Scandalous Passion. Emilie Rose
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the thud of his heart and the warmth of his skin beneath her hands. She tugged and he released her. “You live in this huge house alone?”
“Yeah. Got a deal on it. It needed work. I’m restoring it.”
“It’s lovely.” Her palms tingled.
“It’s even better inside.”
The unspoken invitation—with the arch of a challenging eyebrow thrown in—sent alarm racing through her. She broke away from his mesmerizing gaze and glanced at her watch. “I’m a bit pressed for time. Could you please hand over the pictures and negatives, and I’ll get out of your way. I’ll wait here.”
His chin set in a stubborn line. “Come inside and we’ll discuss it.”
She wanted to howl in frustration, but of course, she’d never do that. The senior senator’s granddaughter would never be so crass as to stamp her feet or to publicly show her displeasure. Never let them see you sweat, her grandfather had cautioned on more than one occasion. And never, ever, say words you can’t take back. She’d learned the hard way.
“Carter, let’s not take a trip down memory lane. It would serve no purpose.”
“Except to humor me—the one with the pictures.” Did she imagine the flash of anger in his eyes or the sarcastic twist of his lips? He tugged the towel from around his neck and dried his hips and legs. Muscles rippled with every move. In her dark-suit-and-tasteful-necktie world she didn’t get much exposure to sleek, tanned skin. Her mouth dried and her pulse couldn’t seem to find its regular rhythm.
“So you do have them?”
“Yep.” He climbed the steps of his porch and held open the door. Phoebe paused. She could refuse his invitation and perhaps never see the pictures again. No, the possible peril was too great. She had to stick with her agenda to recover and destroy the evidence of her shameful past. Lifting her chin, she swept up the stairs and into his sunny breakfast area. She felt his eyes on her backside as she passed and wished she could suck it in the way she sucked in her tummy.
“I got you wet. Sorry. Want me to toss your skirt in the dryer?”
She studied him. Did he intend the double entendre? And did he honestly expect her to hand over her skirt? “No, it’s silk. It has to be line dried.”
“I can loan you some shorts and we’ll hang your skirt out on the deck.”
She’d borrowed his clothing in the past, but she couldn’t imagine doing so today. She wasn’t the casual type any longer. Image was everything in politics. Besides, she didn’t intend to be here long enough for the fabric to dry. “No, thank you.”
“Have a seat.” He jabbed a finger toward the kitchen table. “A wet butt won’t hurt the chairs. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Carter disappeared into what looked like the laundry room at the opposite end of the kitchen, but he didn’t close the door. Phoebe could hear him moving around and her imagination rioted at the thought of him stripping off his snug racing trunks, revealing his taut buttocks and the part of him she’d spent so much time exploring. They’d shared a lot of hasty mutual stripping in their past, first in his dorm room and then at out-of-the-way hotels and on deserted back roads once she’d changed universities.
With her pulse racing, Phoebe sank into a chair at the wrought-iron glass-topped table, averted her eyes from the open door and battled an urge to fan her hot face. She hadn’t expected to still find Carter attractive, but the days of giving her heart or her body to a man were over. Carter had been her first lover, but he hadn’t been in love with her or he wouldn’t have broken her heart. She’d fooled herself once and had no intention of repeating the painful mistake of confusing sexual desire with love ever again.
Of all the people Carter Jones had expected to see standing beside his pool, Phoebe Lancaster Drew didn’t make the list.
Carter ripped off his trunks and swore as the abrupt movement sent a sharp stabbing pain up his thigh. It had been three and a half years since the accident that had ended his military career, and for the most part he was pain-free unless he did something stupid. He’d expected the wavering shadow at the pool edge to be one of his neighbors or one of his ex-Marine buddies, although the pity visits had thinned out since his new company had taken off. Thank God.
He yanked on a pair of ragged cut-off shorts and a tank top. No need to dress to impress the senator’s granddaughter. She’d written him off as her dirty secret years ago. Good enough to screw, but not to marry.
What had happened to the girl he’d fallen for? Had she even existed outside his imagination? Probably not.
Phoebe’s conservative suit and tightly twisted-up sable hair, combined with a ramrod-straight spine reminded him of the day he’d surprised her at her grandfather’s Washington, D.C., home—the day the blinders had fallen away from Carter’s eyes and his world had collapsed. The day he’d discovered Phoebe didn’t love him.
His parents had been coming stateside for his university graduation, and he’d wanted them to meet his future wife, but Phoebe hadn’t been happy to see Carter on her grandfather’s doorstep. She’d acted as if she couldn’t get him out of the house fast enough. When her grandfather had arrived, she’d shown her true colors by introducing him to the senator not as her lover or her fiancé, but as a classmate, for crissake. Her refusal to come with him to meet his parents combined with the lukewarm intro to the senator had said it all. They had no future together. He’d been nothing but a toy to Phoebe Lancaster Drew. Unimportant. Temporary. Expendable.
And now Phoebe wanted to erase what had happened between them twelve years ago. He ground his teeth and struggled to tamp down his anger. Those photographs were proof that the senator’s beautiful granddaughter had done the dirty with a mongrel military brat. Hell, if it wasn’t for the pictures, Carter probably wouldn’t believe the two of them had once been as close as lovers can be. He’d made the mistake of believing their hearts had been as connected as their bodies, but that was the gullibility of youth and inexperience for you.
He padded barefoot into the kitchen, extracted two glasses from the cabinet, then pulled a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. He carried his load to the table, poured and slid a glass in her direction. She looked so damned rigid he wanted to bark, “At ease.”
But helping Phoebe relax wasn’t his job. Not anymore.
Settling across from her, he nodded at her murmured thanks and leaned back in his chair. Her light floral scent—the same perfume she’d worn twelve years ago—hit him with a C-130 military transport plane full of memories. He used to know every pulse point she anointed with the stuff intimately. He swigged his drink to ease the dryness in his mouth and assessed the changes in Phoebe over the rim of his glass.
She was still a beauty with her dark hair and changeable hazel-green eyes, but the fire and excitement had faded from those eyes and tension flattened the lush curve of her mouth. She looked too poised and proper, too much like a storefront mannequin for his tastes. It was almost as if someone had sucked the life right out of her, and that saddened him.
Not your problem, Jones.
“Are you happy being your grandfather’s sidekick?”
She blinked at his question. “As opposed to what?”
“Working at a museum or teaching at the university.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, apparently surprised he remembered her long-ago plans. He wished he could forget those nine months and the pain of discovering he’d never be good enough for Phoebe Lancaster Drew. Despite the fact that he was now worth millions, Carter Jones could never be a part of her old-moneyed, politically connected world.
“I’ll have time for that later.” She fingered her glass instead of meeting his gaze. The thick line of her lashes cast shadows on her smooth cheeks.
“And what about the family you once claimed to crave? Say granddad gets elected and possibly even reelected,