Maid of Dishonor (11 page)

EIGHT

Cassiopeia Barclay, I
want to throttle you.

Gina took her eyes off the phone, punched her computer's start-up button and lobbed Carter Price's card into the waste-paper basket—for the fiftieth time in the last seven days.

The big digital clock above her kitchen counter clicked from 10:59 to 11:00 as she struggled to focus on the screen and ignore the residual hum of heat pulsing in her abdomen.

Ignore it. He's probably already on his plane to Savannah. You did it.

Why she didn't feel particularly thrilled with her powers of resistance was neither here nor there.

She dragged her gaze back to the blog she was designing for an organic farmer's community up in Westchester. It was a new commission and she'd been toying with different basic designs for two days. She punched keys, finally picking a beautiful leaf green for the background to complement the community's logo.

At last, progress.

Business had been painfully slow recently—people generally didn't think too much about social-media marketing campaigns when they were struggling to pay their bills—and she needed to make an impact with this commission. She'd promised the co-operative at least fifty thousand unique visitors in their first three months, which meant putting together a blog package with the wow factor.... And achieving that when the majority of your subject matter was organically grown potatoes was no mean feat.

Once she'd finished the preliminary designs, she began to rough in some of the copy they'd sent her for the launch. And pretended not to notice the insistent punch of her heartbeat every time she glanced at the clock—and another minute had crawled by.

* * *

Carter leapt up the steps to the loft apartment two at a time. He had exactly an hour till check-in closed on his flight to Savannah. With a major board meeting scheduled for five this afternoon in Georgia he couldn't miss his plane. So what the hell was he doing getting his cab driver to detour to Brooklyn?

He guessed he was about to find out as he reached the second floor landing and pressed the door buzzer marked Carrington Web Designs.

If she was out, that would be all the answer he needed. He'd left it up to her to call and she hadn't—but he figured she owed him an explanation. She'd approached him, she'd made the first contact, and then she'd blown his mind in that damn hotel suite, leaving him tense and edgy and unfocused for the rest of his trip when he should have been concentrating on business.

He'd drifted off during more than one important negotiation in the last week—eventually making the trip a wash with the Chinese clients he'd been pursuing for months, who now thought he was the next best thing to a narcoleptic.

He could have happily lived the rest of his life never having stirred up this hornet's nest again. But she'd insisted on stirring it up, and then figured she could just unstir it again at her own convenience. Well, to hell with that.

He thumped on the security door, drew back his fist to thump again, when the door swung open. And the muscles in his gut cinched into a tight knot.

It was eleven ten on a Friday morning but she looked as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Her hair fell around her shoulders in big, fluffy, unkempt waves that made him want to plunge his fingers in and ruffle it up some more. Her clear, pale skin glowed, scrubbed clean without the benefit of the carefully applied make-up she usually wore, while the loose robe gave him a painful glimpse of a lacy camisole barely covering firm breasts.

‘Carter, what the...? You're supposed to be in Savannah!'

She tightened the tie on her robe, and her breasts plumped up, threatening to spill out of the lace altogether. The knot in his gut sank lower, loosening muscles that had been too tight for days.

He dragged his gaze away from her cleavage—and suddenly knew the answer.

This wasn't over, not till he said so. Not this time. But from now on he was playing the game on his terms. Not hers. And that meant getting the upper hand right from the get-go.

‘I'm on my way to La Guardia now, but I've got a proposition for you that I wanted to deliver in person.'

‘What proposition?'

He stroked a finger down her cheek, enjoying the way her lips parted and a sob of breath came out.

She was no more immune than he was to this
thing
. And it was a
thing
, however you wanted to call it.

‘I want you to come to Savannah for a couple of weeks.'

She blinked, the movement slow and tremulous, as if she were trying to process the invitation. ‘I can't do that, Carter. We're not kids any more and I don't think...'

He pressed his finger to her lips, silencing the protest. ‘Now don't go getting your panties in a twist again—that's not the kind of proposition I'm talking about.'

‘Oh?'

He felt the surge of satisfaction at the catch of disappointment in her voice and the pucker of confusion on her brow.

You're not the only one who can play hard ball, sugar.

‘As great as it was on Friday night, this is a business proposition.'
Mostly
.

‘What kind of business proposition?'

The pucker got more pronounced, but he could see the spark of interest lurking behind the caution.

