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

Gina waited for him to respond, but he just sat there, staring at her.

“Well?” she asked, unnerved by those unwavering eyes.

Finally he blinked, sending sparks of amber shooting through his irises. “What do you want me to say? I was only twenty-two at the time.”

Which meant what? That he’d actually been in love? Or that he’d been too young and too wild to control his sexual urges?

“How are you going to polish Baronessa’s reputation when your own reputation isn’t exactly glowing?” she asked, refusing to let it go. Flint had been a virile twenty-two-year-old, and Tara had been a dazzling role model for forty-three-year-olds everywhere, proving women could be desirable at any age. But their relationship still bothered Gina.

He squared his shoulders. “I’m more than qualified to pull Baronessa out of this mess.”

“And so am I.” Even if she had been the one who’d unwittingly dragged Baronessa into it.

“Really?” He placed his briefcase on his lap and opened it, and with the flick of his wrists he scattered a stack of supermarket tabloids across Gina’s desk.

The headlines hit her square in the chest.

Mysterious Curse Destroys Ice Cream Empire.

Mafia Mayhem in Boston. Will the Sicilian-Born Barones Survive?

Passion Fruit Versus Passion Death. Who Tried to Murder an Innocent Man?

“I’ve read these,” she said. “And they’re filled with lies. That curse is nonsense. My family isn’t connected to the mob. And the man who suffered an allergic reaction to the peppers recovered with no ill effects.”

“Maybe so, but just stating the facts isn’t enough. What’s your plan to counter the negative press, Miss Barone? This is some pretty heavy-duty stuff.”

She shoved the tabloids aside, and her ulcer sprang to life, her stomach acids eating a hole right through her, creating a familiar pain.

“I intend to hold a contest,” she said. “Something that will get the public involved.”

“Like what? Name That Curse?”

Smart-ass, she thought, narrowing her eyes at him. “More like create a new gelato flavor. Baronessa will invite the public to come up with a flavor to replace passionfruit. The winner of the contest and the new flavor will get lots of press, plenty of positive media attention.”

He sat quietly, mulling over her idea. Finally he said, “That’s a great marketing tool, but it’s too soon for a contest. First we need something juicier. A bigger scandal, something that will make the press forget all about that pepper fiasco.”

“And I suppose you’ve already cooked up the perfect scandal.”

He smoothed his hair, a gesture she’d seen more than once. But he did have that rebellious strand, the Elvis lock that repeatedly fell forward.

“Truthfully,” he admitted, “I haven’t zeroed in on the perfect scandal, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I don’t like the idea,” she told him. “All we’ll be doing is replacing one set of lies for another. That doesn’t cut it for me.”

“Too bad. It’s the way to go. Believe me, I’ve worked this angle before.” He reached for one of the tabloids. “So what’s the deal on this curse?”

Gina pressed against the pain, the gnawing, burning sensation in her stomach. “Aren’t you supposed to know all of this already?”

“I want to hear it in your words. I want your take on the curse.”

“I already told you, it’s nonsense.” She rose and walked to the bar. Not because she was a gracious hostess, but because she needed to coat the burn. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

He shook his head, and she poured herself a glass of milk. “It does a body good,” she said, when he eyed the white liquid curiously.

He roamed his gaze over her, sweeping her curves with masculine appreciation. “So I see.”

Her pulse shot up her arm. Don’t flirt with me, she thought. Don’t look at me with those bedroom eyes.

But he did. He watched her. Closely. They way he’d watched her in that dream, just seconds before she’d undressed him.

Neither spoke. They stared at each other, caught in one those awkward, sexually stirring moments.

Finally, he broke eye contact, and she brought the milk to her lips. The thick, creamy drink slid down her throat.

“The curse,” Flint reminded her, his voice a little too rough.

Gina took her seat, struggling for composure. This felt like a curse, she thought. This impossible attraction.

“It started with my grandfather,” she said. “He jilted a girl who’d wanted to marry him, and on Valentine’s Day, he eloped with my grandmother instead. So the other girl put a curse on my grandparents and their descendants. She vowed that misery would strike on their anniversary, marking Valentine’s Day a holiday of disaster.”

“Then why did you schedule the passionfruit tasting on February fourteenth?” he asked. “That seems a little risky to me.”

“Because I was determined to prove that curse wrong. Besides, a flavor called passionfruit made a nice Valentine’s Day promotion.” She drank some more milk. “Or it should have.”

He gathered the tabloids and put them into his briefcase. “You lied to me, Miss Barone. You don’t think the curse is nonsense. You believe in it now.”

Steeped in guilt, she defended herself. “I’m not a superstitious woman, but I should have been more cautious. Some unfortunate things have happened to my family on Valentine’s Day over the years, but those events seemed like coincidence. A fluke here and there.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll repair the damage.”

“No, I will,” she countered.

He shrugged, then taunted her with that slow, sensual smile, reminding her that she’d dreamed about him.

When he stood to leave, she heard a sudden burst of rain hit the windows behind her.

A cool, hard, male-driven rain.

After Flint departed, Gina went straight to her brother’s office. Nicholas held the prestigious COO title, the chief operations officer, at Baronessa Gelati.

