Do-Over (7 page)

Thankfully, there was no answer.

He walked past the smaller of the firm’s two conference rooms. It was then he heard it, a sighing sound.

Mark turned back.

The room was lit by the glow of a lamp someone had left on. The table, big enough for eight in the center of the space, was empty, except for papers scattered across its dark wood surface.

They were checklists, each titled “$37,000,000 Recapitalization of Newby Holdings by Merchant Financial.” He shook his head. The deal wasn’t even fully hammered-out and already she was giving it a final shine. If Cara didn’t watch it, in a few years she’d be
running a tight second to Howard Blenham when it came to obsessive behavior.

Over on the couch, Ms. Tail-in-a-Knot stirred and sighed. She was dead to the world.

Mark felt a smile creep across his face as he watched her stretch, then fling one arm above her head. Her light blue blouse, a nicely formfitting, tailored thing, had come untucked from the waistband of her skirt. A patch of her skin showed. Not frog-belly white, but pale ivory, untouched by the sun.

Without even intending to, he walked closer. This impulse, this need to touch, powered his steps, made his fingers twitch.

Silk. She’d feel like sun-warmed silk.

He came down onto his haunches next to the couch, thinking how beautiful she was when the stress and suspicion were gone from her face.

Thinking again how he wished they had met under different circumstances.

Thinking how at this moment he was acting like the stalker she’d accused him of being.

Disgusted with himself, Mark was about to stand and slip out of the room when her eyes slowly opened.

He knew that she was lingering in that hazy world somewhere between wakefulness and dream, because she smiled at him. It was a welcoming smile, instead of the “setting you up for the kill” variety she most frequently sent his way.

“Hey,” she said, her voice husky with sleep.

“Hey.”

Bracing his left hand on the arm of the couch, he let his right hand brush a stray lock of hair away from her cheek. Her blue eyes widened, not with alarm, as
though she was about the bolt from the couch and run screaming into the street, but with curiosity.

Ah, his old friend, curiosity.
How would her mouth feel against his? Just then, he couldn’t think of a more compelling question.

Cara wanted to know, too. He could tell from the way her lips were beginning to part, readying for him.

All you have to do is say no.

Mark tried to focus, to figure out if he’d just said that aloud to her. He’d meant to, but wasn’t sure he’d found the willpower to do it.

Aloud, telepathy, it didn’t matter. She gave him his answer by drawing his mouth to hers. Her fingertips brushed the side of his face while he learned once again the rich curve of her lower lip, the firm give of her mouth.

She made a soft sound, a low and sexy hum that started his blood pounding. Six years ago, they’d both had too much to drink. The memory of her, other than the salty taste of margaritas, was blurred with time and imprecise perception.

This moment—the way her fingers were winnowing through the hair at the back of his head, and the way she had become the aggressor, her tongue teasing his—this, he’d remember forever.

They kissed, and in their quiet cocoon away from the rest of the world, time lost meaning. Mark forgot pretty quickly that he’d started this kiss while in not one of the most comfortable stances, and that his leg muscles were less than pleased.

In fact, he forgot it so well that his right hand seemed to have strayed to the sleek swatch of skin that peeked out beneath her blouse.

He’d been right…silk. Warm, resilient, breathing.
And what little he could reach wasn’t enough. That same curious hand went on a foray to the blouse’s buttons. They were tiny, not easily handled by a guy who couldn’t quite get in touch with nerve endings north of his belt. Ah, but he was a determined man.

As the buttons slipped free, Cara sighed a single word:
yes.

Good word. One of the best.

He brushed the sides of her blouse out of the way and drew back far enough to see what he’d exposed. The sight made his heart slam against his chest. She was nothing outside of the norm size-wise—no surgery-enhanced poster material to make a guy slobber. But what she had was perfect in its paleness, the way the lacy pink bra settled against her. He had thoughts of plump seashells and blossoming tulips and other things he’d never really viewed as a turn-on until now.

Cara Adams was reshaping his universe.

“Morgan?”

He looked back to her face and found the last thing he’d expected—worry.

“You’re incredible,” he said, and was pleased to see the uncertainty fade. She had nothing to be insecure about.

He leaned down and kissed her on the line where lace met soft, soft skin. He brushed his thumb over one nipple, already waiting for his touch.

“Yes,” she said again.

He took her mouth and kissed her as she was meant to be kissed, and as he was meant to do. She trembled and held him closer. His mind raced. Could he make love to her here? It wasn’t the best of locations, but with some creativity…

One more kiss…

Her hands settled on his shoulders, fingers flexing. She drew her mouth from his as though she were about to ask him something.

