“What? You’re not making any sense. I—”
“Just be aware,” he interrupted again, “I’m not interested in dollars, I’ll take it out in…trade.”
Fury nearly made her go blind. After all the pain he’d caused, he had the nerve to come back into her life and cause more?
“Leave me alone, Paul, or despite all your father’s money, this time I’ll get a restraining order that will stick!”
“What ever. Just remember what I said. Be seeing you, sweet thing. And I mean that.”
“Paul! No, wait…What are you…Are you still there? Paul?”
Damn! She slammed the phone down and lowered her head to her hands. Paul Corcoran, in her dressing room, threatening her. Why? And why now? Did he know what she was up to? But how could he; nobody knew. Nobody except Raine.
The good news was—if there was any good news—he was in San Francisco, and not Santa Barbara.
But why was he hassling her, what did he want?
The urge to rush down to KALM and see what he’d done to her dressing room sent her jumping to her feet. He’d most certainly gone through her things. Fortunately, she left absolutely nothing of a personal nature at the office. Not a thing there could point to Santa Barbara.
On the one hand, if he had rifled through her things and left fingerprints, she had evidence he’d broken in and she could prosecute.
On the other hand, he probably hadn’t broken in. He didn’t need to. He was Paul Corcoran and had carte blanche to go wherever he wanted—his father made sure of that.
Maybe she should find a way to contact him, meet with him, find out what he wanted.
Her stomach roiled at the thought. No, seeing him in the window was bad enough; seeing him in person might actually make her vomit—or stab him with what ever sharp instrument was handy. She arched a brow. Killing him would be so unsatisfying. Now, cutting off his testicles, that would be poetic justice.
Pacing in front of her desk, she realized she’d been hearing a noise, but had been too distracted pay attention.
There it was again, her doorbell. Who on earth was—
Paul? Oh, my God…
No. It couldn’t be Paul. There was no way he could have gotten from her dressing room at the studio to her house in under half an hour.
She raised her head. It could be one of Paul’s goons. No, wait. Paul didn’t have goons; Paul was a goon.
Her heart pounding in her ears, Georgie stared toward the office doorway. The bell trilled again. She’d chosen the nine notes to emulate the sound of brass wind chimes, thereby bringing new energy into her living space. Nine, and multiples of that number, were powerful feng shui elements, so she tried to use them wherever she could. But to night, instead of easing her stress, hearing her doorbell sent a cold chill across her flesh. She licked her lips, unsure what to do.
Outside the window next to her desk, the early evening sky was still bright. If she sneaked a peek through the little round etched-glass window in the foyer, she could catch a glimpse of her visitor and then decide whether to let whoever it was in or not.
On tiptoe, she left her office and approached the front of the house, hugging the wall like a cat burglar in her own home. If she eased around the bookcase, she could just see that little window…
Her body froze, but not her heart, which slammed into overdrive like a rabbit who’d spotted a raptor.
Him! What in the hell did he want? Her emotions were frazzled enough without having to deal with Ethan Darling.
He turned, and his gaze met hers through the etched-glass, his narrowed hazel eyes challenging her as though he knew she’d considered pretending she wasn’t home.
Several ideas crashed inside her brain at once. A, she could open the door, feign a headache, and send him away. That would be good. After what had happened on the set, he’d believe her.
Or, B, she could fling the door wide, yank him inside, rip his clothes off, and beg him to relieve her sexual suffering. That would be good; more likely great. He might even do it. On the one hand, Oh, boy! On the other hand, Oh, boy! followed by guilt and remorse.
But newly forming plan C carried the most appeal. Invite him in, but not for sex. While her hormones would have to live with the disappointment, her gray matter would be appeased: Ethan Darling knew stuff about her, and she wanted to know what he knew. The old keep your friends close and your enemies closer thing.
Of course, the infamous D, None of the above, was always an option. But that would mean ignoring him, turning on her heel, dousing the lights, and going straight to bed, but since he’d already seen her, she would go with C. Yes, C, final answer.