‘I've been giving it some thought.' At least ten seconds anyway. ‘And I'd like to commission you to work on a social-media campaign for the mill. We're expanding into a number of new markets and we need to up our profile—social media is a way to do that without breaking the bank.'

‘That's... Really?'

‘Yeah, really, at the moment we only have a website—which we'll need you to redesign—but we're also looking to build a more comprehensive strategy across all the appropriate social-media platforms.'

‘That's an excellent idea—over two billion people use the web. But I should warn you that it doesn't necessarily translate into sales straight away. The idea is to...' She stopped suddenly, pushed the door open, the enthusiasm sparking in her eyes almost making him feel guilty. But then he remembered it was a real job, he'd got the funding approved by the board months ago—and he got the final say on who to hire, so he could hire her if he wanted. ‘Why don't you come in? We can discuss it further.' She glanced at her clothing. ‘I'll get dressed and we can...'

‘No need to get dressed on my account.' He let his gaze drift down the shorty robe past long, toned legs to bare feet, and toes painted cotton-candy pink. And imagined himself nibbling on that cute little pinkie. He let the innuendo heat the air, before returning his gaze to her face. Her breathing had speeded up, making her cleavage rise and fall against the confining lace. ‘I can't stop to discuss it now. I've got a plane to catch. That's why I need you to come to Savannah.'

‘But I don't have to be in Georgia. Everything can be done online and we can correspond via email.'

He smiled—he'd definitely heard the disappointment that time. And the way her voice had lowered to the throaty purr that signalled her arousal.

‘I want you to see the mill, talk to the folks that work there, get a clear picture of who we are and what we do.' Damned if he hadn't almost convinced himself by the time he'd finished outlining all the elements of the operation he wanted her to get acquainted with.

‘Well, I suppose...'

He leant in and pressed a quick perfunctory kiss to her lips, heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Great, that's all settled. I'll get my PA to negotiate a contract and email flight details. Can you make it down early next week?'

‘If you're sure you need me to be there.'

‘I'm sure.'

‘Then I guess that settles it.'

He stepped back, cursing the fact that he'd be riding an erection all the way to the airport as his lungs filled with the sunny scent of her hair. He let his gaze wander over her figure. ‘As much as I like that get-up, you might want to pack a few more clothes. But keep them light—it's hot and sticky in Savannah at this time of year.' And even though his house in the city's Victorian Historic District was well air-conditioned, he had a feeling it was going to be even hotter and stickier there once she was sleeping down the hall.

The smile she sent him made him suspect she wasn't going to play all that hard to get. But then neither was he. ‘Okay.'

‘See you later.' He nodded, the words more than a little husky.

But as he turned to go she touched his arm. ‘Just a second, Carter. Did you speak to Marnie this week?'

‘Sure, we had lunch on Tuesday.' The usual strained, stilted affair.

‘And you didn't tell her about us? About Friday night?'

‘I said I wouldn't,' he replied, not sure where the irritation came from. It wasn't as if he and Marnie were bosom buddies. Even though their mama had raised her never to say it, he knew Marnie thought he was a womanising jerk. He knew that and he accepted it—it was part of the penance he paid for that night—and frankly Marnie's bad opinion had been the least of his worries as he watched his marriage disintegrate.

Since the divorce and their mother's death, Marnie had kept her distance, pursuing a career in New York that he knew very little about—and making caustic comments on the few occasions they met about his being the playboy of the western world. He didn't bother to deny it, because he didn't need her approval—and he hadn't exactly been a monk. But he also didn't plan to give Marnie more ammunition, so the last thing he'd be likely to do was mention to his sister that he'd had an all-nighter with Gina again. But the spurt of annoyance was there none the less. Not just because Gina had doubted his word, but because she seemed so damned determined to keep their
thing
a secret. He didn't like secrets, because they could come back and bite you on the butt.

‘Could I ask you to keep quiet about this arrangement too?' she said.

‘Sure, if that's the way you want it.' He shrugged, trying not to care. ‘Marnie doesn't get involved in mill business, she just helps herself to the company's equity,' he said, the statement coming out with more bitterness than he'd intended when he saw Gina frown.

‘If you say so,' she murmured and the prickle of irritation became a definite stab. ‘I'll see you in a few days.'

‘Yeah.' He waved her goodbye and jogged down the stairs, conceding that a few days seemed like a mighty long time.

