Seducing Sullivan

by Julie Elizabeth Leto

  He’d have to ask. “You’re not thinking about breaking things off, are you?”

  “Now that Dani’s in the picture, I don’t know. We saw what almost happened this afternoon.”

  He agreed and showed her by nodding, allowing the tip of his nose to caress hers. The comfort of the small intimacy abated the resentment toward his mother’s indiscreet behavior. How many miserable breakfasts had he endured with a strange man sitting at the other end of the table? Even when his mother’s lovers didn’t stay all night, did she really think he, no matter how young, was that blind?

  When Angela placed a weightless kiss on the corner of his mouth, the memory waned.

  Dipping his head, he captured her slightly parted lips, slipping his tongue inside before she could pull away or protest. She did neither. She melted into the cradle of his arms and slipped her hands around his neck.

  “Angel, I still want you. Need you. Crave you.”

  Her soft coo urged him to deepen the kiss, to further explore the recesses of her mouth. Nothing could happen tonight, and nothing would. Yet instead of sexual pursuits, they could find something even more precious.

  “Jack.” She gasped as she pulled back. “We can’t.”

  “What? We’re just kissing. Relax.”

  How could she say no? Even at this brief parting, she missed the taste, scent and feel of him. Yet how could she relax in his embrace when she harbored such a devastating secret?

  “Usually, I can.” She glanced away as she sought to form an honest defense. “But I’m really distracted. And tired. I didn’t sleep much last night, and knowing Dani, her camp schedule will have her popping out of bed and demanding pancakes at dawn.”

  He released his hold, allowing her to place her feet on the carpet.

  “I make great pancakes,” he suggested, though even in the dim light she caught the teasing glitter in his eyes.

  She stood, then turned and held out a hand to help him up. “I’m sure you do. Maybe you can come by Sunday morning and whip up a whole stack.”

  Taking her hand, he started to stand, resignation chiseled into his square jawline. At the last second, he shifted his weight and pulled her into his lap, swallowing her cry of surprise with a kiss.

  “I’m there,” he murmured, trailing a final path of cottony kisses over her cheeks, chin and eyelids.

  She languished in every touch, nearly giddy in the innocent sensuality.

  I’m there? “You’re where?” she wondered aloud.

  He stood, taking her with him in his arms and then placing her firmly on the floor. He obviously tried not to laugh at her disoriented query—but he didn’t try hard enough. The corners of his mouth tilted distinctly upward. He covered his merriment with a cough.

  “Pancakes, Sunday morning.” He pecked her one last time on the cheek before heading toward the door. “Though we can talk about the menu tomorrow.”

  He let himself out in such a quiet rush, she barely heard the door close. She sat on the couch in the warm indentation he’d left. The man was amazing—patient, generous, trusting to the point of naiveté. But only with her. His cynicism ran deep, dispersing only when it focused on her.

  And he was sexy. Devastating. This afternoon, she’d willingly yielded to a fantasy she’d never allowed herself more than a minute to entertain. The results had been explosive, engulfing, mind-shattering. Just remembering made her body tingle with renewed sexual friction.

  As the silence settled in, the beating of her heart receded and her schedule for tomorrow scrolled in her brain like the screen on her computer calendar.

  Friday. Dani to Kelly’s for the day. Ten o’clock meeting with modeling agent. And Jack. At noon, they’d meet with her creative team. At three, they’d assemble her marketing crew to finalize the budget. In less than twelve hours, she and Jack would be together again, though this time in a professional capacity.

  Before leaving for her Napa Valley vacation, she had to finalize all plans for the Whispering Palms campaign and supervise the shoot. They’d be busy. She wouldn’t have a free moment to tell Jack about Dani or to explain Chryssie’s reasons for keeping the information to herself. They’d be swamped with scheduling, contracts and brainstorming powwows. She probably wouldn’t even have time to spend alone with Jack.

  Yeah, right.

