by Jo Leigh
It would be her job. Her career. Unless she could convince him to keep her secret. But either way, she just couldn’t fight him any longer. He’d won on day two. A TKO of the first magnitude.
She broke the kiss, raised her gaze to his.
He didn’t seem surprised. He smiled, making her heart flutter. But then he did something that changed the whole game. He chuckled. It was very soft, and if she hadn’t been watching him so intently, she would have missed it.
He’d known exactly what would happen. That with a touch here, a word there, he could make her melt. He was almost right. Almost.
She still tingled from head to toe. Her nipples were still hard and the throbbing between her legs was enough to make her yearn for release. But there was just enough sanity left in her to see what was happening. To understand that she was in the game—whether as a pawn or a queen was up to her.
The easiest thing in the world would be to surrender. To let go of her ideals and blame biology. But surrendering wasn’t her style. She’d fought hard and long for everything she had in her life. Including her job. Her place in the world.
Was she going to lose it all to this cocky bastard?
“What’s that smile for?” he asked, his voice gruff with the lust she still felt in his hands, in his body.
She moved her hands down his chest, brushing lightly with her fingertips. Come on, girl. You know how to do this. She knew how to exploit a situation for her own benefit. Hadn’t she done that with the radio show? With school? Of course she had. So why couldn’t she do the same thing with Chase? Turn the tables. Be the seductor instead of the seductee. She could hold all the cards, every last one. And Chase wouldn’t know what hit him.
Her fingers moved down to his belt where she lingered for a moment, teasing the buckle as if she were going to undo it. His breath caught. She gave him a suggestively raised brow. Then she purposely stepped away.
Wait for it… Wait… There.
He let out a frustrated moan, chalking one up for her side.
Take that, Chuckles.
HE’D HAD HER. So what the hell just happened? A moment ago she’d been putty in his hands.
“Did you say dinner was ready?”
He nodded. Watched her get her wine, take a sip, smile at him over the rim of the glass as if she knew a secret. Then she walked to the table, running one hand down her backside, showing him the shape of the curves he’d only begun to discover for himself.
The real problem here was physical. It wasn’t the first time he’d been left dangling, so to speak, but it hadn’t happened for years. Women didn’t turn him down. Not women he went after in high gear.
The feel of her hard nipples, the way she fit into his hands…
What the hell—?
“Chase? Would you like me to serve you?”
“Sure.” As long as it was her on a platter. The pasta held no appeal. Nothing did, except finishing what he’d started.
She busied herself with the plates, gave them both generous portions, but she didn’t dig in. Instead, she ran the tip of her finger over the rim of her nearly empty wineglass and looked at him from under her dark lashes.
She was coming on to him, right? The fingers, the glances, the subtle smile, the flush in her cheeks. She wanted him. But if that was the case, why was he over here, and why did she have her clothes on?
“It smells wonderful. I was wrong. You do know how to cook. I should have guessed.”
He needed to move. To go sit down. To pick up where he’d left off. Only, something was screwy.
He understood women, almost as well as he understood cars. They were predictable in their unpredictability. They wanted to succumb, to be swept away. When Jamie had leaned back in his arms it had told him everything he needed to know. Only, he had on his clothes, too.
“I’ll be right back.” He took an uncomfortable walk to the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Once he was alone, he leaned against the wall and willed himself to calm the hell down. The pressure eased a bit, which let him think more clearly.
Okay, so maybe Jamie wasn’t the pushover he’d imagined. Maybe she’d take a little more work. Which made sense. Hell, look what she did for a living. He’d figured she wasn’t very experienced. A hundred small things told him that. The way she blushed, her tentative kisses, the way she trembled in his arms. All signs of a woman who hadn’t had any in a while.
He’d been with women like her before. Shy women who’d had inadequate lovers, who ate up the attention and longed to be set free.
But none of them had stopped midway through the first lap. Certainly not after they’d found his belt. Dammit, that was usually a sure sign.
He splashed some cold water on his face as he tried to assess the situation. There was only one pertinent question—did he honestly believe he could seduce Jamie? Could he shake her down from her intellectual pedestal? Could he make her surrender?
Yes.
Why?
Because of the wager? No. It was a stupid bet, and the only intelligent thing to do was bow out. He knew without a doubt, though, that if he called off the bet, he’d lose his only hope of getting her into bed. She’d run and hide, just the way she used to at the station before all this started. He used to wonder why he frightened her, and the last couple of days had shown him why.
So the bottom line was simple. Screw the bet, and get Jamie Hampton into his bed. That was the game. That was the goal. Like winning at Le Mans.
He looked at his reflection. Why not? What else did he have to do that was anywhere close to this fascinating? Good for her, knocking him off balance. That made things…interesting.
Dammit, he wanted to win.
What was the expression? Live hard, die young, leave a good-looking corpse? Hell of a motto, but then he didn’t have much choice in the matter, did he? After all, he had the Newman curse.
That was his ultimate strength—the knowledge that he’d only be around for a few more years. No one else knew, and he wouldn’t say a word. He’d just go at thirty-five, as had his father and his father before him.
