Turning Up The Heat

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She’d almost forgotten about his awards luncheon. Technically, she worked Thursday, but she could go in a couple of hours late. The afternoon crowd was sparse. “Of course. I can meet you there.”

“Wonderful.” He moved to the side, watching as she slid her feet back in her discarded sandals.

“Lots of people from local restaurants will be there,” he added, sounding annoyingly composed. Her senses were still rioting. “Cam will hear all about how I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You have my word, I’ll be very convincing.”

Of that, she had no doubt. For a brief, scorching moment, he’d nearly convinced her that she was the sexiest woman he’d ever held in his arms. Phoebe was beginning to think fooling others wouldn’t be the difficult part. No, the trick would be not letting herself succumb to the illusion.

5 (#ubf27d9e0-08e2-5cb6-82bb-055259d9af6c)

UNDER HEATH’S INFLUENCE, Phoebe was developing a dirty mind. Was it normal for a woman to be turned on while reading a description of the salad course—arugula with goat cheese, candied pecans and honey-drizzled peaches? It was just that, sitting next to Heath, with his arm balanced on her chair and his thumb idly sweeping over the nape of her neck, she was starting to get ideas about drizzling honey over his skin and licking it off. Or sucking it off his sticky-sweet fingers.

Trying to ignore the mild pulse of arousal between her legs, she shifted in her seat and reached for her goblet of ice water. Luncheon seating inside the refurbished 1920s mill had only begun a few moments ago, and most of the chairs at their table were still empty. Heath was discussing restaurant parking issues with a man who sat across from them, and Phoebe hoped she looked politely interested and not like someone mentally undressing her lunch companion. For the awards presentation, Heath was wearing a suit and tie, the expensive material perfectly tailored to show off the muscled body beneath it. He looked powerful. Sexy. She gulped more ice water.

She’d been uncertain what to wear—it was one thing to declare your intention to become a bold seductress, but that proclamation didn’t come with a brand-new wardrobe. Besides, this was a professional daytime event; she would have looked ridiculous in a halter top and microskirt. The violet-blue sheath dress she’d chosen might not be the most daring fashion choice, but it was a flattering color. And she was pleased with her hairstyle. She’d started to leave her hair loose but, recalling the bone-melting pleasure of Heath’s kisses the other night, she’d secured a heavy cascade of curls with a jeweled clip that left one side of her face bare and the slope of her neck exposed. She’d taken care with her makeup, too. Heath’s description of her eyes—treasured antique gold—seemed to warrant more than a cursory brush of the mascara wand.