Then she pushed him backward.

Off balance for a great number of reasons, Mark landed on his rear.
Always make a fast recovery
—the personal credo had done him well in business, so he applied it to this indefinable and incredibly stupid situation. He stood and adjusted his stance, doing his best to make the current uncomfortable fit of his pants marginally tolerable.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” he asked.

She’d swung her legs around and was sitting now. Her fingers fumbled as she hurriedly rebuttoned her blouse. If he were feeling any kinder, he would have told her that she’d missed a buttonhole, but since she’d just sent him sprawling onto his ass, she’d have to live with the results.

“Well, at least we’ve got that out of the way.” Her tone was what one would use when referring to a trip to the dentist.

“Out of the way?”

“Done. Finished. Never to be repeated.” She tilted her head as she asked, “Do you need more clarification?”

The thing with women was you never really had a clue what they were thinking. Oh, you might get lucky with a good guess now and then, and sometimes they might humor you. But to really, deeply understand them? Not in this lifetime.

“You could have stopped with ‘done,”’ he said.

Mark walked out of the conference room and all the way back to his office without stopping.

His only thought was to get the hell out of the building before he went back and started the argument Cara was obviously spoiling for. He reached for his PDA, still sitting on his desk. It was then he noticed that his hand was trembling like some fourteen-year-old testosterone-surfing kid’s.

“Damn,” he spat, amazed and almost awed by the need still cooking in him.

Never to be repeated?

Not if he had a say.

O
N THE LOFTY AND
pillowy-soft heights of Olympus, Hera leaned forward, brushing her lips against Zeus’s, tempting him with the smallest tease of a caress.

“Think you’re so smart now, big guy?” she whispered.

But then she kissed him for real, and Zeus stopped thinking at all.

Cara’s Rule for Success 7:

Happiness must come from within…

but in a pinch,

a really fine martini will do.

“I
AM A SUCCESSFUL
woman.”

The self-affirmation sounded good, but it didn’t seem to be sticking. Cara turned up the Zen music CD, gave herself a stern look in her car’s rearview mirror, and then tried another round.

“I am in control of my life. I am serene and content.”

What utter crap. Dani, her sister, had given her this stupid, “find peace in yourself” book and CD for her last birthday. It must have been intended as a joke gift. If Cara had control of her life, she’d be sitting in her office at ten in the morning instead of hiding in her car. And any shot she’d had at serene had vaporized last night on the conference room couch.

Cara sipped at her lukewarm latte—damning evidence of just how long she’d been skulking in S.U.’s parking lot. She promised herself that when she was done with the drink, she’d go inside and face what she’d done last night.

Or maybe she’d try just one more happy thought.

“I will be fair to others and have faith that they will be fair to me.”

Morgan needed a little work on that final affirmation. Fair play didn’t include hovering over a girl while she was sleeping. And dreaming…of him.

She knew that her fantasies were the result of stress, and that she shouldn’t expect to control her subconscious. Sad truth was, lately she hadn’t kept a very good grip on her conscious mind, either.

With little else available, Cara latched onto one meager ray of optimism: the office appeared to be sparsely populated today. She supposed that might be because the sun was shining, the birds were singing and everybody who had a significant other wanted to be with them. Like Morgan, with his date this morning. All Cara wanted was partnership, and that entailed out-sharking the Shark, no matter how miserable and exhausted it might make her.

She chugged the dregs of her coffee. When she got home tonight, the self-affirmation book was going to hit the trash. Clearly, it was having no impact on her baser instincts.

She was driven by an emotion hotter than the hood of a black car on a summertime Detroit day: spite. Just once, she wanted to see Morgan squirm.

Spite was an awesome motivator, second only to the terror of not being able to cover her upcoming mortgage payments. At first, the reality of what she was doing hadn’t quite sunk in. All she’d had to pay was an initial good-faith, five-percent deposit to reserve her condo unit.

While going through her mail late last night, she’d come across a notice telling her that the condo’s interior walls were up and she owed five percent more.
She’d written the check and drained her savings. Worse, her mortgage application seemed to have been swallowed whole by the mortgage company; she lived in dread of having it spat back.

Deciding to buy a luxury condominium had been some really ambitious financial reaching, but almost two months ago, it had made sense. After all, she was going to be a partner by the end of August, right? With the money rolling in, she’d need income tax deductions and all that jazz, right?

Right?
Cara stepped out of her car and scowled at the idyllic sky hiding those rotten gods. Yep, spite and panic made her world go round, and the dance was making her queasy.

