Читать книгу Sleeping With Her Rival - Sheri WhiteFeather - Страница 11

Gina Barone wasn’t in the mood to party, but she sipped a glass of chardonnay—praying it wouldn’t irritate her stomach—and worked her way through the charity mixer, feigning an I’m-in-control smile.

She knew it was important to be seen, to hold her head high, especially now. Gina was the vice president of marketing and public relations for Baronessa Gelati, a family-owned Italian ice cream empire—a company being shredded by the media.

Something Gina felt responsible for.

Moving through the crowd, she nodded to familiar faces. Although she’d come here to make her presence known, she thought it best to avoid lengthy conversations. A polite greeting was about all she could handle. And with that in mind, she would sample the food, sip a tiny bit of wine and then wait until an appropriate amount of time passed before she said her goodbyes and made a gracious exit.

“Gina?”

She stopped to acknowledge Morgan Chancellor, a business associate who flitted around the social scene like a butterfly, fluttering from one partygoer to the next.

“Oh, hello. You look lovely, Morgan. That’s a beautiful dress.”

“Why, thank you.” The other woman batted her lashes, then leaned in close. “Do you know who asked about you?”

Gina suspected plenty of people were talking about her, about the fiasco she’d arranged last month, the Valentine’s Day publicity event that had ended in disaster.

Baronessa had been launching a new flavor called passionfruit, offering a free tasting at their corporate headquarters. But pandemonium erupted when people tasted the gelato.

An unknown culprit had spiked the ice cream with a mouth-burning substance, which they’d soon discovered was habanero peppers—the hottest chilies in the world.

And worse yet, a friend of Gina’s who’d stopped by the event at her invitation had suffered from an attack of anaphylaxis, a serious and rapid allergic reaction to the peppers.

She’d nearly killed someone. Inadvertently, maybe, but the shame and the guilt were still hers to bear.

Gina gazed at Morgan, forcing herself to smile. “So, who asked about me?”

“Flint Kingman.”

Her smile cracked and fell. “He’s here?”

“Yes. He asked me to point you out.”

“Did he?” Gina glanced around the room. The crème de la crème of Boston society mingled freely, but somewhere, lurking amid black cocktail dresses and designer suits, was her newly acquired rival.

Anxious, she fingered the diamond-and-pearl choker around her neck, wishing she hadn’t worn it. Flint’s reputation strangled her like a noose.

The wonder boy. The renowned spin doctor. The prince of the PR world.

Her family expected her to work with him, to take his advice. Why couldn’t they allow her the dignity of repairing the media damage on her own? Why did they have to force Flint Kingman on her?

He’d left a slew of messages at the office, insisting she return his calls. So finally she’d summoned the strength to do just that. But their professional conversation had turned heated, and she’d told him to go to hell.

And now he was here.

“Would you mind pointing him out to me?” she asked Morgan.

“Certainly.” The redhead turned to glance over her shoulder, then frowned. “He was over there, with that group of men, but he’s gone now.”

Gina shrugged, hoping to appear calm and refined—a far cry from the turmoil churning inside.

“I’m sure he’ll catch up with me later,” she said, wondering if he’d attended this party just to intimidate her.

If he didn’t crawl out of the woodwork and introduce himself, then he would probably continue to spy on her from afar, making her ulcer act up. It was a nervous condition she hid from her family.

“If you’ll excuse me, Morgan, I’m going to check out the buffet.”

“Go right ahead. If I see Flint, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Gina headed to the buffet table to indulge in hors d’oeuvres, to nibble daintily on party foods, to pretend that she felt secure enough to eat in public. No way would she let Flint run her off, even if she wanted to dart out the door.

As she studied the festive spread, her stomach tightened. This wasn’t the bland diet her doctor recommended, but what choice did she have?

The shrimp dumplings would probably hit her digestive system like lead balls, but she placed them on her plate next to a scatter of crab-stuffed mushrooms and a small helping of artichoke dip.

Balancing her food and a full glass of wine, she searched for a sheltered spot. The posh hotel banquet room had been decorated for a cocktail gathering with a small grouping of tables and lots of standing room.

Gina snuggled up to a floor-to-ceiling window, set her drink on a nearby planter ledge and turned to gaze at the city. Rain fell from the sky, and lights twinkled like pinwheels, casting sparks in the brisk March air.

