Baxter stood above her, his hand gliding down one of the shelves. “You have a unique selection of books. Travel. History. A little of everything.”
“I try to carry unique, special choices in every genre since I can’t carry the variety that a bigger store can.” She pushed to her feet, the heaviness of the oversize book a bit of a struggle. Baxter clearly noticed as much, reaching out to offer aid. Their hands collided; electricity darted up her arm, her eyes riveting on his. “Thank you,” she whispered, allowing him to fully take the weight from her and set the book on the table.
Their eyes held, a magnetic pull of awareness, of memories of intimate touches shared. A connection that made her heart flutter and chest tighten. A connection that made her forget the wig and the costume, and remember the sultry touches and mind-drugging kisses.
He reached out and plucked a wayward strand of her hair. “Do you know how badly I want to pull those pins free and then kiss you?”
She reached up and swiped the hair out of his reach. “Behave,” she whispered.
A low rumble of laughter escaped his lips. “But you like it when I misbehave.”
“You’re trying to get a reaction,” she said, calling him on his motive. “And we both know it.”
“Is it working?”
“Yes,” she answered. “So stop.”
He leaned against the bookshelf. “Are you always so direct?”
“You have a problem with direct?” she countered.
“I prefer it,” he said and motioned toward the book. “So tell me why you chose this one.” He straightened to study her selection.
Caron ran her hand over the gorgeous collage of exotic locations on the cover. “Besides being a gorgeous display piece for her home, it features an array of wonderful travel locations with pictorials and recipes for each region.” She turned it around to offer him a chance to glance through it, watching as he studied the selection.
“It’s perfect,” he said, flipping through a few pages with a satisfied look on his face. “She’ll love it. Is there time to order that cookbook, as well?”
“Of course,” she said. “I can e-mail you some choices and let you pick.”
“From what I’ve seen, I’m safe trusting you. Especially since I’ll be traveling.” He turned and scanned a wall of rare history books with approval. “Once my sister finds your store—and she will—once she opens her gift, she’ll spend hours here. And most likely you’ll end up with her entire class visiting with her one day.”
“We’d be thrilled to have her class,” Caron said, pleased by the sincerity she sensed in him. She’d put a lot of heart and soul into the store, and she was proud of it. “I’ll order the cookbook today and then have everything wrapped and delivered by Friday to whatever address you leave.”
“My home,” he said. “I won’t be back till Friday night. The front desk will hold the packages for me.”
His home. Where they’d made love too many times to count. She cleared her throat, straightened. “Let me jot down that address in my office.”
She reached for the book.
He snagged it first. “I’ll carry it.”
She gave a quick nod and passed him, leading him to her office, but not without a quick pause to accept praise from a customer who adored the new romance loft. Baxter waited patiently and then cast her an interested look as the fifty-something woman rushed to the register to make her purchase. Caron motioned him toward the hall and her office.
“You’re a hit,” he commented. “All you need now is a Remington coffee shop inside the store.”
She laughed. “Is that right?”
“Everything’s better with a cup of Remington coffee,” he teased. “Didn’t you know that?”
“Way too extravagant for my budget,” she said quickly and then blushed, pausing in front of her office door. “Oh, no.” She waved a hand. Once again she was insulting the prices of his coffee without meaning to. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean your coffee was too extravagant. I mean having a coffee bar in the store is.”
His lips twitched. “That’s not what you said the other night,” he reminded her.
Heat slid up her neck. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like it,” she quickly inserted. The truth was, she’d often dreamed of having a coffee shop in the store, but it was simply too costly an endeavor to consider.
Eager to change the subject, she motioned him inside her office, and she quickly darted behind the protective shield of her simple wooden desk. It was a tiny office, made smaller by his dominating presence, and no doubt, no comparison to his executive-flavored world or expensive leather furnishings. There was no brass and glass, no money dripping from the walls. Just bookshelves much like those lining the walls of the store, with her personal collection of books and knickknacks.
She slid a piece of paper and a pen across the wooden surface of her desk. “If you can jot down that address. I can include the bill in the package if you like?”
“That would be excellent,” he said agreeably, and then with easy male grace, crossed the small distance between the door and her desk. He reached for the paper and pen, scribbled his address with that powerful male writing of his and then looked up at her. “And please include a gift certificate for a hundred dollars.”
His cell phone buzzed and he glanced down at the screen, a furrow forming in his brow. “Business never stops.” He slid the note toward her. “The first address is for the package.” His eyes darkened, turned intimate, as did his voice. The room seemed to shrink even smaller. “The second address is the private dinner club I’ll be at tonight. Ten o’clock. Alone.”
He gave her no time to respond. Turning away, he sauntered toward the door, his casual composure holding her as spellbound as the invitation, free of the demand for an immediate answer, free of pressure, and she was glad for it. He’d handed her the power as he had many times Friday night. But Caron wasn’t sure she knew how to deal with him outside of the freedom of the glitz, glamour and costumes.
“I thought you were worried about the press?” she called to him, reaching for anything that might convince her to walk away from this before she did something silly, like fall for Baxter Remington instead of simply falling into bed with him.
