by Mary Campisi
Grayson shrugged. “I couldn’t get away and I figured you’d be here soon enough.” He gestured toward the dining room. “Maggie’s been in the kitchen all day and I’m starving. Shall we?”
C.C. spent the next twenty minutes nibbling on a romaine salad and taking in the situation. As much as she’d like to find a long list of faults with her father’s fiancée, she couldn’t. Candace was sophisticated, intelligent, poised, beautiful, and dammit, she was nice. It was the niceness that bothered C.C. most of all. She’d wanted her to act like a wicked stepmother, so C.C. could dislike her for more than just being too young for her father.
“Catherine?” Candace turned her attention on C.C. “Did your father give you any details on the wedding yet?”
“No, actually he hasn’t.”
“We’d like to get married at the club, just small and informal.”
“Oh. Sure. Sounds great.” She’d thought Candace would demand an audience and a ritzy venue. Could her preconceived notions have been all wrong? “Where will you honeymoon?” The answer would be telling.
Before Candace could answer, Maggie burst through the kitchen door, chiming in an overloud voice, “More wine, anyone?” She held a bottle of chardonnay between her chapped hands.
“Thank you,” Candace smiled at Maggie and held out her glass. “Everything is lovely. I’m hoping you’ll give me a few lessons in the kitchen. I hate to confess, I can barely scramble an egg.”
Maggie shrugged and busied herself pouring wine. “I’m here every day. Make a list of what you want to know.”
“I will.” And then, she turned to Max. “Are you and Rhyder still partners?”
Max nodded. “We are.”
“Please tell him I said hello. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
Was that sarcasm in her voice, C.C. wondered, looking for anything negative.
“No doubt he will.”
“Have you met Rhyder Remmington yet, Grayson?”
“No, but I’ve heard a good deal about him.”
Candace lifted her wine glass and said, “He’s brilliant. Charming when he wants to be. Very protective of Max.” She shot her ex a look. “And more amphibian than flesh and blood.”
Max’s mouth worked into a smile. “I’d say the feeling’s mutual. I’ll send him your best.”
More sarcasm, definitely.
She saluted him with her wine glass. “Please do.” She sipped her wine and in an obvious attempt to change the subject, asked, “Are you still running marathons?”
“No time,” he mumbled, tearing into a roll.
“Karate?”
“Nope.”
“Boxing?”
He looked up from his plate and said, “Why are you so interested in my exercise routine?”
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “You look good. Something’s agreeing with you.” She glanced at C.C. “Or someone.”
The brackets on Max’s mouth deepened. “I run five miles a day, lift weights three times a week, play racquetball whenever I can, and I row.”
“Row?”
“It involves an oar and water.”
She laughed. “I know that. I just wasn’t aware you were involved in that sort of thing.”
“A lot can happen in three years.”
Her smile faded and a look of pain flashed across Candace’s face. “That’s true. People change,” she said softly.
Did that look have anything to do with Max? Had he left her? There was a mountain of history between Candace and her ex and C.C. hated to admit it, but she wanted to take a peek at their past. How long had they dated? Were they serious, or just passing by? Did they ever talk about marriage? Children? Visions of dark-haired babies flitted through her brain and made her light headed.
His blue gaze narrowed on Candace’s face. “Some change, others just change their tactics.”
The pain flitted across her expression again, then disappeared. “Or they learn from their mistakes.” She toyed with a piece of romaine lettuce and said in a light, inquisitive voice, “Are you still afraid of mice?”
He scowled, his face contorting into equal parts distaste and anger. “I am not afraid of mice,” he enunciated in perfect syllables.
“You fainted, Max.” She looked at Grayson and C.C. “It was the only flaw I ever found in him.” She paused. “Well, that and his inability to commit to anything but his work.”
At the mention of work, Grayson jumped in. “That’s not necessarily a fault, especially in a young, driven man like Max. Given time and the right woman, he’ll find his match.”
