by Trish Jensen
Sherry kicked him under the table. He grunted slightly, but otherwise kept his loving smile plastered in place. He stood and helped Tiffany into her seat. Sherry stood and started stuffing her briefcase.
Kit looked at her with evident alarm. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“You can’t!”
She smiled up at him, cupping his cheek. “Sweetheart, I have so much work to do. Since you like this campaign, I’ll just leave you and Tiffany to hammer out the details. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure,” he said, but his eyes promised revenge. “If you have to go.”
“I do.”
“See you later, pumpkin,” he said, then kissed Sherry one final time. “I’ll be home after I take Tiffany back to her hotel.”
Sherry nearly sputtered her outrage. Now he was pretending to live with her! She clutched his lapel and drew him down to her. “You are a dead man,” she whispered through her fake smile.
“I look forward to it, too, sugar. Have a bottle of wine breathing.”
“That wine will be the only thing breathing if you drop on by.”
“Wait up for me, lollipop.”
Dead. The man was as good as dead, and it would be justifiable homicide to Sherry’s way of thinking. Her cheeks ached from the fake smile. She waggled her fingers at Tiffany, who looked like she wanted to breathe fire. “Nice meeting you, Tiff.”
And with that she got out of there before she killed Kit Fleming in front of witnesses.
Jud lifted Lorna into his arms. “Never leave me again, Lorna. Without you I’m nothing. Marry me, my heart. Make me the luckiest man alive.”
“Yes, oh, yes. I’ll marry you. Oh, Jud, I love you so much.”
“You’ll have years and years to prove that to me.”
“Starting now.”
“Starting now,” Jud agreed, as he carried her across the meadow toward home.
THE END
Sherry sighed contentedly, then put the book down on the coffee table. Nothing soothed her agitated nerves better than a good romance novel. Someday, she’d have a hot romance all her own. And she prayed it would be as satisfying as the books she read, with the promise of happily ever after.
A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
The phone rang, and still in a sensual sort of lethargy, she picked up her cordless. “Hello?”
“I’m out front,” Kit Fleming said, effectively popping her dreamy bubble. “Can we talk?”
“When hell forms icebergs,” she replied, her agitation returning in full force.
“I can explain.”
“What’s to explain? You’re too much of a coward to do your own dirty work, and you hide behind me.”
“Come on, Sherry.”
She checked her watch. Two hours had passed since she’d returned home. Either they’d had a very long, very cozy dinner, or Kit had done just a bit more than drop Tiffany off at her hotel. “You get five minutes.”
She supposed she was an idiot for letting him in, but the opportunity to tell the lug off was too precious to pass up. She looked down at her gym shorts and faded T-shirt and shrugged off the desire to run put something more flattering on. What did she care what he thought of her clothes?
A moment later he knocked, and the sound seemed to echo in her chest. She pulled open the door and glared at him. But then she saw the peace offering in his hand. Somehow he’d gotten his hands on a bottle of red wine, and he held it out with an optimistic smile.
In that instant, her heart melted. He looked so darn adorable with that hopeful expression on his face that she didn’t have it in her to blister him the way he deserved. She took the wine from him. “Thank you,” she said grudgingly, mad at herself for being such a sucker.
“May I come in?”
Sherry stepped back. Kit stepped forward. Once. Then stopped in his tracks. It didn’t take a genius to notice where his attention had strayed: straight to her legs. Which embarrassed her, because she didn’t much care for her legs. They didn’t travel all the way to her armpits, the way Tiffany’s did. And the nickname Sean Robertson had given her in high school still made her mad. He’d dubbed her Pogo, because he’d said she had stick legs.
“Something wrong?” she asked Kit.
He blinked, then cleared his throat. “No, not at all,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse. He entered her apartment, and she shut the door.
“Glass of wine?” she asked him, then turned just in time to find him looking over her rear end just as thoroughly. The man was a lech. A very cute lech, but a lech regardless.
“Yes, please,” he said, not even trying to mask his appreciation. Or fake appreciation. He was probably just attempting to flatter her into not being angry at him. She had to keep in mind that this man was a consummate actor.
“Have a seat,” she said, waving at her couch.
Sherry opened the wine in the kitchen, poured two goblets and brought them out to the living room. And caught Kit leafing through the romance novel she’d just finished reading.
Quickly she deposited the glasses on the table and grabbed the book from him, stuffing it under her couch cushion.
When he looked up at her, his eyes sparkled. “So, the tough little ad exec has a romantic heart.”
She cocked her hip and her fists hit her waist. “Got a problem with that?”
He tilted his head a little in an assessing manner. “You really believe in all that romance stuff?”
“Of course, don’t you?”
He snorted rudely. “Not a chance.”
Sherry assessed him right back. “Then I feel sorry for you.”
His jaw went slack. “Feel sorry for me? Lady, I’m not the one who’s going to be sadly disappointed when I learn that happily ever after doesn’t exist.”
“It exists for my parents. They’ve been married thirty-eight years, and they’re still devoted to each other.”
“Then they’re the exception,” he retorted, starting to look uncomfortable. “All I know is, it will never exist for me.”