* * *

Gina slammed the door and leaned against it, her diamond-hard nipples making the silk of her camisole feel like sandpaper.

Way to go, Gina. After going cold turkey for a whole week, your drug of choice appears and you resist temptation for precisely ten seconds.

She rolled her eyes and squeezed her thighs together to stop the insistent ache that had settled there as soon as she'd encountered Carter Price standing on her doorstop. His dark hair furrowed into rows and those cobalt eyes even bluer than usual.

She pursed her lips.

Carter wouldn't have offered her this commission unless he thought she would do a competent job—his business was far too important to him for that—but the lingering sizzle where his mouth had touched hers in that casual but proprietary kiss told a slightly different story. That the decision to offer her this opportunity might not be entirely based on the glowing testimonials on her website.

As an independent working woman with a fledgling business she was proud of, she should be outraged.

She padded across the apartment to the bathroom and shrugged out of her robe. Tossing the camisole over her head, she stepped into the enamel bath and switched the dial on the shower unit to scalding.

Unfortunately, though, she couldn't quite muster the required indignation because her decision to accept Carter's offer had had more to do with the intoxicating pheromones he released without even trying—which had caused every one of the synapses in her brain to fuse in unison the second she saw him—than it did with the fabulous opportunity this commission would offer her struggling business.

As the water pounded down, and she soaped her oversensitive breasts with rather more vigour than was entirely necessary, she could almost hear Cassie's dry Aussie accent saying: ‘I told you endorphins are addictive.'

NINE

Gina dabbed at
the sheen of sweat on her brow as she sat in the airy outer office of the Price Paper Mill. A large picture window looked down on the factory floor, where the mill's mostly recycled paper products were manufactured, giving her a slight flutter of vertigo to go with her nerves.

She gripped her laptop bag as Carter's young but efficient PA Bella Delmarr smiled benignly at her from behind a neat white desk.

‘Mr Price will be along shortly, Miz Carrington. Would you like some iced tea or a soda while you wait?'

‘No, I'm fine,' she replied, not sure she'd be able to swallow without choking, given her jumpy stomach. Which was ridiculous. Why was she so apprehensive about seeing him?

She'd done her homework in the last three days, putting together a preliminary package for him to review—which included projections for the different social media platforms, what they could hope to achieve, some blog designs, website analytics and ideas for possible marketing campaigns to enhance the company's profile. Unfortunately, while doing all that, she'd discovered that the Price family's paper mill had grown from a virtually bankrupt business when Carter had stepped into the CEO's shoes after his father's death into a huge multinational enterprise cleverly cornering the market in the South in recycled products. All of which made Carter's offer of a commission not just a great opportunity, but easily the best she'd ever had.

She could not afford to mess this up—which meant she could not afford to mess with Carter. And while that was extremely disappointing on a number of levels, by far her biggest concern was getting her libido—and Carter—to cooperate. Because she had a feeling his agenda might not be quite so professional—and saying no to him had never been one of her strong suits.

She smoothed damp palms down the linen trousers she'd worn to ward off the intense humidity—only to have the sweat pop back out onto her top lip as the man himself walked through the adjoining door from his office.

‘Gina, you made it.'

She got out of her chair and shook the hand he offered. The familiar shot of adrenaline raced up her arm at the touch of his cool dry fingers. ‘Yes, I have some projections for you to look at.' She lifted her laptop.

‘Great, why don't you leave that with Bella?' He nodded to his PA. ‘I'll give you the tour first and then we can take a look.'

She passed the laptop over, disconcerted by the intense cobalt gaze that wandered over her outfit, contradicting the businesslike tone.

‘I hope you're not too hot.' He placed a wide palm on the base of her spine, steering her to the stairwell that led to the factory floor. ‘Humidity hit ninety per cent today—which is manageable for a native, but let me know if you're gonna wilt and we'll take a break.'

It wasn't the humidity that was likely to make her wilt, she thought, as his palm rubbed before it dropped away, sending tendrils of heat shooting up her spine through the silk of her blouse.

‘Ninety per cent is more than I'd bargained for,' she replied as they left the air-conditioned stairwell and hit a wall of heat. It was like walking into a steam room, the wet, humid warmth slapping into them with the force of a wave. ‘When you said hot and sticky, I wasn't expecting the Seventh Circle of Hell,' she added, deciding that talking about the weather was probably the safest bet.

