The Sweetest Deal (4 page)

“A man?” Interest sparked in Roxie’s voice. “It will be my pleasure.”

C.C. hesitated a second and then added, “And see if you can find out why Max and Candace split.”

***

Max stood outside C.C.’s door and checked his watch one more time. It was almost eleven p.m. He should just forget it and go back to his room, but he’d spent the last two hours in the lounge drinking bourbon and trying to talk himself out of confronting C.C. But he wanted to know why she’d tried to cover for him when Candy brought out the mice story last night. Slipping on leaves? Hardly. So, why had she done it?

He knocked on the door and waited.

“Max?” C.C. stood before him, dressed in a bulky T-shirt and baggy pair of gray sweatpants.

He ignored niceties and plunged right in. “Why did you try to cover for me the other night?”

She frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You covered for me,” he repeated. “When Candace told the story about the mice.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I did slip on leaves.”

“No, you didn’t. You covered for me and I want to know why.”

She licked her bottom lip and said, “Why don’t you come in for a second. I have water or Diet Coke?”

“Water’s fine.” He stepped inside and scanned the room. For an uptight, by-the-book bean counter, Catherine Crowell was no Martha Stewart. Three crumpled shirts, a half dozen mismatched socks, and two pairs of slacks lay strewn over the two guest chairs. She’d only been here two days. His eye caught a pink scrap of frothy material poking out from under one of the shirts. He wandered over and identified it. Underwear. Lacy, pale, sheer.

“I’ve got lemon.” She breezed toward him from the small fridge and added, “If you’d care for some.”

He turned to her, his thoughts still on her underwear and said, “Plain’s fine.”

She handed him his water, careful not to touch him. Max took a sip and set it on the desk nearby. “First, I want to set something straight. When I was eight, a bunch of older kids stuffed me in the crawl space beneath my house. There must’ve been hundreds of mice in there.” A trickle of sweat slipped down his right temple. “It’s been twenty-eight years, but some nights I swear I still feel them crawling on me.”

She stared at him, eyes wide and bright. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m not a wimp.”

“I know.”

Her voice rolled over him like velvet. “And I don’t need you or anyone else to cover for me.”

She worked her bottom lip. “I know.”

He liked her lips—full, tempting. “So why did you?”

Her honey eyes filled with confusion. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I saw you sitting there, all alone, and the words just fell out.”

He could tell it bothered her to admit she didn’t understand why she’d done what she did. It bothered him, too. “I don’t need help.”

She nodded and tucked a hunk of hair behind her right ear.

“I’m a big boy.” He’d bet her hair felt like silk, all soft and sexy. He cleared his throat and said, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

His lips twitched. “But thanks.”

She blushed and when she smiled he spotted the tiniest dimple on the left side of her mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

He’d like to lean over right now and kiss that dimple. Her breath hitched and the smile faded, taking with it the intriguing dimple. Max touched the spot where it had been and said, “You have the tiniest dimple when you smile.”

“I know.”

She smiled again and when the dimple re-appeared, he traced it with his finger. “You have the softest skin,” he murmured, caressing the line of her jaw, her chin, her neck. “And I’ll bet you have the softest lips.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and ran an index finger over her lips. “Beautiful,” he said as he leaned in to place a kiss on them.

C.C. stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Max rested his forehead against hers and took a deep breath. “If you want me to leave, tell me now.”

She didn’t respond for several seconds and when she did, it wasn’t with words. C.C. eased her hands around his neck and leaned on tiptoes, brushing delicious little kisses over his lips, once, twice, three times.

Max groaned and slid his hands down her back to cup her butt. “You are driving me absolutely wild.”

She flicked her tongue along the seam of his lips and whispered, “Let me inside.”

Max opened his mouth and she eased her tongue between his lips. She let out a tiny moan, enticing him with her inability to stifle it. She didn’t want this any more than he did, but like him, she couldn’t resist.

He pulled her against him, his tongue mating with hers, his heart crashing into his ribcage. He had to get closer, feel naked skin. He worked his hand up her spine and lifted her sweatshirt.

She broke the kiss and pushed him away. “I can’t,” she said, gasping for air, eyes wild with confusion and regret. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Max stared at her, waiting for her to say more. Can’t because it was him or just can’t—period? But she didn’t say anything more.

For a few crazy seconds, he’d lost himself in the feel of her and it had nothing to do with Grayson Crowell’s proposition. Max had touched and tasted C.C. because he couldn’t
not
touch her. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get a handle on the situation. Maybe the bourbon haze had fueled his frenzied need.

Oh, God, he hoped that was it.

“I think you should leave, Max.”

