Attitude (7 page)

He traced a finger along her jaw, gave her a white-hot smile. "Get started?" he finished for her.

She swallowed, hard. "Go," she blurted out. "I think you should go." She took a step back. "Sex... between us is a seriously bad idea. As for me—" she took a breath. "I've been working on the web design for hours, and now I just want to go to bed." She straightened and her lips firmed to stubborn. "Alone," she added.

Cal twisted his mouth to avoid smiling. Ginger's face was fever pink. He almost had her. Actually, he was pretty sure he did have her—if not tonight, soon. He closed the distance she'd put between them. "That's a hell of waste. You might want to reconsider that."

She looked at his groin, eyed the bulge he knew was thickening at an alarming rate behind his zipper. She licked her lips, then shook her head. "Men," she said under her breath. Definitely more of a curse than an accolade. She leveled her gaze at him as if it were a firearm. "What I can't figure out is why you're coming on to me. There must be a dozen women in this town who'd leap at the chance to sleep with Cal Beaumann, soap star."

"Former soap star," he corrected. "And maybe it's you I want. I've never met a light hiding under a bushel before."

She cocked that firearm stare. "There's no light. There's just a serious woman, pursuing a serious career." She paused. "I want to
do
my job, not the client—if you get my drift."

He ignored her. "Add to that you smell so damn good"—he bent over, put his face close to her throat, under her ear where he could breathe her in—"like some exotic food." He touched his lips to her neck, soaked up the giving sigh of a ready woman. He damn near came out of his jeans.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" She pulled back abruptly. "Okay. That's it. Let's do it. Let's get it out of our systems." She lifted her face to his. "Plant one on me, Beaumann," she instructed, then puckered up like a country school teacher.

Cal studied her stubborn chin, and considered the offer—and a temptingly luscious mouth—while trying to ignore the gyrations and leaps of his feverish below-the-waist brain cells. Still... she was fighting this
thing
between them and there was a chance kissing her now would be a waste of her time and his.

"Well?" Her eyelids popped open. She looked annoyed.

"Well, what?"

"You didn't kiss me."

"No, I didn't."

"Why not?"

"I didn't come here for a kiss, Ginger."

"Oh, right, I forgot, you came for sex—the recreational kind, with no strings attached." Her tone was droll.

"Is there any other kind?" He managed a grin, but her barb hit home. That was exactly what he wanted. At least, that's what he'd started out wanting. His mistake was assuming she'd want that, too, that her sexual need was as strong and demanding as his own—despite the dress-up routine she used to hide it. Damn it, he still believed that.

He touched her hair, tucked some curls behind her ear, and resisted the urge to sink his hands into it and do the
planting
she'd suggested. If he did, she'd come to him. He was certain of it. Instead, he glanced at her office door and added. "I'll find my own way out. See you tomorrow."

Still as a plank, she watched him go.

* * *

Ginger threw herself on her bed and beat on her pillow, then rolled on her back to harangue the ceiling.

Oh, the injustice of it. Six feet of sin, otherwise known as Cal Beaumann, showing up in her life just when she's bent on taking control. Obviously the Director Goddess of Womens' affairs was out having too many martini lunches.

And what in heaven's name was that "plant one on me thing" about? Sure, she was pushing his buttons, but she'd come dangerously close to pushing her own. Puckering up like a spinster looking for lip service had to be among the stupidest ideas of all times. And then the arrogant son of a baker hadn't even had the courtesy to kiss her.

That stung. That really stung.

But what really scared the sap out of her was that she'd actually wanted him to kiss her. Badly. She moaned, rolled over again and played dead, facedown on the bed.

Same old bad habits kicking in.
Put her in proximity of a handsome face, a sexy smile—and a mind that doesn't think past the nearest bedpost—and she becomes the village idiot.

She forked her fingers through her irritating hair, shoved it behind her ears. And as suddenly as that, she relived the touch of Cal's finger teasing the skin of her cheek, stroking the line of her jaw. She got to her feet.

Standing, room center, she let her arms drop to her sides and trembled.
His touch...

Her body and senses humming, half in longing, half in exasperation, she had to admit it; she was in major sexual upheaval, here. It was past time for a reality check.

She stomped barefoot across the bedroom carpet and stared herself down in the mirror over her bureau. She pointed a finger at herself. "Three months ago, Cameron, you made a decision to change your style and your attitude." She sneered at herself. "No more reckless relations with the muscle-bound set. Remember that?" She wagged her finger, metronome style. "You made a commitment, babe, and nothing's changed."

So Beaumann was a sexual tsunami. She'd handle it.

She yanked off her T-shirt. The diamond in her navel caught a shard of light, glittered and shadowed out. If she didn't know better she'd swear it winked.

Chapter 4

The next day Ginger got to Cal's theater at eleven-thirty. A determined fashion catastrophe in a shapeless brown suit, beige nylons, low-heeled pumps, and a hair knot on her noggin so tight blinking required advance planning, she'd arrived to find the theater doors open. She filled her mind with resolve, and walked in.

Inside, she stopped, her interest caught by the clever poster for Cinema Neo's opening film,
No Friend At All.
When Cal stepped up from behind, so close she felt his breath on her nape, she spun to face him.

His eyes scanned her, a dangerous half smile playing sexy games with his lips.
His perfect lips.

