The Sweetest Deal (5 page)

C.C. eased the black silk stocking up her thigh and fastened the clasp on the garter belt. She breathed slowly, concentrating just the way her yoga instructor had taught her. Once. Twice. Three times.

It didn’t help. She yanked the second stocking from the bed. Nothing would help tonight. She’d buzzed through three cookies hours ago and their calming effect had already started to wear off.

Why had she let her father talk her into attending the Northern Virginia Businessmen’s Banquet? She was too new to represent him at such an event. People would ask where he was and then they’d ask what she did, what she was doing, and why she’d left such a lucrative career in Chicago, and she could hardly tell them she’d left because her ex-boyfriend—who had a pregnant wife he never told her about—hired in as her boss. She pulled on the other stocking, gouging the silk with her nails. “Damn.” A giant snag shot along the top of the stocking. She’d convinced her father she was ready to join him at Crowell Limited, but was she? Look how badly she was handling her first client. Granted, Max Jerrnigan was not an ordinary client, but she should be able to handle him.

Shouldn’t she?

C.C. prided herself on dissecting the emotion out of every situation so all that remained were logical conclusions. Except where Max was concerned. He stripped her focus, making it difficult to see anything but those stunning blue eyes and that haphazard, sexy grin. Her stomach flip-flopped in a way that had nothing to do with tonight’s event.

No. She would not think of Max Jerrnigan and she would not imagine his strong, tanned hands inching up her thigh in slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers rimming the lace of her garter belt, his toned body leaning closer, his breath falling out in harsh, choppy gusts, his half-closed eyes devouring her.

She shivered. Max. She fell back on the bed and imagined his body covering hers, his mouth hard and demanding as he forced her lips open, his legs entwined with hers, his hands stroking and kneading…

The insistent banging squashed her fantasies.

“C.C.! Are you okay?”

She sprung off the bed. Oh, God, it was Max! “Just a minute!” She bolted to the closet and yanked out a black jacket and skirt.

“C.C.!” More banging.

“Just a sec.” She shimmied into the skirt, snatched the jacket and buttoned it up as she made her way to the door. “Sorry,” she said as she opened the door. “I must have fallen—” The rest of the sentence froze as she stared at Max.

He grinned and stepped inside. “I know, I know. I look ridiculous in this penguin suit.”

The man looked like he belonged on top of a wedding cake. C.C. fingered the lapel of her own suit. “I feel a little underdressed.”

He took in her dark jacket and skirt. “You probably should wear shoes.”

A ridiculous laugh spilled from her lips. “I meant the suit.” What did she know about gala business events? She’d always confined her out-of-office business contacts to meetings over lunch. Except with David—and look where that got her.

“May I have a look at your closet?”

“My closet? Why?” The thought of Max Jerrnigan perusing her clothes made her light headed.

“Just curious. Tonight’s a big event and since you’re representing one of the industry’s largest development moguls, you want to do it properly.”

“You can look but I’m not trying to impress anyone with my looks.” She wished he’d stop staring at her like she was someone’s cause. Did he know his eyes were the color of the Caribbean? Of course, he did. Men like Max always knew those things because silly women told them. She sighed and yanked open the sliding door. A woman’s closet never lied, not even a hotel closet. C.C. Crowell was boring. Period. “Surprise,” she said with a wave of her hand. Black. Black. Navy. Black. Black. Gray. She’d had color in her closet once, but she’d tossed it all two years ago. She preferred to follow the female cardinal, blending in to her surroundings in an effort to avoid danger.

“You went out on a limb with this one, didn’t you,” Max said, fingering the lapel of a dark gray suit.

What was wrong with it? Men wore them every day. “When I’m conducting business, I don’t want any distractions.”

“So if you dress like a man, a guy will think you are one?”

He smiled down at her and the room grew twenty degrees warmer. “No. I’m just saying I like to keep business pure and focused.” She tried to ignore the way the crisp whiteness of his shirt made his skin look so much darker. “Men wear gray, and black, and pinstripes. It shows they mean business.”

“Ah.” Max lifted out a finely striped black suit. “They’re all business,” he said, avoiding her eyes, “like we are.”