He rolled up his shirt sleeves, and she could see the glow of sweat on his brow beneath his hairline. Her mouth dried as she registered the sudden urge to run her tongue across his forehead and lick off the salty beads of moisture. The way she'd done on that hot summer night in Hillbrook.

Down, girl. Remember: businesslike, professional, focused, at all times. You're not going to screw up your big break for an endorphin fix. This is your new leaf talking.

His sensual lips curved into an easy smile that had ‘focused' falling by the wayside straight away. ‘Ninety per cent is nothing,' he said in that lazy Southern drawl that never failed to reverberate in her abdomen. ‘Forecast is for it to get a whole lot hotter over the next couple of weeks.' The wicked glint in those heavy-lidded eyes made it fairly obvious this was not a conversation about the weather any more. ‘You think you can handle the heat?'

‘Absolutely,' she lied.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of information as he showed her round the whole operation, displaying a hands-on knowledge of the production process—and his employees—that surprised and intrigued her.

From the little Marnie had let slip about her brother and what Gina had discovered on the Internet, she'd assumed Carter Price CEO would be as dominant and cynical as Carter Price Lover Man.

But after taking the tour of his factory, she'd discovered the sheep in wolf's clothing.

She'd thought he would focus on the big picture, the business side of his business—and leave the nitty-gritty of production and supply to his minions. And she hadn't expected him to know every one of his employees by their first names—right down to the pimply faced teenager who swept the loading bay. Or to know enough about their lives to ask after new babies, or recent marriages, or Great-Aunt Merilou's bursitis. But Carter Price had known about all of those things, chatting in a relaxed, comfortable way that suggested these people weren't his minions, they were his friends. And it was also obvious they all felt the same way about Carter—talking to him with easy smiles on their faces and affection as well as admiration in their eyes.

Of course, the mill was an essential part of the local economy and Carter had saved it from going under, so it was no surprise his employees were grateful to him. But she sensed something more going on, a sort of proprietary interest, almost as if these people had the status of family as well as friends, which explained the reserved Southern manners and considered glances she'd received when he introduced her—as if they were sizing her up. She dismissed the prickle of unease, remembering that she was a professional, here on professional business, even if he did insist on touching her arm and smiling confidentially at her, in front of his ‘people'.

But despite her best intentions, by the time they had settled into Carter's low-riding convertible and were bombing along a country road flanked by the ubiquitous kudzu vines that swallowed most of the landscape en route to Savannah, Gina had to admit she was feeling more than a little dazed trying to assimilate everything she'd learned.

She stole a glance at the man beside her and her pulse slowed, taking in the play of muscles as he shifted gears, the sculpted angle of his cheekbone in profile, and the way the wind whipped at his hair—making her fingers itch to sweep it back off that high forehead.

Rats
. Seeing Carter Price in his natural habitat wasn't going to make him one single bit easier to resist.

‘So what do you think?' He shouted the question across the console.

You're gorgeous.

The words echoed in her head, as they had been doing most of the afternoon. And it occurred to her she wasn't just admiring his looks any more, or his super powers in the sack, or even the sharp intelligence he'd shown during their chat in the Standard bar a week ago. While walking through his business with him, she'd got a glimpse of the boy she'd met a decade ago. The cynical player slipping away to reveal a man with warmth and intelligence—and an almost boyish pride in what he'd achieved, not just for himself and his company, but for his community. She wondered if Marnie had ever seen this side of him. Surely she couldn't have and still think so little of him?

But then families were often unpredictable. Growing up in close proximity to someone didn't automatically make you able to understand them—or even like them.

Take her own father—and her impossible relationship with him. Arthur Carrington had been a low-ranking member of the British aristocracy who'd inherited a venture capitalist firm from his own father—her father's ruthlessness in business had been legendary. He'd grabbed all he could with the arrogance of a man born into status and given very little back, not just in his professional life, but in his personal life as well. And although he'd been dead for over six years, Gina still shuddered when she thought of him and the cold, hard glint in his eyes as he'd kicked her out of his house ten years ago.

From what Marnie had said about Carter's chequered love life since his divorce, and from what she had discovered during the last few days about the phenomenal success of his business, Gina would have expected him to be cut from the same cloth, albeit with a layer of Southern charm added. But it seemed nothing could have been further from the truth. Was it possible he really wasn't that far removed from the idealistic and sincere young man she remembered at Hillbrook? Who had been striving to pull his family's business back from the brink but had been determined to do so in an ethical way?

