Sleeping With Her Rival. Sheri WhiteFeather

same man anymore. The truth about his mother had altered his heart, his soul, the very core of his existence.

      Gina entered the restaurant, and he steadied his emotions.

      No matter how troubled he was, he wouldn’t let it affect his career. The Barones had hired him to defuse the crisis in their company. And come hell or high water, that was what he intended to do.

      He remained seated and assessed Gina for a moment. After he’d left her office this afternoon, he’d come up with a plan. A damn good one. But it meant getting close to Gina, not close enough to infringe on the confused order of his life, but close enough to fool the public.

      And with that in mind, he’d invited her to dinner. He needed to see her in a romantic setting, to explore the energy between them.

      The sexual energy, he thought. The unexpected heat.

      Gina Barone couldn’t stand his dominating personality, and her high-and-mighty attitude annoyed the hell out of him. But that didn’t matter. This was strictly business, a teeth-gnashing, tough-to-temper attraction that could work in their favor.

      Besides, he’d already fantasized about her. Earlier this evening, when he’d taken a stress-relieving shower, she’d slipped right into the steam.

      He hadn’t meant to think about her and certainly not in a state of undress, but he’d lost the battle. With a sizzling, soap-scented mirage of her in his mind, he couldn’t seem to control the yearning, the I’m-too-old-for-wet-dreams hunger. Trapped beneath a spray of warm water, he’d closed his eyes and imagined her—

      She turned and saw him, and Flint gulped a gust of air.

      How tall was she? he wondered. Five-nine? Five-ten? In his mind’s eye, she’d fit him perfectly in the shower, that sweet, slim, incredibly moist body—

      She moved closer, and he came to his feet, his six-foot-three frame still draped in a knee-length raincoat. Beneath it, he wore a suit with a Western flair, but if he didn’t get his hormones in check, he would be sporting a big, boyish bulge in the vicinity of his zipper.

      “You’re late,” he told her, when they were eye to eye.

      “And you’re acting like a jerk, as usual,” she responded.

      He couldn’t help but smile. They had the weirdest chemistry, but somehow it worked.

      Of course that ice-princess act of hers wouldn’t charm the media, and it wouldn’t seduce the public, either. Which meant he would have to revamp her image a little.

      She removed her coat, and he slid his gaze up and down the luscious length of her body. Oh, yeah, he thought. He could mold her into a nice yet naughty girl—a kitten with a whip.

      “What are you doing?” she asked.

      “Just looking,” he responded, shooting a smile straight into her eyes. Her dress wasn’t quite short enough, but the creamy beige color complemented her skin.

      He reached out to loosen one of her curls, but she backed away, refusing to let him touch her. “Keep your hands to yourself, Kingman.”

      “But the rain messed up your hair,” he lied. “I was just going to fix it.”

      She huffed out a shallow breath, and he knew he’d made her nervous. A good kind of nervous. The sexy kind.

      “My hair’s fine,” she said.

      No, it wasn’t, he thought, itching to tousle it. The lady-of-the-manor style was too damn proper, too coiffed.

      “Are you going to buy me dinner or not?” she asked.

      “Sure. Let’s get our table.”

      The hostess seated them in a fairly secluded booth. A snow-white candle dripped wax, and a single red rose bloomed in a bud vase, giving the rustic tabletop a touch of date-night ambience.

      The waiter came by, offering cocktails. Gina declined a glass of wine, opting for iced tea instead. Flint went for an imported beer.

      Silent, they studied their menus. Five minutes later, when the waiter returned with their drinks, Flint and Gina ordered the same meal. Or nearly the same meal, with the exception of a rare steak for him and a well-done cut for her.

      Soon a basket of warm bread arrived. He reached out to offer her a slice at the same time she chose to get one for herself. But before their hands collided, she pulled back.

      He took the lead, following his original plan. Tilting the basket toward her, he said, “Go ahead, Miss Barone. Or would it be all right if I called you Gina?”

      She made her selection, then proceeded to lather it with whipped butter. “Gina is fine.”

      He watched her take a bite. “And so is Flint,” he told her.

      She swallowed and then made a pleasured sound, like a soft, sweet, bedroom murmur.

      Amused, he reached for his beer. “Say it,” he said.

      She glanced up. “Excuse me?”

      “My name. Say my name.”

      She gave him a curious look. “Flint.”

      Enjoying himself, he bit back a grin. “That was pretty good, but it wasn’t quite right. You need to moan after you say my name, like you did after you ate the bread.”

      Finally aware of his little joke, she shoved the basket toward him. “Stuff it, Flint.”

      He flashed the grin he’d been hiding. “I couldn’t help it. I mean, here’s a woman who gets orgasmic over bread and butter.”

      “I wasn’t orgasmic.”

      “Yes, you were.”

      “I was not.”

      She glared at him from across the table, but her haughty expression fell short. When he stared at her, she became flustered, toying with the napkin on her lap.

      “Don’t,” she said.

      “Don’t what?”

      “Look at me like that.”

      He studied her features, struck by those violet eyes and that full, lush mouth. “But you’re beautiful, Gina.” And he couldn’t stop the attraction, the heat, the sexual spontaneity rising in his blood.

      She drew a ragged breath, and a shimmer of silence ensued.

      Rain pounded against the building, and the flame on the candle danced between them, intensifying the moment.

      Flint sent her a small, sensual smile. She was perfect for the scandal he had in mind.