Love Letters, Inc. (5 page)

Within weeks of being hired by Moore Write, the VP of Sales had attached himself to her desk like moss to a ruin. So she'd decided to work at home. Lord, the man had already gone through three wives. Add to that he lived in a glass penthouse, wore Armani, and drove a two-seater Mercedes. They were peanut butter and pate.

And so were she and Kent Summerton, and that was a heartbreaker, because those eyes of his were to drown in, and that neural anesthetic he used for aftershave was—

Rosie yanked up her socks and pushed herself out of the rocker. It didn't matter what it was. He didn't make the cut. On that she would not compromise. It would probably shock the hell out of Jonesy, the prioritizer, and Summerton, the magnificent; but Rosie O'Hanlon had come up with a plan of her own.

And a man like Summerton, all edge and ambition, definitely wasn't part of it.

* * *

Kent phoned the following afternoon.

"I got another one of your letters today," he said without preamble.

"They are
not
my letters. They are Gardenia's letters," she stated flatly.

"I prefer to put a name with the prose," he said, his tone silky with a hint of tease.

Rosie rubbed one of her warming cheeks. For the first time, she realized this situation could get really embarrassing before it was over. Especially if he insisted on calling the letters hers. While romantic, the letters were also—at Gardenia's urging—rather bold. Some of her descriptions had made the top of Rosie's ears glow. She'd even told Rosie how big
it
was and just how she wanted
it
described. Of course, Rosie had swallowed her lies whole and jumped in with her usual excess of enthusiasm. How could she have been such a twit?

She pulled at her neck brace to let the steam escape so she could talk. "Then use someone else's name," she finally said. "This one's taken."

"Who's the lucky guy?"

"What? Oh, I meant taken by me."
Damn it,
she should have lied. But she was no good at lying.

"Glad to hear it. Can I buy you dinner tonight? We'll discuss your idea. Make a decision."

"No."

"That's it? No?" He sounded stunned.

"The brace and I eat in."

Silence.

"Then I'll come by tomorrow. We'll talk then."

"I won't be here tomorrow. A colleague of mine is coming to drive me to the office. It's our weekly project meeting."

More silence. Rosie broke it. She shouldn't do this, but the sooner they could resolve the matter of Gardenia, the better. She hadn't liked the way her stomach lurched and fluttered when she'd picked up the phone and found him on the other end. No way was she going to be entered into that scheduler of his. A woman had to be strong.

"Why don't you come here for dinner?" she said, and found herself holding her breath.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."
No,
she wasn't sure. This much lying she could handle. "I haven't cooked for anyone since my surgery. It'll be fun."

"Eight o'clock, okay? I've got a late meeting."

Of course, you have, she thought. Men like you always have late meetings. And early ones. And weekend ones.

"Eight's fine," she said. "See you then."

She clicked off the phone and looked at the clock. She had four hours, and, she told herself as she headed for her kitchen, creamed corn where her brain should be. She shouldn't have invited him here. What needed to be done about Gardenia could be done over the phone. She did
not
want to start something with Kent Summerton. And by inviting him to dinner, she had confirmed Jonesy's opinion of her. She
was
certifiable.

Font gave her a one-eyed stare from his sentry sleeping post in front of the fireplace. She registered it as disapproval. "Be careful what you say, big guy. You're looking at the mess hall cook here."

She opened the fridge door, which was enough incentive for him to rise on all fours and lumber over to help with the inventory.

"So what do you think?" She dug through the meat drawer. "Lamb or beef?"

His tail whomped her thigh and he winked.

Rosie looked at the New York steaks in her hand, let out a long wistful breath, and nodded. "You're right, Font, he's definitely a beefcake kind of guy."

* * *

Later that night, when dinner was over, Kent had to agree with Rosie. She was a terrific cook.
And
she wrote great letters. When he'd gone back to the office yesterday afternoon, the first thing he'd done was reread every single one. Since meeting her, the letters had taken on a whole new meaning. Now he saw Rosie in every heated line. He'd almost be sorry to see the last of them. Almost.

