by Cari Quinn
Nope. Those weren’t conversational possibilities.
“Ah, yes. My offer.”
“I’ll do it.” Kiki blew out a breath that ruffled her teased bangs. “I owe you. I’ll do what I can to help you with that project you mentioned.”
“Sure you want to agree before you know what you’ll be doing?” His fingers tapped the back of the couch, leaving imprints in the moss green cushions. “Trusting, aren’t you?”
“I owe you,” she said again, glancing around the room. Anything to keep from staring at him.
She’d barely noticed her surroundings when she entered, but now she noted the honey wood and the deep greens and browns of the furniture. Neutral, manly colors. Then there was the chubby black Lab snoring in front of the TV, oblivious to the hot porn action she’d paused.
Lucky dog.
The place appeared tidy, without much bric-a-brac other than the computer components strewn on every available surface. Then her gaze landed on his sleek silver laptop, document open, cursor winking.
“Go on,” he urged.
Casting a quick look at him, she pulled his laptop closer. After scrolling back a couple pages, she began to read.
She’d expected some kind of technical jargon she couldn’t understand. What she got was several pages of sex.
Her cheeks flamed hot. Really explicit, inventive sex that took place on a hammock and defied all bounds of gravity.
“What the—”
“That’s not the main document. Sometimes when I’m writing and I get stuck, I free write. That’s what I did tonight.” His dimples winked. “One-handed.”
“Was the other hand busy?”
“You’re quite the comedian. No. And if you must know, I’d have tried anything to get my mind off my shoulder. The bourbon was next.”
Guilt reared up inside her. “You’re hurting a lot?”
“I’ve been having a moment, we’ll say.” He braced his hand on his thigh until his knuckles whitened. “It’s lasted for two hours.”
Kiki’s gaze slid back to his document. She couldn’t seem to stop reading. Not only was the sex highly erotic, the writing was damn good. “After this, no wonder you needed to let off some steam.”
He chuckled and leaned forward to tap the screen. She couldn’t help thinking he was using the hand he’d had wrapped around his erection, but then she caught a whiff of his woodsy aftershave and a hint of his sweat and her thoughts disintegrated. “Open this doc here.”
She nearly sighed as she did what he asked. Along with everything else, he had to smell like yummy man-candy.
This file must contain his actual work. Kinda weird that a network analyst wrote tawdry sex scenes about fictional characters—God, she hoped they were fictional—to loosen up, but if it worked for him….
Except this document contained more of the same breezy, oddly familiar voice. Not that it reminded her of Vincent. No, this seemed female somehow. And it was a story about those same two characters that were going at it in a hammock in the other document.
“I don’t understand.”
He resumed the same casual position against the cushions—arm along the back, one leg crossed over the other, lazy smile—but tension oozed off him in waves. “You read romances, Vicenza Bishop’s in particular.”
She cleared her throat, remembering the day he’d caught her reading Vicenza Bishop’s latest release hidden behind the National Tattler. The shipment of books had just arrived, and the store had been slow that night. It was nothing to be ashamed of. “Among other things.”
“Tell me, does that seem familiar to you? The writing, not the story?”
Something about the silence that descended caused her to read a few more lines. If she hadn’t read more than one of Vicenza’s books—okay, all seven of them, but that was only because Tammy religiously stocked Scarlet Publishing’s monthly lineup—she never would’ve noticed the resemblance in style. But she had and she did.
Her eyes widened. “She’s you. Or you’re her. Vicenza. Vincent. Oh, my God.”
“Breathe,” he advised, sliding closer to take the laptop out of her hands. Pain flickered across his face as he set the computer on the coffee table. “Did you think I’d ask you to help me write some kind of tech manual? Maybe design a network?”
“I had no clue.” She squinted at the smile curving his lips. All of a sudden, he was calm as a kitten. “You write romances? You?”
“Is it so hard to believe?”
