a little closer, just enough to put his pheromones between them. She took a deep breath, and the sore in her stomach ignited into a red-hot flame.
Damn her nerves, she thought. And damn him.
“I’ll stop by your office on Tuesday,” he said. “At two.”
“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” she countered, wishing she could dig through her purse for an antacid.
He shook his head. “Tuesday at two. This isn’t up for negotiation.”
Gina bristled, hating Flint Kingman and everything he represented. Would the stress ever end? The guilt? The professional humiliation? “Are you always this pushy?”
“I’m aggressive, not pushy.”
“You could have fooled me.”
She lifted her chin a notch, and Flint studied the stubborn gesture. Gina Barone was a feminine force to be reckoned with—a long, elegant body, a mass of wavy brown hair swept into a proper chignon and eyes the color of violets.
A cold shoulder and a hot temper. He’d heard she was an ice princess. A woman much too defensive. A woman who competed with men. And now she would be competing with him.
She gave him an annoyed look, and he glanced at her untouched hors d’oeuvres. “Don’t you like the food?”
“I haven’t had the chance to eat it.”
“Why? Because I interrupted you?” He reached out, snagged a mushroom off her plate and popped it into his mouth, knowing damn well his blatant behavior would rile her even further.
Those violet eyes turned a little violent, and he suspected she was contemplating a childish act, like flinging the rest of the mushrooms at him. He pictured them hitting his chest like crab-stuffed bullets. “I don’t have cooties, Miss Barone.”
“You don’t have any manners, either.”
“Of course I do.” He went after a dumpling this time, ate it with relish, then reached into his jacket for a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his hands with casual elegance. This party was too damn prissy, he thought. And so was Gina Barone. Flint was sick to death of the superficial society in which he lived. He used to thrive on this world, but now it seemed like a lie.
Then again, why wouldn’t it? After all, he’d just uncovered a family secret, a skeleton in his closet that made his entire life seem like a lie.
Still eyeing him with disdain, Gina set her plate on the planter ledge. “Thanks to you, I lost my appetite.”
She didn’t have one to begin with, he thought. The trouble at Baronessa Gelati must be weighing heavily on her inexperienced shoulders. She’d never outfoxed a public scandal, particularly something of this magnitude.
Flint had, of course. Scandals were his specialty. But not family secrets. He couldn’t outfox the lie in which he’d been raised.
He dragged a hand through his hair and then realized that he’d zoned out, losing sight of his priority. Nothing, not even the turmoil in his life, should interfere with business.
Pulling himself into the moment, he stared at Gina.
Did she resent his take-charge attitude? Or did the truth upset her? The fact that he was more qualified for the job?
Truthfully, he didn’t care. He was damn good at what he did and he’d worked hard to prove his worth.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re superior.”
“Men are superior,” he responded, deliberately baiting her.
“And that’s why Adam ate the apple?” she asked. “Because he had brains?”
“What kind of question is that?”
She rolled her eyes. “A rhetorical one. Everyone knows Adam ate the apple because of Eve.”
Which meant what? That she thought the male brain hinged on what was behind his zipper? Or in Adam’s case, a fig leaf?
Flint assessed his companion. The lights from the city shimmered behind her, as white and bright as the diamond brooch on the front of her choker. It was an exceptional piece, but he would have preferred an unadorned view of her neck. She had smooth, touchable skin, kissed by the sun and boasting her Sicilian roots.
His gaze slipped slower, to the swell of her breasts. No matter how high a man’s IQ was, his brain did get scrambled now and then. Flint was no exception.
He lifted his gaze. “I’m not offended, Miss Barone.”
“About what?”
“About you thinking my brain is in my pants.”
“Well, you should be.”
“And you should offer me a shiny red apple.” He paused for effect. “I’ll take a big, juicy bite if you will.”
Gina glared at him.
Enjoying the game, he flashed a flirtatious smile. Sparring with her was actually kind of fun. And it certainly beat crying into his beer.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to work with you,” she said.
He tilted his head, wondering what she would look like with her hair rioting around her face, framing her in untamed glory. “As I understand it, you don’t have a choice.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she quipped.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday. At two o’clock,” he reminded her before he walked away.
His lovely nemesis was quite a challenge. But he wasn’t worried about it. Sooner or later, she’d give in and let him fix the disaster in her life.
Even if he couldn’t fix his own.
Gina awakened with a start the following morning. She sat up and squinted, then hugged a pillow to her chest.
She’d actually dreamed about Flint Kingman.
And erotic dream. An illusion of mist and midnight, of his long, lean, muscled torso gleaming in the rain.
While she’d slept through a stormy night, he’d invaded her bedroom, her private sanctuary.
Gina reached for her robe and wrapped herself in terry cloth. Everything seemed different now. The cherry armoire and big brass bed. The hardwood floors and Turkish rugs.
With a deep breath, she turned and peered out the blinds. Thank God, it wasn’t raining anymore. She never wanted it to rain again. Not if it meant revisiting that half-naked image of Flint, his head tipped back, water running in rivulets down his stomach and into the waistband of slim black trousers.
Gina tightened her robe. She’d dreamed