Besides, if Paul did decide to drop by, the SOB might think twice about hassling her with Ethan there.
Her lips pressed together, she padded toward the door, threw the deadbolt, and turned the glass knob.
His gaze first went to her face, then immediately dropped, traveling quickly down her body and back up again. She watched his pupils dilate and his stance change. Then she remembered what she was wearing—or, more precisely, not wearing.
Fighting the urge to throw an ugly army blanket around herself, she raised her chin and met his stare head-on.
“I already bought cookies,” she snapped. “I have a discount coupon book and plenty of life insurance, don’t want my house number painted on the curb, my car’s been washed and the broken windshield repaired, I haven’t seen any lost Yorkie-poos, I know who I’m voting for, and I’m very happy with my religion, so what ever you’re selling, kid, no thanks.”
To her astonishment, his mouth quirked and a smile came into his eyes. “You forgot magazine subscriptions.”
“Oh, shoot!” she blurted, determined not to let him captivate her by his showing signs of being human. “Listen, kid. Get a student loan like everybody else. No magazines.” When she pretended to close the door on him, he put his hand on it, pushing it open. His eyes held the intensity of a green laser, primed to cut right through every defense she had.
“Lady, you drive a hard bargain,” he said. “We’re running a special this week on Feng Shui Illustrated. Every page is just where it should be.”
She blinked up at him, a baby sparrow shocked by the looming form of a hungry bobcat. Who in the hell knew Ethan Darling could be charming? Dammit, she wanted information out of him, maybe his protection, not to be enchanted by him…
Resolved to make him work a little harder, she said in a haughty tone, “As you can see, I’m hardly dressed for a sales pitch.”
His intense gaze flicked down her body once more, lingering for a moment on her breasts. “Won’t hear me complain,” he murmured, easing the door all the way open. Stepping inside, he closed it behind him.
Georgie didn’t budge. Fine, she thought. I can do this. I can let a man ogle me, if it’ll get me what I want…what I need. It’s not like I dressed this way on purpose to distract him. It’s his own fault for showing up unannounced.
On the one hand, her revealing clothes put her at a psychological disadvantage, and made her nervous as hell. On the other hand, he was obviously distracted by the unexpected sight of her in a tank top and jammie bottoms and no underwear.
The fact he was a little off balance might give her the advantage she needed to outmaneuver him.
Spinning on her heel, she walked into the living room, completely aware his eyes were glued to her butt. Equally distracted by the knowledge he was watching her, she barely missed crashing into the curio cabinet under the archway. As she plopped down on the soft sofa, she hoped her boobs jiggled ever so slightly. Stretching out her legs, she crossed her ankles on the coffee table.
“Take a seat, Darling,” she drawled, gesturing to the deeply cushioned chair directly opposite her. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited to see what he would do.
He eyed the chair, then her. With a curt nod, he sat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Testosterone seemed to swirl around him like electrons orb
iting a nucleus. Georgie’d had men in her house before, but this one seemed to suck the air right out of the place, making her dizzy with awareness. She was afraid any second now she’d start to wheeze, he’d give her mouth-to-mouth, and all would be lost.
His gaze caught hers. “You feel okay?”
It occurred to her to tell him he should feel her and find out for himself, but she thought better of it.
“I’m good,” she said curtly.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there, then lifted to her eyes. “If you say so.” Glancing around at the décor, he said, “This all what you call feng shui?”
Georgie cringed. “After hearing you butcher the term countless times, I have to tell you it’s not feng shooey, it’s fung schway, and yes, my home adheres to feng shui principles. A grand master helped me with the interior design.”
“So, like, do you have to join some special church or something?”
