He was dressed in a gray T-shirt and skimpy gray running shorts, his legs tanned and well-proportioned. The man’s body was as perfect as his face.
Self-consciously Cara stared down at her own bare legs, which seldom saw the sun, thanks to long work hours. True, there was no cellulite...yet, but the color was a hospital white. Why should I care how I look? This isn’t about me. Yet Cara had begun to feel as though it was.
Resisting an urge to trip the man for yesterday’s upbraiding, Cara trotted up beside him, praying she could maintain the pace long enough to pitch the auction again.
Without breaking stride, he gave her a surprised flick of the eye. “Well, hello, Ms. Breedon. Fancy meeting you here.”
The edge in his tone wasn’t unexpected. “I happened to spy you jogging my way...decided to see if you’ve reconsidered helping us out.”
“I did help—two checks, remember?”
“Your presence would aid even more,” she said in a slightly breathy voice.
“No can do. Sorry.” He sped up.
She sped up, too, determined not to lose him. “Are you sure?” Her voice was now jagged.
“Positive.”
“Can’t I—” pant, pant “—say anything to change your mind?”
“I think you’ve said it all. Might as well give it up.”
“I—” gasp “—can’t take—” another gasp “—no for an answer.”
He glanced over at her, then began slowing before stopping altogether. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down before you collapse.”
Gratefully Cara dropped onto the grass. She took in great gulps of air and mopped her brow with a soggy tissue from her pocket. She guessed her face to be the shade of a boiled lobster from the physical exertion. After only a brief jog, her clothes were plastered to her body, wild strands of hair escaping from her ponytail.
It wasn’t fair that, even sweaty, he still looked wonderful. The damp T-shirt clinging to his chest only emphasized his pectoral muscles and washboard torso.
Wyatt pulled a terry-cloth towel from his waistband to dry his face and neck, leaned against a tree to do a couple of calf stretches, then flopped down beside her, trying to come to terms with the rush of exhilaration he’d felt on seeing Cara. Every time he thought he’d brushed off the woman, she was back, as relentless as gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. So why in Hades should he be secretly glad to see her? Anyone with the brains of a gnat would be seizing the advantage of superior conditioning and making a getaway. But not you, McCauley—you blew it. Well, he’d simply have to use other means to discourage her from this ceaseless pursuit.
He waited until Cara’s breathing had settled then took her hand. “Listen, sweet cakes...” Cara yanked the hand away, but not before Wyatt’s fingertips had memorized the softness of her skin.
So she objects to being called “sweet cakes.” Wyatt smiled. Or is it the touch she objects to?
He had to admit that she was cute, especially now, all warm and rosy-cheeked. Those tender feelings were resurfacing. Whatever he tried to tell himself, part of him didn’t want to get rid of Cara Breedon. Part of him... He stole a peek at her again and felt the temptation to smooth back one of those wayward wisps of golden hair.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Cara brushed at the unruly hair herself. As she did, Wyatt couldn’t help noticing—no wedding ring. Cara Breedon was not only cute, she was available. Cool it, McCauley. You’re growing soft in the head. The lady’s marital status is irrelevant. Remember her mission. He should be taking steps to stop this paparazzi-like hounding. Since plain talk and directness didn’t seem to work, maybe it was time for a different approach, a little reverse psychology.
Wyatt took Cara’s hand again and held it. When she tried to pull away, he held tighter. “Don’t be standoffish,” he chided. “You’ve caught my attention like you wanted, so tell me about yourself.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Still holding on to her, he lay back, pulling her down beside him. “Oh, don’t be so modest. Surely there is. Who’s the real Cara Breedon?”
She quickly sat up and scooted a few feet away. “No one important.”
“Ah, but important enough to have wormed her way into my life.” He sat up and moved nearer, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Are you going to do the auction or not?” Cara blurted.
“I might be tempted...with the proper incentive.” He grinned knowingly and, cupping her chin, pulled it toward him, his eyes growing smoky as his lips edged closer.
Cara jerked back.
“Don’t act so coy,” he drawled, the eyes now twinkling. “After all, you’ve been after me for weeks.”
Was he serious or simply toying with her? Cara disliking both scenarios, shifted farther away, drawing Wyatt’s laughter.
“I hope you’re having fun,” she huffed.
“That I am.”
“Well, fun or not, I don’t appreciate your conduct one bit.”
“Maybe I merely wanted to see how far you’d go to please your boss...” Wyatt let the taunt hang in the air. He was still smiling.
“Believe me, not that far,” Cara answered, staggering to her feet. Oh, what she’d give to swipe away that cocky grin of his.
“Well, if you have a change of heart—”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Something we have in common.”
“It’s the only thing.” Cara staggered off as fast as her wobbly legs could manage, feeling Wyatt’s eyes on her every inch of the trek to the parking lot. She crawled into her car and slammed the door. “That does it! I’m through with that...that exasperating man. Nothing’ll make me have anything more to do with him. Not even Brooke threatening me with insubordination.” Cara continued the ranting all the way home.
True to her word, Cara remained steadfast against Brooke’s nudges all week, each time telling her, “It’s no use.” If it was to be a choice between appeasing Brooke or enduring another minute with McCauley, then Brooke’s happiness would have to be sacrificed.
“You know I’m not free to handle this myself,” Brooke complained. “Am I going to have to assign it to someone else?”
The moment of reckoning was at hand. “I suppose you are,” Cara answered evenly. “He’s resisted every single overture. My bag of tricks is empty.” Cara was not about to reveal Wyatt’s unseemly proposition.
“But everyone’s tied up on the new project,” Brooke argued, unwilling to accept Cara’s throwing in the towel.
Cara shrugged.
“The programs must go to the printer,” Brooke whined.
“Absolutely,” Cara said. “The auction’s only two weeks from tomorrow.”
“We still ought to compile a bio, prepare some publicity on Wyatt, in case he relents.”
“He’s not going to.”
Steadfast or not, Cara’s patience with the subject had run its course. She’d love to have a punching bag with Wyatt McCauley’s image on it. And a dartboard with Brooke’s. The two of them had made her a wreck. One as overbearing as a rottweiler and the other as tenacious as a rat terrier.
Brooke would probably still be hammering away about Wyatt the night of the auction. But at least she’d finally yielded to the reality that the programs