He stood well over six feet, with a strong, athletic build, jet-black hair and blue eyes. Women, including his new wife and daughter, found him irresistible. Gina, however, considered herself immune to his charm. He’d abandoned his playboy ways for a blissful marriage, but he still had a high dose of testosterone running through his veins, which made him difficult to manipulate.

“I want you to fire Flint Kingman,” she said.

Nicholas sat behind his desk and rolled his impressive shoulders, looking like the powerful corporate male he was.

“Why?”

Because I dreamed about him, she wanted to say. He invaded my mind, my bed. “Because he’s going to do this company more harm than good.”

“How so?”

“He intends to cook up a phony scandal to divert the press.”

“That’s what he does, Gina. He’s a spin doctor and a damn good one. I trust his instincts.”

“What about my instincts?”

“You’re a bright, capable woman, but this is his area of expertise.”

She sat across from her brother and picked up a rubber band off his desk, wishing she could flick it at him. He was eight years her senior, and he’d always treated her like a child. He used to call her noodle head because curls sprang from her scalp like spiral pasta.

Gina glared at Nicholas and smoothed her hair. These days she tamed her curls in a professional chignon. “So you’re taking Flint’s side?”

He leaned forward, trapping her gaze. “His side? You’re not turning this into a gender war, are you?”

She thought about the apple, the forbidden fruit, she’d tossed at Flint this afternoon. “He bosses me around.”

“Probably because you’re fighting him every step of the way. You’ve got to curb your temper, Gina.”

She stretched the rubber band, wishing she had the courage to let it fly.

“We brought Flint in as a consultant.” Nicholas went on. “The idea is for the two of you to work together.”

“Fine.” She could see this was going nowhere. Coming to her feet, she blew a frustrated breath. Rain still pounded against the windows, reminding her that Flint controlled the weather, too.

Would she ever get that image out of her mind? That long, lean, water-slicked body?

“And don’t go running to Dad about this,” Nicholas warned.

“I don’t intend to,” she responded, trying to sound more grown-up than she felt. “I’ll work with Flint if I have to. But I won’t let him call all the shots.”

Nicholas grinned. “Spoken like a true woman.”

“And don’t you forget it.” She turned to march out of his office, her feminine armor—the tailored suit and high-heeled pumps—securely in place.

“I love you, noodle head,” he said before she reached the door.

She stopped and smiled. She loved Nicholas Barone, too. Even if he was her big, brawny, know-it-all brother.

Hours later Gina drove home, her windshield wipers clapping to the rhythm of the rain. She lived in a brownstone in the North End, a family-owned, renovated building she shared with two of her sisters. They each had their own sprawling apartment, but they often gathered in the community living room on the first floor to curl up with a bowl of extra-buttered popcorn and talk.

She parked her car and walked to the front of the brownstone, only to find Flint sitting on the stoop, his overcoat flapping in the wind.

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. He looked up, his face speckled with rain, his waterlogged hair slick and shiny.

“It didn’t work, did it?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your brother wouldn’t fire me, would he?”

She moved forward, taking shelter from the storm. How did he know that she’d complained to Nicholas? Was she that predictable?

He rose, attacking her with that insufferable smile. “I want you to have dinner with me tonight.”

Her heart pole-vaulted its way to her throat. “What? Why?”

“So we can get used to each other. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. And there’s no point in wasting time.”

She snuggled deeper into her coat. “But it’s raining.”

He gave her an odd look. “You don’t eat when it rains?”

Of course, she did. She just didn’t relish the idea of spending time in his company, particularly with water falling from the sky.

Then again, maybe a business dinner would take the edge off. Maybe it would help her forget that other image. “Fine. I’ll have a meal with you.” But he’d better not steal food from her plate, she thought.

“Meet me at the Beef and Bull around seven,” he said. It’s a steak house on—”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted. “And I’ll be there at eight.”

“Seven-thirty,” he challenged.

“Eight,” she countered in a firm tone. She needed time to bathe, to change, to fix her rain-drizzled hair.

“All right,” he said, giving in with a grumble. “But don’t be late.”

Gina reached for her keys and sent him a triumphant smile. She’d finally gotten her way. On a small scale, maybe, but it was a start.

At precisely eight o’clock, Flint arrived at the Beef and Bull, a quiet, dimly lit steak house decorated with knotty-pine walls and Western antiques.

He approached the hostess and gave her his name. “I’m expecting a companion,” he said. “Has she arrived yet?”

The young woman shook her head. “No, Mr. Kingman, she hasn’t.”

He gestured to a shadowy corner in the waiting room. “I’ll just kick back over there until she gets here.”

The hostess nodded and smiled. He returned her polite smile and moved out of the way, giving the people behind him a chance to check their reservation.

Settling onto a leather cushion, he stretched his legs out in front of him.

Impatient, he checked his watch, and suddenly the diamond-and-gold timepiece glinted like a superficial jewel, a reminder of who he was and where he’d come from.

Damn it, he thought. Why couldn’t he accept the way things were? The way he’d been raised?

