Scandalous Passion. Emilie Rose
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jaw shifted, then he rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands into his pants pockets, giving her some much-needed space. “I’m curious. Aren’t you?”
“About what?” she asked even though she suspected she knew the answer.
“Whether it would be as good between us as it used to be.”
Her stomach plunged to her pumps. Yes, the thought had crossed her mind a few times since making the decision to seek out Carter, but she had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. The last time she had, he’d stolen her heart and shattered it into tiny irreparable fragments.
She forced a casual shrug and lied through a dismissive smile. “Not really. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get home. Enjoy your dessert.”
Shoving past him, Phoebe beat a hasty retreat to her car. She fumbled with her seat belt until it clicked and glanced at Carter one last time before throwing the car in reverse. And then she remembered she’d forgotten to collect. Argh. She shoved the gearshift back into park, rolled down her window and stuck out her hand.
“The picture,” she called, and wiggled her fingers. “Please get the picture. I’ll wait here.”
Carter sauntered toward her. His casual stride contradicted the stiff set of his shoulders and the determined line of his jaw made her skin prickle in alarm. She shifted uneasily in her seat. Carter reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a photo. A voice in Phoebe’s mind shrieked in panic. He’d had one of their pictures in his pocket all evening. What if it had fallen out? What if—
And then Carter leaned down and folded his arms on her open window, choking off her thoughts with his nearness. “You really shouldn’t rush off.”
“I’m expecting a call,” she said through teeth clamped together in an I’ll-be-polite-even-if-it-kills-me smile.
He ignored her open hand and ducked through the window. Phoebe leaned back against the seat to give him as much room as possible as he reached across her body to tuck the picture into the outside pocket of the purse she’d set on the seat beside her. His scent surrounded her. Instead of depositing the photo and withdrawing from the car as she’d expected, he cupped her face in his warm hand. Before she could react, Carter’s lips were on hers. Hot. Soft. Insistent.
Phoebe’s breath lodged in her lungs. Heat steamed her skin. She wanted to push him away, but couldn’t seem to instigate the action.
The magic is still there.
He sipped from her lips, lifting and nuzzling again. His thumb stroked over the pulse racing at the base of her throat and then traced her collarbone to the V of her neckline. Her nipples rose in anticipation of his touch. The slick heat of his tongue caressed her bottom lip, slipped past to tease her sensitive inner flesh and to skate over her clenched teeth. Overwhelming sensations poured down on her, stealing sanity and eroding her willpower. She was on the verge of giving in to the hunger and opening her mouth to taste him when he straightened and stepped away from the car.
“G’night, Phoebe. Call me when you think you can handle our second date.” With a casual salute he headed back toward his house, grabbed the decadent dessert from the roof of his car and disappeared into the garage.
Phoebe released a frustrated breath. He’d gotten to her. Damn him. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She curled her trembling fingers around the steering wheel and backed out of the driveway.
Next time she’d be prepared for his devious moves.
With his pulse hammering in the triple digits, Carter stumbled into his house and collapsed in a kitchen chair. He’d feel smug about the success of his sneak attack if he weren’t totally disgusted with himself.
He still wanted Phoebe with the panting lack of control of the boy he’d once been. The knowledge had hit him like a sniper’s bullet the second his lips touched hers. He scrubbed a hand over the lower half of his face, but he couldn’t erase the feel of her satiny lips or her sweet taste. He’d grossly underestimated his opponent’s power.
He’d been about to write off the evening as an unsuccessful maneuver when she’d wriggled her fingers and sent a fire-storm of memories streaking through his brain. She’d used the same gesture twelve years ago to invite him into her arms.
One thing was damned certain. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he got Phoebe Lancaster Drew into his bed and out of his system. But she had his number and he didn’t like it. She expected a seduction, so he’d have to scale back and be more subtle if he wanted to soften her up. A grin of anticipation tugged at his lips.
He retrieved a legal pad from the kitchen drawer and composed a list of ways to get Phoebe to let down her guard, then he reached for the phone. Date number two would require a little help from his friends.
“‘Call me when you think you can handle our second date,’” Phoebe mimicked Carter’s deep voice as she accelerated up his driveway and into the shade of an overhanging oak.
As if she could ignore a challenge like that. But still, she’d waited two days to call. Of course, that wasn’t because she lacked nerve, but because the day after their first date had been the Memorial Day holiday. She groaned at the bald-faced lie…um…political whitewash.
Casual clothes. Tennis shoes. Nine o’clock tomorrow. Click. Her phone conversation with Carter gave new meaning to the term succinct. He hadn’t allowed her the opportunity to argue or to ask him to reconsider ending this nonsensical game.
She shoved the gearshift into park, opened the car door and stepped into his driveway wearing her new cross-trainers. Her heart rate doubled as she marched up the walk. The first date picture had been the one she’d already seen. Which one would Carter choose for today’s mystery date? And would she shove it in the back of her nightstand drawer with the other one or would she destroy it?
Destroy it, she decided. She couldn’t risk her grandfather finding it. The pictures were the only evidence of her wilder days. She didn’t want him to fear that she was like her mother—an embarrassment and a liability to his political stature.
You’re a selfish prima donna who never thinks of anyone but herself. Go. Go and don’t come back until you’ve grown up.
If growing up means being a pretentious old windbag like you, then I’m never coming back.
Phoebe rubbed her temple, trying to erase the memories of that last explosive argument between her grandfather and mother. Despite the passage of twenty-three years, she could still hear the raised voices as clearly as she had that night from the top of the stairs.
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