Kiki laughed, rubbing her fist against the lump of nerves in her stomach. First, she’d overheard moaning in his apartment and tried the door to make sure he was okay, only to find him masturbating to porn. Now she’d discovered he was a romance author.
A romance author with a woman’s pen name.
A romance author whose books she eagerly anticipated and actively sought out.
She reclined against the cushions, giving in to her fit of giggles. This was too much. “It’s hilarious imagining you sneaking around writing chick porn under a woman’s name. Vincent, the computer jock, with the steady stream of bed bunnies on his arm.” She covered her mouth with her hand, but she couldn’t stop laughing. “I’ve officially seen it all.”
“Not yet, you haven’t.” Vincent tapped a few keys and pulled up his email program. “Read.”
She wiped her eyes and leaned in, tensing as he remained close to her side. After she scanned the e-mail from his agent, she swung her gaze to his and saw his smile had morphed into a grin. “You have a book due on December 30th? Twenty-two days from now?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He drew his fingertip over her cheekbone. “Still feel like laughing, assistant?”
Chapter Five
“Assistant?” Kiki bristled at the term. “You can’t expect me to help you write—”
“Chick porn?” He cocked a brow. “Chick porn I’ve seen you reading more than once? Chick porn of mine, even? You like reading it. Writing it isn’t that far removed.”
He caressed her trembling lower lip with his thumb. About thirty seconds ago, she’d stopped trembling from laughter and shock and started trembling from his nearness. When his hot gaze lingered on her mouth, her trembles turned into a full-body quiver. “Unless you’re a prude.”
Some people couldn’t resist a challenge. She was one of them. “If I were a prude, would I have walked in here after I caught you…” her voice faltered “…touching yourself?”
“Depends.” He dipped his mouth to hers, replacing his thumb with his tongue. “Maybe it was bravado. You have a lot of that. It almost got us killed.”
She couldn’t stop staring into his eyes. Normally, she shied away from eye contact with men during kisses. Wasn’t that what he was doing to her with little flicks of his tongue? Kissing her into mindlessness? Soon, she’d be saying yes to anything.
Yes, I’ll help you write your book.
Yes, I’ll be your love slave.
Yes, show me to your hammock.
“You saved my life.” Because she couldn’t take the intimacy of looking at him any longer, she threw her gaze up at the ceiling. It was cream, with fancy swirl moulding. Excellent craftsmanship. If—
“Vincent,” she gasped as his mouth found something else to latch on to, namely the hard nipples poking through her thin sweater. He pulled on one swollen nub with his teeth, and her entire body started to thrum. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and her fingers itched to lace into his hair, but she let out a silent scream to summon the last of her willpower.
Nico.
It worked. The haze over her vision cleared. “Don’t.”
When he broke away from her, she wanted to bite her tongue hard enough to draw blood. That he’d stopped immediately garnered him another dozen points. “You’re right.” He inhaled sharply. “Not the best way to start a working relationship.”
The words “working relationship” were like a slap to her raging libido. The moisture between her legs evaporated in an instant. “I didn’t sign on for this.” She waved a hand at hi
s laptop. “I planned on a couple days’ work, not weeks.”
There was no way she could hold on for weeks. Even hours seemed dubious.
“Twenty-two days. Not so long.” As Vincent dragged his teeth over his lower lip, she swallowed a moan. He had an absolutely sinful mouth. “You’re not afraid to be alone with me, are you? You asked me to stop, I stopped. Unless you’re afraid you won’t ask me to next time.”
That was exactly what she was afraid of. Not the sex. Oh, no, sirree, her body was ready, willing and able to take on that task at a moment’s notice. What she was afraid of was the morning after, when her hand crept across the mattress to find him gone. Because he would be gone, sooner rather than later.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said quietly as she stared at her lap. “I want you to want to be here. But if you don’t take me up on my offer, this conversation stays between you and me. I’d prefer it if my colleagues didn’t discover I write erotic romances.”