She stood, with her plate in hand, admiring the rain-dampened view. And then she heard a man speak her name.

The low, vodka-on-the-rocks voice crept up her spine and sent her heartbeat racing. She recognized Flint Kingman’s tone instantly.

Preparing to face him, she turned.

He gazed directly into her eyes, and she did her damnedest to maintain her composure.

She’d expected tall and handsome, but he was more than that. So much more.

In an Armani suit and Gucci loafers, he stood perfectly groomed, as cocky and debonair as his reputation. Yet beneath the Boston polish was an edge as hard as his name, as sharp and dangerous as the tip of a flint.

He exuded sexuality. Pure, raw, primal heat.

She steadied her plate with both hands to keep her food from spilling onto the floor. Men didn’t make her nervous. But this one did.

He didn’t speak; he just watched her through a pair of amber-flecked eyes.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” she said, her posture stiff, her fingers suddenly numb.

A cynical smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and a strand of chocolate-brown hair fell rebelliously across his forehead.

“Nice try. But you know exactly who I am.”

“Oh, forgive me. You must be that Bowie guy.”

He smoothed his hair into place, his mouth still set in a sardonic curl. “Flint. Bowie is a different kind of knife.”

And both would cut just as sharp, she thought, just as brutal.

Like a self-assured predator, he moved a little closer, just enough to put his pheromones between them. She took a deep breath, and the sore in her stomach ignited into a red-hot flame.

Damn her nerves, she thought. And damn him.

“I’ll stop by your office on Tuesday,” he said. “At two.”

“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” she countered, wishing she could dig through her purse for an antacid.

He shook his head. “Tuesday at two. This isn’t up for negotiation.”

Gina bristled, hating Flint Kingman and everything he represented. Would the stress ever end? The guilt? The professional humiliation? “Are you always this pushy?”

“I’m aggressive, not pushy.”

“You could have fooled me.”

She lifted her chin a notch, and Flint studied the stubborn gesture. Gina Barone was a feminine force to be reckoned with—a long, elegant body, a mass of wavy brown hair swept into a proper chignon and eyes the color of violets.

A cold shoulder and a hot temper. He’d heard she was an ice princess. A woman much too defensive. A woman who competed with men. And now she would be competing with him.

She gave him an annoyed look, and he glanced at her untouched hors d’oeuvres. “Don’t you like the food?”

“I haven’t had the chance to eat it.”

“Why? Because I interrupted you?” He reached out, snagged a mushroom off her plate and popped it into his mouth, knowing damn well his blatant behavior would rile her even further.

Those violet eyes turned a little violent, and he suspected she was contemplating a childish act, like flinging the rest of the mushrooms at him. He pictured them hitting his chest like crab-stuffed bullets. “I don’t have cooties, Miss Barone.”

“You don’t have any manners, either.”

“Of course I do.” He went after a dumpling this time, ate it with relish, then reached into his jacket for a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his hands with casual elegance. This party was too damn prissy, he thought. And so was Gina Barone. Flint was sick to death of the superficial society in which he lived. He used to thrive on this world, but now it seemed like a lie.

Then again, why wouldn’t it? After all, he’d just uncovered a family secret, a skeleton in his closet that made his entire life seem like a lie.

Still eyeing him with disdain, Gina set her plate on the planter ledge. “Thanks to you, I lost my appetite.”

She didn’t have one to begin with, he thought. The trouble at Baronessa Gelati must be weighing heavily on her inexperienced shoulders. She’d never outfoxed a public scandal, particularly something of this magnitude.

Flint had, of course. Scandals were his specialty. But not family secrets. He couldn’t outfox the lie in which he’d been raised.

He dragged a hand through his hair and then realized that he’d zoned out, losing sight of his priority. Nothing, not even the turmoil in his life, should interfere with business.

Pulling himself into the moment, he stared at Gina.

Did she resent his take-charge attitude? Or did the truth upset her? The fact that he was more qualified for the job?

Truthfully, he didn’t care. He was damn good at what he did and he’d worked hard to prove his worth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re superior.”

“Men are superior,” he responded, deliberately baiting her.

“And that’s why Adam ate the apple?” she asked. “Because he had brains?”

