Читать книгу One Night Stand Bride - Kat Cantrell - Страница 8
ОглавлениеHendrix had been right to follow Rosalind. This bare storefront had a story behind it and he had every intention of learning her secrets. Whatever leverage he could dig up might come in handy, especially since he’d botched the first round of this negotiation.
And the hard cross of Roz’s arms told him it was indeed a negotiation, one he shouldn’t expect to win easily. That had been his mistake on the first go-round. He’d thought their chemistry would be good trading currency, but she’d divested him of that notion quickly. So round two would need a completely different approach.
“What is this place?” he asked and his genuine curiosity leaked through. He had a vision in his head of Rosalind Carpenter as a party girl, one who posed for men’s magazines and danced like a fantasy come to life. Instead of tracking her down during an afternoon shopping spree, he’d stumbled over her working.
It didn’t fit his perception of her and he’d like to get the right one before charging ahead.
“I started a charity,” she informed him with a slight catch in her voice that struck him strangely.
She expected him to laugh. Or say something flippant. So he didn’t. “That’s fantastic. And hard. Good for you.”
That bobbled her composure and he wouldn’t apologize for enjoying it. This marriage plan should have been a lot easier to sell and he couldn’t put his finger on why he’d faltered so badly thus far. She’d been easy in Vegas—likable, open, adventurous. All things he’d assumed he’d work with today, but none of those qualities seemed to be a part of her at-home personality. Plus, he wasn’t trying to get her into bed. Well, technically, he was. But semi-permanently, and he didn’t have a lot of experience at persuading a woman to still be there in the morning.
No problem. Winging it was how he did his best work. He hadn’t pushed Harris Family Tobacco Lounge so close to the half-billion mark in revenue without taking a few risks.
“What does your charity do?” he asked, envisioning an evening dress resale shop or Save the Kittens. Might as well know what kind of fundraiser he’d have to attend as her husband.
“Clowns,” she said so succinctly that he did a double take to be sure he hadn’t misheard her. He hadn’t. And it wasn’t a joke, judging by the hard set of her mouth.
“Like finding new homes for orphan clowns?” he guessed cautiously, only half kidding. Clown charity was a new one for him.
“You’re such a moron.” She rolled her eyes, but they had a determined glint now that he liked a lot better than the raw vulnerability she’d let slip a few minutes ago. “My charity trains clowns to work with children at hospitals. Sick kids need to be cheered up, you know?”
“That’s admirable.” And he wasn’t even blowing smoke. It sounded like it meant something to her and thus it meant something to him—as leverage. He glanced around, taking in the bare walls, the massive and oddly masculine dark-stained desk and the rolling leather chair under her very fine backside. Not much to her operation yet, which worked heavily in his favor. “How can I help?”
Suspicion tightened her lush mouth, which only made him want to kiss it away. They were going to have to fix this attraction or he’d spend all his time adjusting her attitude in a very physical way.
On second thought, he couldn’t figure out a downside to that approach.
“I thought you were trying to talk me into marrying you,” she said with a fair amount of sarcasm.
“One and the same, sweetheart.” He gave it a second and the instant his meaning registered, her lips curved into a crafty smile.
“I’m starting to see the light.”
Oh yes, now they were ready to throw down. Juices flowing, he slid a little closer to her and she didn’t roll away, just coolly stared up at him without an ounce of give. What was wrong with him that he was suddenly more turned on in that instant than he had been at any point today?
“Talk to me. What can I do in exchange for your name on a marriage certificate?”
Her smile gained a lot of teeth. “Tell me why it’s so important to you.”
He bit back the curse. Should have seen that one coming. As a testament to her skill in maneuvering him into giving up personal information, he opted to throw her a bone. “I told you. I’ve had some fallout. My mother is pretty unhappy with me and I don’t like her to be unhappy.”
“Mama’s boy?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned. Who didn’t see the value in a man who loved and respected his mama? “There’s no shame in that. We grew up together. I’m sure you’ve heard the story. She was an unwed teenage mother, yadda, yadda?”
“I’ve heard. So this is all one hundred percent about keeping your mom happy, is it?”
Something clued him in that she wasn’t buying it, which called for some serious deflection. The last thing he wanted to have a conversation about was his own reasons for pursuing Roz for the first and only Mrs. Hendrix Harris.
He liked being reminded of his own vulnerabilities even less than he liked being exposed to hers. The less intimate this thing grew, the better. “Yeah. If she wasn’t in the middle of an election cycle, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But she is and I messed up. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get this deal done. Name your price.”