Any thoughts of a businesslike conversation flew from her head like a bunch of disturbed sparrows. Her heart bumped hard into her rib cage, and something tightened between her legs.

"Where'd you get the suit, Cameron, army surplus?" He arched a brow. "And here I'd been led to believe you were going to revisit your closet."

She cleared her throat to make room for a lie and did up one black plastic button. "I did. This is it."

His grin was pure devil. He gestured with his chin at her suit. "It won't work, you know. If you wore a circus tent I'd still see what I saw last night under that muscle shirt. Your secret's out, sweetheart."

She ignored his words, his perfect lips, his perfect smile, his perfect
everything
and rifled through her briefcase, all business. "Here's the guest list for opening night. If you have any interest at all in promoting your premiere." Yes, she was sarcastic, and yes, he deserved it.

He took it and tossed it on his desk as if it were as relevant as last week's shopping list. "Later," he said and grasped her hand. "Come with me."

"What are you—"

"You'll see."

When she dug her heels in, he tugged harder.

In seconds, despite her ongoing protests, he'd dragged her into the belly of the empty theater and seated her center row.

"Wait here." He strode up the aisle, leaving her to fume at being manhandled.

A few minutes later, the lights dimmed and Cal ambled down the aisle carrying a gigantic bag of popcorn. He took the seat next to her, lifted up the armrest that was between them, and looked up at the shining screen, a screen showing a multi-pierced, shaggy-haired young man skateboarding wildly along a busy New York street in the driving rain.

Ginger stared at Cal. "I came here to work in case you've forgotten." She tried for seriously sniffy, but couldn't tear her gaze from the big screen. She adored movies.

"This
is
work." Cal slouched in his seat, spread his knees wide, and set the bag of popcorn between them. He waved at the screen. "Opening night, Cameron,
No Friend At All.
This is what your PR efforts are all about. I thought you'd like a sneak preview."

Ginger shifted her eyes from the tempting hot buttery popcorn. Too bad she couldn't shift her nose. The aroma was heaven in a bag. And the man offering it to her was seduction in sneakers. "You should have asked. For all you know I could have appointments this afternoon."

He swiveled his head, glanced at her from under shadowed lashes. "Do you?"

She smoothed one narrow lapel. "No, but—"

"Relax, then. You're about to see the funniest damn film made in the last ten years."

"But—"

"Cameron, put a sock in it, okay?"

She glared, then looked down at the popcorn between his thighs. "I'd prefer some of that."

He looked at his lap, grinned. "I take it you mean the popcorn?"

"Leave the humor to the experts, Beaumann"—she jutted her chin toward the screen—"and pass the damn popcorn."

* * *

An hour later, Ginger had her knees propped against the seat in front of her, full possession of the popcorn, and was laughing so hard she barely noticed Cal's arm was draped along the back of her seat. When he rested his hand on her shoulder, she smirked.

He squeezed. Once. "Hell. You're wearing enough padding to repel the entire offensive squad of the Seattle Sea Hawks." He sounded amused.

"That's the idea."

"Waste of time, though."

"Oh, yeah. Why's that?" she asked.

"Because, all your efforts are for a lost cause..." He leaned closer and used his thumb to idly caress her nape in that shivery spot between her collar and knotted hair. She shouldn't be doing this. No. But his thumb was warm and expertly insistent as it worked its way up into her hair to softly rub the tense muscles at the base of the skull. When he pressed there, she closed her eyes, rolled her head back into his hand. She sighed, lost in the light, confident touch of his hands, until, his mouth to her ear, he whispered, "You and I are going to make love, Cameron, and all the shoulder pads in Saks can't do a damn thing to stop it." He ran his fingers into her hair and undid her complicated hair clip with the efficiency of an Indy pit mechanic. "And it's going to be great sex, unforgettable sex. I can taste you just thinking about it. But I'd rather taste this." He licked the side of her mouth.

Finally her brain engaged. She leaped to her feet and her hair tumbled over her face. She shoved it back and slammed the popcorn bag into his lap. "What do you think you're doing?"

He shifted in his chair. "Besides getting hard? Not much."

"Beaumann, I don't want this."

"Sit down. And quit sputtering like a spinster aunt." He gave her a stare worthy of the wiliest Baltimore detective. "It doesn't fit what's in the package."

She sat. "I am not a package, Beaumann, and you're not U.P.S."

"Okay, I'll bite. What are you?"

"Give me my hair clip." She held her palm out and kept her mouth closed. She certainly didn't owe Cal Beaumann any explanations. He'd be the last man on earth to understand.

He slapped the clip into her hand, and she started to rebuild her image. Before she finished, Cal reached out, tugged gently on some still-loose strands of hair. He twirled them casually between his long fingers, and asked, "Explain, Cameron. Why does a woman with as much potential as you hide it behind bad hair, bad suits, and a bad attitude?"

"I do not have a bad attitude."

"At least you didn't try defending the suit. So give, Cameron," he said. "What have you got against sex? Scared?"

"Is that what you think I am? 'Scared'?
Of You?"

"I don't know. I'm asking."

"Well, for your information, 'scared' isn't in the equation."

"What is? In the equation, I mean."

"Avoidance." She eased her shoulders higher.

"Avoidance." He looked puzzled.

She took in more air. It was now or never. "If you must know, I'm taking a two year sabbatical from sex." She grit her teeth. "And I intend to avoid men who like a woman for a good time, not a long time."