Maid of Dishonour

‘It’s not the same thing,’ he said, seeing the trap too late.

‘Umm-hmm. And why ever not? You were the same age as Marnie is now and yet you were mature enough to decide you were going to love your childhood sweetheart for the rest of your life.’ She said the words with conviction, but couldn’t help feeling a little sick to her stomach.

When had she ever been that romantic? That naïve? To believe that anyone was worth that much of a commitment?

‘It wasn’t like that. Missy and I are well suited. And it was the right thing to do after my father died. My mother and Marnie needed stability and they were both in favour of the match.’

It was Gina’s turn to frown. And not just because Carter’s description of the engagement was in sharp contrast to the wildly romantic whirlwind of love and devotion Marnie had described. Who the hell proposed marriage because they were being sensible? And he’d made it sound as if the primary motivation had been the approval of his mother and his kid sister? She was by no means a hopeless romantic, but wasn’t that taking filial duty a bit too far?

‘But you do love Missy, right?’ The question popped out before she could stop it.

He looked taken aback. As well he might, because this really was none of her business. But curiosity consumed her. He’d only been eighteen. What on earth had he been thinking settling for ‘The One’ so young? What about hormones? And exploring your options? And sowing wild oats?

‘Of course I love Missy. She’s going to be my wife in two weeks’ time. We’re friends, we understand each other and we both want the same things out of life.’

None of which sounded remotely like convincing reasons for proposing marriage when you were just out of high school. But what did she know? ‘What things?’

He shrugged, the movement stiff and defensive. And she realised for the first time that he looked unsure of himself. ‘Companionship, trust, compatibility, children. Eventually.’ The affirmation came out in a monotone, as if he’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

‘Why, Rhett,’ Gina said, fluttering her eyelashes and affecting a simpering Southern drawl. ‘I can see how you must have swept Missy off her feet with that proposal. How romantic of you to compile a checklist for the perfect marriage.’

‘Missy knows she can trust me,’ he said firmly, the look on his face delightfully annoyed and confused. Clearly the Sainted Carter wasn’t used to being teased—or questioned about his carefully planned love life. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘Really? What about love and passion and adventure and...’ she groped for another quality that might get the message across to this indomitable and resolutely anti-romantic man ‘...and the promise of multi-orgasmic sex for the rest of your life?’

His gaze flicked to her cleavage, then shot back to her face and a dull shade of red rose up his neck and made his tan glow on chiselled cheekbones. He looked away, taking a large fortifying gulp of the cola. And suddenly she knew.

Oh. My. God.

Carter Price had been eighteen when he’d proposed to his very-appropriate fiancée. And if Missy was as much of a sanctimonious prude as her best friend, Marnie, had been when she’d first arrived from Savannah—wearing a little promise ring on her finger that signified her purity, and had needled Gina no end—then Missy had probably demanded she remain a virgin until her wedding night.

She searched the long tanned fingers of Carter’s left hand wrapped around the cola bottle. Was it possible that Carter had made a similar promise? Hadn’t Marnie said boys wore them too, when Gina had lit into her for being a disgrace to Women’s Liberation. Gina held back the gasp as she spotted the silver band on Carter’s pinkie, identical to the celibacy ring that Marnie no longer wore when she was at college.

Oh, no, surely not? A man who was as virile and handsome and overwhelmingly male as he was, and who looked at her with that dark sexual intensity he couldn’t hide? That man hadn’t had sex since he was eighteen? It was just too delicious. And too ridiculous. No wonder he looked so tense and uptight. And no wonder he was far too involved in Marnie’s personal life, because he clearly didn’t have one of his own.

An intervention was called for.

The surge of excitement and anticipation gripped Gina’s chest—and some other interesting parts of her anatomy. Suddenly she had the perfect way to bring the Sainted Carter down a peg or two. Prove to him that he was as human and fallible and sinful as the rest of them.

She was after all an accomplished flirt. And there was no harm in simply flirting with the man. Especially a man as stuffy and controlling and undeniably hot as this one. And once she’d proved to Carter Price that bad girls were people too, once she’d reduced him to a puddle of overactive hormones and sexual desperation, she’d be able to get him to agree to anything.... Even letting his innocent kid sister go on a riotous road trip with three loose women.