“Get your mom to agree to be a clown for me and I’ll consider it.”
That was what she wanted? His gaze narrowed as they stared at each other. “That’s easy. Too easy. You must not want me to figure out that you’re really panting to get back into my bed.”
Her long silky laugh lodged in his chest and spread south. She could turn that sentiment back on him with no trouble at all.
Which was precisely what she did. “Sounds like a guilty conscience talking to me. Sure you’re not the one using this ploy to get me naked without being forced to let on how bad you want it?”
“I’m offended.” But he let a smile contradict the statement. “I’ll tell you all day long how much I want you if that floats your boat. But this is a business proposition. Strictly for nonsexual benefits.”
Any that came along with this marriage could be considered a bonus.
She snorted. “Are you trying to tell me you’d give up other women while we’re married? I don’t think you’re actually capable of that.”
Now, that was just insulting. What kind of a philanderer did she take him for? He’d never slept with more than one woman at a time and never calling one again made that a hundred percent easier.
“Make no mistake, Roz. I am perfectly capable of forgoing other women as long as you’re the one I’m coming home to at the end of the day.”
All at once, a vision of her greeting him at the door wearing sexy lingerie slammed through his mind and his body reacted with near violent approval. Holy hell. He had no problem going off other women cold turkey if Roz was on offer instead, never mind his stupid rules about never banging the same woman twice. This situation was totally different, with its own set of rules. Or at least it would be as soon as he got his head out of her perfect cleavage and back on how to close this deal.
“Let me get this straight. You’re such a dog that the only way you can stay out of another woman’s bed is if I’m servicing you regularly?” She wrinkled her nose. “Stop me when I get to the part where I’m benefiting from this arrangement.”
Strictly to cover the slight hitch in his lungs that her pointed comment had caused, he slid over until he was perched on the desk directly in front of her. Barely a foot of space separated them and an enormous amount of heat and electricity arced through his groin, draining more of his sense than he would have preferred. All he could think about was yanking her into his arms and reminding her how hot he could get her with nothing more than a well-placed stroke of his tongue.
He let all of that sizzle course through his body as he swept her with a heated once-over. “Sweetheart, you’ll benefit, or have you forgotten how well I know your body?”
“Can you even go without sex?” she mused with a lilt, as if she already knew the answer. “Because I bet you can’t.”
What the hell did that have to do with anything?
“I can do whatever I put my mind to,” he growled. “But to do something as insane as go without sex, I’d need a fair bit of incentive. Which I have none of.”
Her gaze snapped with challenge. “Other than getting my name on a marriage license you mean?”
The recoil jerked through his shoulders before he could catch it, tipping her off that she’d just knocked him for a loop. That was uncool. Both that she’d realized it and that she’d done it. “What are you proposing, that I go celibate for a period of time in some kind of test?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She pursed her lips into a provocative pout that told him she was flat-out lying because she’d intended it to be exactly that. “That’s a great deal. You keep it zipped and I’ll show up at the appointed time to say ‘I do.’”
His throat went dry. “Really? That’s what it’s going to take?”
“Yep. Well, that and Helene Harris for Governor in a clown suit. Can’t forget the children.”
Her smug tone raked at something inside him. “That’s ridiculous. I mean, my mom would be happy to do the clown thing. It’s great publicity for her, too. But no sex? Not even with you? There is literally no reason for you to lay down such a thing except as cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Careful, Hendrix,” she crooned. “It’s starting to sound like you might have a problem keeping it in your pants. I mean, how long are we talking? A couple of months?”
A couple of months? He’d been slightly panicked at the thought of a week or two. It wasn’t that he was some kind of pervert like she was making it sound. Sex was a necessary avoidance tactic in his arsenal. A shield against the intimacy that happened in the small moments, when you weren’t guarded against it. He kept himself out of such situations on purpose.
If he wasn’t having sex with Roz, what would they do with each other?
“I think the better question is whether you can do it,” he countered smoothly. “You’re the same woman who was all in for every wicked, dirty escapade I could dream up in Vegas. You’re buckling yourself into that chastity belt too, honey.”
“Yeah, for a reason.” Her eyes glittered with conviction. “The whole point of this is to fix the problems the photograph caused. Do you really think you and I can keep ourselves out of Scandalville if we’re sleeping together?” His face must have registered his opinion on that because she nodded. “Exactly. It’s a failsafe. No sex—with anyone. No scandals. Or no ‘I do.’”
