by Karen Rigley
“For CupidKey,” Jami corrected, wanting to remind him that their romantic dinner was based on business.
“For us and CupidKey.” He took the chair directly across from hers, then he scooted it nearer to sit intimately close.
Hand flying to her throat, she glanced around for the photographer. “Where’s Mike?”
“He’ll be here. I noticed he already has his equipment set up.”
Jami glanced at the abandoned tripod and lights several yards away. Beyond, the French doors opened out onto a slate patio where she could see a sunken, redwood hot tub. But no sign of Mike.
Grant leaned a fraction closer. “Mike is probably hanging around Becca’s kitchen.”
“Hoping for a taste of her delicious baking?”
“Hoping for something,” Grant replied with a wink. “Becca’s helper is a pretty teenage girl named Pam.”
Jami unfolded her creamy white linen napkin, spreading it over her lap. Anything to keep from meeting Grant’s piercing gaze. Awareness raced through her in response to his dynamite glances, alerting Jami that her traitorous body needed to be reminded this date was fantasy. She and Grant had nothing in common and certainly weren’t a real couple. This rendezvous was for Sierra. Nothing more. Now if only Jami could convince her heart.
“I haven’t met Pam.”
“Pam only helps out for special events.” Grant reached across the table to place his hand over Jami’s. “Since we comprise a special event tonight, I’m sure you’ll met her shortly.”
Jami stole a peek at Grant through her lashes, and as her gaze dropped from his handsome face to his lapel, she burst into laughter.
“What?”
“Lipstick on your collar,” Jami sang, waving a hand at his chest.
He examined his lapel where she had left a perfect imprint of her lips. He chuckled. “We can’t blame Toby for this stain.”
“Hardly,” Jami agreed with a smile. “Maybe Becca can bring us a warm, sudsy cloth, and I can lighten the lipstick, so it won’t show.”
On cue, Becca hustled into the room carrying a basket of rolls, bowl of tossed green salad, and decanter of vinaigrette. “First course of our romantic dinner for our Cupid couple.”
The innkeeper was followed by a pretty blonde teenager who carried a champagne bottle packed in an ice bucket. Wearing a sheepish grin, Mike entered behind them with camera in hand.
They exchanged greetings and introductions as Becca and Pam bustled around the table. “We’ll leave the champagne for you to open.” Becca waved, exiting the room in a whirlwind, Pam trailing in her wake.
“Bye, Pam. You, too, Becca,” Mike called, smoothing down the brown fuzz on his head as he watched Pam’s departure with interest. He brightened as the teenager threw him a pert grin when she sashayed out the door. “Cute kid.”
“You’re a still kid yourself,” Grant nonchalantly remarked, leaning back in his chair with amusement.
“I’m twenty-six,” Mike disputed, his statement drawing attention to faint lines around his mouth and eyes, and a shallow crease slashing his forehead, none of which Jami had previously noticed. “I’ve been in business four-and-a-half years.”
“That long,” Grant drawled with a twinkle.
Jami watched the exchange, surprised to discover that Mike was only a few years her junior. At the moment she felt eons older. Something she suspected came with motherhood and single parenting.
“Guess you two started without me,” Mike said, his dancing hazel eyes targeting the lipstick imprint on Grant’s lapel.
“It’s not what you think,” Jami protested her hands curling the edges of the napkin on her lap as she imagined what the photographer was thinking.
“Yeah, sure.” Mike grinned and exchanged a glance with Grant.
“The lady speaks the truth,” Grant returned, raising a palm. “She, ah, fell into me. A case of deadly spike heels.”
“Right.” Mike’s grin broadened.
Jami lifted her killer sandals from the floor, dangling them before the men. “I can’t walk in these heels.”
“Then why did you buy them?” Mike skeptically asked.
“I didn’t,” Jami replied, her glare shifting to Grant.
“Guilty as charged,” Grant responded smugly.
Mike shook his head. “I can’t figure you guys out, but, hey—that’s not my job.” He removed the lens cover and adjusted his camera. “Put your shoes under the table and out of camera range.”
