Maid of Dishonor (12 page)

‘I'm afraid so. And unfortunately I'm exceptionally bad at it.'

* * *

Damn, how could he have forgotten how forthright she was? She talked about sex without an ounce of calculation or subterfuge or fake modesty, in that clean crisp smoky British accent that arrowed straight into his crotch. After years spent handling women who figured sex could be bartered for love and marriage and happy ever after, Gina Carrington's attitude was refreshingly straightforward—and one heck of a turn-on.

Not so much of a turn-on, though, was what she was saying through those luscious lips of hers. Lips he'd wanted to feast on as soon as he'd seen her sitting in the mill's reception area looking hot and determined and aloof.

Swallowing down the groan that was threatening to rumble out of his throat, he kept his hands on the steering wheel and his gaze on the road ahead—and mulled over the problem.

What had seemed like a fairly simply seduction at the mill had become a mite more complicated. Gina's professional scruples weren't something he'd given a whole heck of a lot of thought to before offering her the commission. And now he'd seen her work, he probably should have. She was good, even better than he'd expected—the strategies she'd roughed together already exactly what they'd been looking for. Economical, well-directed and expertly designed with an originality that would make people sit up and take notice.

‘I'm not gonna pretend that isn't a disappointment,' he said, keeping the lazy drawl in place as he played for time. ‘But that's your prerogative.'

Just as it would be his prerogative to change her mind.

He rolled his shoulders, edging his foot off the gas pedal as the car bumped over a set of railroad tracks, and drifted into the urban sprawl of strip malls and tree-lined neighbourhoods that marked the edge of town.

Scruples or no scruples, Gina was dead right about one thing: good sex was distracting—it was supposed to be. And when they had sex it had the potential to be nothing short of combustible.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, the determined tilt of her chin almost as beguiling as the tremble in her plump bottom lip.

Well, hell.

Gina might not be as wild and untamed as she had been as a teenager, but she still had the same volatile libido. That tiny lip tremor told him louder than words she didn't want to say no any more than he wanted to hear it. Adrenaline charged into his system, making heat pool in his lap.

While Gina might not be much good at multitasking, he happened to be a master at it. The heat surged and crested. Once upon a time, Gina had done him the favour of showing him that he couldn't deny his own libido. Why not use the skills he'd acquired in the years since to teach her a valuable lesson in return—that great sex, while distracting, didn't have to be a disaster if you knew how to handle the fall-out?

He pressed his foot onto the gas, to surge past an old truck, and felt his confidence soar at the thought of the game of cat and mouse that awaited them. There would be time enough over the next few days to enjoy Gina's company, work closely together on her marketing plans—and lead her slowly but surely into temptation.

Once upon a time, she'd broken down all his inhibitions by being bold and sexy—and flirting outrageously with him—and in so doing had set him on the road to where he was now. And okay, he wasn't gonna lie, it had been a tough road during the difficult years of his marriage, rocky and painful and far far too long, but the journey had been worth it, and the destination liberating. Discovering that while he might well be his father's son, driven by the same weaknesses of the flesh, he didn't have to make the same mistakes.

So why not show Gina that she could have her cake and eat it too?

Because he had a feeling Gina's objections now had as much to do with the girl she'd been back then—who had sat in her tiny bed and accepted all the blame for his infidelity with agonising flippancy—as it did to do with the career woman she was now and her professional scruples.

Why not show Gina that them enjoying themselves together didn't have to screw up their professional relationship—because in the end, however distracting, however combustible they were together, it would only be sex. And that there really wasn't any blame to be apportioned for what had happened ten years ago any more—because as he had eventually discovered when he'd come to accept his true nature, it had been inevitable.

He took the exit off I-16 and headed into the city, towards the Historic District and home.

‘With that in mind,' Gina piped up — the proprietary tone telling him she thought his silence had signalled acquiescence to her plans, ‘I should probably check into a hotel during my stay.'

I don't think so, sugar.

He erased the itch of frustration and pasted on an easy smile. ‘Now why would you do that?'

‘Well, I...' she began, her tone not quite so sure.

‘My home has a study with all the computer equipment you'll need to work on your plans for the mill while you're here,' he said, moving in his king to threaten her queen. ‘And it'll save me having to drive to a hotel every time we want to work on them together. It's a whole lot more efficient if you stay at my place.'

‘I'm still not sure...'

‘Of course, if you're scared you won't be able to keep your hands to yourself?'

The prickle of irritation made it clear she hadn't spotted the trap. ‘I'm perfectly capable of—'

‘Then we don't have a problem, do we?' he cut in and rolled through the four-way stop sign that stood at the corner of Peachtree and Divine.

Checkmate, sugar.

* * *

Gina pushed the flicker of panic to the back of her mind at the knowledge that she'd just been rather neatly outmanoeuvred.