“What kind of question is that?”

She rolled her eyes. “A rhetorical one. Everyone knows Adam ate the apple because of Eve.”

Which meant what? That she thought the male brain hinged on what was behind his zipper? Or in Adam’s case, a fig leaf?

Flint assessed his companion. The lights from the city shimmered behind her, as white and bright as the diamond brooch on the front of her choker. It was an exceptional piece, but he would have preferred an unadorned view of her neck. She had smooth, touchable skin, kissed by the sun and boasting her Sicilian roots.

His gaze slipped slower, to the swell of her breasts. No matter how high a man’s IQ was, his brain did get scrambled now and then. Flint was no exception.

He lifted his gaze. “I’m not offended, Miss Barone.”

“About what?”

“About you thinking my brain is in my pants.”

“Well, you should be.”

“And you should offer me a shiny red apple.” He paused for effect. “I’ll take a big, juicy bite if you will.”

Gina glared at him.

Enjoying the game, he flashed a flirtatious smile. Sparring with her was actually kind of fun. And it certainly beat crying into his beer.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to work with you,” she said.

He tilted his head, wondering what she would look like with her hair rioting around her face, framing her in untamed glory. “As I understand it, you don’t have a choice.”

“Don’t bet on it,” she quipped.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday. At two o’clock,” he reminded her before he walked away.

His lovely nemesis was quite a challenge. But he wasn’t worried about it. Sooner or later, she’d give in and let him fix the disaster in her life.

Even if he couldn’t fix his own.

Gina awakened with a start the following morning. She sat up and squinted, then hugged a pillow to her chest.

She’d actually dreamed about Flint Kingman.

And erotic dream. An illusion of mist and midnight, of his long, lean, muscled torso gleaming in the rain.

While she’d slept through a stormy night, he’d invaded her bedroom, her private sanctuary.

Gina reached for her robe and wrapped herself in terry cloth. Everything seemed different now. The cherry armoire and big brass bed. The hardwood floors and Turkish rugs.

With a deep breath, she turned and peered out the blinds. Thank God, it wasn’t raining anymore. She never wanted it to rain again. Not if it meant revisiting that half-naked image of Flint, his head tipped back, water running in rivulets down his stomach and into the waistband of slim black trousers.

Gina tightened her robe. She’d dreamed of him in the clothes he’d worn last night, only he’d been standing on the rooftop of the hotel, allowing her to undress him.

Damn that sexy smile of his. And damn that cocky attitude.

She had two days before their meeting, two days to arm herself with information. She knew virtually nothing about Flint, but she suspected he knew plenty about her.

He’d probably done his homework weeks ago, analyzing his opponent, charting her strengths and weaknesses, her successes, her failures.

Well, at least her dreams were her own. And so was her ulcer. She doubted Flint had pried into her medical records.

She crossed the living room, entered the kitchen and eyed the coffeepot. It sat on a bright, white counter, luring her with the temptation of a hard, strong dose of caffeine.

With a practical sigh, she poured herself a glass of milk instead, then reached for the phone.

Seated at the breakfast nook, she looked up Morgan Chancellor’s number, hoping the socialite was available. Morgan wasn’t a vicious gossip. She didn’t spread unholy rumors, but she seemed to know everybody’s business. And Gina intended to discuss Flint with someone willing to answer questions about him.

Morgan picked up on the fifth ring. Gina started a friendly conversation, asking the other woman if she’d enjoyed the charity mixer.

Morgan babbled for a while, and Gina pictured the redhead’s no-nonsense husband scanning the Boston Globe at their elegant dining room table, shutting out his wife’s perky voice.

Weaving her way toward the man of the hour, Gina said, “By the way, Flint Kingman finally caught up with me.”

“Really? So, what do you think of him?”

Gina shoved away the image of his dream-induced, rain-shrouded body. “I’m not sure. I can’t quite figure him out.” When the other woman breathed into the receiver, she asked, “What do you know about him, Morgan?”

“Hmm. Let’s see. His father is an advertising mogul, and his stepmother is absolutely riveting. Of course his real mother was equally stunning. She was a Hollywood starlet, but she died when Flint was a baby.”

Intrigued, Gina adjusted the phone. “Was she famous?”

“No, but she should have been. Supposedly she was really talented.”