Jami obeyed. “I can wear them later if necessary, just don’t make me walk in the things.”
“Okay, pretty lady. Now lean toward Grant and gaze into his eyes.” Mike’s demeanor altered to pure professional. “Grant, take her hand and give me an ensnared lover’s gaze.”
Grant’s large, strong hand slid over Jami’s petite one, his warm grasp bringing her nerve endings to life. She stared into Grant’s deep blue eyes, watching his pupils flare darker as a magnetic current flowed between them, and a dizzying warmth engulfed her.
“Good. Great. Closer,” Mike remarked, reminding them of his presence and the click, flash, whirr of his camera as he metered the light and hopped around.
“I’d like some shots by candlelight.”
“No problem,” Grant said, withdrawing a silver and gold cigarette lighter from his jacket pocket.
Jami noticed the initials C.G.C. embossed in gold. She remembered the packet he’d received when they first arrived at the lodge and that it had been addressed to C. Grant Carrington. What did the C stand for? Colten? Chance? Cory? None seem to fit the man. Neither did the lighter. With his spectacular physique, he appeared too health conscious to smoke. She shook her head. The more she thought she knew him, the less she did. With one flick, a whiff of lighter fluid and a flash of flame, he set both candles alight.
“A lighter?” Jami voiced aloud. “Do you smoke?”
“No. It’s a gift that occasionally comes in handy.”
A gift from a woman, Jami concluded as he slid the lighter back into his pocket. Don’t ever forget what kind of man he is, she warned herself. Or forget what happened to your heart before.
“Dish up the salad, and we can get one of you feeding each other,” Mike said, unaware of Jami’s tightening resolution.
“I don’t think so,” she retorted.
“Fine, I’m easy.” Mike shrugged. “Grant, pour the champagne, and we’ll shoot you toasting each other.”
“A toast?” Jami wondered if that would be just as bad.
“Definitely a toast,” Mike answered firmly. “It’s on the list.”
The cork popped. Jami watched as Grant poured fizzing champagne into the crystal flutes, again noticing her lip-print on his jacket. “Hadn’t we better try to sponge the lipstick off Grant’s lapel?”
Mike laughed, adjusted the lens on his camera, and changed angles. “I don’t know. It adds to the mood and the romance.”
“That’s tacky,” Jami countered, dabbing the edge of her napkin into the water of the goblet holding the lily blossom. “Here, let me.” She leaned close to Grant, uncomfortably aware of his gaze lingering on her cleavage as she bent to grasp his lapel. She scrubbed the stain with a moistened napkin, succeeding in lightening the lipstick while Grant succeeded in accelerating her heartbeat.
“Enough, Jami. I can airbrush that out of the final photograph. You’re ruining the romantic mood,” Mike announced. “Now, first the toast, and give me a fabulously in love expression, then I want you to entwine your wrists and sip from each other’s glass—like in the movies.”
They held the toast for several shots and three varied poses. But it took Jami a minute to catch on to the entwined arms sip-from-each-other’s-glass thing. The intimacy of the movement ruined her concentration as Grant’s closeness, his touch, his scent rained havoc on her senses.
“I think we’ve got it.” Mike switched lenses as he spoke. “Now I want shots of you lovebirds dancing, then I’ll promise to let you enjoy your dinner.”
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br /> “Dancing?” Jami groaned. “In those wretched heels?”
“You don’t have to really dance,” Mike said in the same tone Sierra had used to lecture her earlier. “Just stand in Grant’s arms and sway a little.”
Jami bit her bottom lip as she slipped on the aqua sandals and adjusted the straps around her ankles. She certainly couldn’t blurt out that being in Grant’s arms alarmed her more than balancing on spike heels.
Grant stood to hold a hand out to her. “May I have this dance?”
As she stepped into Grant’s embrace, he steadied her with powerful arms, pulling her against his muscled frame. Her senses shifted to overload, and a wild, sweet yearning bloomed inside her, much like a blossom opening to the sun. She felt the woven fabric of his suit against her bare skin, his body heat seeping through the thin silk of her dress. The expensive aftershave he wore spiced his uniquely male scent, and his warm breath still bore a trace of mint toothpaste.
