“WHAT’S JUST STARTING?” she asked, dark eyes cautious, smudged with a hint of something like interest.
“The game.”
His grip on her arms tightened even more, and Fiona gasped. Sweet sound, that gasp, making Sean’s pulse tumble and growl.
He didn’t know she could seem so vulnerable, with her lips parted, her hands grasping at his biceps, clenching, then relaxing.
Releasing.
He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want to return alone to that party with its confetti-colored balloons and forced gaiety, with Lakota Lang and her spunky ambition.
Instead of letting Fiona escape, he took her by the elbow, away from the crowd to an empty table, where he pulled out a chair for her. With cautious acceptance, she sat, leaning her elbows on the surface, her dress sleeves spreading over the linen like yawning black ink stains.
“What game?” Fiona asked, as he took his own seat.
“The battle of wills between our clients. Or haven’t you noticed the storm brewing?”
“Oh, I caught a groan of thunder in the air, all right.”
He leaned toward her, close enough so he could feel the wisp of her clothing as it moved against his thigh. “Usually I leave the baby-sitting to the managers, but with these two, I think reconnaissance might not be a bad idea.”
And, he added silently, he kind of felt protective toward Lakota Lang. There was still some innocence wrapped in all that tight satin and bravado.
Her date, Brendon Fillmore, was another of Sean’s clients. It seemed logical to get both of them some exposure by setting the two strangers up for the night. Brendon’s TV show had just been canceled and he needed to stay in the public eye. Lakota needed to cultivate a prime-time image because, with a few night slot TV cameos under her belt, that’s where her career was headed. Up.
The kid definitely needed some of Sean’s guidance, not that Fiona had to know this.
Her leg moved beneath the table. Back and forth, teasing him with the languid flow of imagination: Her bare thigh skimming up the side of his, her hips grinding against him…
He’d gotten a taste of her body in the hall, when she’d tried to get by him. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Fiona’s incidental contact had been just that—a happy accident. But Sean did know better.
She was playing with him.
Voice as low as a murmur of night wind, she said, “I like the way you think. I want to get a feel for how those two react to each other, just to see if we need to worry about a PR explosion. We don’t want Linc and Lakota making a scene—unless it’s during Flamingo Beach, of course.”
“Right.” Sean glided his forefinger beneath Fiona’s chin, directing her gaze across the room. “Watch.”
Her breath sighed over the skin of his hand as he lingered, then stroked the side of her neck on his way down.
Damn, he wanted so much more.
Restraining himself—he was on the clock, not a mattress—Sean looked across the room, as well. There, near the very visible dance floor, Lakota and Lincoln worked the crowd, mingling with fans and the press, their backs to each other.
“You have to know they’re aware of every move the other one makes,” Fiona said.
Just as Sean, himself, was. Every time she swayed her leg so it breezed near his, every time she inhaled and exhaled, for God’s sake.
She continued. “What are we watching for?”
“Wicked glances, a foot stuck out just in time to trip another body. They’re getting closer and closer to each other. My sixth sense is vibrating.”
And that wasn’t all.
She turned to him, her voice close enough to buzz around his ear. “I bet Lakota strikes first.”
“Lakota? She’s got no reason.” He turned his head, bringing his lips closer to Fiona’s cheek. “Lincoln’s the one who got dumped. I’m sure he’s up for a little revenge.”
“Linc?” Her warm laugh sizzled his skin. “He’s harmless. She’s the one who’s almost quaking with pent-up hostility. Look at the way she keeps flicking a gaze over her shoulder. She knows he’s there, can probably hear his jokes, and I’m betting that his popularity with the fans is killing her.”
He tensed, wanting to defend his client, but Fiona’s knee had just scratched along his thigh, a slow and deliberate move leaving a wake of burning need in his belly.
Concentration wasn’t in the cards tonight.
“Lakota’s got enough confidence to keep Lincoln from getting to her,” he said.
She slanted her body toward him, bringing her knee back into contact with his body. She nudged it over the top of his shin, then in between his legs.
In reaction, he trailed a hand over her thigh, resting it on that naughty knee. She laughed, a throaty touché from the master.
“Lakota’s going to be the first one to cause trouble,” she said. “Mark my words.”
He glanced at his client. Slinky Versace dress, bed-head red hair, siren makeup. Sure, he wouldn’t put it past Lakota Lang to mess with Lincoln Castle, but with Fiona’s thigh underneath his hand, with his thumb easing along the inside, seeking a hint of toned muscle, of moist acceptance, he wasn’t in a cut-and-dry mood.
He wanted amusement.
“Care to bet on that?” Sean asked, loyal to his client.
“What? That Lakota’s going to rile Lincoln first?” Her smile blossomed. “What’s the winner get?”
