by Lori Foster
“Now,” said Fiona. “We’re going to get something straight. You two need to think about how you’re coming off to the magazine people and all the other professionals you’re ticking off.”
Lakota watched the ground. “But he—”
“—Oh, no.” Fiona wagged a finger. “Don’t go all junior high on me.”
“Fi,” said Lincoln, “this won’t happen again. Will it, Kota?”
Kota? Nicknames?
The starlet’s head shot up and, for a second, Sean thought he saw her lips flutter into a half smile. Then the tenderness disappeared, replaced by a tight line.
“If you can manage to let me show my best side to the camera without insisting that you show yours, it won’t happen again.”
Fiona shook her head and spoke to Sean as if the others weren’t even there. In a mock-ecstatic voice, she said, “They’re both blessed with a perfect right profile. Isn’t that convenient?”
The two stars shot a miffed glance at Fiona.
Why was it she’d left her last PR firm? Had she rubbed a client the wrong way? One thing Sean increasingly hated about this job was the amount of butt kissing that went on. What happened to the days when he used to thrive on the fast pace, the accomplishment of seeing his work rise to great heights?
His stars weren’t the only things that had lost their luster.
But not Lakota Lang. Not his last chance. “Luckily,” he said, “those profiles will get them bigger contracts, better projects.”
Fiona pulled an impressed face, still in full sarcastic mode. “I might add that it’ll take more than profiles to climb their way up the Hollywood ladder. Talent, bankability, strong work ethic, thinking about how their co-workers might feel… All of those qualities make for a well-rounded entertainer.”
Had the co-worker reference been aimed at him? Dammit, she had no idea how many times he’d reached for the phone, wanting to hear her husky voice again, wanting to ask her for another night. Any night.
Without thinking, he said, “Maybe co-workers need to worry about their own business and not bring feelings into it.”
Her chin lifted, then lowered. Lakota and Lincoln were strangely silent.
“Well,” said Fiona, those plump lips turned up in her permanent smile, “I guess if co-workers had agreed to keep feelings out of the ‘office,’ so to speak, then it’s not a problem.”
Lincoln pointed toward the waiting cameras. “I think—”
But Sean couldn’t hold back a retort. “Great. If the co-workers understand each other, there’s no harm done.”
“None at all.”
Lakota locked gazes with Lincoln, and they both left without saying goodbye.
Not that Sean or Fiona noticed.
She’d crossed her arms over her chest, inadvertently pushing up her breasts. Or did she know exactly what she was doing?
Blood pumped to his crotch, beating out images of their night together, touch by touch: her smooth skin, whispering under his fingertips. Her nipple, beading against his tongue. The wet folds of her sex, slipping against him.
He watched their clients go back to work, both of them shifting into acting gear, smiling at each other every time the camera flashed.
Liars. But good ones.
He didn’t move, just fixed his gaze on the pseudolovers. “I guess I should’ve called.”
Fiona sighed, and even that sounded like an invitation. “That wasn’t the deal. I’m just surprised—”
She cut herself off.
“I didn’t ask for more?” he finished for her. He faced her, tucking his hands in his pants pockets.
Maybe he’d caught her unaware, but she had a strange look on her face.
Territorial? Possessive?
She made a show of squeezing shut her eyes, smiling. “It doesn’t matter. We’re mature adults. We can go on with our jobs and forget about what happened after the charity auction.”
“Fiona.” His voice had a scratch to it, a scraped need.
Her dark eyes widened.
“Dinner,” he said, stepping closer to her. “Tonight.”
A sidelong glance. A return to the old Fiona, the charmer. The metamorphosis left him dazed.
“Was having me at your beck and call a part of the bet?” she asked.
She ran a hand along her skirt-covered thigh, rendering him capable of nothing but the simplest of sentences.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“No.” Fiona turned, started to walk away. “I’ll pick you up.”
Who was he to argue? “Any way you want it.”
