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“Carter, let’s not take a trip down memory lane. It would serve no purpose.”
“Except to humor me—the one with the pictures.” Did she imagine the flash of anger in his eyes or the sarcastic twist of his lips? He tugged the towel from around his neck and dried his hips and legs. Muscles rippled with every move. In her dark-suit-and-tasteful-necktie world she didn’t get much exposure to sleek, tanned skin. Her mouth dried and her pulse couldn’t seem to find its regular rhythm.
“So you do have them?”
“Yep.” He climbed the steps of his porch and held open the door. Phoebe paused. She could refuse his invitation and perhaps never see the pictures again. No, the possible peril was too great. She had to stick with her agenda to recover and destroy the evidence of her shameful past. Lifting her chin, she swept up the stairs and into his sunny breakfast area. She felt his eyes on her backside as she passed and wished she could suck it in the way she sucked in her tummy.
“I got you wet. Sorry. Want me to toss your skirt in the dryer?”
She studied him. Did he intend the double entendre? And did he honestly expect her to hand over her skirt? “No, it’s silk. It has to be line dried.”
“I can loan you some shorts and we’ll hang your skirt out on the deck.”
She’d borrowed his clothing in the past, but she couldn’t imagine doing so today. She wasn’t the casual type any longer. Image was everything in politics. Besides, she didn’t intend to be here long enough for the fabric to dry. “No, thank you.”
“Have a seat.” He jabbed a finger toward the kitchen table. “A wet butt won’t hurt the chairs. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Carter disappeared into what looked like the laundry room at the opposite end of the kitchen, but he didn’t close the door. Phoebe could hear him moving around and her imagination rioted at the thought of him stripping off his snug racing trunks, revealing his taut buttocks and the part of him she’d spent so much time exploring. They’d shared a lot of hasty mutual stripping in their past, first in his dorm room and then at out-of-the-way hotels and on deserted back roads once she’d changed universities.
With her pulse racing, Phoebe sank into a chair at the wrought-iron glass-topped table, averted her eyes from the open door and battled an urge to fan her hot face. She hadn’t expected to still find Carter attractive, but the days of giving her heart or her body to a man were over. Carter had been her first lover, but he hadn’t been in love with her or he wouldn’t have broken her heart. She’d fooled herself once and had no intention of repeating the painful mistake of confusing sexual desire with love ever again.
Of all the people Carter Jones had expected to see standing beside his pool, Phoebe Lancaster Drew didn’t make the list.
Carter ripped off his trunks and swore as the abrupt movement sent a sharp stabbing pain up his thigh. It had been three and a half years since the accident that had ended his military career, and for the most part he was pain-free unless he did something stupid. He’d expected the wavering shadow at the pool edge to be one of his neighbors or one of his ex-Marine buddies, although the pity visits had thinned out since his new company had taken off. Thank God.
He yanked on a pair of ragged cut-off shorts and a tank top. No need to dress to impress the senator’s granddaughter. She’d written him off as her dirty secret years ago. Good enough to screw, but not to marry.
What had happened to the girl he’d fallen for? Had she even existed outside his imagination? Probably not.
Phoebe’s conservative suit and tightly twisted-up sable hair, combined with a ramrod-straight spine reminded him of the day he’d surprised her at her grandfather’s Washington, D.C., home—the day the blinders had fallen away from Carter’s eyes and his world had collapsed. The day he’d discovered Phoebe didn’t love him.
His parents had been coming stateside for his university graduation, and he’d wanted them to meet his future wife, but Phoebe hadn’t been happy to see Carter on her grandfather’s doorstep. She’d acted as if she couldn’t get him out of the house fast enough. When her grandfather had arrived, she’d shown her true colors by introducing him to the senator not as her lover or her fiancé, but as a classmate, for crissake. Her refusal to come with him to meet his parents combined with the lukewarm intro to the senator had said it all. They had no future together. He’d been nothing but a toy to Phoebe Lancaster Drew. Unimportant. Temporary. Expendable.
And now Phoebe wanted to erase what had happened between them twelve years ago. He ground his teeth and struggled to tamp down his anger. Those photographs were proof that the senator’s beautiful granddaughter had done the dirty with a mongrel military brat. Hell, if it wasn’t for the pictures, Carter probably wouldn’t believe the two of them had once been as close as lovers can be. He’d made the mistake of believing their hearts had been as connected as their bodies, but that was the gullibility of youth and inexperience for you.
He padded barefoot into the kitchen, extracted two glasses from the cabinet, then pulled a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. He carried his load to the table, poured and slid a glass in her direction. She looked so damned rigid he wanted to bark, “At ease.”
