“We know sex isn’t a good idea.”
“A terrible idea.” Warm lips nuzzled her neck.
“You’re not even close to my type.” Sure. He’d turned out to be a lot closer than she cared to admit. He was smart, thoughtful, caring, nice.
Temporary.
He was still temporary. A waste of time. A distraction. One she couldn’t afford at this point in her life.
“You don’t look a thing like Johnny Depp or Benicio Del Toro,” she whispered, eager to find something to kill the strange warmth curling through her.
“And you don’t look a thing like Miss Hawaiian Tropic, though you do have a pretty banging body.”
“I don’t like Sweet Leaf Tea.”
“And I don’t like Sugar Babies.”
“I’m not even close to wanting you,” she said, turning in his arms.
“Me, either, sunshine.” He stared down at her, his eyes blue and blazing.
She licked her lips. “You’re going to kiss me, aren’t you?”
“I’m definitely going to kiss you.” And then he did.
His tongue slipped past her lips, tangling with hers, sucking and stroking and stealing her breath. She slid her hands up his chest, feeling the powerful muscles beneath her palms. His body’s warmth seeped through the cotton of his T-shirt to scorch her as fiercely as his mouth.
It started out fast and furious, but then slowed to a thorough discovery that left her weak and trembling when he finally pulled away.
Regret washed through her, followed by a wave of panic because she wasn’t supposed to be kissing him in the first place, much less regret the fact that he’d stopped kissing her.
What was she thinking?
She wasn’t. That was the problem. Eve was too busy feeling to think, when it should have been the other way around. She was supposed to think. To focus. To work.
“I should really get to bed. I’ve got an early day.” And then she ducked under his arm and retreated to her bedroom as fast as her legs could carry her.
“How in the world Donovan could even consider marriage, when he knows good and well how I feel about the subject? It just proves that he is completely oblivious to who I really am,” Jacqueline said a half hour later to the only sane person, it seemed, left in the free world. She eyed the young waitress—no wedding band in sight—who’d wheeled in the room service cart. “To think I actually agreed to monogrammed towels, of all things. Then again, he’s not totally at fault. He’s a victim of our society and its subjugation of females in general.”
“Um, sure thing.” The waitress held out the tab for Jacqueline’s signature. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“That’ll be all”—Jacqueline glanced at the woman’s name tag—“Celeste.” She smiled at the girl. “My, but that’s a nice name.”
“Thank you.” Celeste turned and opened the door to leave. “Just ring seven if you need anything—”
“You know,” Jacqueline cut in as she rounded the cart, “I could use some extra ketchup.” She eyed the small condiment cup sitting next to the platter of jumbo fried shrimp she’d ordered. “If you would be a love and bring me more, I would be extremely grateful. And it would give us a chance to talk a little more.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll, um, be right back.”
Once the door had closed, Jacqueline slid off her low-heeled beige pumps and settled herself at the small table in the outer room of the suite at L.A.’s posh Four Seasons Hotel. Her gaze shifted to her cell phone sitting on top of her briefcase.
Her fingers clenched and she steeled herself against the urge to pick up the phone and call home. She wasn’t calling Donovan or her mother. If they were concerned, as they well should be, they would soon be calling her.
As if her thoughts had willed it, the cell phone gave a shrill ring. She smiled and picked up the phone.
And then she frowned when she saw the caller ID.
“Where are you?” Barbara demanded when Jacqueline pressed the TALK button. “I’ve been calling you for the past hour.”
“My phone only just rang.” She knew that because she’d been listening for it since she’d left Eve’s apartment. She’d even checked it twice to make sure it was actually working.
“Not your cell. Your home number. I called twice and no one answered. I thought you were in bed, but then Donovan finally picked up—I think I woke him. He said he didn’t know where you were.”
“He was asleep?”
“Yes, which brings me to my next question: Why aren’t you home in bed with him?”
“Because I’m not sleeping with a clueless, inconsiderate, pushy, deceitful man.”
