Her taste exploded under his mouth as he kissed her senseless. But then it was his own senses sliding through the soles of his feet as Roz sucked him dry with her own sensual onslaught. For a woman who’d just told him they didn’t work, she jumped into the kiss with enthusiasm that had him groaning.
The hot, slick slide of her tongue against his dissolved his knees. Only the firm press of that heavy desk against his backside kept him upright. The woman was a wicked kisser, not that he’d forgotten. But just as he slid his hand south to fill his palms with her luscious rear, she wrenched away, taking his composure with her.
“Where are you going?” he growled.
“The other side of the room.” Her chest rose and fell as if she’d run a marathon as she backed away. Frankly, his own lungs heaved with the effort to fill with air. “What the hell was that for?”
“You wanted that kiss as much as I did.”
“So it was strictly to throw it back in my face that I can’t resist you?”
Well, now. That was a tasty admission that she looked like she wished to take back. He surveyed her with renewed interest. Her kiss-reddened lips beckoned him but he didn’t chase her down. He wanted to understand this new dynamic before he pressed on. “You said we didn’t work. I was simply helping you see the error in that statement.”
“I said no such thing. I said we don’t make sense together. And that’s why. Because we work far too well.”
“I’m struggling to see the problem with that.” They’d definitely worked in Vegas, that was for sure. Now that he’d gotten a second taste, he was not satisfied with having it cut short.
“Because I need to stay off the front page,” she reminded him with that funny hitch in her voice that shouldn’t be more affecting than her heated once-overs. “There are people walking by the window as we speak, Hendrix. You make me forget all of that. No more kissing until the wedding. Consider it an act of good faith.”
The point was painfully clear. She wanted him to prove he could do it.
“So we’re doing this. Getting married,” he clarified.
“As a partnership. When it stops being beneficial, we get a divorce. No ifs, ands or buts.” She caught him in her hot gaze that still screamed her desire. “Right? Do we need to spell it out legally?”
“You can trust me,” he grumbled. She was the one who’d thrown down the no-sex rule. What did she think he was going to do, force her to stay married so he could keep being celibate for the rest of his life? “As long as I can trust you.”
“I’m good.”
He thought about shaking on it but the slightly panicked flair to her expression made him think twice. It didn’t matter. The deal was done, as painful as it would ultimately end up being.
It was worth it. He had to make it up to his mom for causing her grief, and this was what she’d asked him to do. And if deep inside, he craved the idea of belonging to such an old-guard, old-money family as the Carpenters, no one would be the wiser.
All he had to do was figure out how to be engaged to Roz without trying to seduce her again and without getting too chummy. Should be a walk in the park.
* * *
Being engaged was nothing like Roz imagined. Of course she’d spent zero time daydreaming about such a thing happening to her. But her friend Lora had been engaged for about six months, which had been a whirlwind of invitations and dress fittings. Until the day she’d walked in on her fiancé and a naked barista who was foaming the jackass’s latte in Lora’s bed. Roz and Lora still didn’t hit a coffee place within four blocks of the one where the wedding-wrecker worked.
Roz’s own engagement had a lot fewer highs and lows in the emotion department and a lot less chaos. For about three days. The morning of the fourth day, Hendrix texted her that he was coming by, and since there’d been no question in that statement, she sighed and put on clothes, wishing in vain for a do-over that included not flying to Vegas in the first place. Or maybe she should wish that she and Lora had gone to any other club besides the Calypso Room that night.
Oh, better yet, she could pretend Hendrix didn’t do it for her in a hundred scandalous ways.
That was the real reason this engagement/marriage/partnership shouldn’t have happened. But how could she turn down Helene Harris in a clown outfit? No hospital would bar the woman from the door and thus Clown-Around would get a much-needed lift, Roz’s reputation notwithstanding. It was instant publicity for the gubernatorial candidate and the fledgling charity in one shot, which was a huge win. And she didn’t have to actually ask her father to use his influence, which he probably wouldn’t do anyway.
Plus, and she’d die before she’d admit this to Hendrix, there had to be something about being in the sphere of Helene Harris that Roz’s father would find satisfactory. He was so disappointed about the photographs. If nothing else, marrying the man in them lent a bit of respectability to the situation, right? Now Roz just had to tell her father about the getting married part. But first she had to admit to herself that she’d actually agreed to this insanity.
Thus far it had been easy to stick her head in the sand. But when Hendrix buzzed her to gain access to the elevator, she couldn’t play ostrich any longer.
“Well, if it isn’t my beloved,” he drawled when she opened the door.
God, could the man look like a slouch in something? He wore the hell out of a suit regardless of the color or cut. But today he’d opted for a pair of worn jeans that hugged his hips and a soft T-shirt that brazenly advertised the drool-worthy build underneath. He might as well be naked for all that ensemble left to the imagination.
“Your beloved doesn’t sit around and wait for you to show up on a Saturday,” she informed him grumpily. “What if I had plans?”
“You do have plans,” he returned, his grin far too easy. “With me. All of your plans are with me for the next six weeks, because weddings do not magically throw themselves together.”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb in a blatant message—you’re not coming in and I’m not budging, so... “They do if you hire a wedding planner. Which you should. I have absolutely no opinion about flowers or venues.”
That was no lie. But she wanted to spend time with Hendrix even less than she wanted to pick out flowers. She could literally feel her will dissolving as she stood there soaking in the carnal vibe wafting from him like an invisible aphrodisiac.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”
The way his hazel eyes lit up as he coaxed her should be illegal. Or maybe her reaction should be. How did he put such a warm little curl in her core with nothing more than a glance? It was ridiculous. “Your idea of fun and mine are worlds apart.”
A slow, lethal smile joined his vibrant gaze and it pretty much reduced her to a quivering mess of girl parts inside. All the more reason to stay far away from him until the wedding.
“Seems like we had a pretty similar idea of fun one night not too long ago.”
Memories crashed through her mind, her body, her soul. The way he’d made her feel, the wicked press of his mouth against every intimate hollow an unprecedented experience. It was too much for a Saturday morning after she’d signed up to become Mrs. Hendrix Harris.
“I asked you not to kiss me again,” she reminded him primly but it probably sounded as desperate to him as it did to her.
She could not get sucked into his orbit. As it was, she fantasized about that kiss against her desk at odd times—while in the shower, brushing her teeth, eating breakfast, watching