SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Well, I do," Morgan said. "Their affair didn't last long, but it created quite a scandal."

  "Bigger than the one going on in my life?"

  "Much bigger."

  That was all it took. Gina spent the rest of the morning on the Internet, pulling up old articles on Tara Shaw and her wild, young lover.

  * * *

  While driving past the prestigious homes in Beacon Hill, Flint got the sudden urge to call Tara, to tell her what was going on.

  He glanced at his car phone and realized foolishly that he didn't have her number. He hadn't spoken to Tara Shaw in over eight years. Flint had left Hollywood without looking back.

  Besides, what the hell would he say to her? And what would her new husband think if her old lover just happened to ring her up?

  With a squeal of his tires, he turned onto a familiar street and pulled into his parents' driveway, knowing his dad would be home on a Sunday afternoon.

  Flint and his father saw each other often. They worked in the same bustling high-rise, but these days they rarely spoke, at least not about important issues.

  He unlocked the door with his key, the same key he'd had since he was a teenager. For eighteen years, this elegant mansion had been his home.

  He stood in the marbled foyer for a moment, catching his reflection in a beveled mirror. It wasn't a cold house, completely void of emotion, but it didn't present a warm, fuzzy feeling, either.

  But then how could it? Especially now?

  He crossed the salon, passing Chippendale settees, ornate tables and gilded statues. The Kingmans were a successful family, but money didn't necessarily make people happy.

  He located his dad in the garden room, a timber-and-glass structure flourishing with greenery. Shimmering vines twined around redwood trellises, and colorful buds bloomed in a shower of floral abundance, thriving in the controlled environment.

  James Kingman, a tall, serious man, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, enjoyed growing flowers, and he tended them with a gentle hand.

  Today he hovered over a cluster of lady's slippers, orchids as beautiful and beguiling as their fairy-tale name.

  Flint shed his jacket, and the older man looked up. "Well, hello," he said, acknowledging his son's presence. "What brings you by?"

  You, me and my mom, he thought. The past, the present, the pain. "I was hoping we could talk."

  "About what?"

  "My mother."

  James shook head. "I don't want to rehash all of that again."

  "But I want to talk about it."

  "There's nothing more to talk about. I told you everything. Just forget about it, let it go."

  Let it go? Forget about it?

  Two weeks ago Flint had stumbled upon a horrible secret, and now the truth haunted him like a ghost. "You lied to me all those years, Dad."

  James shifted his stance. He wore jeans and a denim shirt, but he was impeccably groomed—a man of wealth and taste. "I did it to protect you. Why won't you accept that?"

  "Just tell me this much. Does Nísh'kí know the truth?" he asked, thinking about his Cheyenne grandmother.

  "Yes, she knew when it happened. It broke her heart."

  And now it's breaking mine, Flint thought.

  "You can't bring this up to your grandmother," his dad said. "It wouldn't be right."

  Flint nodded. As a rule, the Cheyenne didn't speak freely of the dead, and Nísh'kí adhered to the old way. "Is she aware that I came upon the truth?"

  "Yes, I told her. But she didn't want to discuss it."

  No one wanted to discuss it, no one but Flint. Didn't they understand that he needed to grieve? To come to terms with his role in all of this?

  "It isn't fair," he said.

  "Life isn't fair," James replied, using a cliché that only made Flint feel worse.

  In the next instant they both fell silent. Water trickled from an ornamental fountain, mimicking the patter of rain.

  Flint glanced at the glass ceiling and noticed dark clouds floating across a hazy blue sky.

  He shrugged into his jacket. "I better go. I've got things to do."

  James met his troubled gaze. "Don't be angry, son."

  Flint looked at his dad, at the blond hair turning a silvery shade of gray. He'd inherited his dad's hazel eyes, but his dark hair and copper skin had come from his mother. The woman he wasn't allowed to talk about.

  "I'm not," he said. It wasn't anger eating away at his soul. It was pain. "I'll see you tomorrow at the office. Give Faith a kiss for me," he added, referring to his stepmother.