Sherry bit her bottom lip, oddly piqued by his words. “I changed my mind. I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for the women in your life.”
He loosened his tie and slipped open his collar button. “Save your pity. The women I get involved with know the rules up front.”
One brow arched, she said, “Oh, please. I’m dying of curiosity. What rules would those be?”
He raised his hand quickly, and started rattling off his rules as he ticked off his fingers. Sherry had a feeling he’d indeed preached these “rules” plenty of times. “One, no promises of monogamy. I’m not a one-woman man. Two, no promises of commitment. I have no desire to hang a noose around my neck. And three, no promises of love. Personally, I think the emotion is highly overrated.”
Sherry burst out laughing, even as her heart started giving her a hard time. “What a crock.”
Scowling, he said, “At least I’m honest about it.”
She tossed him a look of pure pity, then shook her head. “Amazing,” she murmured. Then she picked up her wine and sat down on the couch, tucking her legs under her. “So, what are you doing here, Mr. Footloose-and-Fancy-Free?”
He loosened his tie some more. “Just came to say thanks.”
“What you should be saying is, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“That, too. Listen, I really appreciate the heads-up, tonight. I’m not usually so blind.”
She sipped her wine. It was delicious. “Most men would kill to have Tiffany come on to them.”
“Which is exactly why I want to use her in the Christmas ad blitz.”
Shaking her head, she said, “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re not trying to fulfill men’s fantasies. You’re trying to fulfill women’s. If you’d stop thinking with your zipper for one minute, you’d see that she’s all wrong for the market.”
He choked on his wine. “Thi-thinking with my zipper!”
She patted his back. �
�Thinking like a man. You’ve got to approach this from a woman’s perspective.”
Blinking his watery eyes, he said, “We’re never going to agree on this.”
“I could convince you.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “How?”
“Let’s do a test run. Nothing fancy, just sort of a walk-through. We’ll shoot two ads, one with Tiffany, one with another model. Then we conduct a focus group made up of your target customers. Let them decide.”
“That’ll cost money.”
“Not as much as hiring Tiffany for all the ads, and having them bomb.”
He considered that for a moment. “All right, you’re on.”
“Yes!” she cried. She tapped his temple. “I knew there was a brain hidden deep down in there somewhere!”
Kit glowered at the infuriating woman again, and set down his glass. Grabbing her shoulders, he turned her to face him. Her breasts jiggled a little under her T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Kit’s mouth went dry. He had to take a moment to remember what he’d meant to say to her. “Are you calling me dumb?” he asked.
Her eyes glittered devilishly. “No. Just a man.”
Oh, he felt like a man all right. A man holding a beautiful woman who wasn’t wearing a bra. Hormones danced like popping corn through his body.
Damn. Why did this lady affect him so much? Every time he got near her, his body started heating up and his thoughts turned purely sensual. She made something in his chest soften, and something else somewhat lower go rock hard.
Why? She wasn’t even close to being as beautiful as Tiffany, but Tiffany hadn’t done a thing for him. In fact, when Tiffany had made the ultimate pass at her hotel tonight—obviously not concerned about the morality of stealing another woman’s man—he’d actually been filled with a quiet distaste.
For some reason, Sherry appealed to him like no woman he’d known. It was more than just her intelligence, more than her physical beauty. An elusive quality she possessed called to him, made him want to learn everything he could about her. Like the noises she made when she was mindlessly aroused.
Suddenly he realized they were staring at each other wordlessly. He couldn’t have that. If they weren’t going to talk, they’d have to entertain themselves some other way. He pulled her to him and kissed her. Instantly he was lost in the lush softness of her mouth. His fingers gently stroked her cheeks as he slanted her head and traced her lips with his tongue.
Throbbing excitement pounded through him. He grasped her thigh and pulled her leg over his lap so she straddled him. His hands moved to her hips, and he rocked their lower bodies together, until they both gasped.
Her arms wound around his neck and she pressed into him. Even through his suit coat, he could feel her unbound breasts crush against his chest.
“Sherry, Sherry,” he whispered lifting his hips to press into that soft place that was all woman. An explosion of sensation erupted inside him. He was rapidly losing control.
Control. Something close to panic swelled in his chest. He couldn’t lose control. Without it, he had nothing. Without it, he was vulnerable. And Kit never planned to put himself in a vulnerable position again as long as he lived. Vulnerability made a person weak.
With iron will, he wrestled for control over his body, over everything this woman made him feel. It was a more difficult task than he’d have thought possible, but he finally conquered his need. He pushed her hips away from his and broke the kiss. Her eyes fluttered open, almost black with passion.
He had to get away from her. He couldn’t sit here looking at her, knowing what it felt like to be kissing her intimately. Sherry Spencer was a dangerous woman. She made him want things he’d never wanted before, made him want to trust in the honest desire in her eyes, made him want to just let go.
“Kit?” she said, her voice husky and puzzled at once. “What’s wrong?”
