Maid of Dishonor

by Heidi Rice

  ‘Yeah.’ He waved her goodbye and jogged down the stairs, conceding that a few days seemed like a mighty long time.

  * * *

  Gina slammed the door and leaned against it, her diamond-hard nipples making the silk of her camisole feel like sandpaper.

  Way to go, Gina. After going cold turkey for a whole week, your drug of choice appears and you resist temptation for precisely ten seconds.

  She rolled her eyes and squeezed her thighs together to stop the insistent ache that had settled there as soon as she’d encountered Carter Price standing on her doorstop. His dark hair furrowed into rows and those cobalt eyes even bluer than usual.

  She pursed her lips.

  Carter wouldn’t have offered her this commission unless he thought she would do a competent job—his business was far too important to him for that—but the lingering sizzle where his mouth had touched hers in that casual but proprietary kiss told a slightly different story. That the decision to offer her this opportunity might not be entirely based on the glowing testimonials on her website.

  As an independent working woman with a fledgling business she was proud of, she should be outraged.

  She padded across the apartment to the bathroom and shrugged out of her robe. Tossing the camisole over her head, she stepped into the enamel bath and switched the dial on the shower unit to scalding.

  Unfortunately, though, she couldn’t quite muster the required indignation because her decision to accept Carter’s offer had had more to do with the intoxicating pheromones he released without even trying—which had caused every one of the synapses in her brain to fuse in unison the second she saw him—than it did with the fabulous opportunity this commission would offer her struggling business.

  As the water pounded down, and she soaped her oversensitive breasts with rather more vigour than was entirely necessary, she could almost hear Cassie’s dry Aussie accent saying: ‘I told you endorphins are addictive.’

  NINE

  Gina dabbed at the sheen of sweat on her brow as she sat in the airy outer office of the Price Paper Mill. A large picture window looked down on the factory floor, where the mill’s mostly recycled paper products were manufactured, giving her a slight flutter of vertigo to go with her nerves.

  She gripped her laptop bag as Carter’s young but efficient PA Bella Delmarr smiled benignly at her from behind a neat white desk.

  ‘Mr Price will be along shortly, Miz Carrington. Would you like some iced tea or a soda while you wait?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she replied, not sure she’d be able to swallow without choking, given her jumpy stomach. Which was ridiculous. Why was she so apprehensive about seeing him?

  She’d done her homework in the last three days, putting together a preliminary package for him to review—which included projections for the different social media platforms, what they could hope to achieve, some blog designs, website analytics and ideas for possible marketing campaigns to enhance the company’s profile. Unfortunately, while doing all that, she’d discovered that the Price family’s paper mill had grown from a virtually bankrupt business when Carter had stepped into the CEO’s shoes after his father’s death into a huge multinational enterprise cleverly cornering the market in the South in recycled products. All of which made Carter’s offer of a commission not just a great opportunity, but easily the best she’d ever had.

  She could not afford to mess this up—which meant she could not afford to mess with Carter. And while that was extremely disappointing on a number of levels, by far her biggest concern was getting her libido—and Carter—to cooperate. Because she had a feeling his agenda might not be quite so professional—and saying no to him had never been one of her strong suits.

  She smoothed damp palms down the linen trousers she’d worn to ward off the intense humidity—only to have the sweat pop back out onto her top lip as the man himself walked through the adjoining door from his office.

  ‘Gina, you made it.’

  She got out of her chair and shook the hand he offered. The familiar shot of adrenaline raced up her arm at the touch of his cool dry fingers. ‘Yes, I have some projections for you to look at.’ She lifted her laptop.

  ‘Great, why don’t you leave that with Bella?’ He nodded to his PA. ‘I’ll give you the tour first and then we can take a look.’

  She passed the laptop over, disconcerted by the intense cobalt gaze that wandered over her outfit, contradicting the businesslike tone.

  ‘I hope you’re not too hot.’ He placed a wide palm on the base of her spine, steering her to the stairwell that led to the factory floor. ‘Humidity hit ninety per cent today—which is manageable for a native, but let me know if you’re gonna wilt and we’ll take a break.’

  It wasn’t the humidity that was likely to make her wilt, she thought, as his palm rubbed before it dropped away, sending tendrils of heat shooting up her spine through the silk of her blouse.

  ‘Ninety per cent is more than I’d bargained for,’ she replied as they left the air-conditioned stairwell and hit a wall of heat. It was like walking into a steam room, the wet, humid warmth slapping into them with the force of a wave. ‘When you said hot and sticky, I wasn’t expecting the Seventh Circle of Hell,’ she added, deciding that talking about the weather was probably the safest bet.

  He rolled up his shirt sleeves, and she could see the glow of sweat on his brow beneath his hairline. Her mouth dried as she registered the sudden urge to run her tongue across his forehead and lick off the salty beads of moisture. The way she’d done on that hot summer night in Hillbrook.

  Down, girl. Remember: businesslike, professional, focused, at all times. You’re not going to screw up your big break for an endorphin fix. This is your new leaf talking.