Silence ticked by before Barbara finally said, “He asked you to marry him, didn’t he?”
“Did he say that?”
“He didn’t have to. You said pushy and inconsiderate. That, on top of his sudden move from Texas to L.A. just to spend more time with you says it all.”
“I swear he’s living in an alternate universe.”
“Or maybe he’s just in love with you.”
“Have you been conspiring with Eve?”
“I don’t have to. Donovan has to be in love with you. Let’s face it, Jacqueline, you’re brilliant, but you’re not the easiest person to get along with.”
“Why, I . . .” Okay, so Barbara was right. Jacqueline was brilliant, which made her confident in her opinions, firm in her beliefs, and somewhat rigid at times. “That’s still no cause to ask me to . . .” The word stalled on the tip of her tongue and she swallowed. “I can’t even say it.”
“It’s only natural,” Barbara told her. “And popular. Everybody’s doing it these days.”
“Not me. Never me. Donovan should know that, but he’s obviously indifferent to my needs.”
“Speaking of needs, I need you at the studio an hour early tomorrow. The weekly production meeting has been bumped up on account of one of the assistant producers is attending a bridal luncheon and she can’t be late. Can you make it?”
“One of my assistant producers?” Jacqueline shook her head. “Has anyone been listening to me all these years?”
“Great, I’ll see you at eight sharp.”
“Then again, it’s no wonder, what with all of the exposure Cherry Chandler has been getting lately. Why, Webster’s should cross-reference her with the word antichrist. Do you know that she actually did a show on hair?” Jacqueline started, only to hear a click on the other end.
Jacqueline had the sudden urge to cry as she pressed the OFF button and set her phone next to the room service tray.
Tears?
The sheer notion sent a wave of determination through her and she stiffened. She was a woman of principle and she was not going to cry. Nor was she going to call Skye or Xandra or even her assistant, Alexis, to alert them to the fact that the world was fast taking a nosedive straight to Himanist hell. And she most certainly wasn’t going to lie awake all night and wait for Donovan to drag his lazy butt out of bed and call.
She was going to eat her dinner and then she was going to get some sleep herself. Two could certainly play at this game.
He’d kissed her. Of all the stupid things . . .
Linc stared up at the ceiling and tried to understand what had happened between them.
A kiss. A deep, thorough, delicious kiss.
Christ, he hadn’t meant to kiss her. But she’d been smiling at him and she’d looked so soft wearing his T-shirt and he’d had this sudden urge to reassure her about her parents.
Dammit to hell.
The only urge he should be feeling right now was the driving desire to win this week in Tennessee. He was leaving first thing in the morning for Bristol Motor Speedway. Then it was sponsor commitments and a charity fund-raiser with the local Red Cross on Wednesday. He would have all of two days—Thursday and Friday—to practice before the qualifier on Saturday, and then Sunday’s race.
He’d placed fourth last week. While it hadn’t killed his point
standing, he knew he could do better. He would have done better if he hadn’t spent so much time in the days preceding the race thinking about Eve and the way she’d looked in those pink boxer shorts standing in his kitchen. And the way she’d looked at him when he’d told her about his grandfather and his father—her eyes so full of understanding and concern.
He didn’t need either from her. He didn’t need a damned thing except to keep his mind on business.
He turned onto his side and punched his pillow and closed his eyes. He was going to sleep and he wasn’t going to think about her. Or wonder if she was thinking about him. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to knock on her door and find out for himself.
Eve clutched the edge of the sheet, her knuckles white, as she stared at her bedroom ceiling. Her nerves still buzzed. Her legs trembled. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm.
And all because of a kiss.
One measly, tired kiss.
If only.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. Think cool thoughts, she told herself. Boring thoughts. Cool and boring.
You’re drinking an ice-cold glass of tea. Sweet Leaf Tea. You’re watching Linc turn the track for the two-hundredth time.
Her heart kicked up a notch.
