to do some fast—very fast—digging. I need to know everything there is to know about that stretch of beach by the time I get out there. I need some ammunition now that he’s taking this public.”
Her secretary went out. Danielle headed after her, then she froze in midstride. She was—of course—wearing a suit.
This wouldn’t do.
She could save the site. She was good at that. But she wasn’t dressed—according to Angelique’s advice—for getting her man, to boot. She left her office and stopped at Angelique’s desk.
“I need clothes.”
Angelique replaced the telephone she had just picked up. “There’s no time.” She paused. “You just need cleavage.”
Danielle ripped away the patterned silk scarf she had tucked in at her throat.
“Okay, good. If we can get rid of the slacks, we might have something.”
“I have some clothes here!”
“Is there a skirt? Change the pants for a skirt, then you’ll just have to go for it.”
Danielle hurried back to her office, to the closet tucked into a discreet corner. She pawed through the clothing there. Black, she decided. Her suit jacket was crimson. At least it would make a dramatic contrast. She yanked a skirt off its hanger, then she peeled out of her slacks. She dragged the skirt back up again. She had ankle-high boots on, she realized, and the skirt was as short as an octogenarian’s memory. Now she remembered why she had left it here. She’d considered it inappropriate and had gone out to buy a more suitable one just before a board meeting a few months ago. She’d never taken this one home again because it just wasn’t her style.
But that had been before Maxwell Padgett had crusaded his way into her life.
Danielle left her office again and ran to the elevator. “No, wait!” she heard Angelique cry behind her. “Those boots!”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She jogged down the hallway. At the elevator, the head of her R&D department caught her. “Keep your cell phone on. I think we might have some interesting information on the senator.”
Danielle nodded jerkily and stepped into the elevator rushing out when it landed at the subterranean garage floor. Her keys were already in her hand. She fumbled blindly for the remote to raise the top of her convertible because there would be no place at Gold Beach for her to comb her hair before she faced the television cameras.
Before she reached the vehicle, the ragtop rose overhead and settled nicely into place. She didn’t bother to slap the locks shut. She dove into the driver’s seat and unzipped the ankle-high boots, using her toes to pry them off her feet. Then she jammed the key into the ignition and hit the gas. As she maneuvered her way down the coastal highway, she tossed the boots over her shoulder into the little well of space behind the seats. What the hell? Cameras never caught anything below the waist anyway.
Now she was ready for him.
Channels 4 and 10 were still down at the street, angling their cameras toward town in big, panoramic shots. She’d probably gotten through to the networks and told them she was going to make an appearance, Max decided. That was only fair.
Behind him, his protestors continued to chant and march. And here came an emerald-green BMW Roadster. Maxwell knew before it reached the site and stopped that it would be her. The car suited her—it was different, rich and smart looking. An image filled his head of the top down, that black hair of hers dancing in the wind. Her clear blue eyes would come alive. In his imagination, Max switched her gold-rimmed spectacles for sporty sunglasses. He wondered if she liked the speed of the car or just its lines and the open air.
Then the car’s brakes gave an indignant squeal and its convertible top blew up jerkily. She emerged from the vehicle like a female Poseidon rising from the sea…angry, magnificent, glorious.
Something punched solidly into Max’s gut, taking his air. He loved women—the tastes of them, their scents, their quicksilver moods. He most especially loved to enjoy them, then go home alone to run the good parts through his mind a second time. Then he let go. He kept things light and friendly. He never let himself get too attracted to any of them. It was something he had long accepted and understood about himself. At least, he thought he had…until Danielle Harrington came out of her car.
She wore crimson and black. The neckline of her jacket plunged deeply. As she drew closer, he saw something peeking out at the V. It was fire-engine red, a shade deeper than the jacket.
Lace? She wore fire-engine red underwear.
His eyes roved down. Her skirt was short and narrow. And below that, she was barefoot. This was a new side of the woman he’d read about and had finally met three days ago. Max dropped his own placard at his feet as she reached his side and glared up at him.
“This was sneaky and underhanded!” she charged.
He tried to gather his thoughts. “That’s not true. I warned you up-front that things were about to get ugly.”
“You could have bought those birds gold-plated nests with all the money I donated!”
“The plovers don’t want gold. They want the same land they’ve been squatting on for generations.”
“Ha! There! You see? That is precisely my point. They’re squatting. This is my land. I bought it fair and square.”
“Bottom line again, Dani?”
It hurt. She sucked in her breath. “Go to hell. And don’t call me Dani.”
She was definitely riled, he thought. Temper crackled about her like electricity. She snatched her glasses from her eyes and turned to wave a hand at the news cameras down at the street. The mob rolled toward them.
“My resort will provide jobs, revenue, tax dollars to this county,” she said when they reached them. “Mr. Padgett is being fanatical. He certainly doesn’t have the people’s best interest at heart if he attempts to stall this project!”
All eyes—and all the cameras—swivelled to him. Max pulled his gaze from the red bra showing at the swell of her breasts. What had happened here? Suddenly she was absolute, outrageous, mouth-watering sex.
On television?
It didn’t matter where they were or who was watching. He had never wanted anything more in his life than to topple her here, now, into the sand and steep himself in her. And with her cheeks flushed like that, she looked as if he’d just done exactly that. He very nearly had a visible reaction to that little fantasy right on network news.
“Mr. Padgett?” someone called out.
“What?” He looked quickly back at the cameras.
“Can you give us a reaction to Ms. Harrington’s suggestion?”
Ms. Harrington had made a suggestion?
She turned to face him and cocked one hip. Max leaned closer to her. “You’re practically naked,” he said in an undertone.
“I am not!” But her hand fluttered up as though tug at her neckline before she dropped it again quickly. “You’re just trying to distract me.”
“It’s called leveling the playing field.” It was also called stalling. What the hell had she said to the press?
“I don’t want it level. I want to win.”
“You told me on Tuesday that you already had.”
“That was before I realized you wouldn’t concede graciously.”
“I never led you to believe I would.”
They were nearly nose to nose. The scent she wore made him think of ocean mist, gentle and clinging. It filled his head. Her eyes snapped with blue fire now. For the longest while not one member of the media said a word. Max realized