A Bad Boy is Good to Find(17)

Maisie’s squeaky reply suggested she was nearly speechless with delight. Typical. Whenever Maisie “helped” Lizzie it was with the intent of somehow belittling her, ridiculing her, getting the upper hand. Anything to pay Lizzie back for having been born to the richer branch of the family.

“I’m the associate producer,” Maisie was practically hyperventilating with excitement. “I’ll have to talk to the boss, but this is just the kind of thing he loves.”

I know. Small-time pseudo-celebrities making an ass of themselves. Apparently her self-destructive binge had washed up a sense of humor because now she found it funny rather than humiliating. Con pretended to read the newspaper.

Maisie came back on the line. “He’ll be out of a meeting any minute. I’ll call you back when I have an answer.”

“Great! Chat later.” She hung up and shot a smug smile at Con.

“She went for it?” He looked up from his newspaper oh-so-casually.

“She loved it. Has to talk to the boss, though. She’ll call back.”

Con ran a hand through his hair. “I know she’s your cousin, but she may not have your best interests at heart.”

“Are you kidding? She’s been out to get me since Christmas of 1990 when I got a life-sized Barbie specially manufactured by Mattel to look just like me, and she got only three of the regular ones and a Barbie mansion and car.”

“I could see how a disappointment like that could break a girl’s spirit.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “You’d better watch out.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle her.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your sugar mama will take care of everything. I’ll get them to fly us to an exotic locale, pamper us with luxuries and pay us into the bargain.”

“You’re very optimistic.”

“Maisie will make it happen. She won’t be able to resist.”



Sure enough, by the next morning they had a deal. Con did some touch-up ironing on one of his already wrinkle-free shirts, while Lizzie sprawled on the heart-shaped bed discussing dates and contractual details with a production assistant.

“You realize you’re going to have to pretend you love me?” he said when she hung up.

She watched the muscles of his back move as he swept the iron back and forth.

“I can fake it. And I know you can too. You’ve had lots of practice.”

Con unplugged the iron. “You’ve been unable to disguise your utter hatred of me since I came to get you.”

“Aw. Have I hurt your feelings?”

“Don’t you worry about my feelings. But I don’t believe you’ll be able to pretend you can stand me, let alone that you love me.”

“Oh yeah? Watch this.” She leapt off the bed and sauntered across the room while he wrapped the cord and put the iron on a table. Came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. Stood on tiptoes and put her lips to his ear. “I love you.”

Ouch. Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me. Especially not if I’m saying them myself. His warm, tan skin burned her hands.

“Do you?” His words shivered into her ear as he turned slowly and slid his arms about her waist.

“Of course not, you jerk!” She jumped away, heart pounding.

“See what I mean?”

“Okay.” She shoved hair off her face. “This may take some practice. Let’s try it again.”

She walked up to him, staring him right in the eye.

“You look like you want to bite me, not kiss me.” His mouth fought a smile.

“Let’s take it step by step, shall we, sweetheart? Put your arms around my waist again.” She braced as he circled her with them.

“You need to relax a bit.”

“I’ll worry about myself. You just do your part of the act.” Why did he have to smell so damn good? He never wore cologne, but he had this infuriating spicy scent anyway. Probably his shampoo. She’d have to pour it out.

She stood on tiptoe again and puckered up. Scrunched her eyes closed. Her nipples accidentally bumped his chest, and she suppressed a curse as they instantly tightened.

Just a reflex. Nothing personal.

She pressed her lips together as the soft heat of his breath met her skin. A memory of yesterday’s kiss in the desert flooded her brain. She pecked at him like a hen and pulled back.

“There. See?”

Con chuckled. “I don’t think anyone would find that too convincing. They’ll want smooches. Soul kisses.”

“Ugh. How unhygienic.”

“That’s not what you used to say.” He tilted his head, appealed to her with narrowed, soulful eyes.

Faker.

“I didn’t know where you’d been. Now I know, I’ll be more cautious, thank you.”

“Why’d you kiss me yesterday?”

“Just wanted to see how easy you were.” She tossed her hair. “Got my answer.”

His eyes narrowed further. He didn’t believe her. “You made love to me.”

“Hah. I wouldn’t call it that. I scratched an itch.” She held his gaze with every ounce of self-possession.

What the heck had she been thinking yesterday? She really had no idea. Revenge. That’s it. Using him like he’d used her.

How convenient that he’d had a full pack of condoms in his luggage for just such an occasion. Who’d used who?

“Are you afraid to French-kiss me?” His eyes met hers with a challenge.

“Of course not.” She swallowed hard.

“Prove it. It’ll be good practice for the dog-and-pony show you’ve signed us up for.”

“I’d rather kiss a friendly pony, but here goes.”

She took a deep breath as if preparing to dive under water. She stepped toward him, and he to her. She flung her arms stiffly around his neck, and his circled her back.

She could smooch him full on the mouth and not bat an eye. And she’d prove it to him.

She parted her lips slightly, licked them to provoke him, still holding his gaze. He winked at her. Damn! Why’d he do that?

He lowered his head, and his mouth closed over hers. His hands settled on her waist, and the pressure of his fingertips increased as he slid them up the vertebrae of her spine. His tongue played over her lips, sparking an irritating shimmer of sensation. He kissed just hard enough that she had to push back. Then his tongue parted her lips and touched hers with a tiny frisson like an electric shock..

She wasn’t sure exactly when her eyes slid closed, or when her fingers moved up into his hair, or exactly when her nipples started to demand the touch of his fingers—and get it.

Or when she leaned in to rub against him, deepening their kiss with her tongue. Or when she began to run her fingertips up and down his back, feeling the ridges of hard muscle under his starched shirt.

But it was a low moan from some undiscovered range in her vocal cords that snapped her back to her senses.

She jerked away, panting. Con stood looking at her. Narrowed eyes shining. Lips soft, still moist.