“Good, now stare into each other’s eyes. Closer. I want dreamy,” Mike rattled, snapping frame after frame.
Grant cinched her snugly against him, and she felt his rising desire. Cheeks burning, Jami wished she could glance away, but reluctantly met his gaze.
“That’s it!” Mike cried, “Give me some magic!”
She gazed up at Grant’s chiseled features, his stubbornly strong jaw, and his sensually molded mouth that curved upwards in a hint of a grin. Such a magnificent man, those sexy midnight eyes telegraphing passion mingled with amusement. “Relax, Red. I don’t bite.” He nuzzled her neck, zinging tiny shocks to mark the spot. “At least not with an audience.”
“Yes,” Mike bubbled with enthusiasm. “Whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Now dip her like you’re dancing the tango. Make it sizzle.”
The saxophone softly wailed in the background, more jazz than tango as Grant bent Jami backward from the waist to lean over her with his lips hovering barely above her throat. Yearning turned to a white-hot flame. She wanted to melt her body into his, to feel his lips on her throat, on her lips, on her breasts. Sizzling, Jami thought in panic, that’s what he’s doing to me—making my blood sizzle.
Becca waltzed into the room with a platter of steaming seafood, the tantalizing aromas of lobster, crab, and salmon announcing a feast. “Hot stuff.”
“Do you mean dinner, or our Cupid couple?” Mike joked, sending Becca into gales of laughter.
Grant swept Jami upright, but gave her a smoldering appraisal that seared her entire body. “To be continued,” he whispered. “When we’re alone.”
“Not if I can help it,” Jami muttered, gathering her composure as she smoothed her dress into place.
“The lady doth protest too much,” Grant countered equally softly as he led her back to the table.
“Obviously, I’m not protesting enough,” Jami said under her breath as she sat down and removed her sandals.
“Mike, pack up that camera and let these two eat,” Becca ordered, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “You ought to have enough promo pictures to keep the ad men busy for months.”
“Ad woman,” Jami corrected. “I think Sierra’s friend, Dara Sheen, might get roped into the CupidKey publicity campaign.”
“Dara?” Grant queried. He glanced at Becca. “I don’t think I’ve met her, have you?”
“No, but I hear she’s a honey, and a very good friend to Ty’s wife.”
“She’s really nice.” Jami volunteered, “And great at her job.”
“So everybody’s happy,” Grant said, thinking of Cupid inspiring Cupidkey. Maybe a friend in advertizing would work well for Ty and Sierra’s business.
“Happiness is what we all want, right?” Becca stated in her forthright country manner. “Now, Mike and I will skedaddle out of here and let you enjoy dinner.”
“By the way, Toby thought his trout tasted all right.” Becca stuffed her work-reddened hands into her apron pockets. “That boy’s proud as can be. You have a sample of today’s catch next to the salmon fillets.”
“Thanks, Becca,” Grant said with a heart-stopping smile full of warmth and caring. Jami watched the exchange, envying the two their easy friendship.
“I appreciate you taking care of my son,” Jami said, offering a smile of her own to the innkeeper.
“He’s a fine boy.”
“I think so,” Jami replied, her regard for the other woman increasing.
“How’s the champagne?” Becca asked, eyeing the hardly touched bottle.
“Between Mike and his camera we haven’t tasted anything,” Grant replied charmingly, adding, “But we’re going to make up for lost time.”
“Jami had a hard enough time pretending to sip out of her glass—heaven help us if she’d been drinking,” Mike added as he folded the tripod and gathered his equipment.
“That’s not fair.” Jami started to rake her fingers through her hair, but encountered the upswept hairdo and thought better of it. “I rarely touch alcoholic beverages, and I never get tipsy.”
“Didn’t say you did,” Mike replied, reaching toward the seafood platter to steal a sautéed shrimp. “Will you and Grant meet me at the boat dock around nine in the morning?”
“You ate enough of those in the kitchen,” Becca scolded, knocking his hand away before he could touch the curled pink shrimp.