She stood three feet from him but she’d holed up inside herself so deep, he’d never reach her. Her taste lingered on his lips, an empty torment of what had just happened. He cleared his throat and willed her to look at him, but she wouldn’t.

He nodded, accepting her suggestion. “I think we should forget about this. Let’s just stick to business from now on. Okay?”

She bit her lower lip and nodded as well. “Good night.”

“Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.” He let himself out and didn’t take a full breath until he was in his own room.
Damn
, what the hell had he started tonight? It was too soon, there were still too many obstacles between them. He hadn’t even worked out a seduction plan. And what was that brilliantly stupid comment he made about sticking to business? Was it to remind himself he couldn’t get emotionally attached? Great. He’d lost focus and thought of nothing but C.C., and had forgotten his long-term goal.

He couldn’t let that happen again.

“Have you begun executing the plan?” Rhyder Remmington’s voice slid through the line like a high school football coach drawing up plays for his star.

“Not yet,” Max said, wishing right now he hadn’t answered his phone. It was late. He was tired and didn’t feel like talking, especially about a damn plan that involved the woman he didn’t want to think about—even though he hadn’t been able to
stop
thinking about her since he’d gotten back to his hotel room.

“You need to get started.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” He’d gotten started in C.C.’s hotel room a little while ago, only none of it had been pre-planned. One minute he was telling her about mice and the next he had his hands up her sweatshirt.

“We don’t know how long it’s going to take to have success. There’s advanced maternal age to consider—”

“She’s only thirty-one.” Rhyder didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. There was nothing advanced or maternal about C.C.’s mouth, or legs, or breasts.

Rhyder sighed. “You don’t have to defend her. Just get the job done. I’ll send you a spreadsheet tomorrow with the number of encounters required for impregnation to occur. After every encounter, you will simply put an ‘x’ in the box and write the date.”

He had to be kidding. “You want me to track when we have sex?”

“That would be helpful. The chart isn’t as accurate as I’d like, but given the limited information available, I’m making assumptions.”

Assumptions? “What other information could you possibly need?”

“Height. Weight. Last menstrual period.”

“Can’t help you. Don’t know.”

“Not yet you don’t, but if you’re around her enough, you should be able to analyze her mood, any physical changes, such as bloating, puffiness around the ankles, basic information you can plug into the formula.”

“You’re crazy; you know that, don’t you?”

“I’m clinical,” Rhyder corrected. “But if you don’t like my plan, there is one other alternative.”

Max could never resist asking about Rhyder’s bizarre alternatives. “What would that be?”

“Have sex with the woman, whenever, wherever, and as often as you can.”

By ten o’clock the next morning, Max seriously doubted either of Rhyder’s suggestions would work. Not that he would have followed either one, but even so, in order to carry either one out, a person had to have a measure of cooperation from the other party.

C.C. sat across from him in the conference room of Crowell Limited, with drawings and a plate of cookies between them. She’d refused the chair next to him and probably would’ve opted for the one at the end of the table if she hadn’t needed to review the plans. She was ticked about last night, obviously, but apparently wasn’t going to talk about it. Who was she ticked at, anyway? Him or herself? Her aloof attitude annoyed him. There’d been two people in that hotel room last night and she might pretend to be Ms. Cool, but the cookies she’d inhaled since the meeting began were a dead giveaway.

“What do you think about a path leading to the pond and exercise track?”

How did she make her voice sound like an automated message? “Depends on how wide a path we’re talking about, what materials we’d use, where it would tie into the track.”

“Well.” She leaned in and her citrus scent drifted toward him. “I think it would start here,” she said, pointing to a spot at the corner of the drawing, “and end over here.”

The print was just large enough so she had to stretch out and bend over slightly, which gave him a quick peek at a scrap of red hidden beneath her navy blouse. Red…he liked red… Did she really think they could ignore what almost happened last night?

“What do you think?”

Was she wearing red panties too? Lacy ones like the pink pair he’d spotted in her room at the hotel?

“Max?”

“Hmmm?” Maybe she wore a garter, too.

“Is this how you picture it?”

How he pictured it was his hand skimming beneath the navy blouse and flipping open a few buttons to get to the red bra.

“Fine.” She straightened and smoothed her jacket.

Had she caught him peeking? He’d only been glancing—quickly. If she didn’t want him to look, she shouldn’t let it hang out. Oh, who was he kidding? He’d been desperate to see more.

“Call me when you want to get some work done.” She folded the drawing with quick efficiency, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“I do not appreciate men looking down my blouse.” She pinched her lips so tight they looked like a pencil line.

