by Kat Cantrell
Of course that apple did not fall far from the tree. Hendrix’s bright personality had been a huge turn-on. Still was. He just laced it with pure carnal intentions that he did not mind making her fully aware of, and then followed through like the maestro of the bedroom that he was.
Roz shivered and tried like hell to reel back those thoughts because fantasizing about a woman’s son while sitting with her in an upscale restaurant felt like bad form.
“I didn’t plan to make you cry when I called you,” Helene confessed sunnily. “Just happened. But I love that you’re a companionable crier. No one wants to cry alone.”
No. No one did. But that was some people’s lot in life and if they didn’t change the subject, there were going to be a lot more tears. The raw place inside was growing a lot bigger the longer she sat here. This wonderful woman had just said she’d be happy having a mother-daughter relationship with Roz for as long as Roz was married to Hendrix. Like that was an invitation Roz got every day and it was no big thing.
It was. And Roz wanted to cling to it, hold it and wrap her arms around it. But like everything—everything—in her life, Helene would be gone one day soon. Too soon. Any day was too soon because Roz had just realized that she craved whatever relationship this woman would grant her. Helene could be a...mentor of sorts. A friend. A stand-in mother.
It was overwhelming to contemplate. Overwhelmingly sad to think about having that and then giving it up.
But how could Roz refuse? She didn’t want to refuse.
Helene was helping her blow away the scandal if nothing else and Roz owed the woman respect and allegiance for that alone.
The rest was all a huge bonus.
Five
Hendrix picked Roz up at the door of her loft for their date because he wanted to and he could. Also? What better way to prove he had all the skill necessary to resist pushing his way inside and having his way with her than not to do it?
But when he knocked on the door, she swung it wide to give him an eyeful of soft, gorgeous skin on display. Being that edible should be a crime. Her cleavage should be framed and hung on the wall of the Louvre.
“What happened to your pants?” he growled hoarsely.
Roz glanced down at the river of bare legs flowing from the hem of the blouse-like thing she had on. “What pants? This is a dress.”
“The hell you say.” He couldn’t take her on a date in that outfit. His will would slide into the toilet in about a microsecond. Surely that would be the easiest dress in the history of time to get his hands under, even if they were someplace normally reserved for hands off, like a high-backed booth in the corner of a dimly lit restaurant.
His will made a nice whooshing sound as it flushed away and all his good intentions crumbled into dust. He might have whimpered.
Do not step over the threshold. Do not. No stepping.
“Let me make this perfectly clear to you,” he ground out. “If you wear that dress—and I use that term very loosely—I cannot be responsible for what carnal activities may befall you in the course of this evening.”
“Please.” She waved that off. “You made a promise to keep your hands off me and you will, I have no doubt. What you’re really saying is that you’d be embarrassed to be seen with me in this, right? So kiss off. I’m wearing it.”
Oh, so it was going to be one of those nights. Not only would he have to contend with the idea that she had absolute faith in him, but she’d also assigned some kind of nefarious intent to his comments.
Her attitude needed to go and fast. “I wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with you naked in a photograph. Not embarrassed now. Stop projecting your own crap all over me and get your purse. If you want to wear something that’s one stiff breeze away from being illegal, be my guest.”
“What’s with you?” she called over her shoulder as she did exactly as he’d commanded without seeming to realize it. “You asked me on this date. If you’re going to be nasty to me the whole time, then I’d be happy to slam the door in your face and order takeout.”
That wasn’t happening. He’d been looking forward to this date all day. “Why is it so hard to believe my objection to that dress starts and ends with how spectacular you look in it? You tell me what’s with you and I’ll tell you what’s with me.”
She smirked and flounced past him to the building’s elevator. “You never had a problem with what I wore in Vegas. What’s changed now? Only that we’re engaged and you want me to look like a proper Harris bride.”
Whatever that meant.
“Stop putting words in my mouth.” The elevator door closed around them and they were alone in a space that got a whole lot smaller the more of her scent he breathed in. “In Vegas, I didn’t care what you wore because I was taking it off you at some point. That’s not the situation tonight and if you’re really confused about the state of my extreme sexual frustration, the evidence is ready and available for your hands-on examination.”
Her gaze flicked to his crotch, which put a little more heat into his already painful erection. Her sweet fingers on it would be legendary indeed but she didn’t take him up on the invitation. Shame.
“I—You know what? Never mind.” Her lush pink lips clamped together and she looked away.
Not so fast. His beleaguered senses were still working well enough to alert him that there was more here that he didn’t know. “Spit it out, sweetheart. Or I’ll be forced to kiss it out of you.”
“What?” She slid him a sideways glance. “There’s no stipulation in the rules that says you’re allowed to kiss me to get information.”
He shrugged. “How come you get to make all the rules? If you’re not going to be honest with me, I have to make up my own rules.”