Because his charmed life had changed. Flint Kingman wasn’t the same man anymore. The truth about his mother had altered his heart, his soul, the very core of his existence.

Gina entered the restaurant, and he steadied his emotions.

No matter how troubled he was, he wouldn’t let it affect his career. The Barones had hired him to defuse the crisis in their company. And come hell or high water, that was what he intended to do.

He remained seated and assessed Gina for a moment. After he’d left her office this afternoon, he’d come up with a plan. A damn good one. But it meant getting close to Gina, not close enough to infringe on the confused order of his life, but close enough to fool the public.

And with that in mind, he’d invited her to dinner. He needed to see her in a romantic setting, to explore the energy between them.

The sexual energy, he thought. The unexpected heat.

Gina Barone couldn’t stand his dominating personality, and her high-and-mighty attitude annoyed the hell out of him. But that didn’t matter. This was strictly business, a teeth-gnashing, tough-to-temper attraction that could work in their favor.

Besides, he’d already fantasized about her. Earlier this evening, when he’d taken a stress-relieving shower, she’d slipped right into the steam.

He hadn’t meant to think about her and certainly not in a state of undress, but he’d lost the battle. With a sizzling, soap-scented mirage of her in his mind, he couldn’t seem to control the yearning, the I’m-too-old-for-wet-dreams hunger. Trapped beneath a spray of warm water, he’d closed his eyes and imagined her—

She turned and saw him, and Flint gulped a gust of air.

How tall was she? he wondered. Five-nine? Five-ten? In his mind’s eye, she’d fit him perfectly in the shower, that sweet, slim, incredibly moist body—

She moved closer, and he came to his feet, his six-foot-three frame still draped in a knee-length raincoat. Beneath it, he wore a suit with a Western flair, but if he didn’t get his hormones in check, he would be sporting a big, boyish bulge in the vicinity of his zipper.

“You’re late,” he told her, when they were eye to eye.

“And you’re acting like a jerk, as usual,” she responded.

He couldn’t help but smile. They had the weirdest chemistry, but somehow it worked.

Of course that ice-princess act of hers wouldn’t charm the media, and it wouldn’t seduce the public, either. Which meant he would have to revamp her image a little.

She removed her coat, and he slid his gaze up and down the luscious length of her body. Oh, yeah, he thought. He could mold her into a nice yet naughty girl—a kitten with a whip.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just looking,” he responded, shooting a smile straight into her eyes. Her dress wasn’t quite short enough, but the creamy beige color complemented her skin.

He reached out to loosen one of her curls, but she backed away, refusing to let him touch her. “Keep your hands to yourself, Kingman.”

“But the rain messed up your hair,” he lied. “I was just going to fix it.”

She huffed out a shallow breath, and he knew he’d made her nervous. A good kind of nervous. The sexy kind.

“My hair’s fine,” she said.

No, it wasn’t, he thought, itching to tousle it. The lady-of-the-manor style was too damn proper, too coiffed.

“Are you going to buy me dinner or not?” she asked.

“Sure. Let’s get our table.”

The hostess seated them in a fairly secluded booth. A snow-white candle dripped wax, and a single red rose bloomed in a bud vase, giving the rustic tabletop a touch of date-night ambience.

The waiter came by, offering cocktails. Gina declined a glass of wine, opting for iced tea instead. Flint went for an imported beer.

Silent, they studied their menus. Five minutes later, when the waiter returned with their drinks, Flint and Gina ordered the same meal. Or nearly the same meal, with the exception of a rare steak for him and a well-done cut for her.

Soon a basket of warm bread arrived. He reached out to offer her a slice at the same time she chose to get one for herself. But before their hands collided, she pulled back.

He took the lead, following his original plan. Tilting the basket toward her, he said, “Go ahead, Miss Barone. Or would it be all right if I called you Gina?”

She made her selection, then proceeded to lather it with whipped butter. “Gina is fine.”

He watched her take a bite. “And so is Flint,” he told her.

She swallowed and then made a pleasured sound, like a soft, sweet, bedroom murmur.

Amused, he reached for his beer. “Say it,” he said.

She glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“My name. Say my name.”

She gave him a curious look. “Flint.”

Enjoying himself, he bit back a grin. “That was pretty good, but it wasn’t quite right. You need to moan after you say my name, like you did after you ate the bread.”

Finally aware of his little joke, she shoved the basket toward him. “Stuff it, Flint.”

He flashed the grin he’d been hiding. “I couldn’t help it. I mean, here’s a woman who gets orgasmic over bread and butter.”

“I wasn’t orgasmic.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I was not.”

She glared at him from across the table, but her haughty expression fell short. When he stared at her, she became flustered, toying with the napkin on her lap.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

He studied her features, struck by those violet eyes and that full, lush mouth. “But you’re beautiful, Gina.” And he couldn’t stop the attraction, the heat, the sexual spontaneity rising in his blood.

She drew a ragged breath, and a shimmer of silence ensued.

Rain pounded against the building, and the flame on the candle danced between them, intensifying the moment.

Flint sent her a small, sensual smile. She was perfect for the scandal he had in mind.