"It didn't work, did it?" he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Your brother wouldn't fire me, would he?"
She moved forward, taking shelter from the storm. How did he know that she'd complained to Nicholas? Was she that predictable?
He rose, attacking her with that insufferable smile. "I want you to have dinner with me tonight."
Her heart pole-vaulted its way to her throat. "What? Why?"
"So we can get used to each other. We've got a lot of work ahead of us. And there's no point in wasting time."
She snuggled deeper into her coat. "But it's raining."
He gave her an odd look. "You don't eat when it rains?"
Of course, she did. She just didn't relish the idea of spending time in his company, particularly with water falling from the sky.
Then again, maybe a business dinner would take the edge off. Maybe it would help her forget that other image. "Fine. I'll have a meal with you." But he'd better not steal food from her plate, she thought.
"Meet me at the Beef and Bull around seven," he said. It's a steak house on—"
"I know where it is," she interrupted. "And I'll be there at eight."
"Seven-thirty," he challenged.
"Eight," she countered in a firm tone. She needed time to bathe, to change, to fix her rain-drizzled hair.
"All right," he said, giving in with a grumble. "But don't be late."
Gina reached for her keys and sent him a triumphant smile. She'd finally gotten her way. On a small scale, maybe, but it was a start.
* * *
At precisely eight o'clock, Flint arrived at the Beef and Bull, a quiet, dimly lit steak house decorated with knotty-pine walls and Western antiques.
He approached the hostess and gave her his name. "I'm expecting a companion," he said. "Has she arrived yet?"
The young woman shook her head. "No, Mr. Kingman, she hasn't."
He gestured to a shadowy corner in the waiting room. "I'll just kick back over there until she gets here."
The hostess nodded and smiled. He returned her polite smile and moved out of the way, giving the people behind him a chance to check their reservation.
Settling onto a leather cushion, he stretched his legs out in front of him.
Impatient, he checked his watch, and suddenly the diamond-and-gold timepiece glinted like a superficial jewel, a reminder of who he was and where he'd come from.
Damn it, he thought. Why couldn't he accept the way things were? The way he'd been raised?
Because his charmed life had changed. Flint Kingman wasn't the same man anymore. The truth about his mother had altered his heart, his soul, the very core of his existence.
Gina entered the restaurant, and he steadied his emotions. No matter how troubled he was, he wouldn't let it affect his career. The Barones had hired him to defuse the crisis in their company. And come hell or high water, that was what he intended to do.
He remained seated and assessed Gina for a moment. After he'd left her office this afternoon, he'd come up with a plan. A damn good one. But it meant getting close to Gina, not close enough to infringe on the confused order of his life, but close enough to fool the public.
And with that in mind, he'd invited her to dinner. He needed to see her in a romantic setting, to explore the energy between them.
The sexual energy, he thought. The unexpected heat.
Gina Barone couldn't stand his dominating personality, and her high-and-mighty attitude annoyed the hell out of him. But that didn't matter. This was strictly business, a teeth-gnashing, tough-to-temper attraction that could work in their favor.
Besides, he'd already fantasized about her. Earlier this evening, when he'd taken a stress-relieving shower, she'd slipped right into the steam.
He hadn't meant to think about her and certainly not in a state of undress, but he'd lost the battle. With a sizzling, soap-scented mirage of her in his mind, he couldn't seem to control the yearning, the I'm-too-old-for-wet-dreams hunger. Trapped beneath a spray of warm water, he'd closed his eyes and imagined her—
She turned and saw him, and Flint gulped a gust of air.
How tall was she? he wondered. Five-nine? Five-ten? In his mind's eye, she'd fit him perfectly in the shower, that sweet, slim, incredibly moist body—
She moved closer, and he came to his feet, his six-foot-three frame still draped in a knee-length raincoat. Beneath it, he wore a suit with a Western flair, but if he didn't get his hormones in check, he would be sporting a big, boyish bulge in the vicinity of his zipper.
