THIS PERFECT KISS

by Christie Ridgway

  His hands fisted. "Because, dammit, I've spent my entire life as a member of a family that has had its garbage gone over and its dirty laundry exposed by every two-bit gossip rag and every overpaid talk-show host for the last half century. I'm tired of the Kincaid name being either a Leno punch line or a four-column, salacious headline."

  "Not to mention your eagerness to serve the American people in general and the voters of California in particular," she added sotto voce.

  He ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Yeah, and all that, too." Not that he did see what she was getting at with such a complete lack of subtlety. But, hell, he wasn't going to fool himself and say that public respect wasn't as important to him as the opportunity to effect a change in the negative attitude toward public office. "And I don't want tonight to mess up my chances."

  From the other side of the door, another ominous, perhaps even offended, pause.

  Uh-oh. Better quickly change the subject. Rory looked desperately around the parlor, decorated in soft grays, and his gaze snagged on the small mountain of bags Jilly had staggered in with after her day of shopping. He rubbed his chin. "So it looks like your time was spent well, if that load of purchases is any indication. What did you get?"

  "It's what I didn't get that I think I'm regretting." She sighed audibly. "I was considering another tattoo, but I'm leery of anyone but Dr. John working on my skin."

  Rory's blood froze. Did she say tattoo? Did she say another tattoo? With astonishing recall, he flipped through every image of Jilly he'd stored away in his mind. A tattoo. Was it possible she had one he'd yet to see?

  Of course it was possible. He swallowed. "What you're wearing tonight, it's … um … it covers you up, right?"

  She laughed. "Of course it covers me up."

  But who knew what her definition of "covered" was? He thought about that flesh-colored dress, those plastic-wrap jeans, the delicate, vulnerable curve of her bare back. At least he knew there were no tattoos from her neck to the twin dimples at the base of her spine.

  He swallowed again. She wouldn't really have marred that pale, gold-dusted skin, he told himself. Dr. John wouldn't have inked a butterfly or a rose on her flesh, let alone some man's name or something even more indecent. Wild child. Sex kitten. Vixen.

  At the sound of Jilly's voice, Rory shook himself free of the distracting images. "What?" he said hoarsely.

  "I was just asking your opinion on how many rings I should wear."

  He still couldn't stop himself from imagining the smooth flesh just to the inside of her hipbone. Was its only decoration a freckle or two and a delicate tracing of veins? "Earrings?" he asked absently.

  "Well, those, too, I suppose. But I was really thinking of my other piercings."

  No. No? Rory dashed to her door and tried the knob. Damn. Locked. He took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. But, God, disaster was always just a heartbeat away with Jilly nearby.

  "Are, uh, those 'other piercings' of yours going to"—he had to swallow to get the word out of his suddenly dry mouth—"show?"

  "Only the one in my tongue."

  Rory swallowed his. He was choking on the thing when she finally took pity on him.

  "I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

  He caught his breath.

  "About the tongue."

  She was going to kill him. No, that was much too simple and too quick. But no doubt about it, his life was spinning out of control. Before the night was over, something terrible, something unimaginable, was going to happen. He would bet his not-yet-won Senate seat on it.

  "Jilly," he said warningly. "I'm not in the mood."

  She only laughed, then opened the bedroom door.

  He instinctively stepped back. And back again. Because whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.

  Jilly held out her arms and spun on the high heels of black, nasty-girl, velvet-strapped sandals. The notion of a career in shoes whirled through his head again.

  She made a neat 360. "What do you think?" she said.

  "You're covered up," he managed to get out. And she was. In a black tuxedo that mimicked his own, even to the satin stripe running down each pant leg. Except she wasn't wearing a cummerbund, or a bow tie … or a shirt either. This tuxedo was designed for a woman, obviously, with the jacket's waist nipped in and the buttons reaching to a point that only hinted at Jilly's awe-inspiring cleavage.

  He ran his gaze from her hair—neatly controlled by a velvet band—past her ears, discreetly studded with one pearl in each lobe, to her toenails—painted a classy shade of gold.