Don't be ridiculous.

They were both adults. He hadn't objected to her stipulation about no sex. In fact, he'd been remarkably unconcerned and accommodating—to the point of being a little ego-deflating, really. Seemed she might have overestimated her charms—and his intentions.

The car glided into a tree-lined square with a decorative stone fountain as its centrepiece.

‘This is pretty. Where are we?' she asked, determined to soak up Savannah's elegant architecture and stop obsessing about the distracting man next to her.

‘We're in the Southern Historic District and this is Divine Square. My place is on the far side.' He pointed past the fountain.

‘It's beautiful.'

The imposing three-and four-storey Victorian houses stood back from the road on all four sides of the square behind high fences or fancy iron railings, their ornate balconies and colourful gingerbread trim vaguely reminiscent of New Orleans' French Quarter. But with the houses' imposing wooden shutters closed tight against the muggy heat and the peaceful patch of flower beds and scrubs surrounding the fountain devoid of tourists, the historic square projected a well-bred gentility in direct counterpoint to the loud, louche ambience of the Big Easy.

‘Here we go.' He stopped in front of a Civil War-era mansion that took up one whole side of the square. He leaned across to pull a small black device out of the glove compartment, giving her an enticing whiff of sweat and soap, before he pressed the button and the gates swished open.

‘How long have you lived here?' she asked, oddly depressed at the thought he might have shared this home with his ex-wife.

‘My family have owned the house for generations. I moved in a few years back,' he replied, inadvertently answering her question and making the knot in her stomach release a little. ‘After my mother passed it was either move back in, sell it or watch the place fall into disrepair. Option one seemed the easiest for now.'

After parking in the house's driveway, he clicked the button to close the gates, slung the device back in the glove box and switched off the ignition. He swivelled round in his seat, a wry smile curving those firm sensual lips. ‘The place has eight bedrooms, but I can get my housekeeper to open up the pool house, if you'd prefer more privacy.'

‘Right,' she said, biting down on her bottom lip and the idiotic urge to pout at just how accommodating he was being to her no-sex suggestion. ‘That would be ideal.'

Her breathing accelerated as he climbed out of the car and skirted the bonnet to open the passenger door. Standing back, he swept his hand out to encompass a front garden planted with flowering scrubs and a giant weeping willow that cast the stairs leading up to the mansion's front entrance in glorious shade. ‘Welcome to the Price family's humble home, Gina.'

There was nothing humble about it or the wickedly tempting gleam in those devastating blue eyes.

Accepting his offer of the pool house hadn't been cowardice—it had been insurance. Resisting him wouldn't be that hard.... If she set her mind to it.

But she drew her fingers out of his as he took her hand to help her out of the car—and mounted the steps alone.

TEN

In the days
that followed, Gina surprised herself—sticking religiously to her decision to keep her association with Carter professional while working out a killer media strategy for the mill.

That said, the only way to stick to her plan had been to keep Carter at arm's length. Luckily for her, he'd helped to facilitate her avoidance by providing her with a sporty little Mustang to use as a runaround. After mornings spent at the mill getting acquainted with Carter's staff and the factory's production processes, and studiously avoiding too much consultation time with the man himself, she could escape in the afternoon to do ‘important research' in Savannah.

Which turned out to be a surprisingly fascinating endeavour. She'd never been to the South before, having always dismissed it based on popular stereotypes and one too many viewings of
Gone with the Wind.
But instead of discovering a city marred by the legacy of slavery and the civil war, Gina discovered a thriving metropolis founded on commerce that had since become a cultural melting pot. Speciality bookshops, retro ice-cream parlours, rehabbed movie theatres showing old classics and Internet cafés filled with students and tourists alike vied for space with the grand mansions and garden squares of the Historic District. Despite its stately grandeur Savannah was a vibrant hub of activity filled with the curious and the ambitious.

Carter himself seemed to fall comfortably between the two—his easy-going manner matched by a sharp intelligence and a killer business instinct. It was hard not to admire his single-mindedness—even when that single-mindedness was aimed squarely at her. Because while she had made the commitment to keep their relationship professional, she wasn't convinced Carter was entirely on board with it. Her suspicions were aroused her first morning at the pool house, when she'd woken up to the sound of rhythmic splashing coming from right outside the front door.

She'd flipped up the curtain while making her morning coffee to see who was using the pool and got an eyeful of bronzed male muscle soaking wet. An eyeful she had not been able to erase from her brain no matter how hard she'd tried.

On day three of her self-imposed exile, she heard the sound of Carter doing his morning laps in the pool and resisted the urge to flip the curtain up again. For about fifteen seconds.

She caught him as he levered himself out of the water and stood on the tiles drying himself—her throat dried to parchment as heat pounded into every one of her pulsepoints.