But helping Phoebe relax wasn’t his job. Not anymore.
Settling across from her, he nodded at her murmured thanks and leaned back in his chair. Her light floral scent—the same perfume she’d worn twelve years ago—hit him with a C-130 military transport plane full of memories. He used to know every pulse point she anointed with the stuff intimately. He swigged his drink to ease the dryness in his mouth and assessed the changes in Phoebe over the rim of his glass.
She was still a beauty with her dark hair and changeable hazel-green eyes, but the fire and excitement had faded from those eyes and tension flattened the lush curve of her mouth. She looked too poised and proper, too much like a storefront mannequin for his tastes. It was almost as if someone had sucked the life right out of her, and that saddened him.
Not your problem, Jones.
“Are you happy being your grandfather’s sidekick?”
She blinked at his question. “As opposed to what?”
“Working at a museum or teaching at the university.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, apparently surprised he remembered her long-ago plans. He wished he could forget those nine months and the pain of discovering he’d never be good enough for Phoebe Lancaster Drew. Despite the fact that he was now worth millions, Carter Jones could never be a part of her old-moneyed, politically connected world.
“I’ll have time for that later.” She fingered her glass instead of meeting his gaze. The thick line of her lashes cast shadows on her smooth cheeks.
“And what about the family you once claimed to crave? Say granddad gets elected and possibly even reelected, although he’s pretty old for a second term. You’re thirty. If you wait for Wilton Lancaster to retire, you’ll be pushing forty before you get started.”
He hated the polite and insincere politician’s smile curving her lips. It did nothing to eradicate the sadness in her eyes. “I’ve decided to focus on my career. And my grandfather will be seventy when he’s inaugurated. He’s eager to break Reagan’s record of sixty-nine. Given that Granddad is in excellent health and is very active and mentally acute, a second term isn’t out of the question.”
“He’s been in office more than thirty years. He ought to retire.” And give someone more open-minded a chance. But Carter kept the last to himself.
Her long fingers curled around the glass. “What are you doing with yourself these days, Carter?”
He sipped and nodded, silently acknowledging her change of topic. She wanted chitchat? He could do chitchat. “Computers. What else?”
They’d met when he’d been assigned to tutor her in computer science during college. She’d been the first female he’d met whose eyes hadn’t glazed over when he nervously rambled on about motherboards, memory chips and hard drives. And she hadn’t laughed at him when he’d lost track of his words each time they’d accidentally brushed against each other.
“What exactly do you do with them?”
“I’m a cyber-cop.” The surprise arching her eyebrows grated on his nerves. Had she, like his father, expected him to amount to nothing? Probably. His father had always claimed Carter’s infatuation with computers would lead nowhere. Well, he’d proven good ol’ Dad wrong, hadn’t he?
“You investigate computer crimes?”
“Got it in one.”
“You must be good.” And then she flushed as if she realized that wasn’t exactly a politically correct comment. Jeez, somebody needed to loosen her up. Her candid comments had been only one of the things he used to love about her.
“I own my company, but computers aren’t the only thing I’m good at.” He flashed a carnal grin and watched another wave of peach spread from her neck over her cheeks. Teasing Phoebe had always been fun, and now that she seemed determined to ignore the passion that had once flowed between them, he took perverse pleasure in getting a rise out of her.
He set down his glass and laced his fingers over his abs. “Why should I give you the pictures, Phoebe?”
The taste of her name on his tongue made him think of hot nights and tangled sheets, of quickies in the car or anywhere else they could grab a moment’s privacy vertically, horizontally or otherwise. His pulse quickened. His inability to control his response only increased his anger. Why, dammit, did she still rev his motor? She’d been his first lover, but she hadn’t been his last. He’d been a slow starter, but he’d made up for lost time. There had been plenty of willing women, sweaty sex and tussles between the sheets since.
“I need to be certain they won’t turn up in the press.”
The insult raised his blood pressure. “You think I’d sell our pictures to the highest bidder?”
He practically could see her weighing her words. “Perhaps not, but someone else could get their hands on them and—”
“It won’t happen. The pictures are under lock and key. They have been since we said goodbye. If I didn’t sell them then, when I was seriously pis—peeved with you, I’m not likely to now.”
She wet her lips—one slick swipe of her pink tongue—and fire flickered behind his zipper. Phoebe had once had an amazingly talented mouth. She’d perfected her technique on him, and she’d allowed him the pleasure of returning the favor.
“Carter, please, let me have the pictures.”
