Keep watching." Now a big blonde appeared on the screen to speculate on what the famous Rory Kincaid had been getting ready to do.

  They already knew whom he was getting ready to do it with. Jilly Skye. The big woman said her name three times, identifying her as a "secondhand-clothing dealer."

  "Vintage-clothing dealer," Jilly spit out at the stupid blonde, welcoming in a bit of anger. It sure beat distinct embarrassment.

  One of Rory's eyebrows edged up. "If you've finished your rebuttal?" When she sighed, he flicked off the TV, then nodded toward it. "That's our dilemma," he said.

  Jilly swallowed, still trying to comprehend that a private moment in her shop Saturday evening had been shown on a nationally syndicated television program. "Oh, so," she said, rolling one shoulder and trying to pretend she wasn't experiencing a terrible uneasiness.

  Rory lifted that eyebrow once more. "'Oh, so' … uh, what?"

  She swallowed again. "So who cares? Who cares what anyone thinks?" Oh, man. Jilly stared down at her shoes, ignoring another flush of heat crawling up her face. How many people had seen her bare back … and worse, much, much worse, the bare longing in her eyes when she'd looked at Rory?