Her sigh worked its way through his gut and he was a half second away from sweeping her into his arms to show her he always put his money where his mouth was. But then she did as he suggested.
“I am projecting,” she admitted.
It was as much of a shock now as it had been in the kitchen during their party—he’d figured out how to make progress with Roz. She was such a mystery, one he’d like to spend many long hours solving. Usually he would do that in bed. But that was off-limits here, so he’d been forced to be more creative. Looked like it was working. “Don’t do that. Tell me what’s up and then we’ll go paint the town.”
“Maybe you want a wife more like your mom. Smart and accomplished.” She shrugged, her face blank. “That’s not who I am. I have to be me, even if I don’t look like I’m supposed to be here.”
“What does that even mean? Of course you’re supposed to be here. What, are you worried how you stack up?” The long, intense silence answered his flippant question in spades. “Are you kidding me? That’s really something that even crossed your mind?”
Ridiculous. But apparently it wasn’t to her. She rolled her shoulders back and her spine went stiff.
“Can we just forget about it?”
That wasn’t happening any more than not taking Roz on this date. But first they obviously needed to get a few things straight. The elevator reached the ground floor and he waited until she reached his car.
Instead of opening the door for her, he snagged her by the waist and turned her into his arms, trapping her against the car. Instantly, everything but Roz drained from his mind as her body aligned with his so neatly that he could feel the heat of her core against his leg.
That was some dress.
“I already told you what you wanted to know, Hendrix.” She glanced up at him through her lashes and the look was so sexy it put at least an inch on his already impossibly hard erection. “What are you going to do now, kiss me anyway?”
“No need.” His hips fit so well into the hollow of her stomach that he swayed into her a little deeper. “This is strictly Exhibit A. B and C wil
l have to wait.”
Because he’d given his word. How had that become such a thing? Fine time for something like principles. Before Roz, he’d have said he had none when it came to women. Or rather, women said that on his behalf and he’d never corrected the notion.
“Make no mistake, though. You need kissing,” he murmured, ignoring the fact that it was so backward it wasn’t even funny. “In the worst way. Anytime you find yourself worried about whether you’re the most gorgeous woman in the room, you think about this. Remember what my body feels like against yours and don’t you dare question whether you’re the woman I want to take home with me.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” she said and blinked her long sooty lashes coquettishly. “But I do appreciate exhibit A.”
Not enough to lift the no-kissing moratorium apparently. She was crushed against his body, wearing a filmy, flirty dress that barely covered her good parts and her lips came together in the sweetest little bow that he wanted to taste so badly he feared for his sanity.
But not enough that he’d lost all decorum. Looked like his will wasn’t completely broken because he found the wherewithal to step back. His chest heaved as he met her gaze. It was enigmatic and full of heat.
“Let me know when you’re ready for the rest of the exhibit. I can open it up for your viewing pleasure any time.”
Why were they torturing themselves like this again?
Due punishment, he reminded himself. His mom deserved to have a campaign free from other people’s darts because of her son’s actions. He owed it to his mother to fix it, especially after already messing up once because he couldn’t resist this woman.
Plus, marrying Roz and introducing something real and legitimate into his life meant something to him, more than he’d ever admit, to her or anyone.
He tucked his fiancée into the car and slid into his own seat. She leaned on the center console instead of settling back against the leather, spilling way too much of her presence into his space.
“This seat has plenty of room for two,” he murmured instead of starting the engine like a good boy.
“Don’t threaten me unless you plan to follow through,” she shot back and tucked her chin into her palm as if she planned to watch him the entire time he drove. “Where are you taking me? Not Randolph Room. That’s where your mom took me to lunch.”
“You had lunch with my mom?” That was news to him. He frowned.
Had his mother mentioned something about it last night and he’d forgotten in all the hoopla of the engagement party and the disturbing conversation with Paul Carpenter? He distinctly recalled giving Roz’s number to his mom, but he’d assumed that was so they could coordinate the clown thing.
His mother usually told him her schedule and it was bothersome that she hadn’t given him a heads-up about having lunch with his fiancée. He and Helene were business partners, and Hendrix sometimes offered advice on her campaign. And they were friends, which was often weird to people so he seldom talked about it.
Of course, since the photograph, she’d been a little on edge with him. It stung to find out they weren’t totally back to normal.
“Yeah. She called me and asked if I was free. I wasn’t going to say no.”
“You shouldn’t have. What did you talk about?”
“Girl stuff.”
That was code for mind your own business. Hendrix started the car to give himself something to do that wasn’t prying into the social life of his mother and fiancée. Nor did he want to obsess over the reasons why it was bothering him.
At least now he had some context for why Roz had all of a sudden joined the Helene Harris fan club and developed a complex about whether she stacked up against other women.