He rocked back in his chair and steepled his hands. Tapping his bottom lip with one finger, he pretended to consider her request, but there was no way in hell he’d casually hand over the pictures for her to shred. He didn’t look at them often, hadn’t seen them since he’d moved into this house three years ago, in fact, but they represented the first time in his life when he hadn’t felt like a failure. Phoebe’s betrayal had cut deep and made him feel like a shameful dirty secret, but for a while she’d made him feel like a king.
A spark of an idea began to form. He’d been an untried boy twelve years ago when he and Phoebe lost their virginity together. Afterward they’d explored the boundaries of their newfound sexuality and shared some amazingly uninhibited sex. He hadn’t met a woman since who could ignite him to such a fever pitch or coax him into the unknown with nothing more than a naughty twinkle in her eyes. No woman in the past twelve years had pushed him beyond his rigidly imposed self-control.
Surely his memories of their time together had exaggerated her potency? No way could this buttoned-up, every-hair-in-place woman have the same power over the experienced man he’d become that she’d held over the wet-behind-the-ears boy he’d been. So he’d slake his curiosity and then kiss her goodbye. In the process, maybe he could loosen up Phoebe and teach her a lesson at the same time. Ms. Phoebe Lancaster Drew needed to learn how it felt to be used and tossed aside.
Vengeance could indeed be sweet. And sexually satisfying.
Carter rolled the cool glass in his palms when what he really wanted to do was to cup Phoebe’s rigid jaw and test the texture of her skin. “I’ll make you a deal.”
Her grip on the glass tightened and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of deal?”
“Go out with me and I’ll give you the pictures. Let’s say, one picture for each date. There are roughly a dozen photos.”
Her laugh sounded choked. “You’re joking, of course.”
He held her gaze, noting the angry gold flecks sparkling in the green of her irises, but said nothing.
“Why?”
He shrugged one shoulder and set down his tea. “Because I said so.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s so juvenile.”
“No dates. No pictures. No negotiation.”
Her pale-pink manicured nails pressed dents into her palms. “That’s blackmail.”
“So sue me. But then, of course, the pictures would become evidence and public knowledge.” He abruptly rocked forward and covered her fists with his hands. He stroked the satiny skin inside her wrists with his thumbs, and her pulse leaped beneath his touch. His echoed the rapid beat.
“Remember how much fun we used to have, Phoebe?”
She jerked her hands free, but he didn’t miss the irregularity of her breathing or the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. It all boiled down to how badly she wanted those pictures.
She lifted her chin. “I won’t sleep with you.”
A smile of anticipation tugged his lips. He’d learned a lot about women in the past decade—specifically, how to recognize when one found him attractive. And Phoebe had definitely been checking him out. Not only would she have sex with him, he planned to make her beg for it. “I didn’t ask you to, but I appreciate you making your views clear up front so I don’t get my hopes—or anything else—up.”
Her cheeks turned crimson and she shifted in her seat. “One date per picture. I get to choose which picture.”
He mashed his lips together. “No deal. I set up the dates. I choose the pictures.”
The muscle in her jaw flexed as she clenched her teeth. “I want to see them.”
Gotcha. He grinned so hard his cheek muscles ached.
“Do you, now?” he asked in a teasing lilt and could practically hear her molars grinding in response.
“I want proof that you still have them.”
He rose and gestured toward the den. “They’re in my bedroom.”
She remained seated. “Is that your version of ‘Come and see my etchings’?”
For the first time in a long time he couldn’t stop smiling. “I don’t have etchings. I have Kodak moments.”
She looked ready to explode. Her nose inched higher. “Who else has seen them?”
He scowled. Another insult. “You think I’d kiss and tell?”
She primly folded her hands in her lap. “Get the pictures, Carter. I’ll wait here.”
He didn’t call her a coward, but he let his eyes say it for him. Her spine stiffened. Message received.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Carter glanced at his waterproof watch as he crossed the den. Operation Seduction under way at 1700 hours.
Let the games begin.
Two
Phoebe put her head in her hands. She had to be out of her mind to agree to Carter’s ridiculous terms. Could she grab the photos and run? Hardly. Carter might have been a geek twelve years ago, but he looked to be in peak physical condition now. He’d outrun her. Besides, he could always print more pictures from the negatives. She needed the pictures and the negatives.
Her grandfather had always said that if you couldn’t change your opponent’s mind, then you had to wear him down. So Phoebe decided she’d play Carter’s childish game. As luck would have it, her grandfather would be at his Bald Head Island retreat for the next month preparing campaign strategies and meeting with his advisers. She’d stayed behind to research his most likely opponents and to look for good quotes for his next speech. Odds were that she could probably recover the pictures without having to explain her whereabouts.
