To Win Her Trust (30 page)

He tossed his napkin onto the table and jerked to his feet.

She jolted and blinked up at him as he rounded to her side. “Oh, are we done?”

“Not by a long shot.” He pulled her from her chair, hefted her over his shoulder, and stalked down the hall to the bedroom.

She propped her hands on his ass to lift her upper body but didn’t put up a fight otherwise. “Hey, I wasn’t finished.”

“Too bad. Neither am I.” He crossed to his bed, and heaving a shoulder, unceremoniously dumped her onto the mattress. A spread hand to her chest pushed her back when she immediately started to rise. He threw a thigh over both of hers and straddled her. “But first, we’re going to get a few things straight.”

Retribution glittered in her eyes, and he grabbed both her wrists before she could reach any vulnerable body parts, especially the one jammed up against his fly. He rose onto his knees and leaned over her, pressing her arms above her head. “For the record, I haven’t even
looked
at another woman since we made our deal. You knew who I was when we made our bargain. Throwing my reputation in my face now is a low blow.”

“I don’t see how. Aren’t you the one who suggested we continue to hook up
after
you’ve found your next plaything?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He pressed her wrists farther into the mattress with a quick shove and let go, sitting back.

“That’s how it sounded to me.”

“Then you weren’t listening.” He propped his hands onto his spread thighs.

“Yes, I was.” She lowered her arms to cross them at her waist and fried him with a glare. “You distinctly said—”

“I know what I said.” What a cluster fuck. He jammed a hand through his hair. “But damn it. What’s a guy supposed to say when he tells a woman he’d like to shift their relationship to something more and her only reaction is disappointment?”

“That’s not what you said.” The sexy wrinkle he loved creased her forehead suddenly. “Is it?”

More for effect than in reaction, he growled low in his throat. Confused and off balance was just how he wanted her. “What the fuck else would I be talking about when I said I wanted more?” Her gaze dropped to his crotch, and his growl was real this time. “Don’t even say it.”

A mulish twist puckered her mouth. “Well, how was I supposed to know? You made it clear from the beginning, this,” she swung out a hand to indicate the bed, “was what you were after.”

He leaned forward with a scowl, and she sunk her head deeper into the pillow. With his nose an inch from hers, he made his scowl a leer. “Oh, I’m still after that, but that’s not all. Have I made myself clear?”

A twinge of doubt still glimmered in her eyes, but the outrage spitting at him since she’d stomped upstairs from her studio eased, and her body softened beneath his. “Not exactly.”

He lowered himself until he was stretched out on top of her. His denim covered thigh slid between her legs, left bare by her skirt. She shivered, and he cupped her face with his hands. “Then let me clarify. I’m not done with you, CC Calhoun.”

Her lashes fluttered as she stared into his eyes.

“And you’re not done with me. When I get back from training camp, you’ll be right here waiting. If I have to come looking for you, you won’t like the consequences.”

He covered her lips with his, and her honeyed sex taste exploded in his mouth. With a hungry growl, he nipped at her bottom lip, then nibbled his way over her cheekbone to the delicate shell of her ear and bit down gently on the lobe. She squirmed beneath him and sighed.

“Now, say it. Say you want more, too.”

Her arms came around him to cling, and she gave in gracefully. “I want more.”

Triumph surged through him. The game clock still ticked, but he was back in the red zone. He lifted his head to grin into her eyes, dazed with reawakened sensuality. “All you had to do was ask.”

Chapter 25

CC wrestled with the urge to run for her life, an impossibility with her high-heeled feet rooted to the sidewalk. Crap. She should have told Tuck he could come tonight when he asked again this morning, and to hell with the potential consequences.

Her breathing techniques had obviously gone rusty from disuse. Tuck’s fault, of course. Lately, the only panting and gasping for breath she’d done had been at his hands. And mouth. And Lord, his magical tongue.

Heat washed through her, and she cupped her hands over her blushing cheeks. As he’d promised, he’d returned from his team meeting yesterday and spent the next thirty hours introducing her to the concept of more. It was a wonder she could walk when he finally let her leave his condo to prepare for tonight’s event. She still wasn’t sure what all the
more
he requested entailed, but his insistence they continue their relationship beyond training camp was enough for now.