  She removed her hair clip, shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. Locking the front door and setting the alarm, she acknowledged that no matter what capacity Jack was in or how overwhelmed with business she was, he possessed a potent magic over her. A magic she couldn’t help submitting to.

  After turning off the lights, turning down the air conditioner and peeking in one last time at Dani, she went into her room and shrugged out of her jeans and bra, leaving only her T-shirt and panties as pajamas. Once she’d washed off her makeup and brushed her hair, she climbed under her comforter. She turned to click off the lamp when she noticed the envelope under the paperweight.

  Hesitantly, she got up and tapped the circular object Dani made at last year’s camp. Did she dare look?

  Unable to resist, she scurried to lock her door then grabbed her envelope. The chill of the air conditioner and the prospect of seeing Jack’s pictures of her resulted in a spread of dimply gooseflesh.

  She reclined on the bed, pulled her comforter around her and carefully bent back the metal clasps. Biting her lip, she slid her fingers inside. She stopped at the feel of glossy photo paper. Did she really want to see this? Did she really want to relive her hour as Jack’s wanton biker chick?

  Of course, she did.

  She breathed out an appreciative whistle. “Oh, my.”

  The man must be a whiz with an airbrush. Of course, she knew Jack wouldn’t have retouched the eight-by-tens. Neither beauty nor physical excellence dominated the photos. Self-critical or not, she considered her attractiveness and toned body as typical of many women her age. Yet the pictures shocked her. Her perceptions of herself differed from the image on film. The completely unhindered sexual prowess in her stance, clothes and eyes startled her.

  She flipped to the next photo, then the next, hoping to find one that portrayed the Angela she recognized, the woman who sat cuddled on her queen-size bed with no makeup on, her hair disheveled and her body covered by an oversize T-shirt. After examining a dozen shots, she ceased her futile search. Mounted on the bike, her legs stretched out and her breasts straining against the glove-tight leather, her likeness conjured the words Jack had spoken before their first meeting with Davenport.

  You are that woman on the Harley.

  Could he be right? If he was, he was responsible.

  As the photos progressed from merely sexy to blatantly erotic, she lay against the pillows, startled when the scent of Jack’s cologne surrounded her with its fresh, breezy scent. He’d reclined there earlier and left his mark.

  In the next photo, a close-up, she was ripping the material above her heart, her face enraptured as if Jack sliced open her soul. The glossies revealed pose after pose of raw ecstasy and insatiable need.

  She kicked the comforter off her legs.

  When she caught sight of her breasts, full and round and heavy, pouring out of her slashed top, a twinge of excitement quickened her breath and dried her mouth. The memory of the passion that had followed, the feel of Jack’s mouth thirstily sucking her nipples, his hard sex pressing against her throbbing mons inspired the reaction anew.

  The next photo, taken with a telephoto lens from the camera Jack had set on the tripod, mirrored her memory with bold accuracy. Her thighs, alternately visible through the shadowy black lace and uneven tears, flexed as they curved around his waist. His hands, hooked beneath the ruined leather, yanked the material away.

  Warmth pooled between her thighs as the images progressed, each more lusty, more hungry, more true to the burning fire that nearly drove them both insane.

  Examining one picture closely, she saw his teeth tugging at her nipple and the rapturous expression on her
face. Involuntarily, her breasts responded as they had that night—as they had that afternoon. The throb of her need intensified. Her lips desired moisture, but passing her tongue over them only dried them more, multiplying her compulsion to call Jack, to have him return and soothe her ache.

  She’d settle for a shower instead. She tucked the sealed envelope beneath her mattress for safekeeping, then threw off her T-shirt and turned on the faucet. She should run the water slightly chilled, though she preferred her shower hot—steamy hot—hot enough to burn Jack’s touch right off her skin.

  After she’d nearly scalded herself, she turned up the cold water and found a happy medium between blistering and frigid. She turned her back to the showerhead, allowing the massaging water to pelt her neck and shoulders. Resting her head against the tiled wall, she tried not to think anymore. She wanted to relax and let the water assuage her intimate agony.