He pressed his hand higher, fingers creeping to her midthigh. Fiona stretched her leg, leaning into him, biting her lip and lowering her gaze in a steamy pause of expectation.
“When I win,” he said, “you’ll do a task of my bidding.”
“Or vice versa.”
She removed his touch by sweeping her leg over the other one, crossing them at the knees, keeping him out of further trouble.
A rusty laugh escaped him. “You think Lincoln will keep his cool and ignore Lakota.”
She sat a little straighter, and he could tell that she wasn’t quite as cocky as she wanted to let on.
“He never fails me,” she said.
The blood beat through his hands, filling their emptiness. What he’d give to cup her curves against his palms.
He leaned back in his chair, trying to pretend Fiona didn’t affect him. But the awareness between them was too potent to ignore.
It was bad form to be screwing a co-worker. But at this point, he didn’t care.
As he chided himself, he found that they didn’t have to wait long for the fireworks to start. A paparazzi photographer whom Sean had arranged to stir up some visibility for his clients appeared, urging the soap stars together for a picture. Lakota cozied up to Lincoln as if they were still lovers.
Pop! After the flash faded, she kept her hold on Lincoln’s tuxedo jacket. The man’s discomfort was clear—the pained expression, the wooden posture.
Sean perched on the edge of his chair, ready to swing into action if anything happened. The managers were at the stars’ sides in an instant, but not before Lincoln lost his cool and liberated himself by shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it over a still-clinging Lakota’s head.
As he stalked away, several photographers caught her flipping the clothing off her head and bundling into it, then rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she’d been cold and Lincoln had lovingly loaned her some warmth.
Fiona made a sound of disgust. “You know she started that. Probably said something to goad him.”
“Hey,” Sean said, grinning. “The only evidence I saw was Lincoln’s tux flying through the air to land on my poor client. Quick thinking on her part, huh? She almost does our jobs for us. I’ll make sure Soap Opera Digest or US Magazine has a picture of Lakota in Lincoln’s jacket. I can see the caption now—‘She’s got his love to keep her warm!’”
“Spare me. I’ll arrange it so Lincoln is linked with Nicole Kidman, a much classier redhead.”
By the tone of her voice, he knew she wasn’t thrilled about losing this battle.
“I’ll ignore that slight and go easy on you,” he said. “What did the winner of our wager get? Oh, yeah. You have to cater to my whims.”
He paused, taking great pleasure at how her dark eyes widened, then narrowed.
A grin quirked his mouth. “Fetch me a drink. Whisky on the rocks.”
Fiona stiffened, apparently affronted by the command in his voice.
Sean lifted up his hands, such the good guy. “I could’ve called in a much more…interesting…prize.”
She hesitated, then swept a long look over his body, her gaze like feathers winging from his toes to his neck, leaving a trail of rough tickles.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But this isn’t the end of it. I don’t like to lose.”
As she left, she winked, her thick eyelashes lending an air of wanton flirtation.
He watched her walk away, unable to tear his eyes off her, off the clingy material of her dress and how it molded those thighs he’d explored, that ass.
There was no way he’d get through this night, not without some kind of sexual release. And if getting her into bed made for a tougher workplace tomorrow, then that’s how it’d be. He was willing to sacrifice p.c. office protocol for Fiona.
God, she’d be worth it.
This had never happened before, him pursuing someone in the office. Sure, there had been the occasional loaded gesture with an administrative assistant, with a client. But he’d never crossed the line professionally.
Until now.
Work had always mattered too much. He’d spent years being myopic in his pursuit of success. But lately…
Lately it didn’t seem to matter as much as the fulfillment of all the fantasies he’d conjured about Fiona Cruz since she’d va-va-voomed into his life yesterday.
Soon, she returned with a flute of champagne for her, a martini for him.
He lifted an eyebrow as she sat. “Not whisky.”
A tart smile. “The occasion—and that hot tux—calls for a more sophisticated cocktail. Hollywood’s all about image.”
“You didn’t follow my orders. That means you still owe me.”
“Do I?” She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.
He shrugged, swigged from his drink. Not bad. She knew his tastes, didn’t she?
“You always rebel against authority in this way?” he asked.
“I told you, Lakota was the instigator. You didn’t win anything.”
And she didn’t like losing. “Go on. We both know better.”
She oh-so-gently set down her flute, so slowly that Sean knew he was in trouble.
“I propose a new bet.”
“Clearly losing rankles you more than you’ll admit.”
“I’ve got Linc in my sights right now,” she said, ignoring his jibe. “He’s fully in control and unruffled. Lakota didn’t get to him, you see. But I’m going to bet your client is so hot under the collar she’ll try to make Linc jealous. I hear that’s her modus operandi.”
