How much better if he hadn’t slept with her that first night. Everything would be so different right now. He wouldn’t have her taste in his mouth or know the feel of her lips on his neck or what her body felt like when he thrust into her. All this information kept short-circuiting his brain. His lips parted and damn but he struggled to draw breath.
She moved in a circle taking in his office set-up, which made use of half the living room. He and electronics had been pals from the beginning. He always upgraded. He liked large screens, webcams and more than one of each. He always traveled with two laptops and a backup. He had a good-sized printer-copier-scanner-fax machine and a load of white paper. He had a stack of post-its. He had a large day-planner open on his desk.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, turning to him, her brows cresting high on her creamy kissable forehead. “Launching satellites?”
“I believe in technology and my IT guy can wire anything.”
“So this is how you manage an empire from a hotel room. You even have a row of clocks for time zones.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
He liked that she had stilled in the center of his room. Carly had a restless kind of energy and when she stopped like that, something had her attention.
He wanted her attention. Now. All over him.
As she turned toward him, he reminded himself of his original purpose, to keep this seduction on a slow steady course so that when she came back to his bed, she’d stay put. He knew the precise point he wanted this initial encounter to climb to, but for some reason all his well-developed cognitive functions shut down.
He closed the distance between them and slid a hand around the nape of her neck. He ignored the orchestrated seduction he’d planned, tilted her back and said, “It’s damn good to see you again, Carly.” When her lips parted either because she wanted to throw a series of protests at him or because she couldn’t breathe, he didn’t hold back. He kissed her hard, sliding his tongue deep and with his free arm, drew her against him.
Plain and simple, what was left of his rational mind winked out. His body remembered her body and he wanted more of her. Now. It didn’t help him at all that she relaxed against him. He slid his hand over her buttocks and squeezed. A delicious moan flowed out of her throat and drifted over his tongue. He was hard and ready to go, but this was way too soon.
* * * * * * * * *
Where Quint was concerned, Carly had the self-control of a bug facing a bright glow of light. She flew straight in, damn the consequences.
More than anything she wished she hadn’t already slept with him. Even then, if they’d had just a simple, moderate one-night-stand in which he’d made love to her then left, that would have helped. Instead, he had spent the night and worked her body over and over again.
The simple truth? She wanted more. She ached for more.
Of course, it didn’t help at all that he’d been generous with Grace. That action alone fueled her desire to be right back where she was, stuck to his body like honey to bread. What would it take to put her on her back again?
Not much.
A jolt of adrenaline, however, accompanied this thought and her common sense returned. She drew back and took in a deep breath. She planted her hands on his broad, muscular chest. She looked into his oh-so-blue eyes. “I—” She couldn’t find the words. She hunted for them through her brain, but all she saw was the word more flashing on and off in a passionate neon red.
“Yes?” His voice was deep and hoarse. His eyes had a wild, pained look. His hands settled on her arms in a tight grip, the kind of hold that felt desperate. Since her hips were planted against him, she could tell why.
Carly blinked and blinked. She forced her gaze away from the blue of his eyes. She looked at the tip of his nose instead but that still didn’t help much. She recalled kissing his nose. She had kissed him everywhere.
Pull yourself together. He’s Quint Barron. CEO Hunter Enterprises. Wants your winery and anything else he can get. Wake up. Now.
In slow stages, the passionate fog thinned out a little. He helped by just standing there, by not moving his hands anywhere else on her body, by not seeking her mouth again with his driving, probing, sexy tongue.
Stop thinking about that.
Okay. Okay.
She swallowed hard and after a long minute, brought the right words out of her oatmeal-filled brain and rushed them through her vocal chords. “You were going to give me the file on the Napa weekend. The guests? Right? So, I could start putting an itinerary together. Isn’t that what you were going to do?”
He leaned down, his eyes again at half-mast and she knew he meant to kiss her again. She had to look away. If she let him kiss her, she’d be lost. She looked at the floor, at his shoes. He wore very nice shoes. Gucci, maybe. What were her Timberlines doing staring at a pair of Gucci’s? It was all wrong.
She took a step back and again she was grateful his body didn’t follow. She forced herself to remember that he was a man on a mission, that he had said he would get her winery so help him, and that falling into his bed, which was only a few yards away in the other room, would be the height of foolishness. She reminded herself that she had a bad history with men of Quint’s ilk, ambitious men who made a habit of narrow, self-involved thinking.
“The file?” she reiterated. She looked up at him.
He nodded at her and kept on nodding. He scowled and nodded. He must have nodded a dozen times, maybe twenty. When he finally just shook his head, his eyes cleared and he turned away from her. He crossed to the desk, picked up a manila folder, then retraced his steps.
She grabbed the file and whirled on her heel. She moved fast, but he was faster and grabbed the door handle first. She thought he meant to trap her inside and she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist him. She knew her resistance wasn’t any bigger than the length of a cactus spine right now. But he didn’t attack her. Instead, he leaned close and whispered straight into her ear, “I meant what I said. It’s really good to see you again.”