First stop inside S.U. was her office. The sole phone message was from Bri, reminding her that they were scheduled to look at bridesmaid’s dresses this afternoon. If Cara forgot again, Bri planned to have her cooked in the barbecue restaurant down the street. Cara didn’t doubt it.

“Ready to work?”

Morgan stood in the doorway, looking every sexy inch a Saturday lawyer in blue jeans snug and broken-in enough to be interesting, and a UNC golf team shirt that probably dated from his college days.

This time, she masked her startled response to his arrival. Maybe she was finally numb where he was concerned. Of course, that ran counter to her full makeup application and careful selection of wardrobe this morning.

Cara put on a slightly bored face. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to sneak up on people?”

“My mom? She’s more the type to tell me that
champagne goes well with Scottish smoked salmon. Wild, not farm-raised.”

“Interesting upbringing. We’re more of a meatloaf and beer crowd in my neck of the woods.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a good meat loaf.”

Even more interesting than his silver spoon background was how smoothly they were both easing past last night’s major mistake. Today just might be survivable.

“I’ve set up shop in the small conference room,” Mark said. “There are a few things I’d like to get through before one or so.”

“No problem.” At least, none she was willing to bring up with him. If he could feel comfortable in a room with that couch looming as a reminder of their stupidity, so could she. After all, she was successful and serene. Or so some pop-psychology hack of an author had told her to tell herself.

“If you’re ready…” He gestured at the door. “I’ll see you down there.”

After some attenuated foot-dragging, Cara approached the conference room.
Look at anything but the couch,
she told herself as she entered. Nice thought, but tough to pull off. Not glancing at the sofa was pretty much like sitting in front of a fireplace and trying to avoid noticing the dancing flames.

She looked, and in a nanosecond was mesmerized. The feel of his hands, the beat of his heart, the taste of his mouth with just a hint of some sort of alcohol, all of it surrounded her senses once again.

In a struggle for dominance, her intellect seemed to have snagged onto a bullhorn and was shouting,
“Look a-way from the couch,”
like a disaster scene specialist trying to unravel a mess.

Her libido was hanging tough, reliving every second of that kiss. Considering how seldom it got to rock and roll, she couldn’t blame it. Still, she could feel the color in her face reaching a flashpoint. She had to turn away…or burn alive.

“Cara? Hey, are you okay?”

“Hmmm?”

Wait…that was Morgan talking to her. She tore her gaze from the prior evening’s crime scene—both a crime that she’d let him start kissing, and that she’d made him stop. He sat at the conference table, rolling a fancy gold pen between his fingertips.

“Oh, there you are,” she blurted.

“Right where I’ve been since you came into the room.”

“I was a little distracted.”

He followed her line of vision to the couch. “I see.”

A subtle, prep school arch of his brows told her just how juvenile he’d found her behavior last night. No shock there. She knew she’d been a poster child for Brats ’R Us.

She settled into a chair directly opposite Morgan and began lining up the binder clips that were scattered on the tabletop. “About last night…um…”

Whatever she’d been planning to say escaped. Hell, why didn’t she just kiss him again? It would be easier than talking.

“Last night?” he prompted. “Before or after you introduced me to the carpet?”

“Before. Definitely before.”

“That’s a start.”

She folded one hand over the other, and pulled together her thoughts. “Look, I’m sorry for pushing you away so enthusiastically, and I’m sorry for starting
something I shouldn’t have. I didn’t think things through.”

“And now you have?”

“Yes. Kissing you was fun and all, but…”

He set down his pen and focused solely on her. His smile reminded her of the one she wore when she caught her niece or nephew toying with the truth.

“Just fun, huh?” he asked.

She nodded as sincerely as Sarah or Matt would.

“Not hot? Not even a little exciting?”

Okay, so he had her pegged. “No,” she lied. “Here’s the thing. It really can’t happen again. You’re my enemy, Morgan, and I can’t afford to forget that.”

“Isn’t
enemy
kind of strong?”

“Not nearly strong enough. If I thought I could convince you to wear horns and carry a pitchfork, I’d ask you to.”

“If you’re that much in need of a reminder, it sounds to me like the problem is with your perception, not my behavior.”

Cara felt a sharp twinge in the region of her heart. It was almost like fear, and thus completely unacceptable. “There’s nothing wrong with my perception. You waltz in here, steal my job and—and kiss me while I’m sleeping—”

He smiled. “You were awake. I saw the whites of your eyes before I advanced.”

“Cute.”

“Not bad for Satan.”

Cara looked back to the binder clips, and with the tip of her right index finger, sorted them according to size. “I just want to pretend the whole thing never happened.”

“Cara, I’m not a big fan of denial.”

