4
CALLING CARON A CONQUEST had been a slip of the tongue brought on by the bitter taste of media hell, a hell that he couldn’t drag her into for just a night of fantasy. A slip that she was making him pay for, and pay well.
Thirty minutes after being left alone in that courtyard, wishing he could pull back his slight, Baxter was propped against a bar near the dance floor, nursing a barely touched scotch, and pretending nonchalance he didn’t feel. He sipped the amber-colored liquor and watched as Rich Reynolds, the CEO of a major telecomm—a man known for running through women as fast as he did board members—danced with Caron in far too intimate an embrace, the damn Dean Martin holiday tune apparently never coming to an end.That he fought a possessive desire to interrupt Caron’s dance and claim it as his own despite the media frenzy sure to follow, spoke volumes about how completely this woman had taken him by storm. Caron and Marilyn had successfully seduced him—one woman, in two completely different ways. And if that one woman had been anyone but Caron, he’d think she was playing him, and playing him like a pro. But he’d seen Caron in her natural form, experienced the pure honesty that slid from her lush little mouth, regardless of consequence, as she’d rambled adorably on about toilets and his high-priced coffee. Leading him to the firm belief that her Marilyn persona had not been the one to put him in his place. The response had been too natural, too quick. It had been the real Caron, the natural woman.
She’d put him in his place, and let him know that as easily as she had invited him into her fantasy, she could set him aside. Well. He had no intention of being set aside. So he was biding his time, waiting until the right moment to approach her again—knowing she expected as much and being remarkably okay with that.
He sipped his drink, watched with agitation as Rich slowly brushed the top of Caron’s lush backside. He ground his teeth. “Oh, hell.” Before Baxter could stop himself, he charged toward the dance floor and made his way to Caron’s side. He tapped Rich’s shoulder and leaned forward, “Cutting in.”
Caron’s eyes went wide, but lit with the hint of appreciation he’d hoped for. Rich, on the other hand, cast him a go-to-hell look. “Sorry, bud,” Rich retorted. “Last dance is a complete dance.”
“Let’s let the lady decide,” Baxter argued, standing his ground.
Both men’s eyes fell on Caron, and she visibly swallowed hard. Then, motioned toward Baxter. “I did promise you the last dance,” she offered and shrugged out of Rich’s arms, graciously adding, “Thank you for the dance, Rich.”
Rich had the nerve to look as if he might refuse to step aside, which sat none too well with Baxter. He quickly slid his arm around Caron’s waist and directed her toward the center of the dance floor, away from the disgruntled CEO.
Caron laughed, her expression lighting with a spontaneous, engaging, smile. “That was rude,” she chided. “And I thought you couldn’t dance with me because of the media frenzy?”
“I shouldn’t be,” he agreed, molding her closer. She was a petite package of softness and curves. Even in her stilettos, her head barely reached his shoulders. “But I wasn’t about to leave his hand on your lovely backside.” His own hand rested dangerously close on her lower back. He wanted her naked, that ass firmly in his palms.
“It seems to me your hand is in the exact same spot,” she challenged with a lift of her chin and enough uncertainty in her eyes to tell him she was struggling to act her role. His groin tightened. Why did that vulnerability in her turn him on so?
“But you want my hand there,” he countered gently, cautiously taking the bait, no desire to scare her off.
She blushed despite her sexy persona but managed to keep him on his toes with a challenge. “So another man’s hand is enough to make you forget your media phobia?”
“Apparently,” he told her, the soft scent of woman flaring in his nostrils. “And considering the scandal my company is going through, that’s not an easy task.”
She fixed him with a suspicious look. “What scandal?”
His eyes held hers, welcoming her to see the honesty there. “Nothing you’d wish to be a part of,” he assured her, their hips swaying in a slow rhythm, legs intimately entwined. He wanted them naked and entwined. “Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to share your last dance. I was trying to protect you.” He pressed his cheek to hers, lips near her ear. “What man wouldn’t want to be Marilyn Monroe’s public conquest?”