As far as Carter’s abundant sex appeal went, she hadn’t made it to the age of thirty without learning how to handle her physical needs. Messy, complicated relationships were not required. Resisting him wouldn’t be easy, but it was within her capabilities. All she had to do was to focus and get to know her opponent—another of her grandfather’s maxims.
From her seat at the table Phoebe examined Carter’s house, looking for clues to the man he’d become. In college he’d claimed he wanted a place to put down the roots his childhood hadn’t permitted. He’d certainly achieved that goal. Sunlight flooded his kitchen, illuminating very traditional oak cabinets and gleaming hardwood floors. Wooden beams supported the vaulted ceiling of the spacious den to her right, and a huge brick fireplace flanked by tall windows covered most of the outside wall. The leather sofa and chairs looked masculine and expensive, but the room begged for color and softness, for a woman’s touch.
The lack of decorative elements inside led Phoebe to believe Carter didn’t have a woman in his life. But the flowers surrounding his porches and the hummingbird feeder contradicted the lonely bachelor theory. Carter had never been a birds-and-blooms kind of guy. She didn’t think he’d become one. And she couldn’t imagine a man with his sex appeal being alone. So who was the woman in his life? Or did he keep more than one on a string?
Never mind. It didn’t matter. This was a business transaction not a courtship. A barter agreement. Nothing more. She had to uncover his true motive. What did he want in exchange for the pictures? She didn’t believe for one minute that all he wanted was the pleasure of her company.
Carter reappeared with the pictures fanned out in his fingers like playing cards, the backs facing Phoebe. He looked mouthwateringly gorgeous with his shoulder and arm muscles displayed like a handsome hunk calendar model’s. And that tattoo… She couldn’t believe it turned her on. Did he have more? Where? Her pulse quickened.
Your curiosity will bring you nothing but trouble, Phoebe Lancaster Drew, her grandmother’s voice, which often doubled as Phoebe’s conscience, chided. And her grandmother always had been right. Besides, Phoebe had seen most of Carter in his swimsuit. If he had tattoos beneath the brief trunks, she wouldn’t be seeing them.
She didn’t want to look at the pictures, didn’t want to be reminded of how deeply she’d trusted Carter or how unimportant she’d been to him, but for all she knew he could be bluffing. She held out her hand. He thumped the rectangles into a neat stack and passed them to her. The brush of his fingertips against her palm forced the air from her lungs. Phoebe averted her gaze from his and found herself looking at the worn denim to the left of Carter’s zipper. A jolt of energy shot through her. She gulped. Looking at the pictures hadn’t left him unaffected. Well—she squared her shoulders—she would have more control over her baser instincts.
Bracing herself, she turned the rectangles over. Her heart skipped a beat and her hand wobbled. The picture on top of the stack was probably the most innocent of all the photos they’d taken with Carter’s old camera set on a timer. Carter stood straight, tall and completely nude with his back to the camera. Phoebe couldn’t help contrasting the lanky frame in the photograph with the muscle-packed body in front of her. She’d been standing in front of him, completely concealed from the camera by his body except for her forearms and hands. She’d wrapped her arms around his waist to cup his buttocks. Those pale hands could have belonged to anyone except for the identifying heirloom signet ring on her right ring finger—the same ring she wore every day of her life.
Phoebe curled her fist by her side, but it was no use trying to hide the ring. Heat swept through her as she remembered how his thick erection had burned against her stomach, her nipples had scraped his bare chest and how his own hands had cupped her bottom. Moments after the shutter clicked he’d lifted her, filled her with one deep stroke, and loved her until they’d both collapsed on the floor, too weak to move until the sound of his roommate’s key grating in the lock had sent them scrambling for their clothing.
She’d loved Carter Jones beyond reason and this picture brought those feelings rushing back with a force she couldn’t dam. Fast on the heels of the hot, fizzy arousal racing through her blood came pain—the pain of his desertion. He hadn’t loved her enough.
She always lost the ones she loved. She’d been abandoned by her fun-loving parents when she was seven. They’d been killed in a rebel uprising in some godforsaken land six years later. The signet ring was the only memento she had of her mother. Her grandmother, who’d become Phoebe’s surrogate mother, had passed away quickly and unexpectedly four months after Phoebe started at the university, and then Phoebe had lost Carter five months later.
Her grandfather was the only family Phoebe had left, and now it seemed her grandfather’s approval hinged on her standing beside him in his presidential bid. Heaven only knew what would happen if these pictures leaked out and Phoebe’s indiscretion tainted his campaign. Would he abandon her, too, or did he love her enough to forgive her for her wild and impetuous first love? It wasn’t a chance she was willing to take.
“I’ll buy them from you. How much do you want?”
“The pictures aren’t for sale.” His hard expression warned her not to waste time arguing.