The man was celibate. He hadn’t had sex in four long years. The challenge was simply irresistible. She’d lost her virginity at sixteen with her thirty-five-year-old biology teacher at St Bude’s boarding school, and she hadn’t looked back since. Carter Price wouldn’t know what hit him. And while she wouldn’t do the dirty deed with him, because she never poached on another woman’s territory, why shouldn’t she take her flirtation far enough to get Saint Carter primed and ready for his wedding night? Missy would end up thanking her.

* * *

‘Would you like another martini, miss?’

Gina blinked, staring absently at the harassed young waitress as the question brought her spinning back to the present. And the bar at The Standard where she’d gone for a quick fortifying libation. And been blind-sided by too many memories.

She looked down at her glass, surprised to find it empty, the olive on its cocktail stick lined up on the table. ‘No, thanks, just the check, please.’

The waitress nodded, clearing away the empty glass.

Tension tightened Gina’s stomach as the reality of exactly how reckless and manipulative she’d been that night slammed into her in all its grim glory.

Maybe Marnie was right, and Carter was the one who had been cheating.

But there was no getting away from the fact that she had seduced him. Not the other way around. And it wasn’t until twelve hours after meeting him in the kitchen and making a conscious decision to bend him to her will that she’d finally been forced to admit the magnitude of her mistake. As she lay in the dew-drenched grass under a maple tree, the dawn light casting a redolent glow on the rebel wave in Carter’s cropped hair, her heart beating a staccato rhythm of shock and guilt, her thighs spread and aching, his erection still huge inside her and his pinkie ring cutting into her cheek.

Heat washed through her at the visceral memory—and it occurred to Gina that maybe the decision to cab it over to the High Line this evening and deliver her carefully composed message in person, when she could just as easily have phoned or emailed it, might have a lot more significance than she wanted to admit.

Had she on some subconscious level hoped to bump into the man whose picture she’d glimpsed on Marnie’s smartphone that morning—for reasons other than closure and accountability? Was her new leaf not as well turned over as she thought?

Crap! She needed to get out of here now.

The waitress returned with the check, and Gina threw several bills on the tray without counting them. The guilty flush made her breathing speed up as she shot across the lobby.

Gloria Gaynor singing ‘I Will Survive’ blasted from her bag at top volume, making her steps falter. It took her a moment to remember that Gloria’s strident disco classic was her phone’s ringtone.

She paused, fumbled for the phone and stared at a number she didn’t recognise. Glancing at the clock above the lobby’s exit doors, she felt a little of the panic retreat. She still had thirty minutes before Carter was due to arrive. She took a steadying breath and clicked the answer button. This might be a new client responding to her recent social media campaign for new business. She couldn’t afford not to answer. She’d simply have to talk and run.

But as she pressed the phone to her ear the deep laconic Southern accent had the heels of her sandals sinking into the deep pile purple carpet and her heart pounding into her throat.

‘Hello, Gina. It’s Carter Price. I got your message.’

‘Carter. Hi. How are you?’ she said, the false brightness making her wince.

Good grief, was he at the reception desk? Right behind her? Maybe he’d phoned ahead? Please let him have phoned ahead. She couldn’t risk turning around to check. So she kept walking. The exit doors were only a few feet away.

‘I’m good,’ came the husky reply. ‘Although I’m wondering where you’re off to in such a hurry.’

Crapola!

She spun round. The phone dropping away from her ear as she spotted the man standing less than ten feet away, with one elbow propped against the reception desk, a phone at his ear—and cool aquamarine eyes locked on her face.

Her breath got trapped somewhere around her solar plexus—as she debated the probability of teleportation actually existing.

Beam me up, Scottie. Right now.

‘Don’t move,’ he said into his phone, before switching it off and tucking it into his back pocket.

Her thighs quivered alarmingly as he walked towards her. She locked her knees, determined not to collapse into a heap as the shot of adrenaline collided with the explosion of heat in the pit of her stomach—and it occurred to her that the paparazzi pictures had not done him justice. Savannah’s most eligible bachelor wasn’t just hot, he was positively combustible.

She forced air through her burning lungs, grateful for the fortifying buzz from her martini as he got close enough for her to pick up the smell of soap and man—and remember how much taller he was. At five foot seven, she wasn’t used to men towering over her, but Carter Price had no trouble at all making her feel like a midget.

His steady gaze swept over her—then arrived back at her face. ‘It’s been a while, Miz Carrington.’

But not nearly long enough, if the sweat popping up on her top lip was anything to go by.