  His sensual lips curved into an easy smile that had ‘focused’ falling by the wayside straight away. ‘Ninety per cent is nothing,’ he said in that lazy Southern drawl that never failed to reverberate in her abdomen. ‘Forecast is for it to get a whole lot hotter over the next couple of weeks.’ The wicked glint in those heavy-lidded eyes made it fairly obvious this was not a conversation about the weather any more. ‘You think you can handle the heat?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she lied.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of information as he showed her round the whole operation, displaying a hands-on knowledge of the production process—and his employees—that surprised and intrigued her.

  From the little Marnie had let slip about her brother and what Gina had discovered on the Internet, she’d assumed Carter Price CEO would be as dominant and cynical as Carter Price Lover Man.

  But after taking the tour of his factory, she’d discovered the sheep in wolf’s clothing.

  She’d thought he would focus on the big picture, the business side of his business—and leave the nitty-gritty of production and supply to his minions. And she hadn’t expected him to know every one of his employees by their first names—right down to the pimply faced teenager who swept the loading bay. Or to know enough about their lives to ask after new babies, or recent marriages, or Great-Aunt Merilou’s bursitis. But Carter Price had known about all of those things, chatting in a relaxed, comfortable way that suggested these people weren’t his minions, they were his friends. And it was also obvious they all felt the same way about Carter—talking to him with easy smiles on their faces and affection as well as admiration in their eyes.

  Of course, the mill was an essential part of the local economy and Carter had saved it from going under, so it was no surprise his employees were grateful to him. But she sensed something more going on, a sort of proprietary interest, almost as if these people had the status of family as well as friends, which explained the reserved Southern manners and considered glances she’d received when he introduced her—as if they were sizing her up. She dismissed the p
rickle of unease, remembering that she was a professional, here on professional business, even if he did insist on touching her arm and smiling confidentially at her, in front of his ‘people’.

  But despite her best intentions, by the time they had settled into Carter’s low-riding convertible and were bombing along a country road flanked by the ubiquitous kudzu vines that swallowed most of the landscape en route to Savannah, Gina had to admit she was feeling more than a little dazed trying to assimilate everything she’d learned.

  She stole a glance at the man beside her and her pulse slowed, taking in the play of muscles as he shifted gears, the sculpted angle of his cheekbone in profile, and the way the wind whipped at his hair—making her fingers itch to sweep it back off that high forehead.

  Rats. Seeing Carter Price in his natural habitat wasn’t going to make him one single bit easier to resist.

  ‘So what do you think?’ He shouted the question across the console.

  You’re gorgeous.

  The words echoed in her head, as they had been doing most of the afternoon. And it occurred to her she wasn’t just admiring his looks any more, or his super powers in the sack, or even the sharp intelligence he’d shown during their chat in the Standard bar a week ago. While walking through his business with him, she’d got a glimpse of the boy she’d met a decade ago. The cynical player slipping away to reveal a man with warmth and intelligence—and an almost boyish pride in what he’d achieved, not just for himself and his company, but for his community. She wondered if Marnie had ever seen this side of him. Surely she couldn’t have and still think so little of him?

  But then families were often unpredictable. Growing up in close proximity to someone didn’t automatically make you able to understand them—or even like them.

  Take her own father—and her impossible relationship with him. Arthur Carrington had been a low-ranking member of the British aristocracy who’d inherited a venture capitalist firm from his own father—her father’s ruthlessness in business had been legendary. He’d grabbed all he could with the arrogance of a man born into status and given very little back, not just in his professional life, but in his personal life as well. And although he’d been dead for over six years, Gina still shuddered when she thought of him and the cold, hard glint in his eyes as he’d kicked her out of his house ten years ago.

  From what Marnie had said about Carter’s chequered love life since his divorce, and from what she had discovered during the last few days about the phenomenal success of his business, Gina would have expected him to be cut from the same cloth, albeit with a layer of Southern charm added. But it seemed nothing could have been further from the truth. Was it possible he really wasn’t that far removed from the idealistic and sincere young man she remembered at Hillbrook? Who had been striving to pull his family’s business back from the brink but had been determined to do so in an ethical way?

  And why did that concept only make her visit to Savannah seem that much more perilous?

  ‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘You’ve built something amazing here—just like you hoped you would,’ she added, the memory of the starry-eyed enthusiasm with which he’d once outlined his dreams for the mill all those years ago making her forget to be cautious. ‘And you didn’t have to become your father to do it.’

  A small crinkle formed on his brow. ‘What do you know about my father?’

  ‘Only what you said about him that night.’

  He slowed the car, shifted down a gear to observe her for several long moments. ‘What did I say about him? I don’t recall.’

  Her heart bobbed into her throat and it occurred to her she had just strayed into forbidden territory. Why had she mentioned that night? They were so far past it now. And she would do better not to equate the man Carter was now with the boy he’d been, because that boy had had a very unpredictable effect on her. And if she wanted to maintain a professional distance, sharing intimate recollections probably wasn’t the smartest way to go about it.

  ‘I can’t remember, not a lot.’