C.C.’s chest tightened and she found it difficult to speak. He’d been referring to the other night. So, he hadn’t been able to forget it either. “You, Max Jerrnigan—” she pointed to his chest, “—are an aberration.”

“Excuse me?”

“You. Me. This thing that keeps happening between us. That’s an aberration.”

“Ahhhh. The kissing?” His lips twitched.

She nodded.

“The closeness.” His voice dipped as she double pumped another nod. “The touching?” He ran a finger along her cheek and she jumped back.

“Yes. All of those things. Aberrations.”

Max smiled and the full force of his persuasive charm spilled over her. “C.C., those aberrations are normal between a man and a woman.”

She shook her head so hard, a chunk of hair slipped out of her bun, resting against her neck. “Not for me they’re not.”

“Oh, so you’re above the human species?”

“I’m just different. That’s all. More in control.”

His smile faded. “That is such a bunch of bull. You are no more in control than the man on the corner selling hot dogs.”

“That is absolutely not true.”

Max moved a step closer. She took two steps back.

“The only difference between you and that man is he doesn’t let fear control him. He’s afraid he won’t make a buck but he still goes out there every day. You hide behind your pompous self-control and never venture past it.”

“I am not afraid.” Oh, but that was such a lie. She was petrified of making another mistake and choosing the wrong man. She had more confidence in her cookie test than she did in her own ability to spot the right man.

He pointed to the suits hanging in her closet. “These reek of fear. Somebody must have burned you bad.” He must have seen something in her expression, because he said, “That’s it, isn’t it? Some guy hurt you and now you’re hell bent on closing out the rest of the male population.”

“That’s not true.” But it was exactly true.

His gaze narrowed on her. “Prove it.”

“What?” She pulled her jacket closer, took a step back until she touched the wall.

“Prove you’re not afraid to be feminine, that you can defrost yourself enough to step out of that ice cube you live in.” He scanned her suits and landed on the tiny pin-striped black one. “Here. Put this on.”

C.C. scowled at him and grabbed the suit. She started toward the bathroom and paused. “Would you grab me the black shell that goes underneath this? It’s on the far right.”

“Nope. That’s how you’re going to wear it.”

“But I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” She clamped her mouth shut and shot him a venomous look. “Good. We’ll stop at the mall and grab a belt to cinch in the waist. Hurry now, like a good girl, we’re running behind. And if you want to show real fearlessness, wear your hair long.”

Two hours later, Max wished he’d kept his big mouth shut and let C.C. stick with her boring suit, pinned-up hair, and chilly demeanor. From the second they’d set foot on the marble parquet at the Ritz, a huge segment of the male attendees had descended upon her like swarming bees, vying for attention and introductions.

C.C. handled it well, he’d give her that. The hand shaking and laughing hadn’t stopped since the first introduction. She didn’t need Max to navigate her through these waters; she could do it without a map or a paddle.

And if that half-drunk, liver-eyed president of Rostel Development tried to peek down C.C.’s jacket one more time, Max swore he’d take the guy out.

“Isn’t she stunning?”

Max turned toward the tall, distinguished gentleman beside him. “Yes. Stunning.” And he was the one who encouraged the little butterfly to shed her cocoon.

“I’ve known Catherine since she was a young girl,” the man said. “Bad bit of business two years ago. Glad to see she’s past it.”

“Yes, she’s past it.” What business?

“Grayson was very concerned, as any father would be. Poor child, losing her mother and then the other.” He sighed and sipped his drink. “Now she can get on with her life. Would you be the one to thank for that, young man?”

Max hedged. “She’s a strong woman. I can’t take credit for that.”

“Ah, no, of course not, though I’ve seen the way you’ve been watching her. You seem the honest type. Catherine won’t trust the wrong man twice.”

With that, the man nodded and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Max to ponder C.C.’s past and what or who was behind the bad bit of bad business the man referred to. It was well past midnight when C.C. finally said goodbye to her bevy of new admirers, Max cutting off two persistent middle-aged men who insisted C.C. accompany them for a nightcap. Not very likely. She might have agreed if Max hadn’t clasped her hand and hurried her outside, into his rental car. Did she really think they gave a damn about her interest in eco-friendly building materials?

