you a deal.”
Her grip on the glass tightened and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of deal?”
“Go out with me and I’ll give you the pictures. Let’s say, one picture for each date. There are roughly a dozen photos.”
Her laugh sounded choked. “You’re joking, of course.”
He held her gaze, noting the angry gold flecks sparkling in the green of her irises, but said nothing.
“Why?”
He shrugged one shoulder and set down his tea. “Because I said so.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s so juvenile.”
“No dates. No pictures. No negotiation.”
Her pale-pink manicured nails pressed dents into her palms. “That’s blackmail.”
“So sue me. But then, of course, the pictures would become evidence and public knowledge.” He abruptly rocked forward and covered her fists with his hands. He stroked the satiny skin inside her wrists with his thumbs, and her pulse leaped beneath his touch. His echoed the rapid beat.
“Remember how much fun we used to have, Phoebe?”
She jerked her hands free, but he didn’t miss the irregularity of her breathing or the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. It all boiled down to how badly she wanted those pictures.
She lifted her chin. “I won’t sleep with you.”
A smile of anticipation tugged his lips. He’d learned a lot about women in the past decade—specifically, how to recognize when one found him attractive. And Phoebe had definitely been checking him out. Not only would she have sex with him, he planned to make her beg for it. “I didn’t ask you to, but I appreciate you making your views clear up front so I don’t get my hopes—or anything else—up.”
Her cheeks turned crimson and she shifted in her seat. “One date per picture. I get to choose which picture.”
He mashed his lips together. “No deal. I set up the dates. I choose the pictures.”
The muscle in her jaw flexed as she clenched her teeth. “I want to see them.”
Gotcha. He grinned so hard his cheek muscles ached.
“Do you, now?” he asked in a teasing lilt and could practically hear her molars grinding in response.
“I want proof that you still have them.”
He rose and gestured toward the den. “They’re in my bedroom.”
She remained seated. “Is that your version of ‘Come and see my etchings’?”
For the first time in a long time he couldn’t stop smiling. “I don’t have etchings. I have Kodak moments.”
She looked ready to explode. Her nose inched higher. “Who else has seen them?”
He scowled. Another insult. “You think I’d kiss and tell?”
She primly folded her hands in her lap. “Get the pictures, Carter. I’ll wait here.”
He didn’t call her a coward, but he let his eyes say it for him. Her spine stiffened. Message received.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Carter glanced at his waterproof watch as he crossed the den. Operation Seduction under way at 1700 hours.
Let the games begin.
Two
Phoebe put her head in her hands. She had to be out of her mind to agree to Carter’s ridiculous terms. Could she grab the photos and run? Hardly. Carter might have been a geek twelve years ago, but he looked to be in peak physical condition now. He’d outrun her. Besides, he could always print more pictures from the negatives. She needed the pictures and the negatives.
Her grandfather had always said that if you couldn’t change your opponent’s mind, then you had to wear him down. So Phoebe decided she’d play Carter’s childish game. As luck would have it, her grandfather would be at his Bald Head Island retreat for the next month preparing campaign strategies and meeting with his advisers. She’d stayed behind to research his most likely opponents and to look for good quotes for his next speech. Odds were that she could probably recover the pictures without having to explain her whereabouts.
As far as Carter’s abundant sex appeal went, she hadn’t made it to the age of thirty without learning how to handle her physical needs. Messy, complicated relationships were not required. Resisting him wouldn’t be easy, but it was within her capabilities. All she had to do was to focus and get to know her opponent—another of her grandfather’s maxims.
From her seat at the table Phoebe examined Carter’s house, looking for clues to the man he’d become. In college he’d claimed he wanted a place to put down the roots his childhood hadn’t permitted. He’d certainly achieved that goal. Sunlight flooded his kitchen, illuminating very traditional oak cabinets and gleaming hardwood floors. Wooden beams supported the vaulted ceiling of the spacious den to her right, and a huge brick fireplace flanked by tall windows covered most of the outside wall. The leather sofa and chairs looked masculine and expensive, but the room begged for color and softness, for a woman’s touch.
The lack of decorative elements inside led Phoebe to believe Carter didn’t have a woman in his life. But the flowers surrounding his porches and the hummingbird feeder contradicted the lonely bachelor theory. Carter had never been a birds-and-blooms kind of guy. She didn’t think he’d become one. And she couldn’t imagine a man with his sex appeal being alone. So who was the woman in his life? Or did he keep more than one on a string?
Never mind. It didn’t matter. This was a business transaction not a courtship. A barter agreement. Nothing more. She had to uncover his true motive. What did he want in exchange for the pictures? She didn’t believe for one minute that all he wanted was the pleasure of her company.
Carter reappeared with the pictures fanned out in his fingers like playing cards, the backs facing Phoebe. He looked mouthwateringly gorgeous with his shoulder and arm muscles displayed like a handsome hunk calendar model’s. And that tattoo… She couldn’t believe it turned her on. Did he have more? Where? Her pulse quickened.
Your curiosity will bring you nothing but trouble, Phoebe Lancaster Drew, her grandmother’s voice, which often doubled as Phoebe’s conscience, chided. And her grandmother always had been right. Besides, Phoebe had seen most of Carter in his swimsuit. If he had tattoos beneath the brief trunks, she wouldn’t be seeing them.
She didn’t want to look at the pictures, didn’t want to be reminded of how deeply she’d trusted Carter or how unimportant she’d been to him, but for all she knew he could be bluffing. She held out her hand. He thumped the rectangles into a neat stack and passed them to her. The brush of his fingertips against her palm forced the air from her lungs. Phoebe averted her gaze from his and found herself looking at the worn denim to the left of Carter’s zipper. A jolt of energy shot through her. She gulped. Looking at the pictures hadn’t left him unaffected. Well—she squared her shoulders—she would have more control over her