She shivered in his arms—so damn responsive it drove him wild. Her hand flattened on his chest as she inched backward and challenged, “I thought I was the conquest?”
“I was thinking it would be rather fun to compete for that honor,” he suggested. “Privately.”
She considered that and then motioned toward the table not far away. “See the feisty redhead yelling at the tall, thin man?”
His gaze took in the woman with a tape measure and sewing kit of some sort around her neck. “The one who looks like she’s about to blow a gasket?” he asked, curiosity piqued at the odd shift in conversation.
Caron’s hands settled on his upper arms, framing her cleavage in a deliciously inviting way as she said, “She’s waiting to strip away Marilyn as soon as this dance ends.”
Baxter’s gaze narrowed on Caron, searching her lovely features for confirmation of what he believed he understood—she didn’t want anyone but him to strip away Marilyn. “We can’t have that, now can we?”
She drew a discreet breath that he didn’t miss, a sign of nerves he vowed to pleasure away. “What do you propose?”
He wiggled a brow. “The great escape, of course,” he offered. “You game?”
A slow smile slid onto her face. “Lead the way.”
BEFORE CARON UNDERSTOOD WHAT WAS happening, Baxter was weaving through the crowd, sidestepping one attempt at communication after another until he pulled her down a hallway and into a stairwell. The next thing she knew, they were cutting through the kitchen, and approaching one of the busboys. Her eyes went wide as she realized Baxter was speaking to him in Spanish—damn, could the man get any sexier? A second later, he handed the man cash, and then whisked her into the staff elevator and pushed the button for the basement level.
Caron laughed as Baxter leaned against the wall, tugged her against his long, hard body and settled one hand on her lower back as he had done several times before, fingers barely brushing her backside. Again, nerves clamored within her, but Caron was living on the high of the moment, fears forgotten. “I can’t believe you got us out of there so fast. What did you say to the busboy?”“A limo is picking us up in the basement.”
Her jaw dropped. “Limo?”
His finger trailed over her lower lip and goose bumps chased a path along her spine. “Nothing less for Marilyn, right? And it will throw at least a few people off our trail.”
Before Caron could process this announcement, the elevator opened on the basement parking level. Caron turned in Baxter’s arms to find the limo ready and waiting, back door open. Her heart raced, all the nerves she’d combated this night suddenly colliding in an instant of panic. She couldn’t do this! What the heck was she thinking?
How could she compare to the women of his past? Of his future? Her. Little Caron Avery, whose college boyfriend had been more interested in books than sex, and when he’d gotten around to the sex part—well, the books had been better. The few other men—improvements, but still nothing grand.
Walking a runway without falling down did not make her a seductress ready to take on a man like Baxter Remington, no matter how fancy the costume. She started to bolt, to seek escape, but warm, powerful arms wrapped around her from behind. “Does the car meet your satisfaction?”
Caron swallowed hard, Baxter’s breath tickling her ear, her neck. “Oh, yes,” she whispered, thinking more than the car met her satisfaction. The man did, too. Because no man had ever affected her like Baxter. A look, a touch, a simple word spoken in that deep baritone voice, and she was ready to give herself to him. Th
e reaction he created in her was both terrifying and thrilling in the same breath.
“That’s what I was hoping you would say,” Baxter replied, and walked her forward, toward the car, that big, delicious body still draped around hers.
She was getting in that limo with him, she realized, and not because he wanted her to. Because she wanted to, because she’d come so far tonight—too far to toss away the ultimate reward—and that reward was not Baxter. He was simply the man who fit the fantasy, and that fantasy was about being daring. Daring to let go of her inhibitions, if only for one night. And even better, a night that came with benefits to her business. This night wasn’t self-indulgent. It was about a better future, a better bookstore, a more confident self.
Caron was taking the fantasy to a whole new level.