She nearly choked. “Feng shui isn’t a religion,” she huffed. “It’s simply a philosophy that deals with the organization of things around you, to attract goodness into your life and repel anything unwanted.” She eyed him suggestively at the unwanted part. “Feng shui emphasizes colors, the dynamics of movement, the benefits of affirmations and positive thinking. It’s actually quite simple, makes a lot of sense, and anyone can do it.”
He looked around some more. “Hmm. Pretty.”
She shrugged, which made her breasts jiggle. Like, finally. Her cheeks warmed, but she stood her emotional ground. “To what do I owe your visit, Detective?”
“Ethan.”
“Ethan, then.”
For a moment, something flared in his eyes, and she felt that invisible connection between them again. In a quiet voice, he asked, “What can you tell me about Iona Jameson, Ignacio Quincy, and Hildy Nelson?”
Oh. So he wanted to talk about business. Okay, she could do that. Easy enough to slip in a few questions of her own while they were having a little chat.
“They all work for KALM,” she said. “And they all hate me, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Horton explained the circumstances. I’m going to talk to each of them tomorrow. Do you think any of them hates you enough to put oil of rosemary in your ice cubes?”
She lowered her lids and thought about it for a moment. “Not really. I mean, I don’t think so. They’re all professional enough to understand how these things work. I’m not responsible for decisions the station’s management makes. They know that and—”
“Georgie.”
His using her name startled her. She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “What?”
“Are you really okay?” His tone was gentle, and there was genuine concern in his eyes. To see him this way was far more disturbing than if he’d been angry or accusing. Anger she knew how to handle; compassion was an entirely different matter. She couldn’t love an angry man, but a compassionate one…
“No aftereffects from the oil of rosemary?” he said.
“No.”
“I don’t mean physically,” he added gently. “I mean, it must hurt your feelings a little to think somebody dislikes you enough to do something like this.”
He understood that? Oh. Oh, dear. She felt her heart respond in a way she’d been trying to guard against since she met him.
“Um, I, uh, I’m okay. Thanks, though, for asking.” She plucked the fabric of her sleep pants. “I don’t think the staff blames me for the switches the station has made.”
“Doesn’t make it go down any easier for them.”
“No. I’m sure it doesn’t. I’m on top right now, but I won’t always be,” she said candidly. “My turn will come. That’s showbiz.”
He settled into his chair. “What’d you do over the weekend, something fun? I came by to see you, but you were out.”
Her stomach tightened and she wrapped her arms protectively over her middle. “I took a drive up the coast. Helps clear away the cobwebs.”
“You clear the cobwebs every weekend?”
Silence.
“Mostly. What about you?”
Silence.
“Mostly.”
They eyed each other for a moment.
So he had followed her. She knew someone had. Not because she saw anything, but just because she’d sensed it, sensed it in him when he’d challenged her. Well, ha! And ha, ha, ha! She’d lost him at San Jose, she thought smugly. That’d show him.
Suddenly she was dying of thirst. Pushing herself to her feet, she started for the kitchen door. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
Over her shoulder, she said, “You want to come?”
As he stood, he mumbled something that sounded like, “Ladies first.”
The west-facing kitchen was bathed in light from the setting sun. Everything, from the row of cookbooks lining the counter, to the vase of fresh flowers on the table, to the crystals dangling from the curtain rod in front of the window, was brushed with a soft, pink-amber glow.
Pulling open the refrigerator door, she said, “I have iced green tea, carob soy milk, strawberry yogurt smoothies, organic orange juice, naturally effervescent mineral water—”
“Oh, get real,” he said softly, from too close behind her. He peered over her shoulder, trying to see into the fridge, but she blocked him. “I know you don’t practice what you preach, Georgie. Five bucks says you’ve got a beer in there. Ten says it’s imported.”
She jerked her head in his direction, and their eyes met. His gaze was one of open challenge. “What do you mean by I don’t practice what I preach?”
That sexy mouth of his quirked into a sly grin. “The day I met you on the elevator, remember? You had on your Georgiana Mundy, New Age, organic, nurturing, love everyone, dimpled sweetness persona. But we both know that’s just for show.”