After he'd helped with the dishes, she told him to go in the living room and relax while she had a few strong words with the brace. He was, she told him, driving her crazy. Kent ignored the fact she'd imbued the creation with human character—male at that—and did as she said, carrying in a tray bearing coffee and two pieces of what looked like the best peach pie he'd ever seen.

He sat on the sofa, barely resisting the urge to sprawl across it and close his eyes. He'd been up since five. If he didn't stay upright, he'd nod off for sure. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and pressed his fingers against his closed eyes.

"You okay?" Rosie asked, walking into the room.

"A little tired but fine." Tonight must be special, he thought wryly. She was wearing yellow and lime green socks. Striped. Real howlers. He suppressed a smile and watched her settle into the recliner and tuck her feet, atrocious socks and all, under her.

"Coffee?" he asked, nodding at the tray in front of him.

"I forgot." She started to unwind from the chair.

"Stay where you are. I'll get it." He poured for them both, then crossed the short distance separating them and gave her a steaming cup. Their fingers touched, and his gaze shifted to her face. When their eyes met, the air in his lungs heated uncomfortably. She looked away first.

"Thanks," she said, pulling the coffee back from his hand and immediately raising the cup to her mouth. She didn't look at him again until he'd returned to the sofa.

"Want to talk about Gardenia now?" she asked.

He nodded and, ignoring his own coffee, leaned back to look at her, hands clasped behind his neck, legs stretched out in front of him. He could look at this lady for hours. Right now Gardenia was the last thing on his mind, but he'd put off the subject of the letters long enough.

He'd avoided it during dinner, deflecting the conversation from the merits of the Irish wolfhound to Rosie's opinion of Kent's eat-on-the-run diet, and how it was destroying his body. They'd talked about Rosie's mother. Quite a woman, by Rosie's account. After Rosie's father's death, she'd worked night and day to convert an old, rundown hotel into one of the best in Seattle. Rosie was obviously proud of what she'd done, although there were hints of a pretty lonely Rosie as a kid. He'd like to know more about that, but for now Gardenia was up. He cursed silently and rubbed his jaw.

Once they settled the Gardenia thing, he probably would never see this woman again. And something in him didn't want that to happen.

His gut clenched, and he dropped his head. He'd have to ask her out. Hell, even the idea of dating wearied him, the doing of it would put him under. Women. Dating. They took time, and he just plain didn't have any right now. He stifled a yawn.

"So, now that you've thought about it, what do you think? Do you agree with my plan, or not?" She sipped her coffee and stared at him over the rim of the cup.

"I might. If I had any idea what it was."

She looked confused, and two fine vertical lines met in her forehead. "But I told you all about it yesterday."

"I was distracted—" he looked in the general direction of her feet "—by your socks." He slumped deeper into the sofa.

She stuck out a foot and rotated it as if to study her bilious green and yellow footwear. "Can't see why. Look pretty ordinary to me."

Kent eyed her from under heavy eyelids. "Rosie, there's nothing ordinary about you." God, he was sleepy.

She pulled her foot back. "The letters, Kent. Let's talk about the letters."

He nodded. "Right. So tell me this good idea of yours."

"What I think we should do is..."

* * *

Kent woke up to sunlight doing laser surgery on his irises. He shaded his eyes against the glare coming at him from the living room window, pulled himself to a sitting position, and looked around stupidly. He was on Rosie's couch. He rubbed his eyes, then fingercombed his hair.

Smooth, Summerton, real smooth.

A glance at his watch told him it was after seven. He should have been at Beachline an hour ago. The smell of coffee and frying bacon lured his nose—followed closely by the rest of him—to the kitchen while he tucked his shirt back into his pants.

Rosie was at the stove, pulling something from the oven with hands engulfed in a pair of the biggest oven mitts he'd ever seen. Out came plump muffins and an aroma that was all about lazy Sunday mornings, scattered newspapers, and crumbs in the bed. Kent, leaning against the doorjamb, breathed deep.

Rosie caught sight of him as she turned to put the muffins on the counter. "Hey, it's the dinner guest from hell." She waved a mitted hand. "There's orange juice in the fridge."

"Fresh squeezed, I'll bet."