A burst of laughter from a group of young people on the corner ripped her from her sensual musings. Glancing around, as if waking from a dream, she sucked in air through her clenched teeth. She could never thank Tuck enough for helping her face her demons and find the strength within to slay them one at a time, but she’d been premature in thinking she’d mastered the art of beating back the attacks on her own.

A band of pressure built in her chest, and she wiped her damp palms on the hem of her pale yellow cocktail dress.
Breathe. Just breathe.

A glance at her watch proved she was already late, but it was hard to be punctual when you spent ten minutes building up the courage to open your front door. Why the hell hadn’t she told Kris about tonight? If her cousin were with her, she’d have no chance to chicken out, but at least she’d have someone at her side for moral support.

Too late to call for reinforcements. She’d just have to suck it up. Tonight was her own damn fault, but she’d given Ronald her word.

Light from the high windows spilled onto the sidewalk and illuminated the inside of the swanky gallery like a human fishbowl. A modest crowd bunched into small groups, lingering over cocktails as they studied the various works of art staged about the room. She spotted Ronald at the bar, schmoozing a tuxedoed a man with steely gray hair. The older man’s head stopped a full two inches shorter than that of the big-breasted blonde on his arm, her curves poured into a dark red sheath.

A young couple approached CC, and she took a step back so the man could open the gallery’s door. He held it for the woman, then cocked a head at CC. Now or never. Gulping a breath, she mumbled her thanks and rushed inside.

She paused in the small foyer as the couple continued forward into the gallery. As she skulked in the shadow of the unused coat room, occasional twitters of muted laughter punctured the murmur of quiet conversation. Twisting her hands at her waist, she concentrated on regulating her breathing as she waited for Ronald to turn and spot her.

In, out, in again, she slowed her breaths as she glanced around the gallery.

Okay, this isn’t so bad.
No more than two dozen patrons milled about the room. She faced more than that every week at Parson’s Market grocery shopping. Then again, this was New York. None of the shoppers ever actually
spoke
to her, only Wanda, and the market owner spoke to everyone.

Unfortunately, as one of the featured artists, she was not only expected to make an appearance, but she’d also need to make polite conversation. She was here. She’d met that requirement, and maybe if she kept moving, she could keep the verbal contacts down to a minimum. No doubt Ronald would have an issue with her rational. He’d insist she engage with her audience, but if she was going to make it through the allotted hour without passing out, a compromise was in order.

Not waiting for her agent, she skirted the bar and dipped into the crowd.

Dugan McDonald held court in front of his contribution to the show, a life-sized couple in marble, wrapped together and straining passionately in the missionary position. The fifty-something artist droned on about vision and perception in front of a half dozen people who had no idea they’d been trapped by one of his long-winded dissertations. Like most people who looked on his work, CC couldn’t help but admire the artist’s talent. Classically trained, his creations pleased the eye with their attention to detail while the blatantly sexual tone of the pieces evoked varied and often fervent responses from critics.

Too bad Dugan had the personality of a shoe. She sped up her steps and didn’t make eye contact.

For a full ten minutes, she roamed the gallery, making sure to steer clear of anyone who looked as if they might try and strike up a conversation. She rose on tiptoes to see over the shoulders of a crowd gathered in front of a small framed landscape and spent several minutes studying a knot of intricately twisted glass toward the back of the room. As she strolled through the aisles and marveled at the talent on display, pride bloomed deep in her belly. She dismissed the smug stirrings as only natural. Having your work included amongst the crème de la crème of the New York art scene would make anyone a little proud.

By the time she spotted
Yearning
, displayed on a lighted pedestal thirty feet away, her heartbeat and breathing had returned nearly to the normal range. Standing in front of her piece were two men, dressed more casually than most of the patrons in crisp jeans and button down shirts. Curious of what they were saying, she meandered over and stopped a few feet away.

They hovered close together, and the younger of the two turned his head to grin at his taller companion. “Anonymous. How coy is that?”