They drove to the restaurant where he’d made reservations and he cursed the silence that had fallen inside the car. Normally he had no problem finding something to talk about, particularly when it came to Roz, but he didn’t want to spend the evening discussing all the ways he planned to have her after the wedding.
Well, he wanted to. There was absolutely nothing wrong with a healthy attraction to the woman you were going to marry. But he genuinely didn’t think he had it in him to talk dirty to Roz and then not follow through yet again.
“Did you and my mother work out the clown stuff?” That was a safe enough subject.
“No. I mean, she mentioned it, but only to say that she’s overcommitted right now and to bug her about it at lunch next week so she can fit it in. She actually said it like that. Bug her.” Roz laughed. “As if I’d pester Helene like that. ‘Mom, Mom, can you be a clown? Pleeeeease?’”
Hendrix did a double take at Roz’s cute little girl voice. And the mention of additional lunches. “You’re having lunch again?”
“Sure, we decided it was important to have a standing lunch date once a week from now on. Is there a problem with that?”
Yes. A huge problem. He didn’t like the idea of his mom getting chummy with Roz. Why? How the hell should he know? He just...didn’t. “Of course not. I was making conversation. This is a date. The whole point is to get to know each other, right?”
“That was how you posed it,” she reminded him with another laugh that should have had him thinking of all the ways he could get her to do that a lot because it meant she was having fun.
Instead, his back was up and his mood had slid into a place normally reserved for tense board meetings. What was wrong with him? Not enough sex lately, most likely.
At the restaurant, they waited in a discreet corner as the maître d’ readied their table, both of them ignoring the pointed attention from the other guests. At least Roz hadn’t stiffened up like she had at the florist. He’d consider that a win.
Wedding plans. That was a good subject. Surely they could talk about that. He waited until they’d both taken their seats and he’d given the waiter their wine preference.
“So. You’re going to hang out with my mom once a week now?”
She lifted a brow. “That’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”
Apparently. And now it was evident to them both. He bit back a curse.
When was the last time his mom had asked him to lunch? Ages ago. Not since the photograph had hit the news. She’d been really upset. But it had all blown over after he’d agreed to marry Roz—he’d thought.
And look, here he was in a restaurant with Roz. Engaged. That had been a major feat to pull off. People were noticing them together and a waiter had even taken a discreet picture with his phone that would likely make the rounds with some positive press attached. Surely Helene could appreciate all of the steps Hendrix had taken toward legitimizing his relationship with Roz so that his mom’s political opponents wouldn’t have any fodder to lob at her via the press.
Now would be a great time to stop sulking and get back to the reason he was torturing himself with a stunning companion whom he would not be taking to bed later. They hadn’t even scored a dimly lit booth, which was good. And bad.
“This is the part where you’re supposed to back me into the kitchen and stick your hands all over my body so I can have something else to focus on besides the stuff in my head,” he informed her.
“I would if that would help.” She eyed him nonchalantly. “But I’m pretty sure that only works on me. Instead, why don’t you tell me why you’re so threatened by the idea of me having lunch with your mom?”
Lazily, he sipped his wine to cover the panic that had uncurled in his stomach. The alcohol didn’t help. “Threatened is a strong word.”
And so correct. How dare she be the one to figure that out when he hadn’t? The back of his neck flashed hot. That was a big wake-up call.
He’d never in a million years expected that getting married would mean he’d have to share his mother with someone. It had been the two of them for so long, and they�
��d become even more of a unit as he’d grown into adulthood, made even stronger after Uncle Peter had died. His reaction was pure selfishness and he didn’t feel like apologizing for it all at once.
“Then you tell me what would be a better word,” she said.
No quarter. If he wasn’t already feeling pushed against a wall, her cool insistence would have put him there. “Curious.”
Her small smile said she had his number and she’d be perfectly within her rights to call him on his complete lie. Pissed off and tense would be more applicable. Which was dumb. What, was he actually worried that Roz was going to steal his mother from him?
“Curious about why on earth two women who don’t know each other and will soon share the same last name could possibly want to have lunch?” She watched him over the rim of her glass as she sipped her own wine.
“You’re changing your name?” This evening was full of revelations.
“Yeah. Why not? That’s part of the deal here, right? Marrying you is my get-out-of-jail-free card. Might as well go full throttle. Make sure everyone is clear that I’m tied to the governor’s office.”
“But you’re already a Carpenter—” All at once, the conversation with her father slammed through his consciousness. Was he really that dense? Maybe being a Carpenter wasn’t all that great for her. After being treated to a glimpse of the judgment levied in her direction, it wasn’t so hard to guess why, if so. Maybe she deserved a name change.
Wow. When had he turned into such an ass?
He picked up her hand to hold it in his. Her touch bled through him, convicting him even further since she didn’t pull away. “I shouldn’t be jumping down your throat about having lunch with my mom. It’s fine. I’m glad you’re getting along.”