"You're late," he told her, when they were eye to eye.
"And you're acting like a jerk, as usual," she responded.
He couldn't help but smile. They had the weirdest chemistry, but somehow it worked.
Of course that ice-princess act of hers wouldn't charm the media, and it wouldn't seduce the public, either. Which meant he would have to revamp her image a little.
She removed her coat, and he slid his gaze up and down the luscious length of her body. Oh, yeah, he thought. He could mold her into a nice yet naughty girl—a kitten with a whip.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Just looking," he responded, shooting a smile straight into her eyes. Her dress wasn't quite short enough, but the creamy beige color complemented her skin.
He reached out to loosen one of her curls, but she backed away, refusing to let him touch her. "Keep your hands to yourself, Kingman."
"But the rain messed up your hair," he lied. "I was just going to fix it."
She huffed out a shallow breath, and he knew he'd made her nervous. A good kind of nervous. The sexy kind.
"My hair's fine," she said.
No, it wasn't, he thought, itching to tousle it. The lady-of-the-manor style was too damn proper, too coiffed.
"Are you going to buy me dinner or not?" she asked.
"Sure. Let's get our table."
The hostess seated them in a fairly secluded booth. A snow-white candle dripped wax, and a single red rose bloomed in a bud vase, giving the rustic tabletop a touch of date-night ambience.
The waiter came by, offering cocktails. Gina declined a glass of wine, opting for iced tea instead. Flint went for an imported beer.
Silent, they studied their menus. Five minutes later, when the waiter returned with their drinks, Flint and Gina ordered the same meal. Or nearly the same meal, with the exception of a rare steak for him and a well-done cut for her.
Soon a basket of warm bread arrived. He reached out to offer her a slice at the same time she chose to get one for herself. But before their hands collided, she pulled back.
He took the lead, following his original plan. Tilting the basket toward her, he said, "Go ahead, Miss Barone. Or would it be all right if I called you Gina?"
She made her selection, then proceeded to lather it with whipped butter. "Gina is fine."
He watched her take a bite. "And so is Flint," he told her.
She swallowed and then made a pleasured sound, like a soft, sweet, bedroom murmur.
Amused, he reached for his beer. "Say it," he said.
She glanced up. "Excuse me?"
"My name. Say my name."
She gave him a curious look. "Flint."
Enjoying himself, he bit back a grin. "That was pretty good, but it wasn't quite right. You need to moan after you say my name, like you did after you ate the bread."
Finally aware of his little joke, she shoved the basket toward him. "Stuff it, Flint."
He flashed the grin he'd been hiding. "I couldn't help it. I mean, here's a woman who gets orgasmic over bread and butter."
"I wasn't orgasmic."
"Yes, you were."
"I was not."
She glared at him from across the table, but her haughty expression fell short. When he stared at her, she became flustered, toying with the napkin on her lap.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what?"
"Look at me like that."
&n
bsp; He studied her features, struck by those violet eyes and that full, lush mouth. "But you're beautiful, Gina." And he couldn't stop the attraction, the heat, the sexual spontaneity rising in his blood.
She drew a ragged breath, and a shimmer of silence ensued.
Rain pounded against the building, and the flame on the candle danced between them, intensifying the moment.
Flint sent her a small, sensual smile. She was perfect for the scandal he had in mind.
* * *
Three
« ^ »
Two days later Gina entered the impressive high-rise that housed Kingman Marketing, a global advertising, public-relations and marketing agency.
Flint had called her this morning, demanding a meeting. Gina had tried to talk him into coming to her office, but he'd refused. For some unexplained reason, he wanted her on his turf.
She suspected that he'd devised a scandal and intended to make a presentation of some sort.
Standing in front of the elevator, she waited for the doors to open. She'd done some research on Kingman Marketing and learned that the company had built its stellar reputation on a high-profile clientele, which included well-known corporations, politicians and celebrities.