The firm press of a rock and a hard place nearly stole his breath. If no sex was important to her, how could he refuse?
“Six weeks,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll be engaged for six weeks. Once we’re married, all bets are off.”
“We’ll see. I might keep the no sex moratorium. You and I don’t make sense together, Hendrix, so don’t pretend that we do.”
She swallowed that sentence with a squeak as he hauled her out of that chair and into his arms for a lesson on exactly how wrong she was. God, she fit the contours of his body like the ocean against the sand, seeping into him with a rush and shush, dragging pieces of him into her as her lips crashed against his.
Her taste exploded under his mouth as he kissed her senseless. But then it was his own senses sliding through the soles of his feet as Roz sucked him dry with her own sensual onslaught. For a woman who’d just told him they didn’t work, she jumped into the kiss with enthusiasm that had him groaning.
The hot, slick slide of her tongue against his dissolved his knees. Only the firm press of that heavy desk against his backside kept him upright. The woman was a wicked kisser, not that he’d forgotten. But just as he slid his hand south to fill his palms with her luscious rear, she wrenched away, taking his composure with her.
“Where are you going?” he growled.
“The other side of the room.” Her chest rose and fell as if she’d run a marathon as she backed away. Frankly, his own lungs heaved with the effort to fill with air. “What the hell was that for?”
“You wanted that kiss as much as I did.”
“So it was strictly to throw it back in my face that I can’t resist you?”
Well, now. That was a tasty admission that she looked like she wished to take back. He surveyed her with renewed interest. Her kiss-reddened lips beckoned him but he didn’t chase her down. He wanted to understand this new dynamic before he pressed on. “You said we didn’t work. I was simply helping you see the error in that statement.”
“I said no such thing. I said we don’t make sense together. And that’s why. Because we work far too well.”
“I’m struggling to see the problem with that.” They’d definitely worked in Vegas, that was for sure. Now that he’d gotten a second taste, he was not satisfied with having it cut short.
“Because I need to stay off the front page,” she reminded him with that funny hitch in her voice that shouldn’t be more affecting than her heated once-overs. “There are people walking by the window as we speak, Hendrix. You make me forget all of that. No more kissing until the wedding. Consider it an act of good faith.”
The point was painfully clear. She wanted him to prove he could do it.
“So we’re doing this. Getting married,” he clarified.
“As a partnership. When it stops being beneficial, we get a divorce. No ifs, ands or buts.” She caught him in her hot gaze that still screamed her desire. “Right? Do we need to spell it out legally?”
“You can trust me,” he grumbled. She was the one who’d thrown down the no-sex rule. What did she think he was going to do, force her to stay married so he could keep being celibate for the rest of his life? “As long as I can trust you.”
“I’m good.”
He thought about shaking on it but the slightly panicked flair to her expression made him think twice. It didn’t matter. The deal was done, as painful as it would ultimately end up being.
It was worth it. He had to make it up to his mom for causing her grief, and this was what she’d asked him to do. And if deep inside, he craved the idea of belonging to such an old-guard, old-money family as the Carpenters, no one would be the wiser.
All he had to do was figure out how to be engaged to Roz without trying to seduce her again and without getting too chummy. Should be a walk in the park.
* * *
Being engaged was nothing like Roz imagined. Of course she’d spent zero time daydreaming about such a thing happening to her. But her friend Lora had been engaged for about six months, which had been a whirlwind of invitations and dress fittings. Until the day she’d walked in on her fiancé and a naked barista who was foaming the jackass’s latte in Lora’s bed. Roz and Lora still didn’t hit a coffee place within four blocks of the one where the wedding-wrecker worked.
Roz’s own engagement had a lot fewer highs and lows in the emotion department and a lot less chaos. For about three days. The morning of the fourth day, Hendrix texted her that he was coming by, and since there’d been no question in that statement, she sighed and put on clothes, wishing in vain for a do-over that included not flying to Vegas in the first place. Or maybe she should wish that she and Lora had gone to any other club besides the Calypso Room that night.
Oh, better yet, she could pretend Hendrix didn’t do it for her in a hundred scandalous ways.