  When his gaze moved back to her face, she stuck out her tongue and wiggled it. "See? Told you I was kidding. And the tuxedo is a perfectly respectable Bill Blass, circa 1970."

  Rory stared into her completely serious eyes. Perfectly respectable? Did she really believe that? Because, yeah, she had on more than he expected, and probably more than several of the other women would be wearing tonight, but not one of them would be sending out fiery sexuality like smoke signals. Only Jilly. Always Jilly.

  "C'mon," he said gruffly. "We're going to be late."

  She scurried after him as he strode down the hall to the elevators. "Are you all right? I thought I looked okay."

  He sighed, punching the button that would take the elevator down to the lobby so they could reach the other elevator that led to the penthouse restaurant in the opposite tower. "You look great." He couldn't tell her how great. He couldn't tell her she looked like an orgasm in high heels.

  As the elevator whooshed them down and the other whooshed them back up, he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to imagine the senator's reaction to the chocolate-and-cream-filling cupcake standing beside him. He wanted the older man to like Jilly, he realized. She might not be the right type of woman for a senatorial candidate, but she had sparkle and sass and charm. She'd created friends and a life and a business for herself out of nothing, and he could only admire that.

  A private maître d' met them at the top of the elevator. He nodded at Rory and sent an approving, less-than-professional smile at Jilly.

  She let loose a quick glimpse of that lethal dimple of hers. Rory pressed a possessive hand to the small of her back and gave the guy a sharp look to get him moving in the direction of the private room the Blue Party had booked for the evening.

  In the twenty steps that it took to get there, Rory tried to think of how to explain Jilly or how to defuse her or at the very least how to shield her from the Senator's almost-certain disapproval.

  The murmur of voices and the clink of glasses and ice drifted from the entrance to the room. Rory slid his hand from Jilly's back to her waist, cupping it to check her progress. She slowed, but didn't stop.

  "Jilly…"

  She glanced over her shoulder, a little smile playing across her full, pretty mouth.

  "No matter what happens," he said urgently, "I—"

  "There you are!" a male voice interrupted. "Come in, come in!" Charlie Jax, apparently lubricated by a martini or two, gestured them forward with an almost-friendly smile.

  Jilly followed his command, Rory just behind. There were several groups in the room, circles of people in evening dress holding cocktails. But the biggest circle was directly in front of them, and as they came forward, the group parted to reveal at its center Senator Benjamin Fitzpatrick.

  Jilly paused. The senator looked up from the woman at his side. Rory held his breath.

  His lined face unreadable, the older man handed off his drink. Then he started smoothly and quickly forward, for once not hindered by the arthritis—the result of his years on cramped Navy subs—that usually plagued him. Rory saw Jilly's shoulders tense and he wanted nothing but to whisk her away.

  What had he been thinking? He didn't need to put Jilly through some sort of respectability gauntlet. This was all his fault. He'd forced the "engagement" on her and forced this weekend on her, too.

  The older man stood before Jilly, his gaze inspecting her from head to toe. The s
enator had a strong core of morality, but he'd better not find Jilly wanting in any way. Rory didn't give a shit if the old man hated her on sight. He cared only that he kept his mouth shut about it.

  Then the senator smiled, his face creasing in an elated, very genuine grin. "My God," he said. "Gillian Baxter."

  To Rory's astonishment, Jilly seemed to recognize the name. She smiled back, dimple ample evidence to her own pleasure. "I go by Jilly Skye now, Uncle Fitz."

  The senator reached out. "Whatever you call yourself, welcome back, sweet girl." He swept her against his chest, and Jilly laughed, hugging him back.

  Sweet girl? Uncle Fitz? Stunned, Rory stood dumbly by while they exclaimed over each other.

  An icy and welcome glass of scotch on the rocks was pressed into his palm. "You looked shell-shocked," Charlie Jax said. "I don't have a clue who your fiancée is to the senator, but it looks to me like you don't know who you've been cavorting with all this time either."