Gina tried to picture the woman who’d given Flint Kingman life. “What was her name?”

“Danielle Wolf. But there isn’t a lot of old press about her. If you’re really curious about Flint, you should read up on Tara Shaw.”

“The movie star?” The aging bombshell? The world-famous blonde? “Why? Was she friends with his mother?”

Morgan made a crunching sound, as if she were eating breakfast while she talked. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Flint used to work for Tara.”

“So? He’s a PR consultant. That’s perfectly understandable.”

The crunching sound stopped. “He had an affair with her, Gina.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Flint and Tara Shaw? The screen goddess of the 1970s? She had to be twice his age.

Morgan resumed eating. “Some reports say she broke his heart. Others say he broke hers. And some say they were both just playing around, tearing up the sheets for the fun of it.”

Gina shifted in her seat, nearly spilling her milk. She grabbed the glass before it tipped over. “When did this happen?”

“When he was fresh out of college. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“Normally, I don’t pay attention to things like that. I’ve never really followed the Hollywood scene.”

“Well, I do,” Morgan said. “Their affair didn’t last long, but it created quite a scandal.”

“Bigger than the one going on in my life?”

“Much bigger.”

That was all it took. Gina spent the rest of the morning on the Internet, pulling up old articles on Tara Shaw and her wild, young lover.

While driving past the prestigious homes in Beacon Hill, Flint got the sudden urge to call Tara, to tell her what was going on.

He glanced at his car phone and realized foolishly that he didn’t have her number. He hadn’t spoken to Tara Shaw in over eight years. Flint had left Hollywood without looking back.

Besides, what the hell would he say to her? And what would her new husband think if her old lover just happened to ring her up?

With a squeal of his tires, he turned onto a familiar street and pulled into his parents’ driveway, knowing his dad would be home on a Sunday afternoon.

Flint and his father saw each other often. They worked in the same bustling high-rise, but these days they rarely spoke, at least not about important issues.

He unlocked the door with his key, the same key he’d had since he was a teenager. For eighteen years, this elegant mansion had been his home.

He stood in the marbled foyer for a moment, catching his reflection in a beveled mirror. It wasn’t a cold house, completely void of emotion, but it didn’t present a warm, fuzzy feeling, either.

But then how could it? Especially now?

He crossed the salon, passing Chippendale settees, ornate tables and gilded statues. The Kingmans were a successful family, but money didn’t necessarily make people happy.

He located his dad in the garden room, a timber-and-glass structure flourishing with greenery. Shimmering vines twined around redwood trellises, and colorful buds bloomed in a shower of floral abundance, thriving in the controlled environment.

James Kingman, a tall, serious man, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, enjoyed growing flowers, and he tended them with a gentle hand.

Today he hovered over a cluster of lady’s slippers, orchids as beautiful and beguiling as their fairy-tale name.

Flint shed his jacket, and the older man looked up.

“Well, hello,” he said, acknowledging his son’s presence. “What brings you by?”

You, me and my mom, he thought. The past, the present, the pain. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?”

“My mother.”

James shook head. “I don’t want to rehash all of that again.”

“But I want to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing more to talk about. I told you everything. Just forget about it, let it go.”

Let it go? Forget about it?

Two weeks ago Flint had stumbled upon a horrible secret, and now the truth haunted him like a ghost. “You lied to me all those years, Dad.”

James shifted his stance. He wore jeans and a denim shirt, but he was impeccably groomed—a man of wealth and taste. “I did it to protect you. Why won’t you accept that?”

“Just tell me this much. Does Nsh’k know the truth?” he asked, thinking about his Cheyenne grandmother.

“Yes, she knew when it happened. It broke her heart.”

And now it’s breaking mine, Flint thought.

“You can’t bring this up to your grandmother,” his dad said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Flint nodded. As a rule, the Cheyenne didn’t speak freely of the dead, and Nsh’k adhered to the old way. “Is she aware that I came upon the truth?”

“Yes, I told her. But she didn’t want to discuss it.”

No one wanted to discuss it, no one but Flint. Didn’t they understand that he needed to grieve? To come to terms with his role in all of this?

“It isn’t fair,” he said.

“Life isn’t fair,” James replied, using a cliché that only made Flint feel worse.