She swallowed and averted her eyes. “It is not.”
He scoffed. “Oh, you’re nice enough when it suits you, like in front of an audience. But the real Georgie Mundy has a hot temper, probably eats big juicy steaks when nobody’s looking, and has a tendency to be just a little bit pissy.”
“No beer for you,” she snapped. Grabbing the pitcher from top shelf, she slammed the door. “You’ll drink green tea and like it.” The cold pitcher in one hand, she stalked toward the pantry at the end of the kitchen to retrieve a glass. When she was halfway there, Ethan spoke.
“I like the little armored tanks on your jammie bottoms. What are those, M1A2 Abrams? Most women would have puppies or rainbows or something. Where do you shop anyway, the Marine surplus store?”
With her back to him, she sniped, “None of your busin—”
“Who’s Paul Corcoran?”
Georgie’s feet froze in place, but her body kept moving, causing the heavy pitcher to slip from her hands. It crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass and two quarts of cold tea splashing across the linoleum like a pale green tsunami. She cried out and made a grab for the tile counter, hoping to keep herself from stepping barefoot into the broken glass, but an iron band suddenly encircled her waist, yanking her off her feet, and straight into Ethan’s arms.
Chapter Six
Feng shui is not a religion, simply a philosophy of balance. Your home is divided into eight guas (areas). Each gua represents an aspect of your life. When you place powerful items within each gua, you will gain incredible results. The gua for love and romance is located at the back right corner of your house; fill that corner with hearts and flowers, photos of couples, tokens of love. Do it, and he will come to you!
Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers
It felt good to have her in his arms again, as she had been in the elevator, only this time he wasn’t in pain. Quite the contrary. He backed up a few steps so they weren’t standing in the broken glass and tea anymore, then lowered her until her feet touched the floor.
Her eyes were wide and wary, and he knew he should let her go, but his palms hadn’t been filled wi
th the flesh of a woman for a long time, and his fingers flat-out rebelled. Inhaling the orange-blossom scent of her clean hair, he allowed himself to get lost in it.
“You, uh, you didn’t get cut, did you?” he stammered, more aware of her than was safe.
She slowly shook her head.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
Somehow, his left hand had ended up on her butt cheek, while his right had skidded to a halt on her back, under her stretchy top. The warmth of her bare skin seeped through his palm, igniting charges of plea sure throughout his body.
Against his chest, he felt the hard pebbles of her nipples. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his brain craft a picture of what it would be like to ease up the edge of her shirt, expose her breasts to his gaze, then take one sweet tit into his mouth.
Licking his lips, he returned his attention to Georgie. Her brown eyes held a soft glimmer and went all sort of dreamy-like. She wriggled against him—but not to push him away. Bringing herself closer, she crawled her hands up his chest until her arms encircled his neck and he felt her fingers smooth through his hair. She parted her lips, wet them with her tongue, then raised her face in obvious invitation. His gaze dropped to her mouth…and he went for it.
He kissed her, taking everything she offered, demanding more. His tongue slid over her teeth, then thrust inside her mouth to tangle with hers. Mmm. Luscious, creamy vanilla…
Breaking the kiss for a moment, he found himself panting, trying to catch his suddenly elusive breath.
“You…you’re good at this,” she whispered, nearly out of breath herself. “I…you—”
He took her lips again, crushing them, bringing her body so tightly against his, he could feel her heartbeat pounding through his chest like a hammer.
His hands moved around her rib cage, never breaking contact with her skin, edging up her shirt as he went until he palmed her naked breasts. His brain spun as he thumbed the velvet peaks of her nipples, and she moaned into his open mouth.
Rolling her hips against his crotch, she whimpered in the back of her throat, and he thought he’d go crazy with need. He’d been hard since he walked in the door; it would be so easy to shove down her bottoms, lift her, wrap her bare legs around his waist.
Satisfaction Page 6