And why did that concept only make her visit to Savannah seem that much more perilous?

‘I'm impressed,' she said. ‘You've built something amazing here—just like you hoped you would,' she added, the memory of the starry-eyed enthusiasm with which he'd once outlined his dreams for the mill all those years ago making her forget to be cautious. ‘And you didn't have to become your father to do it.'

A small crinkle formed on his brow. ‘What do you know about my father?'

‘Only what you said about him that night.'

He slowed the car, shifted down a gear to observe her for several long moments. ‘What did I say about him? I don't recall.'

Her heart bobbed into her throat and it occurred to her she had just strayed into forbidden territory. Why had she mentioned that night? They were so far past it now. And she would do better not to equate the man Carter was now with the boy he'd been, because that boy had had a very unpredictable effect on her. And if she wanted to maintain a professional distance, sharing intimate recollections probably wasn't the smartest way to go about it.

‘I can't remember, not a lot.'

‘You remember, or you wouldn't have made that comment.'

He didn't sound annoyed, but his expression was far too intense for merely curious—forcing her to give him an answer.

‘I got the impression you didn't like him much....' A confidence that had instantly made them connect, because it was exactly how she had always felt about her own father.

‘Did I tell you why?'

She shook her head. ‘Not really.' He hadn't elaborated, even when she'd pushed and she couldn't deny the spark of curiosity even now. ‘Marnie always described him as being larger than life—a force to be reckoned with. You seemed less impressed with him. That's all I remember.'

But she'd always wondered where that disillusionment had come from. Especially the next morning, when he'd woken up in her arms in her tiny bedroom in Reese's house and then shot out of her bed, the horror and regret plain on his stricken face. And all her stupid notions about some cosmic connection between them had shrivelled up inside her as he'd apologised with the stiff politeness of a puritan minister while rushing to get his clothes on—so he could escape out of the window and pretend he'd never been there when he returned to collect Marnie's stuff. Before racing back to Savannah to throw himself on the mercy of the woman he was due to marry. The woman he loved.

‘I sure must have shot my mouth off that night.' He sent her a quick grin. ‘You must have thought I was one hell of a sap.'

She hadn't thought he was a sap—not after she'd cut through the macho posturing and discovered a young man who'd seemed as lost and alone and confused as she was. She flinched at the stupidly romantic thought. ‘You were certainly rather full of yourself,' she replied—because he had been, at first. ‘And hopelessly sexist.'

He sent her a quick grin. ‘Yeah, and as I recall you weren't shy about telling me. I still remember that comment about exactly how I was ruining the line of my designer points.'

He gave a rueful chuckle, but she cringed inside—knowing even then she'd been flirting with him.

‘But I realise now you were simply looking out for your sister in the only way you knew how to.'

‘That bad, huh?' he teased, but she couldn't bring herself to share the joke, the memory of that intense, conflicted young man and the way she'd mocked him far too vivid.

‘And in complete denial about your sexual needs—which made you an irresistible challenge for a tramp like me.'

He flicked up the indicator to turn off the country lane onto a two-lane highway. ‘Gina, honey, you weren't a tramp,' he said, with surprising conviction. ‘You had a healthy libido and you weren't ashamed to enjoy it. Unlike me. I sincerely hope you are not still blaming yourself for what happened?' he asked, the question a little too astute for comfort.

She forced out a husky laugh. ‘I've never been ashamed of enjoying sex. I think I gave you conclusive proof of that last week.'

‘True enough,' he purred, the heavy-lidded look far too suggestive.

‘But I certainly had a quality-control problem in my teens,' she added, steering them away from yet more forbidden territory. ‘These days I make a point of not giving in to every passing fancy. Despite all evidence to the contrary last Friday night.'

He sent her a curious smile. ‘I sure hope you're not suggesting I'm only a passing fancy, sugar?'

She drew in a breath. He'd given her the opening she needed. ‘Actually, you're going to have to be,' she murmured, surprised at how depressed the thought made her feel. ‘As your newly appointed web designer and social media strategist, I don't think we can afford a replay of Friday night. It will be too distracting.'

‘Uh-huh?' he said, the curious smile twitching. He didn't seem annoyed by her comment, which was a good thing. Not so good was the fact that he seemed to find it fairly amusing. ‘You ever try multitasking?' he asked, the glint in his eye deliberately provocative.