Okay, forget Sweet Leaf Tea and Linc. You’ve got a diet soda and you’re watching some anonymous someone turn the track for the trillionth time in Virginia. You take a drink, but it’s just not quenching your thirst because it’s hot outside and you’re sweating.
A wave of heat flushed her cheeks and her lips parted to take in some extra oxygen.
Nix hot. It’s cold. Fast-forward to October. You’re at the track in the Poconos and you’re watching an anonymous someone. You’re freezing. Shivering.
The thought stirred a memory of the kiss and the way his hand had pressed at the base of her spine and her body had trembled in response.
She tried to shake away the vision, but it was no use. It stuck in her head, making her body ache with desire for the next several minutes as she prayed for sleep to come.
Fat chance. She wasn’t going to get any rest while thinking about Linc and his kiss, and wanting even more.
An orgasm. That’s what she needed. And so she did what she’d done many times over the past few years since instituting her No Meaningless Sex policy. She trailed her fingers south.
Oddly enough, it didn’t feel quite the same this time. Her hands weren’t calloused, her skin raspy, or her touch quite as purposeful as . . .
She frowned and stepped up the action, moving lower to the tender flesh between her legs. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Vin Diesel—hey, the guy could work a pair of Ray*Bans like nobody else—but the image just wouldn’t come. Instead, she saw Linc looming over her, driving into her, and this time his moves were perfect. She came quickly, clamping down on her bottom lip to contain the scream and the screech and . . . Ahhh.
Delicious sensation gripped her for a few blessed moments and she slumped back, welcoming the satisfaction sure to follow. A feeling that wasn’t nearly as intense as usual. She still felt edgy. Nervous. Needy.
Crazy.
She ignored the strange emptiness that lingered deep inside and focused on the positive: the clenching and unclenching between her legs, the trembling of her body, the numbness in her toes . . . Yum.
Linc stood at Eve’s door and listened to the frantic breathing coming from the other side. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool wood, Eve’s scream echoing in his head. A different scream from the one she’d let loose when he’d been inside her that first time. This one had been the real thing. Slightly muffled, of course, but still recognizable.
Son of a bitch, she had faked it.
He listened for more noise—soft footsteps as she walked to the bathroom, or the creak of the window as she climbed out on the fire escape to call one of her sisters. Nothing. Because she’d probably rolled over, cuddled up with her pillow, and fallen into a relaxed sleep for some after-sex dreaming, just as the video had described.
Meanwhile, Linc wasn’t anywhere near dreaming. He was hard and hot from their one kiss, and damned upset. Christ, he’d never had a woman fake it before.
Or had he?
He spent the next few hours pacing the guest room, going over as many past encounters as memory would permit before coming up with a unanimous No Faking. Except for that trophy girl he’d hooked up with a few years back who’d had a little too much wine to drink and so she hadn’t been able to climax during the actual act. But he’d finished her off with a little rubbing and she’d been good to go.
He definitely had an impressive track record until now.
Until Eve.
It was her. That’s what he wanted to think. But he couldn’t get over the muffled scream that had drifted from her bedroom. She was obviously capable of climaxing. She just hadn’t climaxed with him.
Because he’d been too quick on the draw? Because he hadn’t moved fast enough? Or slow enough? Or deep enough?
He tried to dismiss the questions, but they haunted him the rest of the night and into the next morning as Linc caught a plane for Tennessee and the next race.
Chapter 15
Late Friday afternoon, after finishing his practice laps at Bristol Motor Speedway, Linc headed through the motor park to his RV. The walk took longer than expected, thanks to several eager fans who wanted autographs, a familiar reporter from ESPN who wanted comments about the weekend’s upcoming race, and his brake man, who wanted to talk about the specific adjustments Linc had requested before tomorrow’s qualifier.