He couldn’t dispute her comment, but he still knew Lakota had ample brains and wouldn’t make him lose. “And I’m supposed to wager that Lincoln does something to make Lakota jealous first? Hell, yeah, my money’s on him to blow it.”
“We’ll see. Linc’s a professional.”
With practiced skill, Sean reached out, running a thumb over her collarbone as she watched him. He dipped the thumb under her bra strap. Toyed with it. Her pulse fluttered against his skin.
“What does the winner get?” he asked.
She glanced at his hand, then back at him. “When I win, you tell me something secret about yourself.”
“Or the other way around. I’ve been wondering what you wear to bed anyway.”
It was out there now. She could either tell him to back off and he’d respect her wishes, or she could take up the gauntlet. Her call.
Fiona’s eyes went soft, and Sean could have sworn that he’d passed some test. Did she appreciate that he’d laid the choice in her lap?
Instead, she said, “Lakota’s got fifteen minutes to lose the bet for you, Mac.”
A smile spread over his mouth, and they locked gazes, the promise of tonight and what could happen in the wee hours after the party stretching between them.
As Fiona coolly glanced away from him, making it a point to watch Lincoln and Lakota across the room, the DJ put the pedal to the metal with the music, cranking up the volume. People gradually wandered onto the floor, shedding jackets, dancing, bumping against each other.
Ten minutes passed, but Lakota and Lincoln remained apart. Good girl. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her cultivated image, not after he’d put her through all that media combat training.
Then again, maybe he’d spoken too soon. In the near distance, Lakota was arrowing a sly glare in her ex-boyfriend’s direction.
It was as if Lincoln felt the sting of Lakota’s eyes, because he glanced over at her, their gazes meeting. Sean knew that look.
Wounded, open.
The kind of expression his dad had worn for years, sitting across from his mom’s empty chair at the dinner table while Sean and his two sisters took care of the food, the bills, the anguish.
Across the room, Lakota smirked, then turned back to her crowd of admirers, leaving Lincoln hanging.
Sean refrained from toasting her expertise. Clever woman, toying with Lincoln. A lot like Fiona.
Lincoln grabbed a nearby woman’s hand and led her to the dance floor, provoking Lakota first, thus assuring Sean’s victory in his wager with Fiona. Obviously affronted, Lakota followed suit, partnered with her own weapon of choice—Brendon Fillmore, who’d been courting his own fans with his soft-rebel persona.
Great.
“Dance off,” said Sean.
“Let me guess. Lakota’s the Shark, Lincoln’s the Jet.” Her voice was resigned.
He shrugged.
She sighed, a clear white flag of surrender. “I wear girls’ tighty-whitie undies.”
“You wear ugly underwear to bed?”
“They’re made for women, and they’re extremely cute. You know, bun-huggers?”
Lust sucker punched him once again. “Fiona, I’m surprised. I expected you to confess a fondness for black-net bodysuits or satin nightgowns. But…”
The image clouded his mind. Fiona, with her long legs showcased by a pair of those clinging panties. With her torso bare, breasts full and throbbing for his touch.
She mock-glared at him. “You’re developing a nasty habit of winning.”
“That’s the way I like it.”
Though she seemed to be joking, Sean wondered if she wasn’t telling the truth.
“You know,” he said, “there’s a hole-in-the-wall bar on the corner. Quiet. Secluded.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re a smart woman.”
Fiona stared at him, as if considering the offer. Self-aware ladies knew a night like this probably wouldn’t end with a drink. Not with the way he and Fiona were offering those testing swipes.
But before she could answer, Sean felt the frigid fingers of his business sense strumming the back of his neck. He contained a shiver, then turned around.
Lakota and Lincoln had come toe-to-toe on the dance floor, and it wasn’t a West Side Story moment, either. She’d left Brendon dancing by himself in order to confront Lincoln, her hand splayed over her ex’s chest, nails bared like claws. For his part, Lincoln was holding strong, trying to play off the contact. But before Sean could get out of his chair, the managers had pulled the two apart.
Lakota’s handler, Carmella Shears, shot him a glare. Back to the ever-present office.
“Looks like I need to get busy seeing that Lakota smiles for the cameras on the way out.” He rose from his chair. “I’m off to help her handler lock her away for the night.”
Fiona followed his example and stood. “Have fun tucking her in.”
“I don’t get involved with clients.” But he would mix business with pleasure if given the chance. With Fiona, that is.
He started to leave, then on the spur of the moment, turned back around. “Bailey’s. That’s what the place on the corner is called.”
And, without waiting for her answer, Sean moved toward his troublemaking soap star, feeling Fiona’s eyes track him with every step he took away from her.
HE’D WON EVERY BET, damn him.
Fiona had hailed a cab from Linc’s house near Griffith Park, where she’d comforted him and talked him down from his doomed meeting with Lakota. Now, as she traveled to her apartment by The Farmer’s Market, she stewed over Mac’s victory streak.