“Thank you, Max,” she said, as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She kicked off her heels and sighed.

Max glanced at the woman beside him. This was the C.C. he’d met on the plane, the one who’d been hiding from him since she walked into her father’s office a few weeks ago. Confident. Sensual. Entrancing. Maybe three gin and tonics helped, but this was who she really was, who she wanted to be—he sensed it. Why was she so damned afraid of just being herself? And who the hell had hurt her so bad?

“Max?”

“What?”

“Are you mad at me?” She reached over and fluffed his hair. “Don’t be mad, Max. Mad Max.” She giggled. “You don’t look like Mel Gibson, but I could so see you in one of those armor suits swinging a battle ax.” Giggle, giggle. “Mad Max Jerrnigan and the Thunderdome,” she said in a deep voice. “Sexy.” She shimmied against the leather seat and closed her eyes. “Sexy Max. Sexy, sexy Max. Hmmm.” She sighed. “Sex. Max. Sex. Hmmm.”

Max gripped the steering wheel and refused to think about the bulge in his pants. The woman had him on a roller coaster; one minute she made him mad as hell, and the next, she sighed and strung a few silly words together, and
zing
, he wanted to kiss her.

Time to execute his plan. Max pushed aside the twinges of guilt that clung to what used to be his conscience. Grayson had been very clear about the deal—no strings attached. If Max didn’t act soon, he might run the risk of actually falling for C.C.

Then what?

He already found himself fantasizing about her spread out on his bed, dark hair spilling over the pillow, pale skin warm from their lovemaking. Her belly filled with his child. Her father said she wanted a baby and he intended to give her one. They’d both get what they wanted, and nothing more. Neither of them wanted anything more.

***

C.C. tried to snuggle deeper into the warm cocoon and burrowed right against a hard moving wall. “Where am I?”

“Shhh. We’re in the elevator.”

“Oh.” She snuggled back against the moving wall. “Okay.” Moments or hours later, the cocoon disappeared, the wall stopped moving and she was on her back. She inched her eyes open and tried to focus. “Max?”

“Hey.”

His voice sounded strained. Was something wrong? She started to sit up but a wave of dizziness flattened her.

“Stay still. You should try to rest.”

“What happened?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep?” Her head pounded when she spoke.

“Okay,” he hedged, his expression grim, “passed out.”

“Passed out?” Oh, if only the throbbing would stop. “I passed out? Where?”

“Here. On the bed.”

“Oh.” She reached under the covers. No suit, no stockings, no necklace.

Max cleared his throat. “I hung up your clothes.”

“Thanks.” He’d seen the black lace bra and panties. He’d seen the garter belt.

“No problem.”

“Did I,” she hesitated, “do anything else?”

It was his turn to hesitate. “Nope. You were the perfect date.”

That could mean anything. “It wasn’t a date.” She closed her eyes, blinked hard and pressed her fingers against her temples. “My mouth feels like a triple-size cotton ball.”

“You threw up,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What?” If that were true she willed the bed to open up and swallow her whole.

“Twice. Right after you tried to seduce me.”

***

When someone knocked on Max’s door late Saturday morning, he assumed it would be C.C. come to interrogate him about last evening. The woman must be hung over and mortified. He’d enjoyed the look on her face when he told her she’d been sick and had tried to seduce him. Okay, maybe seduce was a little strong, but she’d definitely thrown her arms around him and pressed her delicious body much too close to his.

And the throwing up part, well, Tanqueray and tonic as a main course could do that to a person.

He’d torture her a little before accepting her apology; payback for the restless night she’d given him. How was a man to sleep with visions of lace and flesh and garters dancing in his head? Max pulled open the door, hiding the beginnings of a smile. This was going to be fun.

He froze when he saw the woman standing on the other side of the threshold.

“Hello, Max.” Candy Monroe breezed past him in a flash of red and black, her stilettos sinking in the plush carpet with each stride.

“Candy? What are you doing here?”

She glanced at the unmade bed and shook her head. “You never did like making the bed.” Max cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his back pockets. Why couldn’t C.C. have been the one at the door?

Candy scanned the rumpled sheets, tilting her head from side to side, as though trying to determine what had taken place there. “Are you sleeping with her?”