By the time he reached the solace of the bus, his heart was pounding with excitement and thirst clawed at his throat. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the typical chaos that filled the racetrack on Fridays—everything from outside barbecues to wandering photographers—pulled off his racing gloves, and headed for the fridge. A few seconds later, after downing half a bottle of Sweet Leaf Tea, he turned toward the table and eyed the brown-paper-wrapped box that sat near a stack of publicity shots. Other than a FedEx overnight label, there was no telltale logo on the wrapper. Not that he needed one. He knew beyond a doubt it was the order he’d placed last night on the Sugar & Spice Sinema Web site.
Fishing his pocketknife out of his jeans, he popped the blade and sliced open the edges of the box. He’d been married to Eve over three weeks now, and last night had been the first time he’d visited her company’s Web site.
He shouldn’t have done so. He should have had his mind focused on Bristol and winning his race. But he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate. The more he knew about her, the more he wanted to know. The kiss between them after her mother had shown up had upped his frustration level. And the real orgasm he’d overheard had pushed him over the edge.
He wanted to see her when she had one. He wanted to be the one responsible for it. And that meant turning Eve on so much that she didn’t feel the need to fake it.
Why?
The question pushed into his mind, and he quickly answered: Ego. His pride. Both were at stake.
The mounting desire inside him certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he was starting to like Eve Farrel.
The last thing, the very last thing Linc had time for was a relationship that went beyond sex.
But just sex . . . Where it had seemed like a distraction before, it now seemed the only way to ease his frustration and get him back on track.
And so he had to push Eve over the edge and give her the biggest and the best orgasm of her entire life. The problem was, his usual moves hadn’t been enough the first time and so he wasn’t so sure what to do next.
But he hadn’t made it all the way to the Nextel Cup series by being easily discouraged. He just had to buckle down and evaluate his options.
And so he’d visited her Web site.
There had been over forty-three titles, available on either video or DVD, to choose from. An impressiv
e collection of work that had sparked a newfound respect for Eve and her career choice. Especially since he knew she was the driving force—writer, director, and producer—behind the entire How-To Sex series.
While he’d viewed the one DVD at her house, he hadn’t realized the creativity behind the entire series. Forget the typical put it here and do it there and work it just like this instructional videos. Each one followed a specific couple, the now-familiar Jack and Candace, through their quest for the ultimate sexual fulfillment. Each episode had an actual story, complete with conflict and resolution, from Jack’s overcoming premature ejaculation (Putting on the Brakes) to Candace’s being invited to a swingers’ party (If and When to Bring in Reinforcements). Even more, the characters were warm and funny and they seemed like real people. So much so that it made you want to see the next episode just to find out what happened to them.
Jack and Candace had him hooked from the get-go, thanks to the sample video clips on the Web site, and so it had taken over three hours to narrow his choice down to one specific DVD.
He pulled the DVD from its wrapper and stared down at the latest Sugar & Spice title—Six Steps to Sexcess: How to Spice Up a Ho-Hum Sex Life. After ten years together, Jack and Candace had fallen into a sexual rut and so they were going to try a six-step solution to jump-start their sex life.
Fake orgasms definitely qualified as ho-hum.
Linc slid the DVD into the player and retrieved the remote control. He’d just kicked back on the bed and pulled a pillow across his chest when a knock sounded on the door.
Before he could call out “Go away,” the door swung open—he’d been in such a hurry to unwrap the DVD that he’d forgotten to lock it—and a woman climbed in.
The race team’s publicist, Danielle Savoy, was intimidating enough over the phone with her deep voice and don’t interrupt attitude. In person, however, she was downright scary, which was why Linc had done his damnedest to avoid her since tying the knot with Eve.
It wasn’t so much the way Danielle looked in her brown skirt, matching blazer, and roach-killer heels that made her so frightening. It was the way she looked at you, as if you’d done something wrong. Clint had said she’d been a school principal in a former life before turning her love for Sunday NASCAR and its drivers into a full-time job. She was serious and meticulous. Perfect for relaxed, good ole boy Clint, who would rather work on his car designs than worry over the team’s image.
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