Maria turned instantly. She stared at Gina with dark eyes, her chiseled features a mask of composure. In spite of her petite frame, she exuded strength. "That isn't fair. You know how important the Valentine's Day promotion was to me. I'm as concerned as you are about the company our grandparents built."
Of course she was, Gina thought guiltily. Maria managed Baronessa Gelateria, a family-owned, old-fashioned ice-cream parlor—a Hanover Street
location overflowing with charm and an emotional cloud of memories.
Still, Gina couldn't help but wonder if there was something else going on in Maria's life. Her sister had been slipping off lately, almost as if she were meeting someone on the sly.
Startled by her imagination, Gina shook her head. The phony affair Flint had proposed had warped her mind. Now she was conjuring a secret lover for Maria.
"I feel like I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place," Gina said, drawing the conversation to her rival. "Baronessa's reputation is floundering, and I just locked horns with the spin doctor who's supposed to pull us out of this mess."
Maria moved away from the window. "I'm sorry, Gina. I know this isn't easy on you."
Rita, seated in one of the overstuffed chairs, tucked her legs beneath her. She still wore her uniform, but she'd removed the white, crepe-soled shoes. "There has to be a solution."
"Yes, but what?" Gina asked. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to restore Baronessa's reputation, but I can't stand the thought of snuggling up to that macho, arrogant man." She dragged a hand through her hair, tugging her fingers through the loosened, unruly curls. "He doesn't think I can dazzle the media on my own. He thinks I need him to coach me."
"Then prove him wrong," Maria suggested. "Show him that you can handle the press."
Rita perked up. "That's a great idea. After all, Gina, you have your own brand of charm. There's nothing wrong with your image."
"That's right." Maria sent her a warm smile. "You're a beautiful, powerful, successful woman. What can a spin doctor teach you that you don't already know?"
"Nothing," Gina said, her confidence budding. But she could teach Flint Kingman plenty.
* * *
After an exhausting ten hours at the office, Flint unlocked his front door, then dropped his keys and spewed a vile curse.
His day had gone from bad to worse, and it was all Gina's fault.
How could she have turned him down? His plan was brilliant. But she was too stubborn to admit it, to thank him the way she should have. He wasn't just offering to repair the damage at Baronessa, he was offering to glamorize her image.
What female in her right mind wouldn't want that?
Didn't she know whom she was dealing with? Flint was an expert. Even his house was a work of art, a renovation with bold lines and stunning curves.
He glanced around, proud of the changes he'd made. His entryway featured hardwood floors instead of cool, marble tiles, and a fluid archway led to a collection of carefully chosen antiques, erotic paintings and a spiral staircase as smooth and sleek as a woman's body. He liked to run his hands along the banister, to feel the architectural beauty it possessed.
After all, he thought, everything, even inanimate objects, represented life.
Suddenly craving a warm shower and a cold beer, he headed to a large, custom-designed kitchen, grabbed a long-neck bottle and started stripping off his clothes.
By the time he climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, he'd left a careless stream of garments strewn along the way.
Standing beside the bed in a pair of pin-striped boxers, he twisted the cap on the beer and took a swig.
And then the damned phone rang.
Still feeling surly about Gina walking out on him, he grabbed the receiver. "What?" he said in place of a proper hello.
"It's me," a feminine voice announced.
"Who's me?" he asked, even though he knew it was the ice princess herself.
"It's Gina. And I changed my mind."
"Did you, now?"
"Yes, I did. After all, it is a woman's prerogative."
"So you'll have that phony affair with me?"
"Yes," she said primly. "But I won't allow you to alter my image."
He glared at the phone for a second. She would take his advice whether she liked it or not. But he wasn't about to argue the point. For now he would let her think she'd won.
"Fine, but you can't back out if things get a little rough. So you better be damned sure you're committed to this project."
"I intend to combat the trouble at Baronessa," she retorted. "Even if it means faking a relationship with you."
"All right, then. I'm coming over."
"What for?" she asked suspiciously.
"To work out the details. I'll be there in about an hour."
He hung up before she could protest, then proceeded to peel off his boxers and climb in the shower, hoping to hell she didn't invade his mind. The last thing he needed was to fantasize about Gina Barone again.
To make sure he didn't falter, he turned the water to cold and then cursed when the frigid droplets sprayed him.
Why was he so attracted to her? She was as stiff and corporate-minded as a woman could be. She didn't have a warm, nurturing bone in her body.
And these days Flint wanted someone to care. He wanted a woman who would do anything for him—even give up a thriving career.
It was a selfish thought, but he didn't give a damn. The news about his mother had changed him, and he couldn't help but long for what he'd been denied.
He shut off the icy water and dried vigorously. Then he reached for the abalone shell on his dresser and lit the bundle of sage contained within it. When he was just a boy, his grandmother had taught him to smudge, to purify himself and his surroundings.
Flint walked a somewhat shaky line between the white and Indian worlds, and he supposed he always would. It came with the territory, with being a mixed-blood living in the brain-jarring, fast, furious, ever-stimulating pace of the city.
He wanted to raise his future children within the powwow circle, to teach them to dance, but he wondered if that time would ever come. Or if it was meant to be.