‘Carter Price, you wicked tease,' she whispered on an exasperated hiss, her fingers trembling on the curtain.

Was it her imagination or were those skin-tight trunks doing even less to cover his package this morning?

She blew out a breath of frustration. No wonder the blasted man had offered her a chance to stay in the pool house. ‘A more private place to stay, my butt. More like a ringside seat to temptation.'

His ridged six-pack tensed as he lifted his arms to dry his hair—making his abdomen resemble that of a Greek statue. Sunlight peeked through the willow trees that separated the pool enclosure from the rest of the mansion's walled garden and rippled over firm, tanned flesh. Gina's tongue darted out to lick dry lips as he looped the towel round his shoulders and glanced towards the pool house.

She dropped the curtain as if it had been electrified with a two-thousand-volt current.

Had he spotted her peeking?

She poured herself a cool glass of lemonade from the pitcher in the house's tiny fridge and ignored the weight sinking in her belly.

After three quick swallows, she marched into the house's small bathroom—to complete her own morning ritual.

Who cared if he had spotted her looking at his nearly naked body in those ludicrously revealing swimming trunks? Peeking didn't count.

As long as she didn't go out there and rugby tackle him to the ground—she was still sticking to her curfew. With no help from him.

The man was being deliberately provocative. And she hadn't risen to the bait. She'd been mature and sensible and disgustingly celibate for three whole days now, while living in his home and being subjected to his buff body less than three yards from her bedroom door every morning.

And managing not to make any reference to his exhibitionism during the hours they spent together gave her a free pass to sainthood.

That said, her abstinence had cost her. It had taken her several hours to fall into a fitful sleep each night, the evenings she spent with Carter at the big house only adding to her torment.

Because while she'd managed to keep the conversation entirely innuendo free, sticking to topics such as her work on the new website design, blogging strategies, the history of Savannah and even the American Civil War—which Carter referred to with a wry smile as ‘The War of Northern Aggression'—and she hadn't salivated once, or not in his presence anyway, the pressure had built each night anyway.

All those long lazy looks, all those wide easy smiles when she said something sharp or witty, all those considering hums of approval that rumbled up his chest when he listened with alarming intensity—were not remotely innocent. And the swimming, right outside her bedroom window.... That was the biggest tease of all.

But she was holding up.

She swallowed down the lump of lust and risked another peek. An odd mixture of regret and relief swooped into her stomach at the sight of the empty pool patio, the wet footprints on the sun-soaked tiles leading out of the walled garden back towards the house. The still surface of the water glinted, a visible echo of the shimmer of sensation rising up her spine.

While her behaviour so far had been exemplary, she had over a week to go. And as each day passed—she could feel her resistance crumbling.

She let the curtain drop, stripped off the T-shirt she wore to sleep in and stepped into the shower. Ten days wasn't that long. She'd gone nearly six months before that thoughtless night a week ago with Carter. She could handle ten days. Surely.

And then she'd be free and clear and have conclusive proof that she could do denial. When she had to.

But then she pressed the palm of her hand to the mound of her sex, felt the insistent throb of arousal as she pictured his torso—and that damn package defined to perfection behind black Lycra—and flicked on the cold tap. She shuddered as she stood under the frigid spray, and had to admit that cold showers were getting seriously old.

So old, in fact, that tonight she might have to confront Carter when he returned from the mill for their regular dinner date at the mansion and let him know she was wise to his little game—and she wasn't playing.

* * *

‘So did you enjoy yourself in Savannah today?'

Gina placed her fork beside her plate with deliberate precision and eyed Carter, who was sitting across from her at the large walnut dining-room table with a typically assured smile on his face.

‘Yes, thank you. I took some nice shots down by the river and along Decatur to illustrate the weblog I'm planning. But I don't think I need to stay any longer. I thought I'd catch a flight home tomorrow.' And if the thought made her feel a little down, it had no bearing on anything.

‘I thought we agreed you'd stay a couple of weeks? You've only been here three days.'

‘I thought we agreed to keeping this relationship professional,' she countered. ‘But that was before I discovered you were an exhibitionist.'

The crinkle of a frown cleared from his brow to be followed by the knowing curve of his lips. ‘So now it's my fault you can't multitask?'

She tapped a fingernail against the shiny walnut veneer and glared at him. ‘I didn't say I couldn't multitask, I said I didn't want to—because it'll distract me.'

‘No, actually, you said you weren't good at multitasking.' The curve widened into a grin. ‘So what you need is more practice.'

‘Your morning swim is unnecessarily provocative. And you know it,' she snapped, determined to refocus the argument where it belonged—with the blame for her frustration firmly on his shoulders.

‘Provocative or proactive?' The wry tone thickened with innuendo. ‘I'm real good at multitasking, sugar, and I'm ready and willing to show you how it's done.'