“I wasn’t looking down your blouse.” It was a feeble denial which earned nothing from her but a scowl.

She jammed the prints under one arm and grabbed the plate of cookies, but not before she bit a huge chunk out of one.

Okay, he’d gotten to her. Max raised his hands and shrugged. “Guilty. I looked up and there they were. I mean, there
you
were,” he corrected. “I’m sorry I noticed.”

Her entire face turned red—almost the same color as the scrap of bra he’d spotted. “Please don’t notice. We have work to do, Max. This project is critical. To both of us.”

Pretend he didn’t notice that scarlet scrap of lace clinging to those small, perfect breasts? He inhaled. “Sure. No problem.”

“I thought we were supposed to stick to business. Isn’t that what you told me last night?”

Had her voice wobbled just the tiniest bit when she said that? As though she was disappointed? Damned if he could tell. “That’s what I said. It’s what you want.” Pause. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” The pencil line of her lips moved.

“Good. Me, too.” He was such a liar.

“Max—” she looked down at her feet, “—can we just forget about last night?”

Sure, that was like asking if he could forget what a cold beer tasted like after working all day in the scorching heat. “No problem.”

“It was just a kiss,” she murmured.

Just a kiss? Hardly. She had her tongue in his mouth, he had his hands under her sweatshirt. It was way past a kiss. “So you didn’t feel anything?”

“No.”

Something in her denial sounded false. He’d pull the truth from her, even if he had to make her angry to do it. He couldn’t help himself. “You haven’t kissed many guys, have you?”

“What?”

He could tell that comment annoyed her. Good. She might just lose control and let the truth slip out. Max shrugged and feigned indifference. “I could tell you weren’t very experienced.”

“Really?” Her gaze sliced him. Yup. She didn’t like that remark one bit.

“Uh-huh. No big deal; it’s not like I’m going to broadcast it.” A pause. “Not much passion there either.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

She slammed the plate of cookies and the drawings on the boardroom table, and advanced on him like a she-wolf. “I don’t know how to kiss? I can’t evoke passion?” She stopped when she was within eye-gouging distance and spat out, “I had my tongue in your mouth. I had my body pressed against yours.” Her voice grew louder. “You had your hands under my shirt. I was
writhing
against you.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Did you hear me? I was writhing.”

The woman talked about sex like she owned the word. “Yes,” he managed. “You were writhing. And your tongue was in my mouth.”

She let out a self-satisfied hmmmph. “I know how to kiss. And I know about passion. Oh, yes, I do. It’s all inside. Here.” She pointed to the left side of her navy blouse. “Buried deep.”

Buried deep. Interesting phrase.

C.C. leaned toward him, her honey-brown eyes large, her breath falling on his skin in quick, little puffs that smelled faintly of chocolate. “I’m an expert on passion.”

“Show me.” His voice turned gritty and hard.

She inched closer, clasped his face between her hands and lunged at his mouth. Not a sophisticated, demure kiss but a fierce clashing of teeth and tongue and raw sensuality that sucked at his logic and made him dizzy. She drove her fingers into his hair, massaging and kneading as she thrust her body against his, sliding along his chest in a breath-stealing motion.

This was passion.

Raw. Explosive. Incredible.

And then it was over.

C.C. jerked back, her face pale, her perfect bun lopsided. She straightened her blouse which had come partway undone to reveal delicious scraps of red. Max remained silent, his gaze trained on her mouth as she opened it, closed it, opened it again. She smoothed her bun and said, “That was passion.”

That was sex with clothes on. “Yes.” He tried to be as matter-of-fact as she was. “That was passion.”

C.C. nodded and said, “Very well. I think we’ve covered enough today.”

***

Seven hours and six triple chocolate cookies later, C.C. stood in front of her bathroom mirror. What was happening to her? She slipped out of control whenever Max Jerrnigan was near. Why did he have that effect on her? No man had gotten under her defenses since David, but this man made her furious one second and desperate for his touch the next. These uncontrollable sensations had to stop. Visions of a dark-haired, blue-eyed baby flashed through her brain with such speed and force, she grew light-headed. Max as the father of a baby, her baby? Ridiculous. Insane.

She closed her eyes and waited for the light-headedness to pass, but the more she tried to push away the thought of Max and a baby, the more intense the visual, until the ache in her womb morphed into actual physical pain. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t even like the man, did she? Maybe Roxie was right, that she refused to let herself like him because if she did, life could get complicated and messy and she could start thinking about love and long term and a family. He might tell her that he wanted the same things and just when she opened up enough to believe him, he could crush her.

Tears slipped down C.C.’s face. She couldn’t risk that kind of heartache again—she might not survive.