Another grin, this one kittenish. Hungry for some cream. “I’ll remember that.”
With a lingering glance over her shoulder, Fiona tracked him as she left. “One more thing,” she said.
He shook his head, caught up in the sway of her voluptuous hips, the length of her legs in that clinging black suit.
She winked. “How about you finish smoothing things over with our stars? I’ve got other matters to take care of.”
Like what? Soaking herself in mango-scented water, preparing to drive him nuts? Picking out another pair of filmy stockings to slide up those curvy legs?
Before he could ask, she was gone, getting into her Miata and zooming out of Pasadena. Back to the office.
Back to their bet.
Sean swallowed, coating a mouth that had gone dry.
Chapter Five
TONIGHT, TONIGHT, won’t be just any…
Oh, can the hysterical musical monologue, Fiona thought for about the fiftieth time since she’d gone home to shower and primp for dinner.
Dinner. A slight understatement. Mac had made arrangements for a picnic to be served on a rented boat. Talk about going all out.
They’d anchored off the night-blanketed coast of Santa Monica, where the city lights sparkled from the hills, winking like a sky full of wishes. Or of ill-conceived love songs.
Tonight, tonight…
Stop it.
She diverted her attention to the black water that surrounded them. The boat cut through the swells, distancing them from the Santa Monica pier, with its colorful Ferris wheel and roller coaster, which soon looked like the smears of a child’s finger painting.
Fiona held her glass of Chardonnay by the stem, judging its pale hue from the light of a tiny lantern Mac had positioned on the cabin’s top. She breathed in the tang of ocean mist, enjoying the scene. Mac had spread a linen cloth over the opposite bench, topping it with an assortment of straw-berries, watermelon and honeydew melon, shrimp cocktail, various panini sandwiches and baby spinach salad.
“A man of many talents,” she said, leaning back on a cushioned bench and crossing her bare feet at the ankles. She’d chosen a gold chain to complement red toenail polish and a lavender skirt with a slit running along her leg. She’d discarded her light coat in order to reveal a matching long-sleeved Lycra shirt, one which fit every curve with near-sheer willingness. “I had no idea you cooked or played Popeye.”
He finished tying off a sail, then filled a plate for her. “One out of two ain’t bad. But there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
Smackdown. She curled her legs beneath her, took a sip of wine to fill the silence. Then, “You don’t go near a kitchen?”
“Not unless I’m forced to.” He handed her the food. “I’ve got a good corner grocery near my place.”
She accepted the loaded plate, trying hard to still the slight tremble of her hand. He stood over her, so powerful with his shoulders blocking the moonlight, their width covered by a dark T-shirt. Jeans completed his uniform, casting him in the role of a bad guy—stubbled, troubled and misunderstood.
Today, when he’d showed up at the photo shoot, she’d been shaking inside, too. She’d planted her hands on her hips, hoping to anchor herself, to regain some semblance of control.
Now, as he stepped closer to her, her skin tightened, extra sensitive under the sticky assault of marine air. She set the plate on the ben
ch beside her while he returned to the other side and piled food onto his own.
She caught her breath, half-relieved by the space he’d created.
Calm down, Fi, she thought. If you can’t get a handle on yourself, the bet’s dust.
“You know why I’m here?” she asked, her tone light and playful.
His shadowed profile—or maybe it was his deep voice—revealed a grin. “To get laid.”
She drew back a little. But it was true, wasn’t it? She wasn’t in this for anything more. “Partly.”
“You’ve got motivations beyond sex?” He stood again, came to sit beside her.
The shivers started up again. God, she hoped they wouldn’t claim her voice. “In spite of this seductive setup, there’s nothing beyond orgasm for me tonight.”
“That’s just fine. I’m a very patient man.”
His words rolled over her, and her nipples contracted, braless, nudging her top. Inspired, she repositioned herself so that he’d have full view of her breasts, which she knew were completely visible under her formfitting, filmy top.