That was the real reason this engagement/marriage/partnership shouldn’t have happened. But how could she turn down Helene Harris in a clown outfit? No hospital would bar the woman from the door and thus Clown-Around would get a much-needed lift, Roz’s reputation notwithstanding. It was instant publicity for the gubernatorial candidate and the fledgling charity in one shot, which was a huge win. And she didn’t have to actually ask her father to use his influence, which he probably wouldn’t do anyway.
Plus, and she’d die before she’d admit this to Hendrix, there had to be something about being in the sphere of Helene Harris that Roz’s father would find satisfactory. He was so disappointed about the photographs. If nothing else, marrying the man in them lent a bit of respectability to the situation, right? Now Roz just had to tell her father about the getting married part. But first she had to admit to herself that she’d actually agreed to this insanity.
Thus far it had been easy to stick her head in the sand. But when Hendrix buzzed her to gain access to the elevator, she couldn’t play ostrich any longer.
“Well, if it isn’t my beloved,” he drawled when she opened the door.
God, could the man look like a slouch in something? He wore the hell out of a suit regardless of the color or cut. But today he’d opted for a pair of worn jeans that hugged his hips and a soft T-shirt that brazenly advertised the drool-worthy build underneath. He might as well be naked for all that ensemble left to the imagination.
“Your beloved doesn’t sit around and wait for you to show up on a Saturday,” she informed him grumpily. “What if I had plans?”
“You do have plans,” he returned, his grin far too easy. “With me. All of your plans are with me for the next six weeks, because weddings do not magically throw themselves together.”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb in a blatant message—you’re not coming in and I’m not budging, so... “They do if you hire a wedding planner. Which you should. I have absolutely no opinion about flowers or venues.”
That was no lie. But she wanted to spend time with Hendrix even less than she wanted to pick out flowers. She could literally feel her will dissolving as she stood there soaking in the carnal vibe wafting from him like an invisible aphrodisiac.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”
The way his hazel eyes lit up as he coaxed her should be illegal. Or maybe her reaction should be. How did he put such a warm little curl in her core with nothing more than a glance? It was ridiculous. “Your idea of fun and mine are worlds apart.”
A slow, lethal smile joined his vibrant gaze and it pretty much reduced her to a quivering mess of girl parts inside. All the more reason to stay far away from him until the wedding.
“Seems like we had a pretty similar idea of fun one night not too long ago.”
Memories crashed through her mind, her body, her soul. The way he’d made her feel, the wicked press of his mouth against every intimate hollow an unprecedented experience. It was too much for a Saturday morning after she’d signed up to become Mrs. Hendrix Harris.
“I asked you not to kiss me again,” she reminded him primly but it probably sounded as desperate to him as it did to her.
She could not get sucked into his orbit. As it was, she fantasized about that kiss against her desk at odd times—while in the shower, brushing her teeth, eating breakfast, watching TV, walking, breathing. Sure it was prudent to avoid any more scandals but that was just window dressing. This was a partnership she needed to take seriously, and she had no good defenses against Hendrix Harris.
He was temporary. Like all things. She couldn’t get invested, emotionally or physically, and one would surely lead to the other. The pain of losing someone she cared about was too much and she would never let that happen again—which was the sole reason she liked sex of the one-night stand variety. What she’d do when that wasn’t an option, like after she said I do, she had no clue.
“Wow. Who said anything about kissing?” He waggled his brows. “We were talking about the definition of fun. That kiss must have gotten you going something fierce if you’re still hung up on it.”
She rolled her eyes to hide the guilt that might or might not be shuffling through her expression. “Why are you here?”
“We’re engaged. Engaged people hang out, or didn’t you get the memo?”
“We’re not people. Nor is our engagement typical. No memos required to get us to the...insert whatever venue we’re using to get hitched here. Until then, I don’t really feel the need to spend time together.” She accompanied that pitiful excuse of his with crooked fingers in air quotes.
“Well, I beg to differ,” he drawled, the North Carolina in his voice sliding through her veins like fine brandy. “This partnership needs publicity or there’s no point to it. We need to be seen together. A lot. When people think of you, they need to think of me. We’re like the peanut butter and jelly of the Raleigh social scene.”
“That’s a nice analogy,” she said with a snort so she didn’t laugh or smile. That would only encourage him to keep being adorable. “Which one am I?”
“You choose,” he suggested magnanimously and that’s when she realized she was having fun. How dare he charm her out of her bad mood?
But it was too late, dang it. That was the problem. She genuinely liked Hendrix or she wouldn’t have left the Calypso Room with him.
