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He smoothed his hair into place, his mouth still set in a sardonic curl. “Flint. Bowie is a different kind of knife.”
And both would cut just as sharp, she thought, just as brutal.
Like a self-assured predator, he moved a little closer, just enough to put his pheromones between them. She took a deep breath, and the sore in her stomach ignited into a red-hot flame.
Damn her nerves, she thought. And damn him.
“I’ll stop by your office on Tuesday,” he said. “At two.”
“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” she countered, wishing she could dig through her purse for an antacid.
He shook his head. “Tuesday at two. This isn’t up for negotiation.”
Gina bristled, hating Flint Kingman and everything he represented. Would the stress ever end? The guilt? The professional humiliation? “Are you always this pushy?”
“I’m aggressive, not pushy.”
“You could have fooled me.”
She lifted her chin a notch, and Flint studied the stubborn gesture. Gina Barone was a feminine force to be reckoned with—a long, elegant body, a mass of wavy brown hair swept into a proper chignon and eyes the color of violets.
A cold shoulder and a hot temper. He’d heard she was an ice princess. A woman much too defensive. A woman who competed with men. And now she would be competing with him.
She gave him an annoyed look, and he glanced at her untouched hors d’oeuvres. “Don’t you like the food?”
“I haven’t had the chance to eat it.”
“Why? Because I interrupted you?” He reached out, snagged a mushroom off her plate and popped it into his mouth, knowing damn well his blatant behavior would rile her even further.
Those violet eyes turned a little violent, and he suspected she was contemplating a childish act, like flinging the rest of the mushrooms at him. He pictured them hitting his chest like crab-stuffed bullets. “I don’t have cooties, Miss Barone.”
“You don’t have any manners, either.”
“Of course I do.” He went after a dumpling this time, ate it with relish, then reached into his jacket for a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his hands with casual elegance. This party was too damn prissy, he thought. And so was Gina Barone. Flint was sick to death of the superficial society in which he lived. He used to thrive on this world, but now it seemed like a lie.
Then again, why wouldn’t it? After all, he’d just uncovered a family secret, a skeleton in his closet that made his entire life seem like a lie.
Still eyeing him with disdain, Gina set her plate on the planter ledge. “Thanks to you, I lost my appetite.”
She didn’t have one to begin with, he thought. The trouble at Baronessa Gelati must be weighing heavily on her inexperienced shoulders. She’d never outfoxed a public scandal, particularly something of this magnitude.
Flint had, of course. Scandals were his specialty. But not family secrets. He couldn’t outfox the lie in which he’d been raised.
He dragged a hand through his hair and then realized that he’d zoned out, losing sight of his priority. Nothing, not even the turmoil in his life, should interfere with business.
Pulling himself into the moment, he stared at Gina.
Did she resent his take-charge attitude? Or did the truth upset her? The fact that he was more qualified for the job?
Truthfully, he didn’t care. He was damn good at what he did and he’d worked hard to prove his worth.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re superior.”
“Men are superior,” he responded, deliberately baiting her.
“And that’s why Adam ate the apple?” she asked. “Because he had brains?”
“What kind of question is that?”
She rolled her eyes. “A rhetorical one. Everyone knows Adam ate the apple because of Eve.”
Which meant what? That she thought the male brain hinged on what was behind his zipper? Or in Adam’s case, a fig leaf?
Flint assessed his companion. The lights from the city shimmered behind her, as white and bright as the diamond brooch on the front of her choker. It was an exceptional piece, but he would have preferred an unadorned view of her neck. She had smooth, touchable skin, kissed by the sun and boasting her Sicilian roots.
His gaze slipped slower, to the swell of her breasts. No matter how high a man’s IQ was, his brain did get scrambled now and then. Flint was no exception.
He lifted his gaze. “I’m not offended, Miss Barone.”
“About what?”
“About you thinking my brain is in my pants.”
“Well, you should be.”
“And you should offer me a shiny red apple.” He paused for effect. “I’ll take a big, juicy bite if you will.”
Gina glared at him.
Enjoying the game, he flashed a flirtatious smile. Sparring with her was actually kind of fun. And it certainly beat crying into his beer.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to work with you,” she said.
He tilted his head, wondering what she would look like with her hair rioting around her face, framing her in untamed glory. “As I understand it, you don’t have a choice.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she quipped.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday. At two o’clock,” he reminded her before he walked away.
His lovely nemesis was quite a challenge. But he wasn’t worried about it. Sooner or later, she’d give in and let him fix the disaster in her life.
Even if he couldn’t fix his own.
Gina awakened with a start the following morning. She sat up and squinted, then hugged a pillow to her chest.
She’d actually dreamed about Flint Kingman.
And erotic dream. An illusion of mist and midnight, of his long, lean, muscled torso gleaming in the rain.
While she’d slept through a stormy night, he’d invaded her bedroom, her private sanctuary.
Gina reached for her robe and wrapped herself in terry cloth. Everything seemed different now. The cherry armoire and big brass bed. The hardwood floors and Turkish rugs.