THE MINUTE THE LIMO pulled away, Sarah exited from the shadows and crossed to a van parked in the dark corner spot, lights out. The back doors popped open—Fred had obviously noted her approach—and she lifted her skirt to awkwardly climb inside, not missing the raised eyebrow Fred cast her way as she flashed him, her legs embarrassingly wide at the time. Of course, he wasn’t about to let it go, either, non-gentleman that he was.
“Easy now, darlin’,” he taunted. “I’m not the target.”“Just tell me you’ve got the background on Marilyn,” Sarah grumbled, turning away to shut the door so he wouldn’t see the flush of her cheeks. She had no idea why she let the man get to her, but he did. And in his normal irritating refusal to be dismissed, he appeared by her side and pulled the other door shut, their hands colliding in an awkward charge of electricity.
For just an instant, she blinked at those big brown eyes framed by a few strands of light brown hair slipped free from the tie at the back of his neck, and like always, she felt that familiar punch in her gut. The one that made her want to punch him in the gut for making her feel such a thing. He was everything she hated in the agency, a man who made being a female agent feel as if her presence was breaking the rules, as if she didn’t belong.
“I could have gotten inside fine by myself,” she said foully, distancing herself with as much grace as she could, yet managing to stick her ass right in his incredibly not handsome, though somehow ruggedly alluring, face. She looked over her shoulder as he lifted his big hand to have a smack.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, jerking around to sit in the chair in front of a monitor—exactly where he should be focused, instead of on giving her hell.
A low, baritone chuckle escaped his lips. “You really are in a foul mood,” he said, claiming the chair next to her, the rip in his faded denim jeans displaying a light sprinkle of brown hair probably the same color as the hair on his chest.
Why was she thinking about his chest hair? “Damn it,” Sarah murmured, jerking her gaze to the closed notebook computer in front of her and opening it.
Fred frowned. “Your computer crash again?”
“No,” she ground out between her teeth. “We do have a man on that limo, right?”
He pointed to a monitor on the far left. “The limo service will be calling us with the drop-off location.”
Good, she thought. “What about Marilyn? You have anything on her yet?”
“I had it the minute Baxter made it clear he had eyes for no one but her, hours ago,” he said, as he punched a few keys and sent data to her computer. “And she’s as squeaky clean as they come.” He punched another few keys. “Caron Avery owns a bookstore on the corner of Anchor and 2nd Street. Workaholic. Barely dates. Before her store, she worked for Barnes & Noble. She visits her grandmother in Sonoma every other week. Has no living parents. No siblings. Doesn’t own a pet, though has been known to volunteer at the local animal shelter. Doesn’t even have a parking ticket. Not one. Ever. In her life.”
“Look harder. There has to be something we can use to motivate her to help.” Sarah tabbed through the file. “What about a friend in trouble we can help as a reward for her assistance?”
He shook his head. “A small list, carefully selected,” he replied. “They’re all as shiny and nice as she is.” He ran big hands down his thighs and leaned back in the metal chair. “It’s all there. Check me if you like.”
“I will,” she said, scanning the screen.
“There’s no guarantee this will go beyond tonight,” he said. “I say wait until tomorrow and see what happens.”
“Unless something goes drastically wrong tonight, he’ll be back.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I saw up close and personal how he looked at her.”
“You mean how he didn’t look at you.”
Sarah ignored his remark. “What about employees? Anything we can use there?”
“She has one and she’s college age and never been in a lick of trouble. We have zilch to motivate her to help.” Lick. He used that word just to get at her. She hated it. She’d told him so. Sarah ignored it this time, too rattled by her personal failure with Baxter to keep up with Fred. “Just her duty to help us as an upstanding, good citizen which it sounds like she takes seriously.”
Fred snorted. “You’re wasting your time with this chick. Strip away the costume and she loses the security blanket. She’ll wilt into a wallflower.”
Instantly, Sarah stiffened. How many women had been made to feel like either a wallflower or trophy, compliments of some man. She frowned.
“A costume does not make a woman,” she argued. “Confidence does.” And experience, Sarah thought, but Caron would have that after tonight. “Caron Avery can handle Baxter Remington if she puts her mind to it.” She hoped.