He knew his eyes were probably wild with horror. God, he’d almost lost it with her. He lifted her off of him and set her on the couch. Practically jumping to his feet, he glanced at his watch. “I—I forgot, there’s somewhere I have to be. I’m sorry, you go ahead and . . . enjoy the wine. I, uh, I’ll be in touch.”
With that, he fled her apartment.
Sherry stared after Kit, bewildered, bemused and achingly unfulfilled. What had just happened here? First he kissed her, with no prodding on her part. But it had felt so utterly wonderful, she couldn’t bring herself to object. And then the kiss turned deeply intimate, this time with help from her. She’d filled so fast with yearning, she’d wanted him desperately.
And then, he’d stopped. Just like that. Bang. Over.
What the heck was going on? Kit had looked suddenly terrified, but she couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t the terror of a coward, but the terror of a man facing his worst fear. How had she gone from being the woman in his arms—on his lap and loving it, for criminy’s sake—to being his worst nightmare? Color flooded her face as she suddenly realized how she had behaved. She’d never abandoned herself so completely with a man before. Especially a man she wasn’t certain she liked in the least.
Well, he’d obviously helped prove one thing. Sherry Spencer was capable of loveless lust. Put a pair of enigmatic eyes and sexy lips in front of her, and who knew how far from grace she’d fall? Well, she wouldn’t fall again. She was done experimenting with the wanton side of her nature. Kit Fleming could just find some other hussy to toy with. She wasn’t playing any longer.
As she picked up her wine she tried not to feel so darn disappointed.
Six
Tiffany was what a generous spirit might call a sensitive actress. Not feeling too generous, Sherry chose to characterize her as a royal pain in the butt. The model couldn’t act at all, she wouldn’t appear in front of the camera sans makeup, and she was still trying her level best to start something with the CEO of Bella Luna.
Not only that, but Tiffany seemed to hold Sherry personally responsible for the fact that Tiffany basically had to audition for the part. Sherry didn’t mind, merely because she was personally responsible. She did not want Tiffany doing the ads. Honesty forced her to admit that her wish was not entirely professional, but the decision was.
If the jerk across the studio being fawned over by yet another female—this time the hairstylist—chose Tiffany over the real actress, Sherry would have her proof that he had the brains of a blade of grass.
Three weeks had passed since that disastrous encounter in her apartment, and in that time Kit had taken to avoiding her with a zealousness that aggravated her to high heaven.
He’d suddenly decided that conference calls were a perfectly acceptable way to hold meetings, and he hadn’t coerced her to go out to dinner once since then. She’d put together this dry run in record time, and all she’d gotten for her trouble was a gruff, “It’s about time.”
She’d scoured talent agencies looking for the perfect actress for Ms. Bella Luna, and Kit had taken one look at the woman’s photo—sent to him by messenger—and called to say, “I wanted a blonde.”
In other words, he was being a total, unmitigated jerk.
What bothered Sherry most was she had no idea what she’d done to deserve this treatment. She wanted to avoid him at all costs, too, but only if she got to be the one doing the avoiding. Instead, it was a constant battle to get him to take her calls, and she took it as a personal insult that he dreaded the thought of sharing the same space with her.
Which made his appearance here at the studio today rather surprising.
The director stopped the actress and the cameras several times before they finally managed a complete run-through. But Sherry felt the final product would be good. The actress had just the right level of excitement over her date, and nervousness that she’d make a good impression. She ended the scene beside a clawfoot tub filling with steaming water. Gazing at the bottle of Satin Sleek bubble bath in her hand, she smiled and delivered her final line. “Come on, baby, make my date.
” Then she dropped the towel, and stepped into the tub.
“Cut!”
“What do you think?” Kit asked from behind her.
Sherry jumped, then turned, her heart in her throat. She looked up into hazel eyes and felt lost. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t seem to get words past them. Probably because her brain had ceased functioning. She was aware only of sensation. Of the heat of his body, so close after all this time. Of his scent, clean and male and provocative. Of the buzzing in her ears, as she stared up into his handsome face. Of the staccato beat of her heart.
“What?” she finally asked in a croak.
He didn’t answer right away, just seemed to search her face for she didn’t know what. “I asked . . . uh, what you . . . thought.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
They stared at each other, and for Sherry, the rest of the world vanished. Nothing existed but them and the thrumming tension that coiled around them.
Something strong and sexual existed between them, and suddenly Sherry understood Kit’s fear. He was afraid of this. Why, she didn’t know. All she knew was that the chemistry between them spooked him.
All of the anger that had built toward him the last few weeks slipped quietly out of her. “You’re afraid of me,” she whispered, a little awed by her insight.
“Damn right I am,” he murmured in response.
“Why?”
He swallowed. “I want you too damn much.”
The tightness in her chest eased. No one had ever wanted her too much. A sense of rightness almost overwhelmed her. “Is that a bad thing?” she asked.
“Very bad.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the feeling.”
Huh? He didn’t like feeling attracted to her? Why not? What was wrong with a little physical desire? Did she scare him because he was used to being attracted to more beautiful women? Did he not like desiring intimacy with an average woman? Should she be utterly insulted or flattered? She decided now wasn’t the time to ask, as it was now Tiffany’s turn.