He was giving her an out. But if she took it, that proved she was the same safe, boring Katherine Wyatt she’d always been. And she wasn’t.
She met his eyes. “Let’s get started.”
It didn’t take long for Vincent to wonder if he’d lost his mind by asking for Kiki’s help. Thus far, it was more accurate to say she was hindering.
“Since you can’t seem to understand the opening scene—”
“The opening chapter,” she corrected. “The writing’s decent, but it doesn’t have any punch.”
Punch. Yeah. What he’d need to do to the wall in a few minutes.
Vincent cleared his throat. “To recap, our intrepid heroine, Saffron Jones, is the CEO of an international cosmetics company, the business she built from the ground up.” At Kiki’s muffled snort, he shot her a sidelong glance. “What now?”
“I’m sorry, but Saffron? Could that be any more romance novel clichéd?”
“It’s my book.” He smiled thinly. “May I continue?”
She returned his smile. “By all means.”
“Saffron’s childhood was rough. Her parents divorced when she was young and her father was absent most of the time, leading to the usual difficulty in trusting men. Yadda, yadda. Money was tight, so she became a stripper to put herself through school.”
“There you have it.” She snapped her fingers, breaking his train of thought. “Instant reader identification. The average woman can so relate to a stripper named Saffron.”
He stared at her. “Are you trying to annoy me into firing you?” he asked finally.
“Can’t fire someone you’re not paying.”
“Did I forget to mention that?” Delighted by the confusion trickling into her eyes, he steepled his hands over his stomach. “Since you’re out of a job, and I’m off work through next week, I figure we can put in some overtime on the book. If you give me what I need, I’ll help you out financially. Sound reasonable?”
Hope flared on her face, but her expression swiftly changed into one of mistrust. “Our original agreement stands. I’ll help you with the book. But I’m not your mistress, and you won’t ‘help me out financially’ as if I were.”
“Uh, I’ve never had a mistress, as I’ve never been married.” A grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he reached for his milk. Kiki’s self-righteousness was damned entertaining, when it wasn’t annoying. “Payment for services rendered is how the world works. But if we keep arguing, there won’t be any need for payment because so far the only service you’ve given me is lip.”
She scowled and returned her gaze to his legal pad. “Saffron’s hero is Nathan Cory.”
“Yes. He’s the head of a rival cosmetics firm, and Saffron suspects he’s the man behind the repeated hostile takeover attempts of her company, French Kiss ’n Tell.”
“Is he?”
“Of course.” He slung his right arm over the back of the sofa. “This is a romance, after all. Without conflict, there’s no steam.”
“So that’s what creates steam? Conflict?”
“Sometimes. Opposites attract. Although there is something sexy about finding similarities in another, even if they manifest themselves differently. Take us, for example.”
“Let’s not.”
He gave her an easy smile. “You’ve obviously been burned romantically before, and I haven’t.”
She rolled his pencil between her fingers. “Bully for you. And it’s been years since I’ve been burned. For the last few, I’ve steered clear.”
“By avoiding men.”
“Hardly.” She sniffed. “Believe me, I’ve had lovers, even if I haven’t been on dates. You’re not the only one who likes one-night-stands, Buonfiglio.”
He grinned. Sometimes Kiki reminded him of a child’s trick-or-treat bag. He never knew what would tumble out of her next.
“Which circles back nicely to my original point. Despite our backgrounds, we’re equally disinterested in entanglements. Oh, and thank you for reminding me that you haven’t gone without for the last three years.” He smirked at the indignation that flitted across her face. Was there anything he enjoyed more than seeing her eyes darken? “Glad I don’t have to worry about your health.”
“Listening to you talk about sex makes me remember why I use men for one thing.”
“You can use me anytime you want.” He laughed at her hot look. “Honestly, I’m just trying to get to know you.”
“You’re angling.”