He turned and winked. “That’s what the wig is for,” he said, and then departed, leaving Caron with an office filled with his spicy male cologne and temptation.
He wanted her to wear the wig. Caron stared after him, wrestling with a kaleidoscope of emotions. He’d given her back the power of the costume, the veil of a seductress. Why did that bother her so much?
CARON SAT IN THE BACK of a Yellow Cab on the way to the address Baxter had left her and pressed her fingers to her mouth. Coming here had been a tormenting choice. But ultimately, Friday night’s lovemaking was still so vivid, she could almost taste Baxter on her lips. Depriving herself of such pleasure seemed ridiculous. She was a grown woman with needs and desires. A woman who deserved to have those needs fulfilled. And Baxter had proven he knew how to deliver—why go elsewhere? Besides, she’d worn the wig, like a veil, or a shield…Yes, a shield. A shield that allowed her to explore her sexuality, let her be the seductress of Friday night. She hoped.
The driver pulled the car to a stop in front of a corner lot, a fancy brick building with valet parking and doormen—her destination. Caron paid the driver, and then drew a deep breath, before opening the car door. She slid out, tugging at the black skirt that rode just above the knee. She wore a sheer black silk blouse and knee-high boots. She’d added a velvet blazer for warmth, which she tugged more snuggly around her, the wind whipping as fiercely as her stomach rolled. The wind calmed a moment later; her stomach did not.She approached the doormen, found herself dropping Baxter’s name—her…dropping names. This was insane. So not her world. But sure as she said his name, she was swept inside, treated like a princess. She liked it, too. She didn’t want to like it. Why start liking something you couldn’t have? Live the fantasy, Caro
n, she told herself. But she’d never been good at the whole window-shopping kind of thing. If she couldn’t have something, why taunt herself?
Dim lights and elegance greeted her, the entry adorned with a gorgeous crystal chandelier dangling above a mahogany table. And the red and white floral arrangement, the largest that Caron had ever seen, sat as a centerpiece—fake no doubt. No one could afford to have that many flowers delivered every day. Or maybe they could, but Caron didn’t even want to think about the price tag. And that only proved how out of her element she truly was. She couldn’t enjoy the decor without thinking about how much it cost.
A man in his late forties appeared in front of her, his salt-and-pepper hair sleek and perfectly groomed. He wore a tuxedo and waved her toward the stairs. “This way, miss.”
Caron followed him up a marble stairway lined with an Oriental rug in a delicate floral design of rich burgundy and black. An ornate wooden railing steadied her as she navigated up the winding path.
More dim lighting greeted her at the top level, candles flickering through etched brass holders that cast lovely designs on the shadowy walls. Velvet curtains stood in various positions of opened and closed, with private supper booths behind each, or rather—as it seemed to Caron—private compartments, almost as one might expect inside a train.
She wasn’t led to one of these booths, but down another hall to several doors, each a different color and each displaying a sign: Red Room, Blue Room, Green Room. The gentleman attending Caron indicated a door.
“You will be dining in the Red Room this evening,” he stated, turning the brass doorknob and motioning her inside.
Caron walked in front of him, a tiny hallway before her, the walls flickering with more candle-induced shadows. The air was laced with the soft scent of jasmine, a sensual tune floating through ceiling speakers. Behind her, the sound of the door gently closing sent a wave of anticipation climbing up Caron’s spine.
Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her from behind, proving Baxter had followed her into the hallway without her knowing.
“You’re late,” he purred in a whiskey-smooth voice near her ear.
“I wasn’t sure I was coming,” she said, her voice shuddering with the feeling of his legs and hips settling against hers, molding her close.
“Then why did you?”
Her mind raced with the proper way to answer. “I have to send the wig back tomorrow. You’re leaving tomorrow. It was now or never.”
He chuckled, low and inviting, and turned her in his arms. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned—a tiny sprinkling of dark hair peeked through the top. “So it’s all about the wig, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” she challenged, holding her breath as she waited for his answer.
“The wig was for the press,” he promised, tugging at the pins and tossing them aside. The wig came next. “You’re for me.”
Caron barely kept herself from holding the wig in place, as he removed it. She used her fingers to shake her natural hair free.
“You have no idea how badly I wanted to do that in the store today.” He took her hand. “Come. Drink some wine with me.”
He led her toward the table and Caron willed her heart to stop racing. Because whatever happened tonight, there was no bombshell image to hide behind.
9
WHAT CARON DID TO HIM, well, it had him in knots, had him burning with the need to do so much more than simply shove her skirt to her waist and bury himself inside her body—though that sounded damn good right now.