She glanced at him, meeting his gaze. She wished she hadn’t because for just a moment she couldn’t remember why she was standing in front of him. What was this mesmerizing hold he had on her?
Thank God, he opened the door. She told her feet to get moving and be quick about it. She found herself on the sidewalk heading in the direction of her Acura. She made herself take deep breaths. She got in her car and drove at about ten miles an hour down the street until the car behind her honked…twice.
She hit the accelerator and the rest of the fog disappeared from her brain. Her thoughts formed a straight line. She checked the time. It was after seven now and the sun in early July finally began its descent into the west. She headed home.
* * * * * * * * *
Quint didn’t close the door for a long time. He stood staring at the tall buttes opposite, the ones that rose straight up to the Mogollon Rim. Carly had called it right that first day on the Rim, Sedona was a place of possibilities.
That kiss hadn’t quite gone as he had planned but he’d gotten the response he wanted. Carly had been into it, ready and willing. Even when he opened the door for her, he felt about ninety-nine percent certain that if he’d pressed her, she would have stayed.
But he wanted her to beg. He wanted her to be so caught in the spell of whatever this was between them, that she whispered more over his neck like she had that first night.
He frowned, thinking back to the meeting with Grace. He’d had some pretty bizarre thoughts about Carly and a rope, the idea that he wanted to know where she was and that he didn’t want other men even looking at her. The woman incited some insane thoughts. Unfortunately, they had a theme he recognized—possession, future, calling her his woman.
The whole thing pissed him off, that for some inexplicable reason Carly prompted caveman-like fantasies, and that his drive toward her tended to interfere with his clear-thinking about why he’d made Sedona his home-for-the-mo
nth in the first place.
He planted his hands on his hips.
Time to focus. And after that kiss in which he’d brought her a step closer to his current goal, well, time to celebrate a little.
He smiled. He loved the game, every aspect of it and what a treat this was that the game this time involved a woman he wanted in his bed more than any woman he’d ever known. He breathed in the clear, dry canyon air.
Life was good.
He just had one small matter of business to tend to before he settled at his desk and worked through the latest news on his various businesses and investments.
He turned into the room then closed the door. He crossed to the multiple phone lines, punched a button then pressed the number reserved for Sheila.
“Hey, Sheila. I just needed to know if Brad set up a PI to investigate Carly Grayson yet. If so, I’d like to know the status and if not, set Brad on this ASAP.”
She told him to hold. When she got back on the line she had good news. A PI had been contracted earlier that morning and should have a full report in hand in about three days.
“Excellent.” He hung up and pulled up his chair. He powered up his laptops and downloaded the e-mails from his chief operating officers. He began the grueling process of evaluating the latest activity at each of his companies. Tomorrow, he’d spend a good part of the day in webcam conferences.
Tomorrow night…Carly.
* * * * * * * * *
Carly spent the evening reviewing the file on the six Napa Valley guests who would arrive at her winery in three weeks. She memorized their names and relationships to one another. Gerald Thompson and his wife Hailey led the enterprise, Gerald being the oldest, probably in his mid-sixties. The picture of he and his wife showed that for all his conservative talk, he’d taken a trophy bride about three years prior. Hailey couldn’t have been much past thirty-five.
Scott Dillon and his wife Amanda were the youngest of the group and according to the file Scott had inherited from old money and purchased a winery on Gerald’s advice. He followed Gerald’s lead in everything, including investments. The last pair, Paul and Eve Frazier, were in their early thirties. He appeared to be from money while her winery had been in her family for over a hundred years.
Carly had a quick impression from the photos in the file that both Gerald Thompson and Eve Frazier seemed either withdrawn or discontent, maybe both.
She knew people. She’d given tours for years. If this was the group that would arrive at her winery, she didn’t have a good feeling about them as a cohesive unit. Gerald in particular had the look of a caged bear.
Beyond that, she studied their likes and dislikes and began making some notes about possible activities. Golf and shopping were a given, but she thought a Jeep tour to the Rim, always a surprise to those who had never been to Sedona, might bring a little life to the weekend.
At least she had almost three weeks to put things together. She’d also need to think about hiring a housekeeper, chef and wait-staff for time spent at the winery house.
* * * * * * * * *
The next evening, Quint took Carly to the Oak Creek Grill for dinner. He sat across from her and swigged his amber ale.
“So,” he drawled, his gaze locked onto hers, “It’s strange to have slept with you but to not even know your favorite color.”
Carly wished he hadn’t brought up that particular subject. Her mind went right back to her bed and the memory of his magnificent body poised over her. She despised this weakness she had for him, this constant pressing desire to put her hands on him, on his bulked-up arms and well-formed pecs, on his muscular thighs.
Oh, his thighs.
“I’m partial to olive green,” she said, sipping her own ale and trying yet again to just calm the hell down.
He had asked her out earlier that afternoon and afterward she had spent a ridiculous amount of time sorting through her closet. In the end, she had chosen to wear a simple light blue t-shirt and jeans even though she felt certain he’d be in Armani. She’d been right but she was still glad she’d worn her casual clothes. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the smallest idea that she thought of him in any other way than as his business associate.
