Maid of Dishonor (14 page)

TWELVE

In the blissful
days that followed, Gina worked hard to create a magnificent new website and excellent media strategy for the Price Paper Consortium. She worked even harder at fulfilling every prurient sexual fantasy she had ever had about the consortium's CEO. And harder still at ensuring her emotions didn't get in the way of the good time she was having, and the even better sex.

But as the days passed a hitch appeared in her plan that involved an unfortunate discovery. Carter Price was as irresistible out of bed as he was in it.

And if she didn't know better, she could have sworn he had orchestrated that giddy glide into romance, almost as carefully as he had orchestrated their red-hot ride into lust.

Why else would he have organised an evening watching classic Hollywood movies at the retro cinema a ten-minute walk from his home—and then made her heart flip-flop by necking with her in the back row? Why else would he have insisted on holding her hand during their lazy afternoon stroll through the redevelopment of trinket shops and parkland on River Street? Or whispered wicked suggestions in her ear to make her laugh as they browsed the antiquarian delights in a dusty basement bookshop?

Even at the mill, where she insisted on them maintaining a respectable distance in front of his employees, his sharp, insightful and always enthusiastic comments about her ideas had become as seductive as all those casually possessive gestures and throwaway displays of affection. She felt as if she'd been caught in the silken web of his friendship—become a prisoner to all that charm and charisma and affability, powerless to resist the steely determination that lurked beneath.

Dating Carter Price was certainly unlike any of her other dating experiences—which, although not nearly as prolific as most people believed, fell into two distinct categories: the standard ‘hot, short and sweet', or, on those rare occasions when she didn't end the affair soon enough, ‘hot, short and not-so-sweet'. Carter should have fallen easily into the first category. That had been the plan. But he wasn't hot, he was scorching, and as the day approached when she would have to leave Savannah and return to her single life ‘short and sweet' was becoming ‘short and potentially sticky'. Sticky in a way that confused and disturbed her, because the single life she loved was starting to seem boring and even a little lonely simply because it wouldn't have Carter in it.

Gina stretched limbs pleasantly sore from the night-time's activities and rolled onto her side to contemplate the man lying next to her in the generous tester bed—and all the reasons why their fling was starting to bother her.

She frowned. And that was another thing. They'd relocated to his palatial bedroom in the main house after their first night at the pool house, Carter insisting that the queen bed was way too cramped for them to explore each other properly. Given the scope of exploration he'd had in mind—which even she, with her suitably filthy mind, hadn't anticipated—she had to concede he'd had a point. And staying in his room, with its solid, intricately carved mahogany furniture and the wide French doors that opened onto a charming balcony overlooking the square, hadn't exactly been a chore.

But as the morning sun streamed in, illuminating the handsome face that had captivated her a decade ago, she also had to concede that moving into the main house was just another in a long line of concessions she'd agreed to without putting up much of a fight. Right from the moment he'd looked at her across the bar in The Standard Hotel with that dangerous allure in his eyes, she'd been giving in to him over and over again—and that was bothering her too, almost as much as her reluctance to walk away from him in a few days time.

She searched his face for clues as to how he'd managed to slip under her guard—and make her crave his attention. She studied the dark brows, that tempting dent in his chin and the small creases of amusement at the edge of his mouth that he wore even in sleep. She blew out an unsteady breath. No wonder she was captivated—and behaving like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming freight train. The man was a total studmuffin, just as Reese had described him—and that was without even factoring in the effect of those killer blue eyes that could tempt a saint into fornication when he was awake.

He shifted in his sleep, mumbling something before a heavy hand came to rest on her hip. An errant curl of dark hair fell across his forehead. She smoothed it off again with a fingernail and his eyelids snapped opened. She snatched her hand back. Too late. She was already trapped in that penetrating blue gaze.

‘Hey there,' he growled. His fingers tightened on her hip and he eased her closer, the familiar morning cuddle something she'd got too accustomed to as well. ‘How you feeling, this bright and beautiful morning, Miss Gina?'