  Facing the water, she stood so the streams rained on her breasts. Instead of cooling the fire Jack had started, the downpour kindled her physical need. She stepped closer, decreasing the distance so the droplets stung her flesh the same way Jack’s teeth did when he bit her so seductively.

  She turned the heat up and removed the hand-held showerhead. Since Jack couldn’t ease her sweet suffering tonight, she’d damn well find some other way.

  “NAN, FAX the advertising mock-ups to Davenport right away,” Angela instructed. “Then we’ll just sit back and wait for his okay. Remember, everyone, budget meeting at three.”

  Jack snapped the cap on his pen and shoved his hands through his hair. How Angela survived sessions like this one raised his awe of her. Now he knew how she so expertly manipulated his heart into a twisted mass. The woman could manipulate, cajole, inspire and direct the most diverse group of creative personalities into putting together a project that even his inexperienced eyes recognized as impressive.

  “Angela, more coffee? Jack?” Nancy offered, scooping the neater set of mock-ups from the conference table as the rest of the creative team shuffled out of the room.

  Angela shook her head absently, her gaze locked on the storyboards they’d hashed out for the thirty-second spots. She held Jack’s Polaroids, taken during his initial shoot on Wednesday, like a royal flush, and compared them to the drawings in front of her. Her expression, hard and concentrated, revealed nothing, though he did note how she pouted when deep in thought.

  She looked beautiful.

  Jack, on the other hand, looked like hell. He needed an infusion of something strong enough to erase the painfully structured day from his mind. Not to mention his restless night. Since Angela would never agree to a quickie in her office, coffee would have to do.

  “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll take a cup.”

  As an independent photographer, Jack rarely found himself included in such intense meetings. He never planned his private projects, preferring to let them evolve in the field. As for his freelance work, he refused to mix with the corporate types and rarely gave his input ahead of time. His clients would submit preferences before the shoot, and then he’d do whatever he pleased. And they’d be thrilled with the results.

  For Angela, he’d made an exception. He’d even taken on the title Director of Photography to make her happy.

  She looked at him after dealing the Polaroids onto the boards, setting each one beside the corresponding drawing. A satisfied grin broke halfway through her serious expression.

  “This isn’t half-bad.”

  He slid over until he sat beside her. He caught the scent of her perfume, a woodsy scent she probably reserved for work, and wondered how he’d kept himself focused on anything but her all morning. Dressed in a blousy male-style shirt tied casually at the waist of her pleated slacks and covering a skintight tank top underneath, she oozed corporate control and feminine confidence.

  “Neither are you.”

  She smiled, but her lips quivered as if she feared his kiss.

  He pushed away from the table, not wanting to make her uncomfortable in her place of business. “I’m impressed. You push your people just enough to get great results. They work hard. They respect you.”

  “I’m the boss,” she said, curling a wayward lock around her ear. “They have to.”

  He flicked the auburn tress free, then let his finger slide down her cheek. Good intentions. Weak self-control. “You know better than that.”

  She glanced at him warily, then at the door, twisting her mouth into a reluctant frown. “Jack, we still have work to do. We need to choose which of your photographs will be reproduced as the limited-edition print.”

  He braided his fingers into her dangling gold chain, tempted to pull her forward and kiss the worried look right off her face. “Not until Davenport calls with his approval for the concept and my fifty percent cut of the profits. Until then, we may have hours to kill.”

  Less than a day ago, she would have asked him what he had in mind. She would have toyed with him, teased him, enticed him until he had no choice but make love to her on the conference table. But since Dani had returned from camp, he hadn’t seen the seductive sprite he’d grown to crave. She wasn’t gone, Jack knew. She was simply hidden behind Angela’s fear like a mob informant beneath concrete.

  But fear of what?

  Angela eased the chain from his grasp, pushed her chair back and busied herself with cleaning up the sugar-coated napkins and empty doughnut boxes scattered around the table. “Why don’t you see where Nancy is with your coffee?”