Sure, he could’ve really fried her over the flames if he were less of a gentleman. Could’ve asked her to do something deliciously ridiculous, like flash her breasts in the crowded room. Or was that her fantasy machine at work?
Whatever the case, she’d told him she didn’t like to lose, and that had been the truth. Fiona had been raised to compete, growing up in a household of three brothers, where they’d all had to vie for attention. Maybe she’d absorbed a lot of testosterone over the course of the years. Who knew?
But she certainly didn’t like sitting in the loser’s column.
They were approaching Hollywood Boulevard and Bailey’s, the bar Mac had mentioned. Her body sang with longing as they got closer. Closer. Passing it by.
Was he waiting there?
And what would happen if she walked in? Sat down?
They’d end up in someone’s bed.
A tremble of remembrance riffled through her body, recalling his hand on her leg, in between her thighs.
She wanted him there. Everywhere.
Handling him at work wouldn’t be a problem. She’d enjoyed an office affair or two and had always controlled the situation with discreet grace. No one got hurt; that was her mantra.
So why was this any different? Because she needed this gig? Needed to feel successful again?
She was on her way up, and nothing, not even Sean McIntyre, was going to stop her. She could have her cake and eat it, too, just like any man in her business.
“Please turn around,” she said to the driver. “There’s a bar. Bailey’s.”
“I know it.” The man whipped around the cab, probably thinking she was indecisive, mind-scram-bled.
And she was, wasn’t she? Deliriously, ecstatically giddy with flashbacks of Mac’s corded chest against hers, the chiseled bulges of his arms holding her captive. Controlling her when she’d always been the one calling the shots.
The driver dropped her off in front of a sign with a neon-lined martini and olive, and she paid him. As he left, the motor revving into the distance, Fiona took a deep breath, walked into the dark recesses of the bar.
It was a real funky joint: a slim cigarette case lined with half-empty bottles, the aroma of salt and gin, anonymously low lighting and faux-leather upholstery gleaming in the shadows. The jukebox near the back played a Doors tune—“People Are Strange”—and a few suited patrons splayed their bodies over bar stools.
A dead-end weeknight. Her dead end, too.
Mac was among the barflies, ensconced in a booth, discarded tuxedo jacket slouched over the seat, his expansive back to the door. She knew his choice of location was purposeful—not too eager, not too concerned if she showed up or not.
She laughed to herself, then took the first confident step toward him, feeling the gazes of the male customers. Her power grew with every collected, silent compliment.
When she arrived at his seat, he didn’t acknowledge her at first. Part of the game, she knew, the pretense of not having the other person on your mind for the past hour and a half. Instead, he kept his eyes on the wall across from him, gaze trained on a picture of a man who could’ve been the bar’s owner posing with Marcus Allen in a Raider’s football uniform. One of Mac’s hands enfolded a glass of amber liquid—probably that damned whisky he’d wanted her to fetch earlier.
“Drinking alone?” she asked.
Finally, he glanced up. “Thought I would be.”
Was that relief written in the tough-life lines of his face? There was something about his expression—the stumbling slant of his mouth, the laconic curve of an eyebrow… She didn’t dare hope he was that happy to see her.
His mien returned to its regular programming: gunslinger calm mixed with roguish promise. Then he motioned to the space opposite. “Did you sing Lincoln a few lullabies?”
She slid into the booth. “He’s a big boy. Lakota didn’t rattle him as much as his manager did, lecturing him about comebacks and all that fun stuff.”
“Right.” Mac turned to the bartender and ordered her a sour apple martini. Turned back around to flash her a shit-eating grin.
So he was returning the favor from their first bet, flying against her wishes just to get the best of her. Playful boy. Luckily she liked his choice in beverages.
“You actually showed up,” he said.
The words had a lonely ring to them, and Fiona’s heart tilted on its axis. Lopsided, off center.
“How could I resist?” she asked. “You practically begged.”
He laughed, probably not feeling the need to correct her. Fiona was certain that Sean McIntyre never had to plead with a woman, but she could see how it might be the other way around.
“So…” she said.
Silence, as the bartender slid her drink onto the table. She didn’t touch it.
Mac waited for the man to leave, then reclined against the seat’s cracked leather, narrowing his sharp green eyes. Assessing her intentions?
“Tell me why you’re here, Fiona Cruz.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Then, she eased her arms onto the table, leaning toward him, knowing good and well that she was showing cleavage, reveling in the power as his eyes strayed there.
“You asked,” she said, “and I came.”
He grinned again, and her heart did a belly flop, a scalding, breathtaking plunge.
“And come you did. But hopefully not for the last time tonight.”
Highly entertained, she smiled right back at him.