‘I thought we agreed to keeping this relationship professional,’ she countered. ‘But that was before I discovered you were an exhibitionist.’
The crinkle of a frown cleared from his brow to be followed by the knowing curve of his lips. ‘So now it’s my fault you can’t multitask?’
She tapped a fingernail against the shiny walnut veneer and glared at him. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t multitask, I said I didn’t want to—because it’ll distract me.’
‘No, actually, you said you weren’t good at multitasking.’ The curve widened into a grin. ‘So what you need is more practice.’
‘Your morning swim is unnecessarily provocative. And you know it,’ she snapped, determined to refocus the argument where it belonged—with the blame for her frustration firmly on his shoulders.
‘Provocative or proactive?’ The wry tone thickened with innuendo. ‘I’m real good at multitasking, sugar, and I’m ready and willing to show you how it’s done.’
She narrowed her eyes, and wished she had Superman’s ability to sear lead with a single glance. ‘Has it ever occurred to you and your gigantic ego that maybe I don’t want to sleep with you again?’
He leant back in his chair, the nonchalant grin widening. ‘As me and my gigantic ego have caught you peeking more than once,’ he drawled, ‘we know you
want to, so I’m figuring it’s not me, or the sex, you’re scared of, it’s yourself.’
‘Scared of...’ She scoffed, or tried to as the dart of shame she’d suppressed for so long closed her throat. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be scared of myself? Scared of what exactly?’
‘You tell me,’ he replied, the smile fading as his gaze sharpened—and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see into her soul. ‘You’re the one who apologised for something that didn’t have a damn thing to do with you. You’re the one who called herself a tramp.... You’re the one who’s putting business before pleasure when there’s no reason why we can’t enjoy both while you’re here. We’re both consenting adults, we’re both unattached at the moment, we both enjoy sex—especially with each other—and we’re both too good at what we do to let something as inconsequential as sex distract us. So why shouldn’t we go for it?’
She placed her napkin on the table, then stood, bracing her palms on the polished wood to disguise trembling fingers.
‘Thank you for the commission. I’m going to do an amazing job. And thank you for your Southern hospitality.’ She forced servility into her voice, searching for the professional distance. ‘Savannah is a beautiful city, and I’ve enjoyed my stay here.’ Give or take the odd sleepless night. ‘But I think I’ll pass on the free psychoanalysis and your generous offer of anonymous sex on the side. And head home tomorrow.’ Where she should have stayed all along.
He stood as she left the room, the gallant gesture in contrast to the open hunger in his gaze as it met hers. She made herself take brisk, sure, sensible steps, despite the pulse of longing making her limbs lethargic.
He didn’t know her, and he didn’t know what she’d been through ten years ago. And he never would, because telling him now would be painful and pointless—and far too personal. But she had to admit that he’d been right about one thing. Her desire to avoid more intimacy between them had nothing whatsoever to do with the commission or her multitasking skills and everything to do with the man.
Because she’d discovered a long time ago that sex with Carter Price was never inconsequential.
* * *
Carter whispered an expletive as the door clicked closed, and threw down the napkin clutched in his fist.
Cute, Price. Real cute.
After three days of keeping his cool, of keeping his distance, of letting her have the time she needed to get over her misguided professional ethics, and being real careful not to show his frustration—and parading around on that damn pool terrace every morning like a prize stud—he’d had his moment and he’d screwed it up. Because he’d pushed. And he never pushed...
Mercy, had he actually used the word inconsequential? No wonder she’d heard the word anonymous instead.
He might as well have hoisted her onto the table, flipped up her skirts and torn off her panties again for all the finesse he’d used.
He crossed to the drinks cabinet, pushed aside the imported single malt whiskey he usually favoured to clasp the bottle of his father’s locally distilled liquor that lurked at the back. He downed a generous slug, then flinched as it shot down his throat like a burning bullet and exploded in his stomach.
He thumped a fist to his chest, to restart his heart, and let out a harsh cough.
Gina Carrington might be the most sexually liberated woman he’d ever met, but she was still a woman. Which meant she deserved to be wooed, not bullied, into his bed.
Carter, honey, have you ever thought your desires might be a little unnatural? Delfina tells me her Jim doesn’t expect her to do her marital duty more than once a month and yet you are pestering me every other night.
The long-forgotten memory of his young wife’s barbed enquiry pierced through his frustration—bringing with it the crushing echo of guilt and humiliation. He shoved the bottle back into the cabinet, raked not-quite-steady fingers through his hair.
Where the hell had that come from? He wasn’t that green kid any more, trying and failing to satisfy a woman whose needs had never matched his own. Women enjoyed his company now, in bed as well as out of it. And his marriage to Missy hadn’t failed ultimately because of their sexual problems, but for a whole host of other reasons.
When he was sixteen and they’d first started dating, Missy Wainwright’s sweet, peaceful, non-confrontational company had been his sanctuary from a home where his father’s bullying, overbearing presence and his mother’s rigid insistence that keeping up appearances was all that mattered had made him feel sullen and tense and disillusioned.
But after his father’s death, and that incendiary one-night encounter with Gina Carrington—a woman who couldn’t be sweet and peaceful even if you gagged her—he’d begun to see that Missy’s sweetness stemmed from a lack of intelligent conversation, and her refusal to argue about anything openly was actually more passive-aggressive than peaceful and non-confrontational.