5
CARON SETTLED ON THE LIMO SEAT, when much to her dismay, the front slit split wide, exposing leg all the way to the top of the lacy thigh-highs. She sucked in a breath and fumbled for her skirt, struggling. Baxter bent down and pulled the silk material together, his touch gentle yet insistent.
He smiled, gentle, playful. “Having trouble?”She blushed. “Nothing you don’t seem to have under control.”
His eyes lit. “I aim to please.”
Oh, wow, what did she say to that? The man was making her wet just talking. How was she supposed to think? Talking. Right. That worked.
“Talk is cheap, Mr. Remington,” she taunted in a remarkably hot voice. She didn’t know she could sound like that. She liked it.
He chuckled and gave the driver directions, before scooting her farther inside the car with him following, one long, muscular leg plastered to hers.
A moment later, his hand framed her face, his lips lingering above hers. Good. No talking. She didn’t do so well in that category. Right to the kisses. To the pleasure. But he didn’t kiss her. His breath tickled her lips, teasing her with the kiss she’d longed for since the moment she’d set eyes on him. He waited, lingered. Teased her. Somehow one of her legs rested across his, their bodies melded intimately. Caron was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling against his, her breasts aching for his touch. Her core tightened with need, her panties wet with the desire that had been building the past few hours for this man—now unleashed.
Never before had Caron forgotten her environment, her control. Never had she wanted a kiss to the point of taking it, and she told herself to wait, to make him come to her. To make him beg.
Suddenly, she didn’t care. Caron laced her fingers into his dark, tousled hair and brought his lips to hers. He rewarded her with a long slide of delicious tongue that had her begging for more. Hungrily, she kissed him, hungrily she took his tongue, his mouth. Clung to him when he tore his mouth from hers, blinking in disorientation.
He slid her to a sitting position in the seat, him on one knee in front of her, another seat behind him. He shoved open the front slit of her skirt, exposing her legs again all the way to the lace of her thigh-highs.
Their eyes held and locked, and Caron could barely breathe for the potency of that connection. “Do you know why I stopped kissing you?”
No, but she wanted to. “Why?” she ask
ed, staring into his light brown eyes, unable to look away. It was like indulging in a creamy mixture of melted chocolate, silky smooth and full of pleasure.
“Because,” he said, the one word lingering in the air as she reached for the words to follow. “You never told me the rules. I wouldn’t want to overstep my boundaries.”
She sat back slightly. Oh, yeah. Damn. That had sounded good at the time. But she kind of liked the “no thinking” part of a few moments before. Yep. Really wanted to go back to the lost in abandonment, no thinking, no nerves kind of kissing. “I’ll, um, let you know if you’re out of line. So far you’re doing very well.”
He shook his head, those dark, dreamy eyes taking on a dangerously seductive quality. “A smart man learns his boundaries up front.” He looked up at her with devilish innocence, his dark hair mussed and begging for her fingers as he said, “So—tell me, Marilyn. Can I touch you?”
Could he hear her heart racing, because she was pretty darn certain it was loud enough to reach the driver’s distant ears. Where? Where did he want to touch her? She wanted to ask but she wasn’t sure how she’d handle his answer. She settled for, “Yes.” The one-word reply barely qualified as a whisper.
“Here?” he asked. His palms settled gently on her knees and shot little darts of fire up her thighs.
She squeezed them together, embarrassed by how easily she was aroused. “Yes.”
His hand trailed over her calves, leaving goose bumps in their wake before soothing them away as he caressed back up to her knees. Then his palms moved up her thighs until his fingers traced the lace of her thigh-highs, his gaze on the tight V of her body. He skimmed back to her knees and fixed her in a heavy-lidded stare.
“Open for me,” he ordered.
She squeezed the tiny gap that his prodding had inadvertently created. She instantly felt the pleasure and fear of his gentle demand. She was excited. She was terrified. She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t have to. He was kissing her knees, running his hands down her calves and making her forget words. She shivered with the touch, hungered for more.