“Then think of it as workplace diplomacy,” she suggested.

“So you really believe we can ignore whatever’s going on between us, work side by side on this deal for the next several weeks…and not once think about it happening again?”

“Yes?” That had come out with no certainty. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“I don’t like this. It’s not honest.”

She decided to give him one flat-out truth. “In the long run, Morgan, you’re not worth the hassle. And neither am I.”

His reaction was nearly imperceptible, a brief widening of the eyes she wouldn’t have caught if she hadn’t been looking. “Is that so? Okay, we’ll have it your way.”

Her relief was tinged with something bitter-tasting. “Fine.”

He leaned back in his chair and scrutinized her. She had no idea what he was looking for.

“But just in case you change your mind,” he said, “here are my terms. You want me to kiss you again, you’ll have to ask.”

His voice had a spit-in-the-hand, double-dare-you edge to it. Weird, but her spirits buoyed and her blood starting zipping through her veins. “Like that’s ever going to—”

“I’m not done. When I say
ask,
I don’t mean the classic female routine of a breathy sigh followed by nibbling on your lower lip. I want to hear ‘Mark, you were right, and I was wrong. I’d be the happiest woman in Detroit if you’d kiss me.’”

“Just Detroit?” she scoffed. “Not the whole universe?”

His gaze fixed on her lips. Cara watched as his brown eyes grew darker. She could almost feel the rich heat brush against one corner of her mouth, then leisurely slide across to caress her. Before she realized what she was doing, her lower lip was fast behind her front teeth. She released it, but it was far too late. Damn, he was one insidious bastard.

A very, very satisfied gleam replaced the heat in his eyes. “And when you finally ask me for that kiss, make sure you don’t have anything planned for a long time, Cara, because when I taste you next time, it’s going to be slow, thorough and a hell of a lot more than ‘fun.’”

She was trying to say something—she was quite sure of it—but no words came out.

He looked away for a brief moment and then riffled through the paperwork in front of him. “Okay, since this is the way you want it, let’s get back to business. I took your commitment letter home last night and looked at it. It’s nearly perfect.”

How could he switch it on and off like that? Maybe he truly had shark blood coursing through him. All Cara knew was that she was still locked in that promise of a slow and thorough kiss that would never, ever happen. He, on the other hand, had cut through the lingering emotion with ease.

“Nearly perfect?” she said once she’d managed to pull herself together. “That letter is a work of art—the legal Sistine Chapel.” Having a major point to prove, she’d made sure of it when she’d drafted that letter.

“The chapel’s paint could use a touch-up. I have a few favorite cover-your-ass clauses I want to add.” He slid the document across the table. “I’ve written them
in and was hoping you wouldn’t mind doing the typing.”

He was making it absurdly easy to forget about kissing him. In fact, she’d suggest a public flogging if she didn’t have sneaking suspicion that he’d enjoy it.

“I mind typing. A lot.” She snatched up a working girl’s plastic pen and wrote the letter’s file name on the top of the first page, then sent it back to him. “There’s its name. You’ll find it in the Newby file I set up on the on the computer system’s G drive.”

“Fine.” He looked as if he had wanted to say a whole lot more, but decided to exercise some diplomacy. “By the way, we’ve got a conference call scheduled with Nicole Harris at two o’clock.”

Cara bit back a sigh. She already knew from her work on the file that Harris was a loan officer from Merchant. What she hadn’t anticipated was that the woman would also be working on a holiday weekend. So much for earning brownie points from the clients for service above and beyond the call of duty.

“How long do you think it will take?”

“I want to introduce you and go through the letter in detail with her. She’s also going to need to have some grasp on how long it will take to get this deal ready to close.”

“Some warning would have been nice,” she said.

“You got us ahead of the game by working up the draft of the letter last night. Why lose those gains today?”

“No good deed shall go unpunished,” she said, then pushed away from the conference table and stood. Her life was about to become a black hole of suckiness. “I need to make a call and rearrange some things. I’ll be right back.”

Cara gave a small shake of her head as she walked from the room. He’d actually stood as she’d left, as though they were out to dinner at a five-star restaurant. It was quite a feat, the way he managed to touch her and annoy her at the same time.

Once in her office, Cara called Bri. As she waited for her best friend to answer, Cara fussed with the phone cord and tried to figure out how to gracefully be a rat.

Bri finally picked up. “Retreads.”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi! So are you ready to go see world’s ugliest dresses? I swear I wouldn’t be having a traditional wedding if it weren’t for my mom. She’d go ballistic if I even—”

This was like caging a puppy. “Bri, I need to reschedule.”