He spoke with such certainty, C.C. wanted to ask him how he knew this.
Apparently Max was bothered more by his ex’s comment on mice than her thoughts on his commitment issues. “I did not faint,” he ground out. “I slipped and hit my head on the counter.”
Candace offered him a knowing, sympathetic look.
“I’ve done that before,” C.C. blurted out the lie. “Right in front of my apartment. Wet leaves are the worst. Snow, too. And rain,” she added. Why the sudden need to help Max Jerrnigan save face? He probably had fainted. After all, any man who couldn’t handle chocolate was a man who would faint at the sight of a mouse.
“I had no idea you’d grown so clumsy,” her father said. “Fourteen years of ballet and you still can’t maneuver a sidewalk?”
C.C. shrugged and concentrated on buttering a roll.
“I’ve had my less than graceful moments, too,” Candace said with a wry grin. “Ice got me once and I couldn’t sit for three days. Another time I caught a heel in a sidewalk grate and hit the ground so fast I almost got whiplash.”
Grayson shook his head and looked at Max. “Did you ever see two more beautiful, albeit clumsy women in your life?”
“No,” Max said, his eyes on C.C. “Never.”
***
“So, let me get this,” Roxie Revito said in the trademark husky voice that drew the attention of every male age fourteen to ninety-four. “Your father is marrying this guy Max’s ex-girlfriend? The guy you met on the plane?”
“Right,” C.C. said. She kicked off her heels and sprawled in the middle of the Hilton’s king-size bed.
Roxie whistled through the phone. “Twisted.”
“I know.” C.C. hadn’t been able to get Max Jerrnigan or his ex out of her mind since last night. It didn’t help that she and Max had just spent the past ten hours together; walking the potential development site, reviewing the drawings and proposals he and his partner had made. They were good—very good. When he spoke of the project, passion thrummed in his voice and glittered in his eyes. She had wanted the opportunity to put these plans into action and gain her father’s confidence in her ability to one day run the company. But he’d chosen Max, and Grayson Crowell never second-guessed himself. She knew she shouldn’t take it personally, but dammit, she did.
“Why’d they split?”
Roxie loved gossip; juicy, over-the-top, mind-boggling gossip. “Not sure.” C.C. bit into a triple chocolate cookie. Actually, she’d been wondering the same thing since last night, but Max hadn’t volunteered any details and she refused to ask him straight out.
Not that she even cared about his love life. He could have ten ex-girlfriends and it wouldn’t matter to her, unless the ex was about to marry her father. That was the only reason she wanted to know about Max and Candace.
“Can’t you get him to spill?” Roxie asked. “Smile sweet, hike your skirt and say pretty please?”
“I will not stoop to begging,” C.C. said around a mouthful of cookie. “Max Jerrnigan is the only thing standing between me and proving my ability to my dad.”
“Oh, C.C., relax and enjoy this guy. Grayson Crowell will always be your father. You’ll get a chance on the next one.”
“I don’t want the next one. I want this one.” Dammit, she deserved it. “I’ve done everything he wanted me to do—attended the Ivy League schools because I needed a solid foundation, worked in investments s
o I could understand the financial aspects. I even dated a banker because it seemed that’s what Dad wanted. And you know what? Every time I crossed one achievement off my list, he threw in five more. Now he says Max is the lead and I’m his little helper.”
“Grayson called you a little helper?”
“Not exactly, but he might as well have. I’m thirtyone and I’m tired of waiting.” She might never have a baby or a husband, but she’d be damned if she’d lose her foothold in the company because she didn’t wear pants and pee standing up.
“What a mess.” Roxie sighed. “Looks like this Max isn’t going to make it into your perpetually empty bed.”
“I’m not trying to get him into my bed. You think I should act stupid so he trips all over his scuffed-up loafers to please me?” The thought of it made her hyperventilate.