Not as safe as I'd hoped. Why do you have to be so irresistible, Carter Price?

Swallowing down the solid object lodged in her throat, she lifted the sheet to inspect the equally solid object nudging her belly. ‘Not as perky as you, obviously.'

He yawned, and stretched through a rumble of self-satisfied laughter. ‘Well now, sugar. That's just a natural male reaction to waking up beside a beautiful...' The suggestive comment drifted to a halt as he squinted into the sunlight, then jerked into a sitting position and thrust a hand through his hair. ‘Damn it, what time is it?'

‘About ten, at a conservative estimate.'

He swore, whipped back the sheet and jumped out of bed, protective hands cupping his morning erection as he raced to the dresser.

‘What's the matter?' She sat up, hugging the sheet to her bosom, and smiled, his panicked antics dissolving the tightness in her throat.

Honestly, what on earth was she worrying about? She'd be leaving soon and, while it might be a bit more of a wrench than she'd anticipated, nothing would make her change that. Of course she felt drawn to him, in a way she hadn't with other men, because they had a past. But that didn't mean they had a future.

‘It's the weekend today,' she supplied.

‘It's Sunday,' he declared, as if that explained everything. He dug out a pair of boxers and hopped across the room while shoving a foot into them—nearly falling over en route to the wardrobe. The resultant muttered curse elicited a chuckle from her ringside seat on the bed.

‘As much as I'm enjoying the show,' she said, the now familiar giggles floating out as he yanked a perfectly pressed white linen shirt out of the wardrobe, ‘isn't it bad karma to be swearing like that on a Sunday?'

He swung round, buttoning the shirt. ‘Very funny.' Strolling back to the bed, he tugged the sheet out of her hands, his eyes glittering with retribution.

‘Hey,' she protested, only to have the sheet flipped off entirely.

‘No need to look so smug, Miss Gina. Because you're coming with me.'

She scrambled to retrieve the sheet. ‘Says who? And where exactly do you think you're taking me?'

‘To church. Where else?' He wrestled the sheet away with ease when her fingers went numb.

‘I haven't been inside a church since I was sixteen and I got kicked out of St Bude's.'

‘Why did they kick you out?'

She sent him a glare while trying to grab back the sheet. ‘I seduced the biology teacher,' she replied, hoping to shock him with the truth—and get her hands on the stupid sheet.

Instead of looking shocked, though, he only laughed, balling up the sheet and tossing it across the room. ‘Lucky guy.'

The lack of censure in his gaze as it roamed appreciatively over her exposed flesh made her cheeks heat. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, refusing to acknowledge the glow of contentment. So what if her many youthful transgressions didn't appear to bother him in the slightest? It was only because he was as big a reprobate as she was, and consequently unshockable.

‘Sounds to me like you're definitely overdue for a visit to church, though,' he murmured. ‘You need to atone for that sin and a whole lot more I happen to have firsthand knowledge of.'

‘Not a chance.' She surrendered the sheet in favour of a mad dash to the bathroom—only to have him capture her in mid-flight. Her breath whooshed out as he scooped her up and her back hit his chest.

‘FYI, honey,' he whispered into her hair, ‘you'll have to cut down your two-hour morning shower. The service starts at eleven. And we don't want to be late.'

She struggled in earnest. ‘Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going. I'd probably get struck by lightning.'

‘God's a whole lot more forgiving than you think.' He nipped her ear lobe, laughing when she shuddered. ‘If I've never been struck by lightning, I figure you're safe from divine retribution too.' The soft, seductive murmur of his breath turned her knees to jelly. ‘Although, you may want to avoid going into the Lord's house the way God intended you.' He toyed with a nipple.

She slapped his hand away and escaped from his embrace, aroused now and more than a little disturbed by the invitation—and his insistence. ‘You are kidding, right?'