The doctor he’d talked to said it was a coincidence, but the doctor didn’t know about Chase’s great-grandfather. Dead at thirty-four. A heart attack, out of the blue. His mother knew, and in those first years after his father died, she’d warned him not to repeat his father’s mistake. Not ever to leave a wife and child behind.
At least Chase had some warning. And he’d taken it seriously. He did live fast, as fast as he knew how. He’d been all over the world, been with women from Africa to Istanbul. He’d tried everything at least once, daring himself to go further, deeper, and to risk more. And he’d never let anyone get too close.
His mother had nearly gone insane at the death of his father. No way would Chase leave behind a grieving widow, or a son who would have to face the same destiny.
He lived for the moment, never for the future, never in the past. And, right now, his moment was in the dining room. If she wanted to roll up her sleeves and fight, so be it. In fact, he liked that she wasn’t going to be easy. Too damn much in his life had been.
He had no doubt he’d win. But now, getting there was going to be a lot more fun.
Grabbing a towel from the rack, he wiped his face and hands, then headed back to the dining room. At the far corner of the table sat Dr. Jamie, his worthy opponent. Her dark eyes flashed with a seductive welcome.
But he had her number. Oh, yeah. Baby, the flag is up.
7
JAMIE WATCHED HIM EAT. Of course, he watched right back. It was like staring into a mirror. Well, not quite. But he would take a bite, she would take a bite. He’d sip his wine, she’d do the same. She echoed every gesture, paused with every pause. She was Ginger to his Fred; dancers with no music.
When he didn’t react, she decided to crank it up a notch. Carefully, she put her fork down on the side of her plate, then made the mmm sound of appreciation, only real low and deep and sexy. Then, feeling quite foolish, but da
ring, too, she licked her upper lip, taking her own sweet time.
Nothing changed. His expression was exactly the same as— Hold on. Oh, my. He’d put his fork in his mouth, only he’d forgotten to pick up any food on it. And yet, he didn’t seem to notice as he proceeded to chew and swallow.
Excellent.
She picked up her wineglass and took a tiny, quick lick of the rim before she sipped the chardonnay. As she’d anticipated, Chase’s gaze was fixed on her mouth, on her tongue. Such a bad boy.
Next, she reached across the table to get the pepper mill, even though she had no desire for pepper. But she knew that when she stretched, her dress molded against her breasts. She didn’t even have to look this time to sense where his gaze had wandered. Heck, this was like shooting fish in a barrel.
He cleared his throat and shifted his gaze. She’d see about that.
“These candles are really beautiful, aren’t they.”
His grunt sounded sort of like “Yes.”
“I think the flickering light is so soothing. You know what one of my favorite things is?”
“I wouldn’t even hazard a guess.”
She smiled, although she didn’t give him any teeth. “I love slipping into a nice, hot, wet…bubble bath.”
No comment, except for the bobbing Adam’s apple.
She sighed as she ran two fingers lazily up her arm. “I light my private candles and fill the tub with rose-scented bubble bath, then I sink down until my whole body is under the water, and my head rests on my bath pillow.”
She took another sip of wine, giving him time to fine-tune his mental picture. “I close my eyes and let the water and the roses soothe away all my worries. All that’s left to do is wash. I don’t like to use a cloth or anything. I just get my hands all soapy. Of course, I start with my toes—the summer can be so harsh on bare feet. And then I work my way up to my ankles.” She paused, milking the moment. “Then I move my hands to my legs and knees.”
He swallowed again, his eyes slightly glassy.
“I lean back to wash my thighs, of course. Because I need to be comfortable and completely relaxed when I…”
Chase couldn’t help it. He leaned forward, waiting for her to finish the sentence. And waiting. Dammit. What was she doing to him?
She took another sip of wine, then put the glass down. He let out his breath, sure she’d go on, begging her to go on.
She twirled some pasta on her fork and brought it to her mouth. Opening her lips, the food slipped inside, and then her lips closed on the fork—and he had to look away before he started crying.
This wasn’t amusing. She was doing it on purpose. All of it. He’d thought she was innocent. A babe in the woods. What a laugh. She was more like the big, bad wolf.
He took a deep breath and loosened the stranglehold he had on his glass before it shattered. He also wanted to loosen his pants before they burst at the seams, but that was a no-go because he was afraid to touch himself anywhere in the vicinity of his fly. A stiff breeze would probably push him over the edge, and on the list of tricks to impress your date, coming at the dinner table was below everything with the possible exception of choking and turning blue in the face.
There was only one other time in his life when he’d been in this much trouble. He’d been fifteen and, like most guys his age, he’d been a virgin. A hopeful virgin. He’d spent the summer at his friend Jeff’s place, and Jeff had a cousin. Her name was Eve. She liked to tease him and, at seventeen, she was already a master.
One day she left the bathroom door open, just a tad. Just enough for him to peek inside. He hit the mother lode—Eve, who was built like a brick house, was taking off her bathing suit.
Years later, he realized she actually had been putting on a show for him, and that the door wasn’t left open accidentally. At the time, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Eve was the most gorgeous creature on the planet. Blonde, tall, with legs that went on for about a mile, she was the picture of feminine perfection in his eyes, a veritable Miss July, sprung fully formed from the pages of Playboy magazine.