  ‘You remember, or you wouldn’t have made that comment.’

  He didn’t sound annoyed, but his expression was far too intense for merely curious—forcing her to give him an answer.

  ‘I got the impression you didn’t like him much....’ A confidence that had instantly made them connect, because it was exactly how she had always felt about her own father.

  ‘Did I tell you why?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really.’ He hadn’t elaborated, even when she’d pushed and she couldn’t deny the spark of curiosity even now. ‘Marnie always described him as being larger than life—a force to be reckoned with. You seemed less impressed with him. That’s all I remember.’

  But she’d always wondered where that disillusionment had come from. Especially the next morning, when he’d woken up in her arms in her tiny bedroom in Reese’s house and then shot out of her bed, the horror and regret plain on his stricken face. And all her stupid notions about some cosmic connection between them had shrivelled up inside her as he’d apologised with the stiff politeness of a puritan minister while rushing to get his clothes on—so he could escape out of the window and pretend he’d never been there when he returned to collect Marnie’s stuff. Before racing back to Savannah to throw himself on the mercy of the woman he was due to marry. The woman he loved.

  ‘I sure must have shot my mouth off that night.’ He sent her a quick grin. ‘You must have thought I was one hell of a sap.’

  She hadn’t thought he was a sap—not after she’d cut through the macho posturing and discovered a young man who’d seemed as lost and alone and confused as she was. She flinched at the stupidly romantic thought. ‘You were certainly rather full of yourself,’ she replied—because he had been, at first. ‘And hopelessly sexist.’

  He sent her a quick grin. ‘Yeah, and as I recall you weren’t shy about telling me. I still remember that comment about exactly how I was ruining the line of my designer points.’

  He gave a rueful chuckle, but she cringed inside—knowing even then she’d been flirting with him.

  ‘But I realise now you were simply looking out for your sister in the only way you knew how to.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’ he teased, but she couldn’t bring herself to share the joke, the memory of that intense, conflicted young man and the way she’d mocked him far too vivid.

  ‘And in complete denial about your sexual needs—which made you an irresistible challenge for a tramp like me.’

  He flicked up the indicator to turn off the country lane onto a two-lane highway. ‘Gina, honey, you weren’t a tramp,’ he said, with surprising conviction. ‘You had a healthy libido and you weren’t ashamed to enjoy it. Unlike me. I sincerely hope you are not still blaming yourself for what happened?’ he asked, the question a little too astute for comfort.

  She forced out a husky laugh. ‘I’ve never been ashamed of enjoying sex. I think I gave you conclusive proof of that last week.’

  ‘True enough,’ he purred, the heavy-lidded look far too suggestive.

  ‘But I certainly had a quality-control problem in my teens,’ she added, steering them away from yet more forbidden territory. ‘These days I make a point of not giving in to every passing fancy. Despite all evidence to the contrary last Friday night.’

  He sent her a curious smile. ‘I sure hope you’re not suggesting I’m only a passing fancy, sugar?’

  She drew in a breath. He’d given her the opening she needed. ‘Actually, you’re going to have to be,’ she murmured, surprised at how depressed the thought made her feel. ‘As your newly appointed web designer and social media strategist, I don’t think we can afford a replay of Friday night. It will be too distracting.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ he said, the curious smile twitching. He didn’t seem annoyed by her comment, which was a good thing. Not so goo
d was the fact that he seemed to find it fairly amusing. ‘You ever try multitasking?’ he asked, the glint in his eye deliberately provocative.

  ‘I’m afraid so. And unfortunately I’m exceptionally bad at it.’

  * * *

  Damn, how could he have forgotten how forthright she was? She talked about sex without an ounce of calculation or subterfuge or fake modesty, in that clean crisp smoky British accent that arrowed straight into his crotch. After years spent handling women who figured sex could be bartered for love and marriage and happy ever after, Gina Carrington’s attitude was refreshingly straightforward—and one heck of a turn-on.

  Not so much of a turn-on, though, was what she was saying through those luscious lips of hers. Lips he’d wanted to feast on as soon as he’d seen her sitting in the mill’s reception area looking hot and determined and aloof.

  Swallowing down the groan that was threatening to rumble out of his throat, he kept his hands on the steering wheel and his gaze on the road ahead—and mulled over the problem.

  What had seemed like a fairly simply seduction at the mill had become a mite more complicated. Gina’s professional scruples weren’t something he’d given a whole heck of a lot of thought to before offering her the commission. And now he’d seen her work, he probably should have. She was good, even better than he’d expected—the strategies she’d roughed together already exactly what they’d been looking for. Economical, well-directed and expertly designed with an originality that would make people sit up and take notice.

  ‘I’m not gonna pretend that isn’t a disappointment,’ he said, keeping the lazy drawl in place as he played for time. ‘But that’s your prerogative.’

  Just as it would be his prerogative to change her mind.

  He rolled his shoulders, edging his foot off the gas pedal as the car bumped over a set of railroad tracks, and drifted into the urban sprawl of strip malls and tree-lined neighbourhoods that marked the edge of town.