  * * *

  With the light of the streetlamp shining into the car, Greg searched Kim's face for further tears. She'd cried when he'd told her he loved her. But she wasn't crying anymore.

  Without an excuse to stroke her cheeks, Greg hesitantly placed his hands on her shoulders. Under his palms she was stiff and unyielding, just like the expression she wore.

  Had she already and so easily dismissed his admission? He gave her a little shake. "I said I love you."

  She licked her lips. Swallowed. "Don't," she replied, her voice hoarse.

  "I've tried that," he confessed softly. "Doesn't work for shit."

  "Oh, Greg." She sounded so damn sad.

  He refused to panic. "C'mon, Kim. This can't be a news flash. You knew I loved you four years ago. You had to see nothing has changed."

  "I've changed." Her voice was stronger now. "I'm not the same person I was then. Thank God. Thank Jilly."

  He thought of the diplomas on her office wall. He was proud of them and proud of her, but he wasn't surprised. He'd seen them coming in the stacks of books she'd dragged out of the Caidwater library all those years ago. "I understand," he said.

  "Do you?" She narrowed her eyes. "At that time you were a decent, honorable man. The same man you are today. But do you have any idea what it takes to change yourself? To stop giving excuses and blaming everyone else for the choices you made?"

  "It wasn't your fault, Kim."

  "Like hell."

  He blinked. He'd never heard her swear before. "It wasn't," he repeated.

  "I knew you didn't understand." She shook her head. "Of course it was my fault. Both the marriage and losing my daughter. Because not only was I willing to sell myself, but I was stupid about it. I'd have more respect for myself if I'd been smart enough to read the prenuptial agreement instead of taking Roderick's word for what it contained."

  Greg squeezed her shoulders. "He was a bastard."

  "And maybe exactly what I deserved," Kim said fervently. "But not anymore. Now I have an education, a career, a growing business."

  A sudden thought clawed at Greg's belly. "And a man? I didn't think…" He dropped his hands from her shoulders. "Is there someone else in your life?"

  She looked out the window. "It's not that simple."

  Simple? Greg didn't know whether to laugh or stick his fist through the windshield. Nothing about them had ever been simple, and the idea of her with someone else was so damn complicated it made him nuts.

  Who was he kidding? The idea of her with someone else made him sick with jealousy, as sick as he'd been when they'd lived in the same house, every day knowing she was his grandfather's wife.

  "Kim." He grabbed her upper arm and jerked her around to face him. "Tell me there's no one else," he said harshly. "Goddamn it, tell me."

  "There isn't someone else," she said calmly. "There won't be anyone for me."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice was still rough, but the bitter waves in his belly were calming.

  "It means I don't want a man … I don't want sex."

  His fingers loosened, releasing her arm. "What?" he said in surprise.

  "I don't have those feelings. Sexual feelings." Her voice was so matter-of-fact he thought perhaps he wasn't hearing right.

  Greg shook his head, completely at a loss. She was twenty-three years old and telling him she was without sexual feelings? "What are you talking about? I remember at Caidwater you wouldn't let me touch you—"

  "Then it was because it seemed wrong. To touch or even talk about what was going on between us would have been an even bigger betrayal of your grandfather. But now…"

  "Now?" he prompted.

  She looked away from him and her voice lowered to a whisper. "Once I had to leave Iris, I just seemed to lose my sense of … of touch, I guess. When people touch me, when I touch people, I don't feel anything. It's as if my nerves are dead. My skin is numb."

  A smile flickered over her face and then she cast a glance toward the backseat. "Except for today. I felt her hand today. I'll always be grateful to you for that."

  Greg stared at her. "I still don't understand. If your—your skin is numb and you don't feel anything, why have you still been trying to avoid my touch?"

  "Because." Her whisper scraped like a razor across his heart. "Because I thought—I hoped, maybe—it might be different with you."

  And she hadn't wanted to know if it wasn't any different. That was what she didn't say. And what she also didn't say was that it wasn't different. Greg wiped his palm down his face. God.