His fifteen-year-old hormones went into overdrive. But before he could move away, Eve yanked open the door. She had somehow put a towel around her good parts, and she was furious.
He begged her not to tell. He didn’t want to be banished to his parents’ incredibly boring apartment back in Manhattan. He wanted to be with Jeff, and the pool and the goddess who had him by the T-shirt.
He’d begged, and she’d finally agreed to keep his secret, but only if he’d submit to being her slave for the rest of his stay.
The torture had been exquisite.
She’d made him rub lotion on her body, fetch drinks, give her massages, make her bed. And he’d had the erection that wouldn’t die. It went on for days. Eve had wanted him to take off his clothes for her, but at that he put his foot down. It was bad enough that he had to wear two pairs of jockey shorts under his bathing suit just so he wouldn’t give Jeff’s mother a stroke, but there was no way he was going to show Eve his predicament in all its glory.
Of course, if he’d been just a bit older, he would have understood that her request wasn’t the cruel trick he’d imagined, but a wicked introduction to the wonders of sex. Damn. He could have had a really great summer. Instead, it was full of pain and anguish and sweet suffering. Like tonight.
He wondered where Eve was now. She was probably a dentist or an island despot.
But because there was a great deal of humor in the universe, he’d found himself another Eve. He was older now. Wiser. He knew perfectly well that Jamie was intentionally torturing him. That every move she made was meant to torment him. He was wise to the woman, no doubt about that. Unfortunately, his penis caught none of the nuances and, frankly, misunderstood the entire scenario.
“Chase?”
“Yeah?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been talking to you and you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
He smiled, although it was definitely not one of his best efforts.
“And you’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“Did you have dinner before you came over?”
He shook his head.
“Then, you must be hungry. Go on. Just a few more bites, and we’ll call it even.”
He obeyed. Just like with Eve. He ate one bite, then two, not tasting anything, not seeing anything but Jamie’s gaze, Jamie’s soft cheeks, Jamie’s lips.
He swallowed as she leaned toward him. What was going on? She kept leaning forward until they were only a breath apart. He closed his eyes, ready for her lips on his. Instead, she took her index finger and touched the corner of his mouth. Then she brought that finger to her lips and she sucked the tip. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. She closed her eyes and moaned. He moved, and she sat back in her seat as if she hadn’t just come on to him in the most blatant, vivid, obvious maneuver since Marilyn Monroe sang “Happy Birthday.”
“What was that?”
“You had some sauce on your mouth.”
“In this country, it’s traditional to use a napkin for that sort of thing.”
“But what fun would that be?”
He sighed, wondering how things had gone so wrong so fast. She had him twisted around her little finger, when just an hour ago he’d had her on the edge.
Time for him to do something about it. Now. And the quickest way he knew to get her off balance was to kiss her senseless.
He stood up, went to her side, took hold of her arms and pulled her up. She stared at him in surprise. Good. Then he leaned down to capture her mouth.
Only, she wasn’t there.
She’d slipped out, ducking beneath his arm so fast that he had no time to catch her. A moment later, she smiled victoriously, stretched, making sure she pushed out her chest, and yawned.
“How did it get so late? I can’t believe how tired I am. It must be the pasta. All those carbs.”
&
nbsp; “What?”
“Thank you so much for the wonderful dinner.” She took hold of his arm by both hands and headed toward the door. “Next time, I’ll cook, but I’m not nearly as good as you are. I have a wonderful recipe for Asian chicken, though. Do you like chicken?”
“Uh—”
“Good. Then, that’s settled. We’ll have dinner.”
“Hey—”
When they reached the door, Jamie stood on tiptoes and kissed him briefly on the lips. Then the door was open, her hand was on his shoulder, and he was outside.
“Good night,” she said, just barely hiding her amusement. She shut the door, and he listened to her lock all five of her dead bolts.
What in hell had she done to him? He checked his watch. Just after one in the morning. He’d planned to have her in bed by now, and look at him, standing like some schmuck on her doorstep, with nothing to show for the evening but an erection.
He thought of Dale Parker, his roommate at Yale. Thank God Dale couldn’t see this mess. Dale used to brag that Chase could charm the panties off every female within five thousand feet without breaking a sweat. Tonight, he couldn’t charm a scent from a rose.
It was crazy. The last time he’d been this bewildered by a woman, he’d been in puberty. It was Eve all over again. And while he was supposed to be the serpent, he’d ended up being the goddamn apple.
He thought of knocking, but decided against it. He’d go home, although it would be a few minutes until he could climb on his bike.
No wonder he’d been bamboozled. All the blood that should have been in his brain had migrated south.
JAMIE LEANED AGAINST THE DOOR, her heart slamming against her chest, her breath shaky and unreliable, her thoughts running a hundred miles an hour. She’d done it! She’d actually used some of her techniques and they’d worked.
Of course, what she hadn’t anticipated was the backlash. There was a price to be paid for acting wickedly, and she was paying it now. If she looked up horny in the dictionary, she’d see her own picture.