Scandalous Passion. Emilie Rose
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forgotten Carter’s impressive height, but he was broader now—much broader—than the lanky boy she’d held in her arms. He took up an overwhelming amount of space on the sun-drenched patio.
Stunned by the changes in him, she let her gaze follow the water streaming from the cords of his neck to his expansive, muscular shoulders and chest, his six-pack abs and shallow navel. He had more chest hair now. Dark whorls spattered his pectorals, narrowing into a thin line that led to brief navy swimming trunks riding low on his narrow hips. Like the rest of him, his legs were well-developed. A series of pink scars marred his left knee, but other than that, the man was perfection personified wrapped in wet, golden-brown skin.
Heat filled her belly and her face. Oh my. She closed her mouth and met his amused gaze.
“I—I—” For heaven’s sake, she manipulated words by trade, but sitting behind a desk and composing moving political speeches was a far cry from coming up with intelligent off-the-cuff remarks when faced with…this.
“You’re going to give me a complex about what a scrawny geek I used to be if you keep staring.”
Ashamed of her gawking, she stammered, “Y-you’ve certainly…built up some muscles.”
His eyes hardened and his lips flattened. “The Marine Corps will do that to you.”
“Marines? You’re a Marine?” She scrambled to make sense of the news. Carter had spent his childhood following his career-officer father around the world. He’d claimed he hated the vagabond military life and that he’d wanted nothing more than to set down roots. With her.
A shadow crossed his face. “Not anymore. What can I do for you, Ms. Drew?”
“Lancaster Drew,” she corrected automatically. He still spoke in the soft, rumbling baritone she remembered, but his voice now carried an unmistakable air of authority and confidence.
“Right. Let’s not forget your ties to the venerated Senator Lancaster.” His bitterness couldn’t have been clearer.
“I, uh…” Can’t think with all that taut skin on display. Wow, he looks amazing.
Don’t stare, Phoebe. Her grandmother’s scold rang in her ears.
Phoebe spotted a towel on a nearby chair, picked it up and offered it to Carter. He didn’t take the hint to cover up, but merely swiped the water from his hair and face, then draped the fabric around his neck. A dark lock flopped over his forehead and her fingers itched to sweep it back as she’d done so many times.
Struggling to regain a smidgeon of composure, Phoebe averted her gaze and studied the deep, covered porch on his two-story home. Hanging baskets of bright flowers and a hummingbird feeder dangled from the eaves, and she recalled the urns of flowers out front, as well. Carter very likely had a wife. Her stomach burned.
Phoebe took a peek at his ring finger and found it bare, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything since some men didn’t wear rings. Besides, rekindling their romance wasn’t why she was here.
Resolved to get this encounter over with as quickly as possible, she focused on her task, gathered her courage and met his hard gaze. “I wanted to talk to you about the past. Specifically, our past and our…pictures.”
His eyes narrowed. “What pictures?”
Her cheeks warmed. Very conscious of the wet silk clinging to her bottom, she shifted on her feet. “You know which pictures. The intimate ones,” she added the last in a whisper even though there was no one around to hear. They had the additional privacy of thick magnolia trees forming a natural screen between the lawn and the woodland beyond.
Laughter glinted in Carter’s eyes and one corner of his mouth tipped up in a naughty smile, puncturing his cheek with a dimple. He did a little inspecting of his own and Phoebe cringed inwardly. She hadn’t improved with age the way he had. In fact most of the ten pounds she’d gained since college had settled below her waist.
“Ah, those pictures.”
Why did her insides go all fizzy like a shaken bottle of champagne when he looked at her that way? “Do you still have them?”
“Why?” He folded his arms over his bulging pectorals. His hard nipples pointed at her. The memory of how those tiny pebbles had felt against her tongue blindsided her. Heat coursed through her veins.
The man had a body to die for, but the tattoo drew her gaze like an ice-cream truck draws children. “That had to hurt.”
She wanted to slap a hand over her wayward mouth, but she didn’t. Dear heaven, had she regressed to that awkward girl-with-her-first-crush bumbling? Where was her poise, her professional politically correct demeanor?
“If it did, I was too drunk to notice.” More bitterness.
Carter hadn’t been a drinker when they were together, but then, Phoebe hadn’t been old enough to drink legally back then. She’d been barely eighteen when they’d met. He’d been twenty-one and a senior. “Do you have the pictures?”
“Maybe. Why?” he repeated. His poker face held no clue to his thoughts.
What had happened to the guy he used to be? Her friend. Her lover. The one person she could talk to for hours? Everything about him seemed harder: his body, his voice and his eyes. She curled her fingers in frustration and searched for the words to complete her task.
“I’d like to have them—”
“Missing me?” His grin reappeared, dimpling both cheeks this time.
“—and the negatives,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. Her heart was going to pound itself to mush if he didn’t stop smiling that way. That knowing sparkle in his eyes used to mean one, or both, of them would be naked within seconds, and once they were naked…
She plucked at her silk blouse, separating it from her suddenly damp skin. Moisture pooled between her thighs. Shameful. Why couldn’t she catch her breath? She blamed it on the Carolina heat and humidity, and then nearly laughed out loud. Talk about putting a political spin on a situation…
All traces of humor faded from his expression. “Do you plan to show the pictures around and tell everybody about the time you went slumming?”
Embarrassment licked through her. “It wasn’t slumming, Carter. My grandfather is about to announce his presidential candidacy. In the wrong hands those pictures could jeopardize his campaign.”
“So this is about your grandfather’s career again?” His clipped words and ice-chip eyes revealed his anger.
Carter had never understood how much she owed her grandparents for taking her in after her parents had abandoned her—a fact he’d proven when he asked her to choose between him and her grandfather twelve years ago.
“It’s also about mine. I’m his speech writer. I’d like to destroy the pictures. We were young and rash and—”
“No.” He stepped around her, heading for the house in long strides.
Oh, my. His back side was just as firm and impressive as his front side. The muscles rippling in the triangular V of his back as he dried himself muddled her thoughts so badly she almost missed his refusal. “What do you mean, no?”
“No, you can’t have the pictures,” he called over his shoulder without slowing.
She hurried after him. “Surely your wife doesn’t like you having pictures of another woman in the house.”
He stopped and turned so abruptly she bumped into him. Her palms landed on the bare, hot skin of his chest. Before she could withdraw, he caught her wrists, holding her captive. His gaze ensnared hers just as surely as he’d trapped her hands against his body. His nipples bored into her palms. Her heart leaped to her throat and her breath stalled in her lungs.
“I’m not married,” he said in that low, husky voice that used to melt her like butter in a hot skillet.