Relentless desire tightened his groin as Baxter held Caron’s chair out, his gaze flickering across the subtle glimpse of thigh as she settled into the seat. The hard thrum of lust pumped through his veins, his mind filled with illicit fantasies the private room allowed. In the back of his mind, he told himself to act on those things, take Caron now, forget dinner. After all, this was about sex—about a fantasy. And sex was sex, plain and simple. A way to relieve a little tension, fulfill that deep primal need all men accepted as a part of living, and then refocus on the performance pressure of running Remington—the pressure to come through for family, for stockholders, for his employees. Or at least that’s how it had always been in the past. Until Caron. Suddenly, plain and simple wasn’t so simple.Clamping down on his male urges, Baxter managed a facade of nonchalance as he claimed the seat across from Caron and studied her, trying to connect with what it was about her that had him practically shaking with desire. And normally he didn’t shake. Not for a woman. Not in business. He had to know why he did for her.
She blinked at him, then her lashes fluttered closed, dark half circles on pale skin, relaying that quality of genuine vulnerability he’d found himself drawn to. Vulnerability that contrasted with the inner strength and confidence she also managed quite magnificently. Qualities that said she wouldn’t let fear defeat her—that she could, and would, survive whatever life threw at her.
Eager to draw her into conversation, to learn more about her, Baxter opened a menu. “Everything is excellent. Steaks, fish, pasta.”
“Allergic to fish,” she said. “So better pass on that. I, ah, swell up kind of like a blowfish.” He laughed and she flushed. “Too much information,” she quickly added. “Really don’t want you picturing that right about now. But anyway, ah, never loved the taste or the smell of seafood anyway, so it’s no real loss.” She crinkled her nose. “The smell especially.”
He chuckled at her adorable rambling, already quite familiar with that being her way of dealing with stress, nerves, anything spinning out of control. “Not fond of the taste or smell myself,” he said, surprised at that parallel in their lives. “Not many people understand that, here in San Fran.” He pointed to a section of the menu. “So on that note, let me recommend the chicken.”
She grinned her appreciation. “Chicken sounds good.”
They went on to debate several food choices before both deciding on two orders of chicken Marsala, which he could personally recommend. Once decided, Baxter hit the buzzer on the table and ordered their meal.
Caron scanned the elegantly decorated Red Room. “Private themed rooms. Ordering over an intercom.” Her eyes widened. “I’ve never seen anything like this place.”
“They cater to a crowd that prefers discretion in both business and pleasure,” he said, filling her glass with wine. “They do it well.”
Caron picked up her glass and inhaled. “Smells wonderful.”
“It’s Jordan cabernet from a local vineyard,” he supplied. “One of my favorites.”
She sipped, her lips stained the same red from Friday night. He stared at that lovely mouth, his groin tightening as he thought of kissing her. Of tasting her sweetness one more time.
“It’s wonderful,” she murmured. “I do love a good red wine.” She set her glass down. “My grandmother retired from the state library this past year and moved to the Sonoma area. It’s a great excuse to do some local wine sampling but with the demands of the store, I’m always rushing there for a visit and then rushing right back.”
“I guess her career explains your love for books as easily as my father’s explains mine for coffee,” he commented.
“Oh, yes. My mother was a librarian. It’s in the blood, I think. I guess that goes for you, as well, considering you run the family business.”
“It does for me but not my three sisters. They want nothing to do with coffee. Two of them are teachers like my mother. The youngest is in law school at the University of Texas in Austin.”
“So it’s been all you, then, running the show.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’d do a disservice to my father to claim any of this success was about me. I simply learned from the best and grabbed the reins when he retired. This was his dream and his hard work. He opened the first store right here in the city before I was even born. The only store until I was almost ten.”
“Really?” she said. “There must be hundreds of locations now.”
“Thousands,” he amende
d, unable to stop the pride simmering in his voice. “But it was a struggle, and a lot of years, to get here. He used what little savings we had and commuted from Oakland daily and still had moments when he was certain he’d failed.”
Surprise flickered across her face. “And here I thought you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth,” she teased.
He snorted at that, thinking of the harder times in his youth. “Plastic is more like it,” he amended. “And we washed those for multiple uses for a lot of years. My father struggled to compete against bigger name brands.”
“That’s how I feel about the big bookstores,” she said, her elbows settling on the table, her chin on her hands, genuine interest in her expression. “So what turned it around?”
“He finally broke down and brought in a private investor, which meant letting go of some stock but it also gave him the cash to compete. A year later he was managing stores in several malls and another inside Turnball’s department store. From there, things skyrocketed.”
“And coffee lovers around the world rejoiced,” she chimed in, applauding softly before resting her hands on the edge of the table as if hiring herself back to reality. “One successful store will be enough for me, though, I believe.”
He’d seen her in that store today, the special touches so clearly her own, and he believed her. Ruling the world was not on her agenda. Nor was using him to do it. “And what would make your store a success in your mind?” he asked, exceedingly interested in her goals and dreams.
“Paying my grandmother back the money she loaned me to open the store, for starters.” Her answer was quick, certain. “That’s huge to me. She not only raised me, but she’s always believed in me. I want her to know it was for a good reason.” She ran her fingers down the etched stem of her glass. “Funny thing—or not so funny really—I don’t remember much about my mother, but she loved books. She and my grandmother dreamed of opening a bookstore together. Now, my grandmother says she’s living vicariously through me.”