He walked his fingers up her shoulder to toy with the ends of her hair. Blonde and pink stripes zigzagged through the brown, and the razor-tipped strands stuck out at odd angles. The hairstyle was strangely charming, much like the woman herself. “Am I?”
“Are you?” she mimicked. “Of course you are. You’re trying to sidle me into bed. Why use your hand when there’s a woman around?”
“I knew there was a reason I hired you.” He suppressed a grin. “Back to my point. Other than the occasional dalliance, you usually avoid sex. And I usually seek out partners who don’t expect more than I’m willing to give.”
“More than you’re capable of giving, you mean.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of, Kiki.”
“Do you, I wonder?” She picked up his pencil and anchored it behind her adorably pointed ear, still pink from the cold. “So why is Nathan trying to take over Saffron’s company?”
“Because he can.”
She arched a brow. “How many books have you written?”
“Seven.” He kept his voice even. “Why?”
“It just seems to me that your character motivations would be more well thought-out by now. Toby and I put more effort into the plays we write for the community theater, and only a hundred people see them. Then again, maybe your fans aren’t particularly choosy.”
“You’re a fan, remember?”
She sent him a sunny smile. “I read them for free.”
Vincent gulped down the rest of his chocolate milk. “Why did I suggest we work together again?”
“My guess? Because there was no else you felt comfortable asking for help from since your writing persona is such a big secret. So why not ask the silly little ex-gas station attendant you used to flirt with over your chili dog? Maybe she can type. And even if she blabbed, who’d listen to what she has to say?”
His amusement fled. “I don’t think of you like that. You’re so much more than a gas station attendant.”
“Ex.” She faced his computer. “And how do you know what I am?”
Apparently, her self-worth was another sore spot, which made him feel even more like a heel for ever thinking disparaging thoughts about her former profession. “You think you know things about me. It’s a two-way street.” He laid a hand over hers. “How many times have I told you how smart you are? That you could do anything you wanted to, if only you set your mind to it?”
“Smart.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “And pretty.”
When he didn’t say anything, she tossed him a sidelong glance
. “You don’t remember? After you got shot, you were floating in and out of consciousness. You said I was smart, and that you wondered why I stayed at the Quikky Snak. You also said I was pretty.” She cocked her head. “You kept mentioning a book, and that you were blocked. I had no clue what you meant.”
He rubbed his eyes. Nice to know that even when he was half-unconscious and losing blood, his book contract took priority. “Now you do.”
“You take it seriously. It’s not just a lark to you.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Why did you start writing?”
He started to deflect the question, but the words seemed to spring out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Throughout the story, she didn’t speak. By the time he’d finished, she’d turned her hand over to clasp his.
“There’s more to you than meets the eye, Vincent Buonfiglio.”
“Not that much,” he muttered. “Don’t go all female on me and start cooing about my tortured soul. I’m happy with my life.”
“Are you?” She didn’t coo, but she did smile wistfully. “You’re lucky.”
“You’re not?”
Kiki eased her fingers out of his hold and resumed tapping keys. “I’m working on it. And speaking of work….”
He let it go. For the moment.
Kiki rolled her shoulders and strolled over to the whistling teapot on the stove. She’d been pleasantly surprised Vincent had a teapot and a cache of hot cocoa, but he’d informed her—tersely—that they belonged to his grandmother.
He’d been terse for a while now, even after he’d popped some pills and plowed through a leftover meatball sub. She was beginning to wonder if that was his standard MO, his smooth, slyly sexual routine aside. Of course, pain didn’t improve anyone’s mood.
Neither did artistic differences.
For hours, they went at it. Arguing, writing, and arguing some more. Until Vincent snapped. “I told you her name’s Saffron. I don’t like Lucy or Samantha or freakin’ Nicole.”
“It’s your book.” She shrugged. “Do what you want with it.”
“No kidding?” Vincent brushed past her as she reached for the cocoa canister she’d been into twice already. With an audible exhale, he swiveled back to do the honors for her. “God, you’re short.”