With the scent of sage on his skin, he dressed in a pair of black trousers and a gray sweater, preparing to see Gina.
As promised, he arrived at her door within the hour and pressed the intercom to the fourth-floor apartment.
She buzzed him into the building, and he waited for her in the foyer. The brownstone presented a polished-wood staircase, a modern elevator with an old-fashioned gate and a reception area decorated like a living room.
Suddenly Flint could feel a gust of feminine energy swirling around him like a perfumed ghost. He jammed his hands in his pockets, then glanced at the staircase.
Gina descended the steps, looking like a siren from the Italian sea. Her hair fell in a wild mass over her shoulders, each strand rioting in disarray.
Instantly, a surge of sexual heat blasted through his veins.
She reached the foyer, and they stood for a moment, staring at each other.
"I like your hair that way," he said casually, digging his hands deeper into his pockets, where his body had gone hard.
"Thank you," she responded in that cool tone of hers. "But I prefer it up."
Little witch, he thought. She couldn't even take a compliment graciously. He imagined tangling his hands in all those bohemian curls and tugging until she yelped—in pain and in pleasure. "I want you to wear it down when you're with me."
Her chin lifted. "Don't start, Flint."
He flashed a rakish smile, knowing his devil-may-care grin would annoy her. "Don't start what?"
"Telling me what to do."
He shrugged, and she gestured to the reception area. "Have a seat, and I'll pour you a drink."
"Thanks, but I'll have it in your apartment."
She gave him a haughty look. "I'm not inviting you upstairs."
He moved a little closer, crowding her. "Yes,
you are. In a few days you and I are going to start dating. That gives me the right to see your place."
She backed away. "Yeah, well, just remember that in a few weeks I'm going to kick you to the curb."
"That's right, you are. And I'm sure you'll enjoy every minute of it." Flint started up the stairs without her. "But for now you're stuck with me."
She blew out a windy breath and followed, catching up to him. They reached her apartment at the same time, and she opened the door.
"Nice," he said. Very nice. Hardwood floors led to an enticing display of international furnishings. An English writing table sat below a leaded-glass window, and a Chinese vase decorated a stark and stately fireplace mantel. The walls were painted a soft shade of cream and accented with a touch of wine. The sofas, he noticed, were covered in Italian silk.
The lady had taste.
"What would you like to drink?" she asked.
"Coffee," he decided, heading for the kitchen.
He nosed around while she brewed a European blend. "You can tell a lot about a person by what's in their refrigerator," he said. He opened hers and took inventory. She liked to cook, he realized, as he poked through containers of leftovers and a crisper filled with fresh greens.
She leaned against the counter while the coffee brewed. Her kitchen was white, with vintage-style fixtures and a hand-painted porcelain sink. A garden window held a variety of potted herbs, and French doors led to a terrace that overlooked the city.
"What's in your fridge?" she asked.
"Bachelor stuff."
She tilted her head. "Spoiled milk? Pizza growing mold?"
He helped himself to the coffee. "I'm not that bad." Sipping the hot drink, he studied her over the rim of his cup. Her hair was still driving him crazy. She looked as if she'd gone for a quick, hard ride—on a man's lap.
"I want to see your bedroom," he said, placing his coffee beside an ornamental decanter.
"No dice, Kingman. My bedroom is off-limits."
"Not to me. I'm about to become your lover."
"My fake lover," she corrected.
He ignored her and proceeded down the hall, where he assumed her room was. She stalked after him, grumbling about his manners. Or lack of them, he supposed.
He opened her door and stared in shocked silence.
"What's wrong?" she asked from behind him.
"This is my room," he responded, feeling as if she'd invaded his sanctuary. His soul. The emotions driving him.
"What are you talking about?"
He turned to look at her, this woman he barely knew. "I have a cherry armoire that was probably built by the same cabinetmaker. And my bed is almost identical. Even my quilt is the same color." A deep, sensual burgundy, he thought. Like the shade of her lips, the blush on her cheeks.
Gina glanced at the bed, then at him. "Something has to be different."
He walked to her dresser, an eighteenth-century piece similar to the one he'd found in a dusty little antique shop on the West Coast. Somehow they'd chosen nearly the same furniture.
"Did you use a decorator?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. Did you?"
"No."
They stared at each other from across the room, trapped in an awkward gaze. It almost seemed as if they'd been sleeping in a parallel universe, as if their spirits knew each other from another time or another place.
Searching for a diversion, for an escape from the unwelcome bond, he shifted his attention to the top of her dresser.
And then he noticed the figurines. Some were whimsical and cherubic and others shone like jewels, their wings tipped in gold.
The ice princess collected angels.
Flint looked up and caught a confusing image of Gina. As she moved toward him, the glow from an amber bulb illuminated her skin and sent highlights dancing through her tousled hair, giving her a heavenly aura.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" She picked up a gilded figure and held it up to the light, to the halo surrounding her.
For a long, drawn-out moment he couldn't take his eyes off her. He just stood, awed by her beauty, by the sheer radiance of her magic. The tiny statue shimmered gloriously in her hand.
Before he did something stupid, like telling her how exquisite she was, Flint broke the spell.