“No, all I’m saying is not every man’s David. Ooops. Sorry, I know that name’s off limits. Sorry, I’m a dummy.” There wasn’t a dumb cell in Roxie Revito’s body, though she hid her genius under a mop of dyed red curls, a set of false eyelashes and a string of slang. She’d spent her first twenty-five years pleasing her father as well, earning a Ph.D. in astrophysics from Harvard and publishing a book entitled Astrophysics: Then and Now. At twenty-five and a half, she’d crashed, quit her job, disowned her father and moved cross country where she got her cosmetology license and sublet a condo next to C.C.
“Tell me more about this Max.”
“There’s not much to tell.” She wasn’t going there. If she told Roxie about the muscles and the baby blue eyes, her friend would start drooling and drawing conclusions. C.C. was not going to let any man manipulate her the way David had, doling out just enough affection and hope to make her believe he wanted a life with her, a home, a marriage—a child. She’d been the dummy. How many nights had she spent poring through Bride magazine, waiting for David, who more often than not, got caught up in last-minute meetings and couldn’t make it? She’d been a dummy and a fool. What man actually bought his supposed girlfriend Bride magazine and told her to circle her Tiffany choices? Only a man with no intention of actually buying a ring. David bought time and C.C. bought his lies, the cruelest ones involving a little boy and a little girl.
“Is he invisible?”
“No.”
“So?”
“He’s,” C.C. paused and studied a chunk of chocolate, “just a guy.”
“Hmmmhmmm.”
“What?”
“You’re saying more by not saying anything.”
“Roxie, he is just a guy.”
“Eyes?”
“He has them.”
“Do they have a color or is he one of those space creatures with laser lights?”
“Blue,” C.C. admitted grudgingly.
“Hair?”
“Brown.” Pause. “Chestnut brown.”
“Height?”
“Six-two, maybe six-three.”
“Build?”
“Lean, muscled, good abs.”
“Now you’re getting the hang of it. Tush?”
“Firm.”
“How do you know?” Roxie giggled.
“I do have eyes.”
“Well, he sounds yummy. I hear what you’re saying, C.C., but I’m also hearing what you’re not saying.”
C.C. stuffed the rest of cookie number two in her mouth and muttered, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think he turns you on. You haven’t looked at the color of a man’s eyes in two years.”
“I only noticed because I was trying not to stare at his broken nose.”
“You noticed the guy had a broken nose?” Roxie’s voice skittered through the line in a rush of excitement. “I was going to tease you about hooking up with him, but this is much more serious than I thought. I mean, we may be talking wedding bells here, girl.”
“Don’t even joke about that. My father wants me to act like I’m crazy about Max to help the deal.”
“Doesn’t sound like that would be a major inconvenience, considering the description.” Roxie sighed. “Plus, he passed your stupid cookie test.”
“But he failed test number two.”
“Which is?”
“We’re in the same line of business.”
Roxie grumbled over the phone. “That’s a little overkill, don’t you think?”
“I’m just following the rules. He’s in real estate and so am I.”
“No guy’s passed the stupid cookie test since its inception, until this guy. You should keep an eye on him.”
“Speaking of keeping an eye on someone, I’d like you to visit his partner. His name’s Rhyder Remmington. I’ve looked him up on-line, but I need you to spend some face time and give me your impression.”
“A man?” Interest sparked in Roxie’s voice. “It will be my pleasure.”
C.C. hesitated a second and then added, “And see if you can find out why Max and Candace split.”
***
Max stood outside C.C.’s door and checked his watch one more time. It was almost eleven p.m. He should just forget it and go back to his room, but he’d spent the last two hours in the lounge drinking bourbon and trying to talk himself out of confronting C.C. But he wanted to know why she’d tried to cover for him when Candy brought out the mice story last night. Slipping on leaves? Hardly. So, why had she done it?
He knocked on the door and waited.
“Max?” C.C. stood before him, dressed in a bulky T-shirt and baggy pair of gray sweatpants.