  Jack accepted her clear dismissal with a chastising cluck of his tongue. “Afraid to be alone with me, angel?”

  Was she just tired, or did her face seem to pale when he said the word alone?

  “Of course not, Jack. Why would I be afraid now?”

  He mulled over her words and her jittery expression until Nancy buzzed in on the intercom. “Davenport’s on line three.”

  Angela took a deep breath, swallowed and walked to the phone. Jack backed out of the room, giving her privacy.

  He found Nancy by the coffee machine, sent her to her work and poured himself a cup, lightening it with a touch of cream. The break room was small but private, allowing Jack a moment to collect his thoughts while he watched for the red light on line three to go out.

  Why was Angela so nervous? With the existence of her daughter revealed, she had no reason to be anxious. Dani was an enchanting child, and he’d fallen instantly under her spell. The fact that she was Chryssie Hart’s daughter made no difference to him, except he now thought of his high school nemesis a bit more fondly. She looked hauntingly like Chryssie, but her sparkling personality and bright-eyed honesty were Angela through and through.

  So why did he feel as if Angela still harbored some devastating secret?

  The instinct to push her gnawed at him, though another part of him wanted to ignore the signals that told him he was in for a shock. He’d convinced himself Angela wasn’t like Lily—she didn’t keep secrets, she didn’t tell lies. Then he’d discovered Dani. What else could there be?

  And did the secrets matter?

  When line three went dark, he weaved his way back to the conference room. Nancy watched him expectantly the entire way, and the leader of the creative team leaned out of his office. Jack saluted them confidently with his coffee, knocked, then slipped into the room.

  He found Angela sitting at the head of the conference table, her eyes staring blankly at the far wall.

  “Angela? What’s wrong?”

  Jack slid into a seat beside her and took her hands in his. Her palms were clammy with cold perspiration.

  “Don’t tell me he didn’t like the presentation. I met the man. He didn’t seem stupid to me.”

  Angela pulled in a shaky breath.

  “He’s not. He has full confidence this will be the most innovative and effective marketing campaign ever.”

  Her words should have sounded proud, excited, effervescent.

  They didn’t.

  “Then what’s the problem?�
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  She breathed deeply again, this time pressing her shoulders down and straightening her spine. Turning, she faced him squarely, a no-nonsense tilt to her chin.

  “He has high expectations for Harris and Associates. So much so that he made me an unexpected offer.”

  Jack didn’t want to ask. “An offer? Of what?”

  For the briefest instant, she glanced down to where Jack’s hands locked with hers. If she thought he’d let go, she had another think coming.

  “Of a vice-president position in his corporation. He wants to merge Harris and Associates with Davenport Homes to handle all the marketing for his international development interests.”

  “But Davenport Homes is located in—”

  “California. I know. He wants to see me first thing Monday morning at his San Francisco office.”

  11

  HE WOULDN’T let her go. Okay, so he had no real power over her decision whether or not to move. But he sure as hell didn’t plan to roll over and let her relocate without a fight. Not after ten years of missing her. Not after the past week.

  Too shocked by Davenport’s proposal to discuss it, she’d accepted Jack’s offer to make her travel plans while she met with the staff again. She also didn’t balk when he made plane reservations for three—Dani and him included.

  She’d mentioned an upcoming Napa Valley vacation earlier, so why not combine business with pleasure and invite himself along? If Angela considered, even for a moment, taking this six-figure job, Jack planned to be there to deal dirty.

  He would even tell her he loved her.

  Except that she wouldn’t believe him.

  Even if he was close to believing it himself.

  During the five-hour plane trip, he entertained Dani, allowing Angela freedom to feign interest in marketing reports and industry journals. Several times, he caught her staring at him and her daughter playing together when she thought he wasn’t looking. He sensed her turmoil, felt the strained tension in her grin. Did she wonder what kind of father he’d be? Did this play a part in her decision?