  "She'll be sorry she missed you."

  "I know." He loved Faith Kingman. She'd raised him since he was ten years old, but she wasn't willing to talk about this, either. Not if it meant betraying her husband.

  Flint left his parents' house, and James went back to his flowers, hiding behind their vibrant colors and velvet petals.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Gina wore what she considered a power suit to the office. The blouse matched her eyes, the tailored black jacket nipped at her waist and the slim-fitting skirt rode just above her knees. But her pumps, bless them, were her secret weapon. When she strode through Baronessa's corporate halls, they made a determined, confident click, giving her an air of feminine authority.

  The fourth floor of the chrome-and-glass structure was Gina's domain, and she often gazed out the windows, drawing strength from the city.

  Today she needed all she could get.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. Flint would be here any minute.

  Gina moved in front of her desk and remained standing, waiting anxiously for his arrival. She'd been rehearsing this moment in her mind for two days, practicing her lines, her gestures.

  She knew plenty about Flint Kingman now. She'd even uncovered a few facts about his mother. Danielle Wolf, a half-Indian beauty from the Cheyenne reservation, had left home to pursue an acting career. Five years later she'd abandoned Hollywood to become a wife and mother and then died in a car accident a month after her son was born.

  Gina intended to rent the B movies Danielle had costarred in. She suspected Flint had inherited his mother's adventurous spirit. It wouldn't hurt to analyze every aspect of her opponent's personality, particularly if she was going to kick him off this harrowing project.

  Gina's secretary buzzed. She pressed the intercom. "Yes?"

  "Mr. Kingman is here."

  She let out the breath she'd been holding. "Send him in."

  A minute later he strode through the door in a gray suit and silver-gray tie, his thick dark hair combed away from his face. Suddenly Gina could see the Native American in him—the rich color of his skin, the killer cheekbones, the deep-set eyes. They looked more brown than gold today, and she realized they were actually a stunning, ever-changing shade of hazel.

  He flashed a cocky grin, and she reached for the apple on her desk and tossed it to him. Or at him, she supposed, since she'd heaved it like a shiny red baseball.

  Caught off guard, he fumbled, dropped his briefcase and retrieved the apple in the nick of time.

  The grin returned to his lips. "The forbidden fruit, Miss Barone?"

  "Consider it a parting gift."

  He arched an eyebrow. "Am I going somewhere?"

  "Anywhere but here," she said, leaning against her desk like a corporate vamp. "I told you before that I'm not working with you."

  He picked up his briefcase and came forward. As self-assured as ever, he pulled up a chair and sat down, studying the apple.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Checking for worms."

  She smiled in spite of herself. "I'm not that evil." He lifted his gaze, and her smile fell. Why did he have to look at her like that? So sly, so sexy. She could almost feel his rain-slicked, dream-induced skin.

  "All women are evil. And beautiful and clever in their own way," he said. "I enjoy females."

  "So I've heard." She walked around to the other side of her desk and sank int
o her leather chair, hoping to appear more powerful than she felt.

  "You're holding my dating record against me?" he asked.

  "You mean your scorecard? Let's face it, Mr. Kingman. You're a player. You drive a fast, ferocious, racy red Corvette, keep company with bimbos and then notch your bedpost after each insensitive conquest."

  He gave her a level stare. "Nice try, but that's not quite accurate. You see, I have a brass bed, and the metal is a little hard to notch."

  Gina steeled her nerves. She had a brass bed, too. The one he'd invaded. "You indulged in an affair with a movie star twice your age."

  Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? Anger? Male pride? She couldn't be sure.

  "Aren't you going to defend yourself?" she asked, confused by his silence.

  Suddenly Flint Kingman, the confident, carefree spin doctor, was impossible to read.

  * * *

  Two

  « ^ »

  Gina waited for him to respond, but he just sat there, staring at her.

  "Well?" she asked, unnerved by those unwavering eyes. Finally he blinked, sending sparks of amber shooting through his irises. "What do you want me to say? I was only twenty-two at the time."