  Pain filled his belly, head, heart. When her touch felt like a crack of lightning against his skin, she felt nothing when he touched her.

  His hands started to shake. To lose her, to find her, to find out that he couldn't arouse her. Why had this happened? Was this his punishment?

  Cool air blew across him as she opened her door. He leaned toward it. "Kim…" He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think. "Are you sure?"

  Her small smile twisted the knife in his gut. "I'm sure. No matter what my heart says, my body's just not in it." Then she looked at her daughter a last time and was gone.

  Once again he'd let her get away.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Close to midnight, after too much talk with too many people, Rory pulled Jilly down the hallway toward their suite.

  "Wait, wait, you're going too fast," she protested.

  He didn't slow until he reached their door. Unwilling to let go of her, he slid the card-key in and out one-handed, then jerked open the door Once inside, he slammed it shut and grabbed Jilly above the elbows, spinning her to face him.

  "I should spank you," he said.

  She lifted her chin. "Why?"

  "You know exactly why. All this time you knew the senator and didn't tell me."

  She shook her head vigorously. "But I didn't know who he was to you. I avoid politics like other people avoid heights. Honest, I had no idea what he had to do with the Blue Party or with you."

  Rory didn't let go of her arms. "Until the closet."

  Even under the dimmed lights, he could see her flush. "Until the closet. But come on. I had to listen to all your warnings about what I should wear and how I should behave. Admit you deserved just a little torture."

  He didn't want to. "You should have told me right away, right then in the closet, dammit, that Senator Fitzpatrick was 'Uncle Fitz' to you. That he was your dear old family friend. The one who's an 'ex-Navy man'," he said through his teeth.

  "Why? You were having so much fun worrying about what kind of detriment a woman like me might be to your political career."

  Rory took a deep breath. "I never said that."

  Jilly stomped on her bad-girl high heels toward her bedroom. Then she spun to face him. "But it's what you've always thought, right?" There was an unfamiliar glitter in her eyes.

  "I never said that," he repeated, feeling cornered. To get more air, he quickly loosened his bow tie and
unfastened the top button of his tuxedo shirt.

  "Humph," Jilly said, her toe starting an annoyed—and annoying—tap. Curling tendrils of her hair had escaped the velvet band and were dancing against her forehead. "You know, this weekend of playing fiancée was never part of our deal. As a matter of fact, I'm suddenly aware that I'm getting nothing for all this trouble." Her mouth set moodily.

  "Oh, yeah?" Rory said softly, feeling more than a little moody himself. Because, speaking of nothing, she'd been so occupied with the senator for the entire evening that Rory had seen little of her. He'd told himself he was mad and getting madder by the minute over the joke she'd played on him, but he admitted now that he'd hated giving her up to the senator and the others. He'd wanted to watch her mouth as she talked, watch her breasts rise and fall with each breath.

  But she'd seemed to have forgotten she was there as his woman, his fiancée.

  "So you wish you were getting some … thing?" he asked, unfamiliar, dangerous heat in his voice. The need to punish her was rising in him again, uncontrollable and as wild as she looked in that black, satin-striped tuxedo.

  Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back. "Y-yes. No."

  "Which is it?" Rory stepped closer. "Yes or no?" She was corruption, temptation, every dark sin and every secret desire. And he was damn tired of denying himself.

  She put her hand on his chest, but she didn't push him away. "Rory…" Her eyes widened as he took her in his arms and pulled her against him.

  "Yes or no, Jilly?"

  Her little body was hot against his. He could feel her trembling and she parted her lips, swallowed, parted them again. "Rory…"

  "Yes or no?" he whispered. His hand slid beneath her hair, cupping the bare skin of her nape with his palm.

  At his touch, she jerked. Then her pupils dilated, her arms slid up to circle his neck, and she pulled down his head.

  Jilly's mouth was a drug. Rory promised himself to outlaw it, once in Washington, and once he'd had his fill of it. The taste of her chugged through his blood, moving with fierce, steady purpose, turning him on hotter and harder than he'd ever known.

  Sweet punishment.