Like Tara Shaw, she thought. The actress Flint had bedded all those years ago.
The elevator opened, and Gina entered the confined space. Alone with her thoughts, she pressed the appropriate button and released an edgy breath. She wasn't comfortable seeing Flint again, especially after that awkward "business" dinner.
They'd stared at each other half the night like sex-starved teenagers on a first date. She'd hated every minute of that warm, woozy, he's-so-gorgeous feeling. She'd struggled through the meal, the food melting in her mouth like an unwelcome aphrodisiac. And he kept smiling at her, teasing her in that playful manner of his, which had only managed to make her more nervous.
The elevator stopped, and Gina stepped into the hallway and faced a set of smoked-glass doors, knowing it was the entrance to Flint's domain.
The sixth floor was dedicated to the public-relations department, and she'd heard that he ran his division with strength, strategy and creativity.
She stalled for a moment, battling a bout of anxiety. Smoothing her jacket, she told herself to relax. She didn't intend to let Flint eye her the way he'd done at the restaurant. Today she wore a camel-colored pantsuit, a ribbed turtleneck and conservative boots. Aside from her hands and face, she was completely covered. This outfit couldn't possibly turn him on.
Ready to do battle, she went inside, and then she stood and gazed around the massive reception area.
Antiques from every corner of the world made an incredible display, and so did modern works of art. She knew instantly that Flint had worked closely with the decorator.
"Are you Gina Barone?"
She turned to see a slim, chic woman rise from a birch desk—a unique piece of furniture that fit her vogue style. Alabaster skin showcased cropped black hair and trendy black glasses, making her look fashionably efficient.
"Yes, I am."
The woman came forward and extended her hand. "I'm Kerry Landau, Flint's assistant."
Gina smiled. "It's nice to meet you."
Kerry lowered her glasses and peered at Gina with exotically lined eyes. "I couldn't help but notice that you were admiring the decor." She pointed to a table-high statue—a depiction of a long, lean, naked lady. "That's my husband's work. He's still a struggling artist. But he's exceptional."
"Yes, he is." Gina studied the piece. The marble lady stood there, one hand draped between her thighs, her other arm barely shielding her aroused nipples. She seemed sensuously vulnerable, innocent yet erotic.
Gina turned to speak to Kerry and caught sight of Flint. He'd appeared out of nowhere, and he leaned against the doorjamb that led to his office, his head tilted at a curious angle.
"Ms. Barone is here," Kerry announced.
"So I see."
Flint's gaze roamed over Gina's carefully clothed body, and suddenly she felt as naked as the statue. And just as vulnerable.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
To enter the wolf's private den? No, she wasn't the least bit ready. "Of course."
"Good." He escorted her down a brightly lit hallway and into his office.
Offering her a seat, he gestured to a comfortable yet elegant sitting area. He'd spared no expense in decorating his domain, and she suspected his family was as wealthy as hers. But that was where the similarity ended.
Flint was an only child—the prince, the heir to the Kingman throne. Gina, on the other hand, struggled with being a middle child, the one her parents overlooked, the one who had to work twice as hard to get noticed.
Gina sighed, then glanced up and caught Flint watching her.
He moved to stand in front of his desk—a rich, intricately carved block of mahogany.
"You have exceptional taste," she said, struggling to fill the silence.
A small smile curved his lips. "In women?"
She shifted on the sofa. "In furniture."
"Thank you." The teasing smile remained. "Would you like a drink? Coffee, tea, a soft drink?" He walked to the bar. "A glass of milk?"
"A cup of hot tea would be nice," she responded, wishing he would stop flirting.
"Coming right up."
Within minutes he placed a silver tea set on the table beside her. It looked much too refined to be served by a tall, broad-shouldered man.
He sat across from her, looking wildly attractive, his rebellious hair falling onto his forehead.
She prepared her tea, adding cream and sugar. "So, what's the purpose of this meeting? Did you mastermind a scandal?"