She narrowed her eyes, and wished she had Superman's ability to sear lead with a single glance. ‘Has it ever occurred to you and your gigantic ego that maybe I don't want to sleep with you again?'

He leant back in his chair, the nonchalant grin widening. ‘As me and my gigantic ego have caught you peeking more than once,' he drawled, ‘we know you want to, so I'm figuring it's not me, or the sex, you're scared of, it's yourself.'

‘Scared of...' She scoffed, or tried to as the dart of shame she'd suppressed for so long closed her throat. ‘Don't be ridiculous. Why would I be scared of myself? Scared of what exactly?'

‘You tell me,' he replied, the smile fading as his gaze sharpened—and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see into her soul. ‘You're the one who apologised for something that didn't have a damn thing to do with you. You're the one who called herself a tramp.... You're the one who's putting business before pleasure when there's no reason why we can't enjoy both while you're here. We're both consenting adults, we're both unattached at the moment, we both enjoy sex—especially with each other—and we're both too good at what we do to let something as inconsequential as sex distract us. So why shouldn't we go for it?'

She placed her napkin on the table, then stood, bracing her palms on the polished wood to disguise trembling fingers.

‘Thank you for the commission. I'm going to do an amazing job. And thank you for your Southern hospitality.' She forced servility into her voice, searching for the professional distance. ‘Savannah is a beautiful city, and I've enjoyed my stay here.' Give or take the odd sleepless night. ‘But I think I'll pass on the free psychoanalysis
and
your generous offer of anonymous sex on the side. And head home tomorrow.' Where she should have stayed all along.

He stood as she left the room, the gallant gesture in contrast to the open hunger in his gaze as it met hers. She made herself take brisk, sure, sensible steps, despite the pulse of longing making her limbs lethargic.

He didn't know her, and he didn't know what she'd been through ten years ago. And he never would, because telling him now would be painful and pointless—and far too personal. But she had to admit that he'd been right about one thing. Her desire to avoid more intimacy between them had nothing whatsoever to do with the commission or her multitasking skills and everything to do with the man.

Because she'd discovered a long time ago that sex with Carter Price was never inconsequential.

* * *

Carter whispered an expletive as the door clicked closed, and threw down the napkin clutched in his fist.

Cute, Price. Real cute.

After three days of keeping his cool, of keeping his distance, of letting her have the time she needed to get over her misguided professional ethics, and being real careful not to show his frustration—and parading around on that damn pool terrace every morning like a prize stud—he'd had his moment and he'd screwed it up. Because he'd pushed. And he never pushed...

Mercy, had he actually used the word inconsequential? No wonder she'd heard the word anonymous instead.

He might as well have hoisted her onto the table, flipped up her skirts and torn off her panties again for all the finesse he'd used.

He crossed to the drinks cabinet, pushed aside the imported single malt whiskey he usually favoured to clasp the bottle of his father's locally distilled liquor that lurked at the back. He downed a generous slug, then flinched as it shot down his throat like a burning bullet and exploded in his stomach.

He thumped a fist to his chest, to restart his heart, and let out a harsh cough.

Gina Carrington might be the most sexually liberated woman he'd ever met, but she was still a woman. Which meant she deserved to be wooed, not bullied, into his bed.

Carter, honey, have you ever thought your desires might be a little unnatural? Delfina tells me her Jim doesn't expect her to do her marital duty more than once a month and yet you are pestering me every other night.

The long-forgotten memory of his young wife's barbed enquiry pierced through his frustration—bringing with it the crushing echo of guilt and humiliation. He shoved the bottle back into the cabinet, raked not-quite-steady fingers through his hair.

Where the hell had that come from? He wasn't that green kid any more, trying and failing to satisfy a woman whose needs had never matched his own. Women enjoyed his company now, in bed as well as out of it. And his marriage to Missy hadn't failed ultimately because of their sexual problems, but for a whole host of other reasons.

When he was sixteen and they'd first started dating, Missy Wainwright's sweet, peaceful, non-confrontational company had been his sanctuary from a home where his father's bullying, overbearing presence and his mother's rigid insistence that keeping up appearances was all that mattered had made him feel sullen and tense and disillusioned.

But after his father's death, and that incendiary one-night encounter with Gina Carrington—a woman who couldn't be sweet and peaceful even if you gagged her—he'd begun to see that Missy's sweetness stemmed from a lack of intelligent conversation, and her refusal to argue about anything openly was actually more passive-aggressive than peaceful and non-confrontational.

Missy had said she'd forgiven him, when he'd returned to Savannah and confessed the sin he'd committed with Gina. But the knowledge had been there festering between them, the wounded expression she wore every time they had a disagreement reminding him without words that he was the one in the wrong—he was the one who couldn't be trusted. And the fact that he'd never been able to forget Gina—and how much he'd enjoyed sinning with her—only increased his guilt.