He ignored niceties and plunged right in. “Why did you try to cover for me the other night?”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You covered for me,” he repeated. “When Candace told the story about the mice.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “I did slip on leaves.”
“No, you didn’t. You covered for me and I want to know why.”
She licked her bottom lip and said, “Why don’t you come in for a second. I have water or Diet Coke?”
“Water’s fine.” He stepped inside and scanned the room. For an uptight, by-the-book bean counter, Catherine Crowell was no Martha Stewart. Three crumpled shirts, a half dozen mismatched socks, and two pairs of slacks lay strewn over the two guest chairs. She’d only been here two days. His eye caught a pink scrap of frothy material poking out from under one of the shirts. He wandered over and identified it. Underwear. Lacy, pale, sheer.
“I’ve got lemon.” She breezed toward him from the small fridge and added, “If you’d care for some.”
He turned to her, his thoughts still on her underwear and said, “Plain’s fine.”
She handed him his water, careful not to touch him. Max took a sip and set it on the desk nearby. “First, I want to set something straight. When I was eight, a bunch of older kids stuffed me in the crawl space beneath my house. There must’ve been hundreds of mice in there.” A trickle of sweat slipped down his right temple. “It’s been twenty-eight years, but some nights I swear I still feel them crawling on me.”
She stared at him, eyes wide and bright. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m not a wimp.”
“I know.”
Her voice rolled over him like velvet. “And I don’t need you or anyone else to cover for me.”
She worked her bottom lip. “I know.”
He liked her lips—full, tempting. “So why did you?”
Her honey eyes filled with confusion. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I saw you sitting there, all alone, and the words just fell out.”
He could tell it bothered her to admit she didn’t understand why she’d done what she did. It bothered him, too. “I don’t need help.”
She nodded and tucked a hunk of hair behind her right ear.
“I’m a big boy.” He’d bet her hair felt like silk, all soft and sexy. He cleared his throat and said, “I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
His lips twitched. “But thanks.”
S
he blushed and when she smiled he spotted the tiniest dimple on the left side of her mouth.
“You’re welcome.”
He’d like to lean over right now and kiss that dimple. Her breath hitched and the smile faded, taking with it the intriguing dimple. Max touched the spot where it had been and said, “You have the tiniest dimple when you smile.”
“I know.”
She smiled again and when the dimple re-appeared, he traced it with his finger. “You have the softest skin,” he murmured, caressing the line of her jaw, her chin, her neck. “And I’ll bet you have the softest lips.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and ran an index finger over her lips. “Beautiful,” he said as he leaned in to place a kiss on them.
C.C. stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Max rested his forehead against hers and took a deep breath. “If you want me to leave, tell me now.”
She didn’t respond for several seconds and when she did, it wasn’t with words. C.C. eased her hands around his neck and leaned on tiptoes, brushing delicious little kisses over his lips, once, twice, three times.
Max groaned and slid his hands down her back to cup her butt. “You are driving me absolutely wild.”
She flicked her tongue along the seam of his lips and whispered, “Let me inside.”
Max opened his mouth and she eased her tongue between his lips. She let out a tiny moan, enticing him with her inability to stifle it. She didn’t want this any more than he did, but like him, she couldn’t resist.
He pulled her against him, his tongue mating with hers, his heart crashing into his ribcage. He had to get closer, feel naked skin. He worked his hand up her spine and lifted her sweatshirt.
She broke the kiss and pushed him away. “I can’t,” she said, gasping for air, eyes wild with confusion and regret. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Max stared at her, waiting for her to say more. Can’t because it was him or just can’t—period? But she didn’t say anything more.
For a few crazy seconds, he’d lost himself in the feel of her and it had nothing to do with Grayson Crowell’s proposition. Max had touched and tasted C.C. because he couldn’t not touch her. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get a handle on the situation. Maybe the bourbon haze had fueled his frenzied need.