She smiled at him. "You're complaining?" She used one of her mittened paws to push back a rush of red hair that threatened to cloud her face.

"Mind if I use your shower first? Mess up some towels. Maybe splash some water around?"

"Do your worst. You'll find what you need down the hall off the guest bedroom."

The shower made him feel human. An idiot human, maybe, but it was an improvement.

Back in the kitchen, he ambled to the fridge in stockinged feet and poured himself the juice she'd offered. He leaned against the fridge, sipping and enjoying the sight of Rosie O'Hanlon in the morning. Nice. Very nice.

"I owe you an apology," he said.

She smiled at that, and her expression turned impish. "For what? Sleeping on my sofa or nodding off before I finished my first complete sentence. That
was
a first. Most men hang in there for at least a paragraph or two."

He grimaced at her teasing words, then drained the last of his orange juice. "Both."

"That's okay. Sit down, hotshot."

He watched her take a warmed plate from the oven, fill it with eggs, bacon, and fried tomato, then put it on a place mat at the same seat he'd used last night.

She gave him a stern look. "Eat—and then run." She took off the mitts and hung them on a hook by the stove. "I've got to get myself dressed for the corporate jungle. My ride's due in about a half an hour." She turned to face him. "If you need anything else, you're on your own. Okay?"

"Okay." He gestured toward the table. "This is nice, Rosie. You didn't have—"

"—to do it. I know."

Their gazes met and locked. Kent saw a faint blush color her cheeks. She looked pensive, as if unsure of her next move—or his. Kent wasn't.

He wanted the food, but he wanted something else a hell of a lot more. Something equally as basic. He walked toward her. He needed to touch her. To taste her. Right here. Now.

She stood, a flame-haired statue, still and waiting. At least he hoped she was.

"Rosie?" He touched her cheek with his knuckles, closed his eyes to imprint the softness of skin to memory. He heard her intake of breath. "Rosie," he said again, brushing his mouth over hers.

He wanted to slide his hand to the back of her neck, pull her close, but the brace was a barrier, so he took her face in his palms and slipped his fingers into her hair at her temples. Tendrils wrapped around his fingers like breeze-blown smoke.

He pulled back and looked down at her. "I have to kiss you. You know that." His voice came from a closed throat and sounded strangely uneven.

She gulped and tightened her lips, but she didn't move back. Not an inch. Thank God. Then she gave the barest of nods, her chin pressing into the brace. Her expression was wary—as if she were about to receive her first dose of an unknown medicine. Her hands fisted at her sides.

He smiled, sensing she hoped it would taste bad. That
he
would taste bad.

And he kissed her, determined to prove her wrong.

He took her mouth gently, willing her lips to ease and welcome his. He tamped his impatience, the knot of need forming in his gut. He slipped his fingers deeper into her hair, anchoring her head to better explore and savor. His eyes closed, shutting out the cheery kitchen, the breakfast on the table. Shutting out everything but Rosie and the sweetness of her mouth. His breathing thickened, and the knot pulled painfully. He felt her stiffen and pull back, and a stab of disappointment jolted him.

He was steeling himself to release her when he heard a low moan, and felt her breath rush across his cheek.

"Oh, Kent, this is—" She didn't finish. Instead, she wrapped her arms tight around him, pressed her body to his, and parted her lips.

His body hardened to aching, and he groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. She came, rested flush against him until he could feel the heat of her. His tongue tested the warmth in her mouth, silk and moist. Then her hands moved over his buttocks.

His grip tightened—everything tightened—and he shifted his mouth over hers and tugged and nibbled at her lower lip, probed deeper, then deeper yet. He wanted more.

"Ouch!"

The word didn't fit. It took a second for it to register.

Her neck. Damn it, he'd hurt her!

He released her abruptly, but held her upper arms while he tried to even out his breathing. She eased back slowly, grimacing.

"I hurt you." He cursed. He was an idiot. Godzilla in heat. What in hell made men so damn clumsy, anyway? But he knew, in this case, it was Rosie. If he'd hurt her, he swore he'd never try anything like this again—until he had a permission slip from her doctor.

"No," she said, but her hand flew to the back of the brace and her face was all scrunched and rigid.