  Which meant what? That he'd actually been in love? Or that he'd been too young and too wild to control his sexual urges?

  "How are you going to polish Baronessa's reputation when your own reputation isn't exactly glowing?" she asked, refusing to let it go. Flint had been a virile twenty-two-year-old, and Tara had been a dazzling role model for forty-three-year-olds everywhere, proving women could be desirable at any age. But their relationship still bothered Gina.

  He squared his shoulders. "I'm more than qualified to pull Baronessa out of this mess."

  "And so am I." Even if she had been the one who'd unwittingly dragged Baronessa into it.

  "Really?" He placed his briefcase on his lap and opened it, and with the flick of his wrists he scattered a stack of supermarket tabloids across Gina's desk.

  The headlines hit her square in the chest.

  Mysterious Curse Destroys Ice Cream Empire.

  Mafia Mayhem in Boston. Will the Sicilian-Born Barones Survive?

  Passion Fruit Versus Passion Death. Who Tried to Murder an Innocent Man?

  "I've read these," she said. "And they're filled with lies. That curse is nonsense. My family isn't connected to the mob. And the man who suffered an allergic reaction to the peppers recovered with no ill effects."

  "Maybe so, but just stating the facts isn't enough. What's your plan to counter the negative press, Miss Barone? This is some pretty heavy-duty stuff."

  She shoved the tabloids aside, and her ulcer sprang to life, her stomach acids eating a hole right through her, creating a familiar pain.

  "I intend to hold a contest," she said. "Something that will get the public involved."

  "Like what? Name That Curse?"

  Smart-ass, she thought, narrowing her eyes at him. "More like create a new gelato flavor. Baronessa will invite the public to come up with a flavor to replace passionfruit. The winner of the contest and the new flavor will get lots of press, plenty of positive media attention."

  He sat quietly, mulling over her idea. Finally he said, "That's a great marketing tool, but it's too soon for a contest. First we need something juicier. A bigger scandal, something that will make the press forget all about that pepper fiasco."

  "And I suppose you've already cooked up the perfect scandal."

  He smoothed his hair, a gesture she'd seen more than once. But he did have that rebellious strand, the Elvis lock that repeatedly fell forward.

  "Truthfully," he admitted, "I haven't zeroed in on the perfect scandal, but when I do, you'll be the first to know."

  "I don't like the idea," she told him. "All we'll be doing is replacing one set of lies for another. That doesn't cut it for me."

  "Too bad. It's the way to go. Believe me, I've worked this angle before." He reached for one of the tabloids. "So what's the deal on this curse?"

  Gina pressed against the pain, the gnawing, burning sensation in her stomach. "Aren't you supposed to know all of this already?"

  "I want to hear it in your words. I want your take on the curse."

  "I already told you, it's nonsense." She rose and walked to the bar. Not because she was a gracious hostess, but because she needed to coat the burn. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

  He shook his head, and she poured herself a glass of milk. "It does a body good," she said, when he eyed the white liquid curiously.

  He roamed his gaze over her, sweeping her curves with masculine appreciation. "So I see."

  Her pulse shot up her arm. Don't flirt with me, she thought. Don't look at me with those bedroom eyes.

  But he did. He watched her. Closely. They way he'd watched her in that dream, just seconds before she'd undressed him.

  Neither spoke. They stared at each other, caught in one those awkward, sexually stirring moments.

  Finally, he broke eye contact, and she brought the milk to her lips. The thick, creamy drink slid down her throat.

  "The curse," Flint reminded her, his voice a little too rough.

  Gina took her seat, struggling for composure. This felt like a curse, she thought. This impossible attraction.

  "It started with my grandfather," she said. "He jilted a girl who'd wanted to marry him, and on Valentine's Day, he eloped with my grandmother instead. So the other girl put a curse on my grandparents and their descendants. She vowed that misery would strike on their anniversary, marking Valentine's Day a holiday of disaster."