“What about Toby?” Jami asked, not about to spend the next day without him. She intended to take him on the lake shoot with her.
“That tyke ate his share of shrimp, too,” Becca stated, misunderstanding Jami’s query.
Grant smiled, that disconcerting devilish smile which never failed to affect Jami. “She’s asking about Toby going to the lake with us for the shoot.”
“Sure,” Mike responded, with a longing glance at the seafood. “We’ll make it a family outing.”
“Now that that’s sorted out, we’ll be on our way.” Becca moved toward the door. When Mike failed to follow, she turned and snagged the young photographer by the arm. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Mike called as Becca practically dragged him out of the room.
“Don’t give them ideas,” Becca chuckled before they disappeared through the doorway. “They have enough of their own.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Jami alone with her Cupid match. Suddenly the room that had seemed so open, closed around them, Grant’s dominating presence filling the entire space.
“You’re like a frightened doe ready to bolt,” Grant said, his penetrating scrutiny infiltrating her thoughts.
“It’s just hunger.” Jami attempted to sound composed as she dished up salad, keeping her eyes lowered to the lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and green peppers she piled on her plate.
“Hunger,” he growled, his midnight gaze devouring her. “We could skip the meal and get right to dessert.”
“I rarely have dessert,” Jami replied, keeping her eyes on her plate as she dripped a dainty amount of dressing over her salad.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Grant drawled in rough velvet tones that flowed over Jami.
Ignoring his innuendo, she started to take a sip of her champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose. She thought better of it, and replaced her glass, glancing up at him through the fringe of her lashes. Knowing he expected her to be dessert tonight, she needed every ounce of willpower she possessed. She didn’t dare relax that willpower with alcohol.
Grant chuckled, as though he knowingly played her emotions as expertly as the fishing line that had netted him more than his share of catches. She didn’t intend to be another. “You may change your mind about dessert.” He lifted the dome off the silver tray to reveal two scrumptious, generous squares of chocolate layer cake. “Nell’s famous chocolate heaven. A confection mere mortals can rarely resist tasting.”
Jami’s gaze went from the cake to Grant’s lips, something far more tempting to taste. A rush of pleasure flowed through her as she recalled their kiss, the memory only to be extinguis
hed when she remembered it had ended with him saying he shouldn’t have kissed her. Once she’d given her heart to a man who betrayed her love and left her with a legacy of pain and distrust. Never again. No matter what Grant expected to happen tonight, Jami silently declared, she wouldn’t let her guard down again. No kisses for either of them to regret.
“And if I can’t talk you into dessert,” he continued, “Maybe I can persuade you to join me for a dip in the hot tub after dinner?”
“In this?” Jami retorted, glancing down at her cocktail dress.
“Out of it would be fine with me.” Grant’s midnight gaze darkened.
“No, thank you.” She tried to sound prim and in control, though a waver lilted her words. “I want to get back to Toby as soon as possible.”
“I’m crushed,” Grant said, his eyes twinkling as if he envisioned her sans dress.
Jami laughed in spite herself. “Public skinny dipping never was my thing.”
Grant’s expression turned rueful. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
Jami gazed at Grant, realizing she was enjoying herself—and actually flirting with him. “Boys will be boys.”
“A toast,” Grant requested, lifting his champagne glass.
“To what?”
“To girls who turn into lovely women.”
With a smile, Jami clinked her glass against Grant’s, glad that no one was snapping photos of this toast. She didn’t think it was a romantic one, yet she knew her heart had captured this shared moment in time to examine and replay when Grant Carrington was no longer in her life. A pang of sadness accompanied the thought, but she shook it away and tried to concentrate on her dinner, and not her dinner companion.
“Is there something wrong with your champagne?”
“No. It’s just not my beverage of choice,” Jami replied, not about to admit why she didn’t dare drink it. She didn’t need any help getting woozy about Grant.
“Could I go get you something else? Wine? Iced tea? Milk?”
“No, thank you.” Wanting to change the subject, Jami tried to think of a topic to discuss. “Did you send that Cupid key back to your brother?”