Hey, if he could try to up the stakes with a sexy dinner, she could play by the same rules.
And it worked. His gaze settled on her chest, caressed it. She took another sip of wine, and the warmth flowed downward, pooling low in her belly.
She breathed deeply, chasing away the funny feeling.
“I’m here,” she said, “because I’m going to win.”
He reached out, ran a thumb over a crested nipple. Fiona gasped, then moaned, her free hand instinctively seeking his fingers, brushing over them.
He continued rubbing. “Aren’t you being premature?”
The boat bobbed with extra vigor, and she suddenly felt dizzy.
In spite of the dangerous spasms of yearning that speared through her, Fiona gathered all her strength, taking her hand from his, trying to wear a serenely composed facade while moving with his every stroke.
“I’ve got all the confidence in the world,” she said, schooling the breathiness out of her tone. “It’s not about the prize, you know.”
“The Caribbean isn’t good enough for you?”
“Oh, no.” She bit her lip, then recovered as he cupped underneath her breast, kneading it. “My victory will be more symbolic.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched her, probably waiting for her to break open, allowing him inside where he didn’t belong.
Not in her brain, anyway.
“It’s a triumph for all women,” she said, smiling at him with sleepy emphasis.
A grin slanted over his mouth, his hand trailing down her ribs, thumb etching the line of her inner thigh. Then he stood, going to the opposite side of the boat, sitting on the edge of it while digging into his food with relish.
Excuse me? Here she was, her heart pounding through her body like it was a bass drum, and he’d left her?
So that’s how it’d be, huh? She’d show him what it was like to be left in the lurch.
Lurch. The boat nodded, and Fiona closed her eyes.
Recovering, she thought that now it was really about winning, toying with him as he was with her. She only wished she’d had this same opportunity with Ted, before he’d run off with Crissy Banks.
Her best friend.
Oh, if she could’ve wrapped Ted around her little finger and peeled him off with deliberate payback, she would’ve. Would’ve teased him to the point of suffering. Would’ve let him know what he would miss for the rest of his life.
Now, if she could stay strong with Mac…
She stopped, exhaling, head beginning to ache. This was wrong, using him as a substitute for her resentment.
It was only about sex. It had been for years.
Fiona calmed herself, dipping a piece of shrimp into the cocktail sauce. Even if she’d lost her appetite, she couldn’t help licking off the spicy concoction when Mac glanced over. Couldn’t help laving the curve of the meat, hinting at what she’d be doing to him later.
His response was somewhere between a chuckle and a grunt. “You’re a competitor, all right.”
“Hey. Tit for tat. You’ll be difficult, I’ll be more difficult. I was raised to win.”
“Whoa. Do we want to go there?”
She made a show of devouring the shrimp, then prepared another one. “Family talk is fine. Likes, dislikes—okay by me. Past relationships—definitely off-limits.”
“Agreed.” He drained his own wine, returned his attention to eating. “You a California girl?”
What an appetite the man had. It was fitting, though, judging by his stamina in other areas.
She pretended not to notice. “I moved here for college.”
“And you’ve got siblings. That explains your competitive nature.”
“Well read, Mac.” She sucked on a strawberry until he glanced away, shaking his head. Ha ha… Oooo, the waves were getting choppy. “Three brothers. The oldest ones are twins. Hellraisers, those guys, both sporty types. My other older brother is a high school basketball coach.”
“You’re just one of the boys, aren’t you?”
Sometimes she felt like it. In fact, she’d always done her best to be in the boys’ clubs at work. That’s how a lady succeeded in this business. “I used to play Little League because I wanted to do everything my brothers did. I was a pitcher.”
Mac set down his empty plate, leaned a muscled arm on his thigh. “You’re kidding.”
She delicately set aside her own plate, unable to deal with food any more. “Don’t sound so patronizing. I pitched my team to a championship.”