The older man laughed. “I don’t know, but anyone who has the balls to keep their name from the Art Counsel gods is someone I’d like to meet.”

“You’re in luck.”

Busy eavesdropping, she hadn’t been aware of Ronald’s approach, and she jumped. He grasped her elbow as the gray-haired man and the blonde from the bar came to a stop beside him. Ronald’s bright smile was accusing. She rolled her eyes, then stifled a groan when he addressed the two young men.

“Gentlemen, meet, Ms. Anonymous.”

The younger man gawked, his mouth twisted comically. Behind a pair of fashionable, dark-framed glasses, his hazel gaze flicked briefly to her agent and the other couple before returning to her. “Oh my God. I can’t believe it.
Yearning
is yours?”

The breath clogged in her throat as a crowd started to gather around them. She was going to kill Ronald. She smiled weakly. “Guilty,” was the best she could manage.

A huge grin lit the younger man’s round face. “Oh, honey. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Why, you’re a genius.” His long fingers clutched hold of his friend’s arm, and he tugged him closer. “I’m Dan and this is Paul. We couldn’t believe it when we saw you were showing a piece.” He poked Paul’s side with his elbow. “Didn’t I tell you
Yearning
was by
our
anonymous?” His smile went dreamy and he slapped his free hand to his chest with dramatic flair. “We bought your
Morning Stroll
a couple of months ago from Putnam. It sits in a place of honor on our mantle. We’re uber-fans.”

“Uh, thanks.” Pressure built in her chest as even more patrons drew close.

“CC.” Ronald squeezed her arm, and she turned to glare at him. His lips curved at the corners in a sickly smile, and his eyes pleaded with her to play nice. “I don’t believe you’ve met George Truman and his wife, Pam. George is the president of the Art Council.”

CC’s heartbeat took off like a greyhound out of the gate. She coughed and nodded to the president but slammed her mouth shut. There was no point in speaking, since no recognizable words would come out anyway.

“How lovely.” Pam turned from
Yearning
to smile. “What gage wire do you use?”

“I saw a piece of hers at Putnam’s last week,” someone whispered behind Ronald.

Dan leaned forward and squeezed her arm briefly. “Honey?” He dropped his hand and linked it with Paul’s. “We were wondering. Why do you go by anonymous? I mean, it’s a brilliant marketing strategy, don’t get me wrong. Makes people wonder, but why not use your name?”

“I admit I’m curious about that myself,” the council president added.

“I—” Oh, God. “I—” Her gaze flew to Ronald who, as far as she was concerned, was a dead man walking. Her lungs convulsed on a wheeze.
Breathe, CC!

“I believe that might have something to do with me.”

What little breath she had whooshed from her lungs like a tsunami wave, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled and stood on end. Excited whispers broke the sudden silence, and the crowd crushed closer. She turned slowly, sure she must be mistaken. The blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy, as her gaze clashed with the green eyes she hadn’t seen since she was nine.

With his typical entourage surrounding him, Curt stood three feet away. “Hello, CC.”

The years hadn’t been kind, from what she could see. Live and in person, her father didn’t have access to the usual airbrushing at his disposal on those magazine covers he appeared on at every opportunity. Though always on the thin side, his body had slid toward skinny and the toll of his rock ’n’ roll lifestyle showed on his aged and haggard face.

What the hell was he doing here? Her mother had no idea she’d consented to Ronald’s request, and even if CC had told Kris about the show, her cousin would just as soon spit in Curt’s eye then aide him. She’d checked the brochure Ronald had dropped off yesterday. No mention of her name was given. How the hell had Curt known she’d be here?

Confused fury flooded her brain, and her angry gasp kick-started her struggling lungs. “How did you know where to find me?”

“You two
know
each other?” A tinkling laugh gurgled in Dan’s throat. “Oh, I can’t believe this. I’m standing two feet from Curt Jenson, Paul. Curt Jenson!” His lashes fluttered as if he were about to swoon, and then suddenly, his eyes widened. He slapped a hand to the clip on his waist and whipped out his phone. “Would you mind if I took a selfie, Curt? Oh, my friends will never believe this.”