“I suppose you want to come in.” She jerked her head toward the interior of her loft that had been two condos until she bought both and hired a crew of hard hats to meld the space into one. They should probably discuss living arrangements at some point because she was not giving up this condo under any circumstances.
“I want you to come out,” he countered and caught her hand, tugging on it until she cleared the threshold on the wrong side of the door. “We can’t be seen together in your condo and besides, there are no people walking past the window. No photographers in the bushes. I could slip a couple of buttons free on this shirt of yours and explore what I uncover with my tongue and no one would know.”
He accompanied that suggestion with a slow slide of his fingertip along the ridge of buttons in question, oh so casually, as if the skin under it hadn’t just exploded with goose bumps.
“But you won’t,” she said breathlessly, cursing her body’s reaction even as she cursed him for knowing exactly how to get her hot and ready to burst with so little effort. “Because you promised.”
“I did.” He nodded with a wink. “And I’m a man of my word.”
She’d only reminded him of his promise as a shield against her own weaknesses, but he’d taken it as an affirmation. He would keep his promise because it meant something to him. And his sense of honor was doing funny things to her insides that had nothing to do with desire. Hendrix Harris was a bad boy hedonist of the highest order. Nothing but wicked through and through. Or at least that was the box she’d put him in and she did not like the way he’d just climbed out of it.
She shook her head, but it didn’t clear her sudden confusion. Definitely they should not go into her condo and shut the door. Not now or any day. But at that moment, she couldn’t recall what bad things might happen as a result. She could only think of many, many very good things that could and would occur if she invited him in for a private rendezvous.
“I think we should visit a florist,” he commented casually, completely oblivious to the direction of her thoughts, thank God.
“Yes. We should.” That was exactly what she needed. A distraction in the form of flowers.
“Grab your handbag.” The instruction made her blink for a second until he laughed. “Or is it a purse? I have no clue what to call the thing you women put your lives into.”
Gah, she should have her head examined if a simple conversation with a man had her so flipped upside down. Nodding, she ducked back into the condo, snagged her Marc Jacobs bag from the counter in the kitchen and rejoined Hendrix in the hall before he got any bright ideas about testing his will behind closed doors. Hers sucked. The longer she kept that fact from him, the better.
He ushered her to a low-slung Aston Martin that shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was. At best, it should have screamed I’m trying too hard to be cool. But when Hendrix slid behind the wheel, he owned the beast under the hood and it purred beneath his masterful hands.
She could watch him drive for hours. Which worked out well since she’d apparently just volunteered to spend the day planning flowers for her wedding with her fiancé. Bizarre. But there it was.
Even she had heard of the florist he drove to. Expensive, exclusive and very visible, Maestro of the Bloom lay in the Roundtree shopping district near downtown. Hendrix drove around the block two times, apparently searching for a parking place, and she opened her mouth to remind him of the lot across the street when he braked at the front row to wait for a mother and daughter to get into their car. Of course he wanted the parking place directly in front of the door, where everyone could see them emerge from his noteworthy car.
It was a testament to his strategic mind that she appreciated. As was the gallant way he sped around to her side of the car to open the door, then extended his hand to help her from the bucket seat that was so low it nearly scraped the ground. But he didn’t let go of her hand, instead lacing their fingers together in a way that shouldn’t have felt so natural. Hands nested to his satisfaction, he led her to the door and ushered her inside.
A low hum of conversation cut off abruptly and something like a dozen pairs of eyes swung toward them with varying degrees of recognition—some of which held distaste. These were the people whose approval they both sought. The society who had deemed their Vegas tryst shocking, inappropriate, scandalous, and here the two of them were daring to tread among more decent company.
Roz’s fingers tightened involuntarily and dang it, Hendrix squeezed back in a surprising show of solidarity. That shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did either, like the two of them were a unit already. Peanut butter and jelly against the world.
Her knees got a little wobbly. She’d never had anything like that. Never wanted to feel like a duo with a man. Why did it mean so much as they braved the social scene together? Especially given that she’d only just realized that turning over a new leaf meant more than fixing her relationship with her father. It was about shifting the tide of public opinion too, or her charity wouldn’t benefit much from Helene’s participation. Roz would go back to being shunned in polite society the moment she signed the divorce papers.
Against all odds, he’d transformed Roz into a righteous convert to the idea of marriage with one small step inside the florist. What else would he succeed in convincing her of?
With that sobering thought, Roz glanced at Hendrix and murmured, “Let’s do this.”