  "Then why did you schedule the passionfruit tasting on February fourteenth?" he asked. "That seems a little risky to me."

  "Because I was determined to prove that curse wrong. Besides, a flavor called passionfruit made a nice Valentine's Day promotion." She drank some more milk. "Or it should have."

  He gathered the tabloids and put them into his briefcase. "You lied to me, Miss Barone. You don't think the curse is nonsense. You believe in it now."

  Steeped in guilt, she defended herself. "I'm not a superstitious woman, but I should have been more cautious. Some unfortunate things have happened to my family on Valentine's Day over the years, but those events seemed like coincidence. A fluke here and there."

  "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll repair the damage."

  "No, I will," she countered.

  He shrugged, then taunted her with that slow, sensual smile, reminding her that she'd dreamed about him.

  When he stood to leave, she heard a sudden burst of rain hit the windows behind her.

  A cool, hard, male-driven rain.

  * * *

  After Flint departed, Gina went straight to her brother's office. Nicholas held the prestigious COO title, the chief operations officer, at Baronessa Gelati.

  He stood well over six feet, with a strong, athletic build, jet-black hair and blue eyes. Women, including his new wife and daughter, found him irresistible. Gina, however, considered herself immune to his charm. He'd abandoned his playboy ways for a blissful marriage, but he still had a high dose of testosterone running through his veins, which made him difficult to manipulate.

  "I want you to fire Flint Kingman," she said.

  Nicholas sat behind his desk and rolled his impressive shoulders, looking like the powerful corporate male he was.

  "Why?"

  Because I dreamed about him, she wanted to say. He invaded my mind, my bed. "Because he's going to do this company more harm than good."

  "How so?"

  "He intends to cook up a phony scandal to divert the press."

  "That's what he does, Gina. He's a spin doctor and a damn good one. I trust his instincts."

  "What about my instincts?"

  "You're a bright, capable woman, but this is his area of expertise."

  She sat across from her brother and picked up a rubber band off his desk, wishing she could flick it at him. He was eight years her senior, and
he'd always treated her like a child. He used to call her noodle head because curls sprang from her scalp like spiral pasta.

  Gina glared at Nicholas and smoothed her hair. These days she tamed her curls in a professional chignon. "So you're taking Flint's side?"

  He leaned forward, trapping her gaze. "His side? You're not turning this into a gender war, are you?"

  She thought about the apple, the forbidden fruit, she'd tossed at Flint this afternoon. "He bosses me around."

  "Probably because you're fighting him every step of the way. You've got to curb your temper, Gina."

  She stretched the rubber band, wishing she had the courage to let it fly.

  "We brought Flint in as a consultant." Nicholas went on. "The idea is for the two of you to work together."

  "Fine." She could see this was going nowhere. Coming to her feet, she blew a frustrated breath. Rain still pounded against the windows, reminding her that Flint controlled the weather, too.

  Would she ever get that image out of her mind? That long, lean, water-slicked body?

  "And don't go running to Dad about this," Nicholas warned.

  "I don't intend to," she responded, trying to sound more grown-up than she felt. "I'll work with Flint if I have to. But I won't let him call all the shots."

  Nicholas grinned. "Spoken like a true woman."

  "And don't you forget it." She turned to march out of his office, her feminine armor—the tailored suit and high-heeled pumps—securely in place.

  "I love you, noodle head," he said before she reached the door.

  She stopped and smiled. She loved Nicholas Barone, too. Even if he was her big, brawny, know-it-all brother.

  Hours later Gina drove home, her windshield wipers clapping to the rhythm of the rain. She lived in a brownstone in the North End, a family-owned, renovated building she shared with two of her sisters. They each had their own sprawling apartment, but they often gathered in the community living room on the first floor to curl up with a bowl of extra-buttered popcorn and talk.

  She parked her car and walked to the front of the brownstone, only to find Flint sitting on the stoop, his overcoat flapping in the wind.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. He looked up, his face speckled with rain, his waterlogged hair slick and shiny.