"I don't believe in angels," he said. It was bad enough she'd stolen his bedroom. He wasn't about to let her con him into thinking she was some sort of celestial being.
A disapproving scowl appeared on Gina's face, and he headed to her walk-in closet and opened the door, determined to get back to work.
She spun, clutching the gold-leafed figurine to her chest. "What are you doing?"
"Checking out your clothes."
"Why? Are you afraid we have the same wardrobe?"
"No, smart aleck. I'm looking for something for you to wear on our first date. Something long and slinky. Maybe a little glittery."
"I don't do slinky."
"You will when you're with me," he told her. One way or another, he intended to turn Gina Barone into a femme fatale. Not an angel, he reminded himself. But a sizzling, sultry she-devil.
A woman who would stir his blood without stirring his heart.
* * *
Four
« ^ »
Gina wondered what Flint was up to. He'd gone to her apartment last night, and this afternoon he insisted she come to his office. Supposedly he had a surprise in store.
Although she didn't trust him, she was just curious enough to show up.
When she entered the reception area, Kerry, Flint's loyal assistant, looked up and smiled. The young woman sat at her trendy desk, studying the monitor on her computer.
"He's expecting you," Kerry said. "So you can go right in."
"Thanks." Gina drew a breath and headed down the hall.
She found Flint waiting casually for her arrival with three rolling racks of clothes, shoeboxes stacked a mile high and a full-length, portable mirror at his disposal.
"What's all this?" she asked.
He sent her his spin-doctor smile. "Your wardrobe selection for the next two weeks. I told a stylist what you needed, and she sent them over. She shops for some of the most famous women in the world."
Gina scanned the racks and took in an eyeful. Evening gowns, bodysuits, skirts that would barely cover her rear.
He reached for a long silver gown. "Try this one on. You can change in my bathroom. And if it fits, you can wear it tomorrow night."
She studied the sparkling garment. The neckline plunged in front, in what she assumed would be from her breasts to her navel. "You've got to be kidding."
"You'll look hot in this, baby."
Her full Cs would fall right out of that flimsy contraption. "If you like it so much, you wear it."
Not easily deterred, he reached for another gown, a cherry-red, skintight number slit to the hip. "How about this one? It's got a G-string to match."
A G-string she was going to use as a slingshot if he foisted one more skimpy dress on her. "You're not turning me into a bimbo, Flint. So knock it off."
He jammed the red gown onto the rack. "You're a prude, Gina."
She crossed her arms. "I am not."
"Oh, yeah?" He sat on the edge of his desk, his hair falling onto his forehead. "I'll bet you've never made love on an airplane. Or in an elevator. Or even beneath a big shady tree at the park."
She tried to act as if his accusation hadn't embarrassed her. Or made her skin warm. "It's illegal to mess around in public places."
"True, but that's what makes it so exciting."
Gina did her damnedest to avoid his gaze, but she could feel those hot amber-flecked eyes shooting sexual sparks right at her.
"I'm a lady," she said. "I behave properly in public."
"Yeah, but don't you ever want to live out your fantasies?"
"I don't have airplane fantasies."
He cocked his head. "What about elevators?"
Okay, so maybe
he had her there, but she wasn't about to admit it. Gina wasn't brave enough to pursue her fantasies, to live on the edge. She drove a luxury sedan instead of a sports car, took practical vacations rather than slip away to unpredictable locations and battled an ulcer that flared up whenever her stress level hit the Richter scale. Which meant sex in an elevator wasn't very likely.
She'd slept with two men her entire life, and both relationships had fallen flat. Her first lover, a striving-for-success executive in a Fortune 500 conglomerate, had been envious of her inheritance, claiming that she didn't work nearly as hard as he did. So she'd gone for a doting, less ambitious partner the next time, but he'd bored her to tears with his hand-patting, milquetoast ways.
"What about in private?" Flint asked.
She glanced up. "I'm sorry? What?"
He reached for a short black dress and gave it a masculine study. Gina thought the leather garment looked like something a dominatrix might wear. She couldn't help but wonder if the stylist had sent over a pair of thigh-high boots, as well.
"Do you behave properly in private?"
Her mouth went dry. She'd never torn off a man's clothes or clawed his back. But she wasn't a Puritan, either. "I behave just fine."
He tossed the minidress at her. "Go put this on. I want to see your legs. All of them, all the way to your thighs."
She caught the leather garment, then felt the smooth texture slide against her skin. "No."
He watched her through those whiskey-flecked eyes. "We're supposed to fool the world into believing we're lovers. You realize that, don't you?"
"Of course, I do. But can't we pretend our first date is actually our first date instead of posing as lovers right away?"
"Yes, we can do that. But we've only got a few weeks to pull this off, so you're going to have to fall for my charms pretty damn quick."
Trust Mr. Macho to word it like that. "Why can't you fall for my charms?"
"Because you'll be dressed like a prude, that's why."
"Fine, I'll wear something provocative. But I'll shop for myself." She hung the whips-and-chains dress on the rack. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"To the opening of a new play. An erotic play," he added. "So be prepared for a hot, sultry night."
SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL Page 4