The trouble was, when he’d picked her up at her house, he’d looked her up and down and she knew he hadn’t even seen her clothes. He’d stripped her naked in his mind so that what she wore had nothing whatsoever to do with what was on his mind. Such ironies.
“Olive green,” he said. He nodded and took another swig. He smiled. He watched her even when he drank. She wished his gaze wasn’t so intense. Maybe then her breasts would stop pushing against the inside of her bra and begging for his hands. She hoped he didn’t notice.
“Yep, green,” she reiterated.
What a conversation.
“What’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world?” he asked. He touched the tip of his bottle to his lips and her gaze followed.
Kissing you, popped into her head.
Hold up, Carly.
Try again.
“My favorite thing,” she mused, letting her gaze drift away from him. That helped. His lips were seductive and his blue eyes hypnotic. “Standing on the edge of the Rim at sunrise, with the sun at my back and watching the whole canyon light up.”
He set his bottle on the table. “Sounds beautiful.”
She looked back at him. “It is.”
“I have no doubt.” He watched her and smiled. He lifted his bottle once more and drank deep. He signaled to the waitress for two more.
Two more? Was that part of his plan? She knew this about Quint—he always had a plan.
“Now how about you,” she said. “Favorite color and favorite thing to do.”
He leaned forward but lowered his voice as he said, “Favorite thing? In your bed, my body stretched out on top of you.”
She gasped and laughed. “That just can’t be true.”
He shook his head. “Well, you’re wrong. Right now your bed tops the charts. That night was out of this world and I want to do it again with you. A lot.”
Yep.
A man with a plan.
She worked at reminding herself just what kind of man Quint was, that he’d told her flat out he meant to get her winery and she had to believe he meant what he said.
She finished her first beer and as soon as the waitress brought the second, she started in, hoping to dull some of these powerful sensations.
He just kept smiling.
She decided to change the subject since they’d drifted into unhelpful territory. “I thought you’d want to know that I’ve started working the Napa file. I’ve sketched out a loose itinerary.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said, but he reached across the table and took her hand in his. She tried to pull away but he held on tight. When she tugged again, he brought his other hand forward and stroked her fingers. His gaze held a challenge.
“You are so bossy,” she cried.
He shrugged.
“So you’re not going to let go of my hand.”
He shook his head.
She sighed. She had no intention of engaging in a wrestling match in the middle of a restaurant so she relented.
He smiled a little more then said, “Now about that night we were together, what was your favorite thing we did. I really want to know.”
So much for changing the subject.
“Quint, we shouldn’t even be talking about this.”
“I disagree, but I’ll make you a deal. You answer my question and I won’t bring it up again, at least not tonight. However, if you don’t answer my question, I’m going to tell you everything about that night that got me going and I think I should warn you that I could talk for hours on this subject, in precise detail and I don’t care who hears.”
She laughed. “You’re a little on the hopeless side, you know.”
“Won’t argue with you there,” he said, chuckling, but at least he released her hand. “So, tell me
Carly, what was your favorite thing about that night?”
Carly’s mind skittered through everything they did, all the way to the end. She smiled because she knew her answer would surprise him. “Waking up with your arms around me and hearing you snore.”
He seemed taken aback. “There are too many things wrong with that statement. First-of-all, I do not snore.”
“Oh, it’s not one of those rumbling, meat-grinder snores. It’s very soft, comforting in a way.”
He screwed up his face into an expression of disgust. He drank deep again. “Secondly, you know damn well I wasn’t referring to a ‘sleeping’ situation.”
“I stand by my answer.” She leaned forward and in a very quiet voice, added, “You bowled me over in every possible way that night, from seeing you in the Jeep bay to having you on me, in me, over me in about a dozen different configurations, to waking up with your arms around me like this.” She overlaid her chest with her arm. “But I’ll still call it my favorite thing because in it’s way, it was a very fitting ending to a beautiful night—which never needs to happen again, by the way.” She lifted her chin.
His eyes grew half-lidded. “Oh, it’s happening again. Just try to stop it.”
“I intend to,” she returned, although she had about as much confidence in her ability to thwart his seductions as fog surviving a hot sun. But he didn’t have to know that and she would fight him as long as she could. “My turn. Favorite color?”
“Any shade of gray, silver to almost black.”
She nodded. “Now, besides sharing my bed, what do you like to do?”
He narrowed his eyes, something he did often, and said, “I guess that would have to be riding any of my three motorcycles, first thing in the morning, when the sun crests the McDowell Mountains, when there aren’t a million cars on the road. Yeah, that comes in a nice second to your bed.”
He always seemed to find a way to bring the subject back to sex.
* * * * * * * * *
After a fine meal of cedar plank salmon and ‘Smoking Gun’ pizza, Quint drove Carly home and walked her to her front door. He had been waiting for this moment after a long dinner comprised of a hundred or so sex-laden hints.