The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)
Imagination wasn’t something he had trouble with. He was still imagining her naked and pressed up against the tile wall of his shower with her legs spread and her body soft and wet. It’s exactly what he’d been thinking about this morning when he spotted her out of the corner of his eye as he was washing his hair. She’d been so distracted? enthralled? horny? that she hadn’t even realized he’d known she was there. He’d just meant to give her a shock, he hadn’t meant for it to go all the way, but when it came to Clover he seemed to lose all control—and sense.
Just as his dick was starting to get really into it again, Sawyer’s fake fiancée jerked to a stop. “Like this.” She gestured toward a rusty metal cart that looked like the last good day it had seen was at least five decades ago. “This is perfect. It could be a bar cart or an entry table or a breakfast trolley.”
He ran his thumb across one of the handles and white paint crumbled into dust. “Or in the landfill.”
Sawyer started forward, but Clover pulled her hand from his and didn’t move an inch. She stood beside the cart, her hands planted on her round hips and a challenging fire burning in her brown eyes.
“Oh really?” Clover got a look on her face that anyone with half a brain would know meant trouble. Her full mouth, a cherry red today, curled into a predatory smile that seemed both out of place and a perfect fit for her pixie face. “You don’t think this can be brought back and remade into something fabulous?”
He barely glanced back at the cart. Some things were better forgotten about—especially when the woman in front of him was so much better to look at. Anyway, he didn’t need to look again in order to give his answer.
“No.”
“I pick it,” she practically sang out.
“What are you talking about?”
“You lost last night. Remember?”
The only thing he recalled from last night was how damn good she’d felt underneath him. “No.”
“The show,” she said, pacing her words as if he was drunk. “I picked the winner. Now you have to get the cart. We’re going to refinish it together, just like a good little fake couple should.”
Crossing back to the rickety cart, he lifted the paper price tag tied with a ribbon around the push handle. “A hundred bucks?”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little negotiation. Just because I’ve kicked your ass in that arena several times already doesn’t mean you can’t be…
competent.”
Competent? She was goading him, he knew that, but not rising to the bait wasn’t possible. He was a man, a Carlyle. Being competent wasn’t an option.
Almost quicker than the impulse hit, he encircled her wrist and whirled her close so that her tight body pressed against his. Desire went from spark to flame as his entire body went hard in anticipation. Oh it wouldn’t happen here, maybe not even today or tomorrow, but this was happening, and judging by the way Clover’s eyes went all hazy and her lips parted, she knew it, too.
“Gotta say, no woman has ever called me competent before.”
“Needs improvement, huh?” she asked, but her low and breathy voice outed just how turned on she was.
“Oh Clover, you know better than that.” Loosening his hold, he slid his fingers down so they intertwined with hers and began walking into the stall to find the joker who thought he could get a hundred dollars for that pile of junk. “Let’s go see just how competent I really am.”
Twenty minutes and sixty-five dollars later he was the proud owner of a broken down medical utility cart from the 50s. He couldn’t be less thrilled. Clover, on the other hand, was practically skipping as they made their way back to Linus and the Town Car in the parking lot.
“I’m thinking red. A bright crimson like your…” Her cheeks turned pink and she let the sentence trail off.
She tried to pull her hand away from his, but he wasn’t having it. There was something about touching her—even just holding hands—that settled him, pulled him down to the here and now.
“Like my sheets?” he asked as he carried the cart. “My bed made an impression, huh? Or was it what you’d like to do to me in that bed that has you all hot and bothered?”
The pulse point at the base of her long neck did double time. “I’m not hot and bothered.”
He lowered his voice to a growly whisper. “Wet and soft?” Her breath caught, but he kept going. “Slick and ready?” He pulled her to a stop, put the rusty cart down, and pivoted so he stood directly in front of her. “Desperate not to be a voyeur next time?”
Forget pink. Her cheeks were fire engine red. “Your ego is out of control.”
Probably, but it didn’t change the reality of the situation. “If I’m so off base, then why did you stick around and watch the show?”
“Poor life choices.”
“What happened to the woman who proposed a no-strings, six-week fling while we’re fake engaged?” he asked and then pressed his advantage. Two could play hardball here. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone all small town conventional on me.”