"Yes."
She tasted the hot brew, sipping delicately. "And?"
"And I think we should have an affair."
Gina nearly spilled her tea, and Flint laughed.
"Not a real affair," he clarified.
"Let me get this straight." She set her cup on the table, knowing she wasn't steady enough to balance it. Apparently he'd meant to knock her for a loop, to heave his proposal at her, much in the way she'd tossed that apple at him. "You're suggesting we fake an affair?"
"That's right. A whirlwind romance and a stormy breakup."
She released a choppy breath. "You can't be serious."
"Of course, I am. Your family is already being targeted in the tabloids, so you'll draw plenty of attention. And so will I, considering I've been in the spotlight before."
Yes, he'd been in the spotlight before, playing around with a movie star.
"I'm telling you. This will work. Just picture the headlines. 'PR prince melts Italian ice-cream princess.' It'll make great copy."
She shook her head, still trying to fathom the idea. "We don't even like each other."
"So what? It's just a phony affair. Three weeks of prominent dating, then a public breakup, and I'll be out of your hair." He removed his jacket and loosened his tie, giving himself a rakish look. "By the time we're done with the media, they won't care about pepper-spiced gelato or family curses. All they'll care about is the hip-grinding, mind-blowing displays of affection we'll be tossing their way." He gazed directly into her eyes. "Come on, what do you have to lose?"
My sanity, she thought.
"We've got great chemistry, Gina." He moved onto the sofa and reached for her hand. And when he linked his fingers with hers, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm.
"You can't deny our chemistry. I know you can feel it." He brought her hand to his mouth and brushed her knuckles with his lips. And then he teased her with a quick, playful bite.
Gina's blood rushed from her head to her toes. Heat pooled between her legs. Her nipples went hard.
But when he sent her that sly, sexy smile, she jerked her hand back.
Damn him, she thought, as her pulse jumped and jittered. Damn him to hell.
He was right, of course. His ploy would work. The tabloids would feed on the sexual frenzy h
e intended to create. The press would sensationalize her affair with him instead of trashing Baronessa.
But could she actually paw him in public? Or let him run those spine-tingling hands all over her body?
"So, what do you say?" Flint asked. "Are we on?"
Yes. No. Maybe. Her mind spun. Her heart raced. "I don't know. I—"
"Hey, if you're worried about your image, relax. I've got that covered."
She blinked. "What are you talking about?"
He crossed to the bar. "That stiff nature of yours. You know as well as I do that it won't fly, Gina. It'll make you seem unlikable."
She eyed him with annoyance. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah." He popped the top on a soda and took a swig. "But I've dealt with this sort of thing before. I'm just the guy who can give you an image that will dazzle the media, charm the public and make men fall at your feet."
Offended, she lifted her chin. "I don't need you to run my social life."
He set his drink on the table. "The hell you don't. You've got incredible sex appeal, but you don't know how to use it."
"And a phony affair with you is going to turn me into a femme fatale?"
He slanted her his signature grin. "You bet is it."
"Go to hell, Flint."
"Hey, come on. Don't be that way. This is business."
At the moment she didn't care. Refusing to listen to any more of his spin-doctor spiel, she rose and headed for the door, leaving him cursing behind her.
* * *
The community living room at the brownstone was cozy yet elegant, with tall, leafy plants, beige furniture and an array of pale blue pillows, but the familiar atmosphere didn't lighten Gina's mood.
Eight hours after her meeting with Flint, she sat on a big, comfy sofa, venting her frustration to her younger sisters.
Rita, an almost twenty-five-year-old nurse at Boston General, listened with a sympathetic ear.
Twenty-three-year-old Maria, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied. She stood beside the window, gazing at the setting sun. Gina admired her sister's business savvy, and tonight she needed the other woman's undivided attention.
"Don't you care about what's going on?" Gina asked, unable to temper her irritation.
SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL Page 3