In the next instant they both fell silent. Water trickled from an ornamental fountain, mimicking the patter of rain.

Flint glanced at the glass ceiling and noticed dark clouds floating across a hazy blue sky.

He shrugged into his jacket. “I better go. I’ve got things to do.”

James met his troubled gaze. “Don’t be angry, son.”

Flint looked at his dad, at the blond hair turning a silvery shade of gray. He’d inherited his dad’s hazel eyes, but his dark hair and copper skin had come from his mother. The woman he wasn’t allowed to talk about.

“I’m not,” he said. It wasn’t anger eating away at his soul. It was pain. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office. Give Faith a kiss for me,” he added, referring to his stepmother.

“She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

“I know.” He loved Faith Kingman. She’d raised him since he was ten years old, but she wasn’t willing to talk about this, either. Not if it meant betraying her husband.

Flint left his parents’ house, and James went back to his flowers, hiding behind their vibrant colors and velvet petals.

On Tuesday, Gina wore what she considered a power suit to the office. The blouse matched her eyes, the tailored black jacket nipped at her waist and the slim-fitting skirt rode just above her knees. But her pumps, bless them, were her secret weapon. When she strode through Baronessa’s corporate halls, they made a determined, confident click, giving her an air of feminine authority.

The fourth floor of the chrome-and-glass structure was Gina’s domain, and she often gazed out the windows, drawing strength from the city.

Today she needed all she could get.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Flint would be here any minute.

Gina moved in front of her desk and remained standing, waiting anxiously for his arrival. She’d been rehearsing this moment in her mind for two days, practicing her lines, her gestures.

She knew plenty about Flint Kingman now. She’d even uncovered a few facts about his mother. Danielle Wolf, a half-Indian beauty from the Cheyenne reservation, had left home to pursue an acting career. Five years later she’d abandoned Hollywood to become a wife and mother and then died in a car accident a month after her son was born.

Gina intended to rent the B movies Danielle had costarred in. She suspected Flint had inherited his mother’s adventurous spirit. It wouldn’t hurt to analyze every aspect of her opponent’s personality, particularly if she was going to kick him off this harrowing project.

Gina’s secretary buzzed. She pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

“Mr. Kingman is here.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Send him in.”

A minute later he strode through the door in a gray suit and silver-gray tie, his thick dark hair combed away from his face. Suddenly Gina could see the Native American in him—the rich color of his skin, the killer cheekbones, the deep-set eyes. They looked more brown than gold today, and she realized they were actually a stunning, ever-changing shade of hazel.

He flashed a cocky grin, and she reached for the apple on her desk and tossed it to him. Or at him, she supposed, since she’d heaved it like a shiny red baseball.

Caught off guard, he fumbled, dropped his briefcase and retrieved the apple in the nick of time.

The grin returned to his lips. “The forbidden fruit, Miss Barone?”

“Consider it a parting gift.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I going somewhere?”

“Anywhere but here,” she said, leaning against her desk like a corporate vamp. “I told you before that I’m not working with you.”

He picked up his briefcase and came forward. As self-assured as ever, he pulled up a chair and sat down, studying the apple.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Checking for worms.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “I’m not that evil.”

He lifted his gaze, and her smile fell. Why did he have to look at her like that? So sly, so sexy. She could almost feel his rain-slicked, dream-induced skin.

“All women are evil. And beautiful and clever in their own way,” he said. “I enjoy females.”

“So I’ve heard.” She walked around to the other side of her desk and sank into her leather chair, hoping to appear more powerful than she felt.

“You’re holding my dating record against me?” he asked.

“You mean your scorecard? Let’s face it, Mr. Kingman. You’re a player. You drive a fast, ferocious, racy red Corvette, keep company with bimbos and then notch your bedpost after each insensitive conquest.”

He gave her a level stare. “Nice try, but that’s not quite accurate. You see, I have a brass bed, and the metal is a little hard to notch.”

Gina steeled her nerves. She had a brass bed, too. The one he’d invaded. “You indulged in an affair with a movie star twice your age.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? Anger? Male pride? She couldn’t be sure.

“Aren’t you going to defend yourself?” she asked, confused by his silence.

Suddenly Flint Kingman, the confident, carefree spin doctor, was impossible to read.