Mac held up his hands. “Hey, didn’t mean to offend you. My mom would’ve had a coronary if my sisters played ball.”
“My mother died when I was young, so she wasn’t around to chastise me.”
A swell of emotion washed over her, pressing down on her chest. She cleansed herself of it, knowing this wasn’t the time or the place.
Mac paused. “I’m sorry to hear that. I really didn’t have a mom, either.”
Sean didn’t want to talk about this. Didn’t want to tell her how the woman known as “mother” had deserted the family and left a mess known as “dad” behind.
Fiona considered him, dark eyes boring into his soul. In that incredibly hot outfit, she resembled a contented cat lounging on a couch, licking its paws with lazy strokes, planning its next move.
Damn, she had him dancing on his last nerve. That’s why he’d retreated to this side of the boat. Because he didn’t know what he’d do next.
Could she win, not by staying detached, but by effortlessly possessing him?
Wouldn’t happen.
“But,” he said, stretching up to a stance, tucking his hands under his arms to keep everything inside, “I do have two pain-in-the-butt sisters. Both are married, of course and, in their tormented state of matrimony, both want to see me tie the knot, too.”
“Misery does love company.”
He hadn’t been joking about the torment. Katie and Colleen constantly complained about their husbands, reaffirming Sean’s belief that love wasn’t worth it.
His first clue had come in the form of his mom.
Echoing his body language, Fiona unsteadily got to her bare feet, her ankle bracelet shining in the lantern light. Her dress absorbed the glow, revealing the dark centers of her breasts, the hint of a caressable stomach, her belly button.
Sean’s muscles clenched, imprisoning him.
He fought to be released. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t move.”
She didn’t, except for the fingers that were plucking the sides of her skirt. Nerves? He wished. Her anxiety meant something more than pure lust was happening, and that would lead to victory for him.
He brushed aside the curiosity, knowing anything beyond sex wasn’t in the plan.
“What?” A wobbly laugh rode the end of her question.
He stared a moment longer, consuming her. “I’m putting you in my mental scrapbook.”
&nbs
p; “Oh.” She exhaled, looked away, put a hand on her tummy. “Are you done now?”
“You don’t like to be looked at?” He never would have expected this from a beautiful woman like Fiona.
Her slight smile made him forget every other image in the bulging memory tome of his brain. Women: petite, long-limbed, brunette, blond, redheaded… They were all there, asking him what they’d done wrong.
“Are you through?” she asked, her grin wobbling.
He pushed aside the other women, their questions. “You’re eager.”
Fiona reached for the cabin, slumping against it.
“Looking a little pale there. You okay?” he asked.
“I think I’m a bit seasick,” she said, rubbing a hand over her temple.
“Do you need help?”
She shook her head. “Sorry about the bad timing, but I’m not feeling well right now. Maybe it was the motion of the ocean.”
As she closed her eyes and held her stomach, Sean realized she wasn’t putting on a show. Looks like he’d lost tonight’s battle.
But definitely not the war.
FORGET THE WAR.
Sean couldn’t get back to work because he was too concerned about Fiona. Last night, she’d gotten sick. Yeah. Throwing-up-over-the-side-of-the-boat sick.
He’d held back her hair and smoothed a hand over her spine as she’d cleared her stomach, apologizing the whole time.
“I hate having you see me like this,” she’d said, voice wavering.
Sure, she’d been at her worst but in a weird way, Sean hadn’t minded so much. She’d clung to him, not in passion, but in a different kind of need. He’d been around to help and it felt kind of decent.
Even as he’d motored the boat to shore and driven her back home, catching a taxi to return to his place, Sean hadn’t minded the night’s outcome.
He shook himself to the present and caught himself smiling like a dope. What the hell?
Getting out of his chair, he paced to the window which showcased the Boulevard. Upscale clothing stores and talent agency offices stretched down the pavement. Tourists and locals bustled down the sidewalks.