With a deep breath, she turned and peered out the blinds. Thank God, it wasn’t raining anymore. She never wanted it to rain again. Not if it meant revisiting that half-naked image of Flint, his head tipped back, water running in rivulets down his stomach and into the waistband of slim black trousers.
Gina tightened her robe. She’d dreamed of him in the clothes he’d worn last night, only he’d been standing on the rooftop of the hotel, allowing her to undress him.
Damn that sexy smile of his. And damn that cocky attitude.
She had two days before their meeting, two days to arm herself with information. She knew virtually nothing about Flint, but she suspected he knew plenty about her.
He’d probably done his homework weeks ago, analyzing his opponent, charting her strengths and weaknesses, her successes, her failures.
Well, at least her dreams were her own. And so was her ulcer. She doubted Flint had pried into her medical records.
She crossed the living room, entered the kitchen and eyed the coffeepot. It sat on a bright, white counter, luring her with the temptation of a hard, strong dose of caffeine.
With a practical sigh, she poured herself a glass of milk instead, then reached for the phone.
Seated at the breakfast nook, she looked up Morgan Chancellor’s number, hoping the socialite was available. Morgan wasn’t a vicious gossip. She didn’t spread unholy rumors, but she seemed to know everybody’s business. And Gina intended to discuss Flint with someone willing to answer questions about him.
Morgan picked up on the fifth ring. Gina started a friendly conversation, asking the other woman if she’d enjoyed the charity mixer.
Morgan babbled for a while, and Gina pictured the redhead’s no-nonsense husband scanning the Boston Globe at their elegant dining room table, shutting out his wife’s perky voice.
Weaving her way toward the man of the hour, Gina said, “By the way, Flint Kingman finally caught up with me.”
“Really? So, what do you think of him?”
Gina shoved away the image of his dream-induced, rain-shrouded body. “I’m not sure. I can’t quite figure him out.” When the other woman breathed into the receiver, she asked, “What do you know about him, Morgan?”
“Hmm. Let’s see. His father is an advertising mogul, and his stepmother is absolutely riveting. Of course his real mother was equally stunning. She was a Hollywood starlet, but she died when Flint was a baby.”
Intrigued, Gina adjusted the phone. “Was she famous?”
“No, but she should have been. Supposedly she was really talented.”
Gina tried to picture the woman who’d given Flint Kingman life. “What was her name?”
“Danielle Wolf. But there isn’t a lot of old press about her. If you’re really curious about Flint, you should read up on Tara Shaw.”
“The movie star?” The aging bombshell? The world-famous blonde? “Why? Was she friends with his mother?”
Morgan made a crunching sound, as if she were eating breakfast while she talked. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Flint used to work for Tara.”
“So? He’s a PR consultant. That’s perfectly understandable.”
The crunching sound stopped. “He had an affair with her, Gina.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Flint and Tara Shaw? The screen goddess of the 1970s? She had to be twice his age.
Morgan resumed eating. “Some reports say she broke his heart. Others say he broke hers. And some say they were both just playing around, tearing up the sheets for the fun of it.”
Gina shifted in her seat, nearly spilling her milk. She grabbed the glass before it tipped over. “When did this happen?”
“When he was fresh out of college. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”
“Normally, I don’t pay attention to things like that. I’ve never really followed the Hollywood scene.”
“Well, I do,” Morgan said. “Their affair didn’t last long, but it created quite a scandal.”
“Bigger than the one going on in my life?”
“Much bigger.”
That was all it took. Gina spent the rest of the morning on the Internet, pulling up old articles on Tara Shaw and her wild, young lover.
While driving past the prestigious homes in Beacon Hill, Flint got the sudden urge to call Tara, to tell her what was going on.
He glanced at his car phone and realized foolishly that he didn’t have her number. He hadn’t spoken to Tara Shaw in over eight years. Flint had left Hollywood without looking back.
Besides, what the hell would he say to her? And what would her new husband think if her old lover just happened to ring her up?
With a squeal of his tires, he turned onto a familiar street and pulled into his parents’ driveway, knowing his dad would be home on a Sunday afternoon.
Flint and his father saw each other often. They worked in the same bustling high-rise, but these days they rarely spoke, at least not about important issues.
He unlocked the door with his key, the same key he’d had since he was a teenager. For eighteen years, this elegant mansion had been his home.
He stood in the marbled foyer for a moment, catching his reflection in a beveled mirror. It wasn’t a cold house, completely void of emotion, but it didn’t present a warm, fuzzy feeling, either.
But then how could it? Especially now?
He crossed the salon, passing Chippendale settees, ornate tables and gilded statues. The Kingmans were a successful family, but money didn’t necessarily make people happy.
He located his dad in the garden room, a timber-and-glass structure flourishing with greenery. Shimmering vines twined around redwood trellises, and colorful buds bloomed in a shower of floral abundance, thriving in the controlled environment.
James Kingman, a tall, serious man, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, enjoyed growing flowers, and he tended them with a gentle hand.
Today he hovered over a cluster of lady’s slippers, orchids as beautiful and beguiling as their fairy-tale name.
Flint shed his jacket, and the older man looked up.
“Well, hello,” he said, acknowledging his son’s presence. “What brings you by?”