He had to be. Surely? She didn't want to go to church. It would make her feel uncomfortable and hypocritical. Bringing back far too many memories of Sunday morning services at a succession of different boarding schools when she'd listened to the sermons with half an ear and refused to repent her many sins. And she definitely didn't want to go to church with Carter. There would be people he knew there. People he might introduce her to. People who might still be in touch with Marnie. But, worse than that, those same people might assume they were a couple. And they weren't.

‘No, I'm not kidding,' he said, with strained patience, landing a playful slap on her butt when she stood rooted to the spot. ‘Now put a fire under it. I'd hate to drag you there naked, and scandalise the minister. But I will if I have to.'

She grabbed the discarded sheet from the floor and wrapped it around her body, protecting herself from that far-too-possessive gaze, but not managing to do much for the shiver of unease.

‘Carter, I am
not
going to church with you.'

His eyebrows winged up. ‘Why not?'

‘Because...' She wound the sheet tighter. ‘Because people you know will be there.'

His mouth tilted in a puzzled smile. ‘Uh-huh, so?'

Good grief, he actually was serious.

‘So? So?' Her voice rose as irritation got the better of her. ‘Meeting them would be...'
Wrong.

‘Would be what?' he asked over his shoulder, while selecting a suit from the wardrobe and tugging the trousers off the hanger.

‘Pointless. Unnecessary,' she ground out, groping for the appropriate word. ‘Misleading.'

His brows flattened into a frown as he zipped his trousers. ‘Why don't you let me decide that?' he replied as if he hadn't just lost his mind. He shrugged on the suit jacket, then lifted her dress off the chair beside the bed and lobbed it to her—the same lemon-yellow shift dress that he'd peeled off her the night before. ‘Put that on—it'll work.'

She caught the dress, and clasped it to her chest—starting to feel overwhelmed by that cast-iron will again, and not liking it one bit. ‘Carter, you're not listening to me. There is no way I'm going to church with you.'

He approached her, looking impossibly debonair in the dark grey single-breasted suit. Placing warm palms on her shoulders, he massaged the tight muscles, digging into the knots of tension and making awareness skitter across her collarbone. ‘I want you there—why are you worried about people I know meeting you? I'm not.'

You should be,
she wanted to say, but she didn't, because it would make her sound cowardly and insecure. And she was neither of those things. Or she hadn't been until she'd fallen under Carter Price's spell again.

She gulped, refusing to give in to the flutter of panic—or the shimmer of arousal. And stepped out of reach of his magic hands.

Don't overreact. He's just a guy. He can't cast a spell on you unless you let him.

‘Don't be silly—I'm not worried.' She was petrified and she wasn't even sure why, but he definitely didn't need to know that.

‘I guarantee they'll all be real polite,' he said lazily, but his eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening. ‘Southern manners mean they'll have to be.' He brushed a thumb across her cheek and sent her an easy smile. The panicked flutter intensified, as if she had a hummingbird trapped in her oesophagus. ‘And anyhow, you don't have a choice.' His voice lowered in warning. ‘Either you come peaceably or I'm going to cart you there over my shoulder.'

The teasing smile was still in place, but she could see the determined tilt of his chin and the muscle in his jaw flexing—and she couldn't be sure he was joking. Ordinarily she would have relished the fight, but right now her knees were too watery and the pulse of awareness in her belly too insistent to guarantee a win. So she went for the only option she had left—until she could think of another—grudging surrender. ‘Fine, great, I'll go! But don't expect me to enjoy it.'

The teasing smile widened into a triumphant grin. ‘This is the Riverside Christian Congregational Church, sugar. Attendance is about saving your immortal soul and making good business connections. And if you're a pillar of the community like me, you're not allowed to skip it or people will talk. But enjoyment is entirely optional.'

‘Fabulous.' She marched to the bathroom, planning to indulge in her usual lengthy morning shower just to spite him—and hopefully postpone the inevitable. But before she had a chance to slam the door, she heard the wry comment from behind her. ‘Make it quick. You've got ten minutes before I come in to get you.'

Blast the man, how did he read her so easily?