A SURE THING? Read online

  And this was going to be one hell of a long night.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

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  A persistent ringing penetrated Matt's brain. He pried open one eyeball and groaned. Darkness. Who the hell was calling him in the middle of the night?

  He reached out and snatched up the receiver. Before he could say a word, a perky mechanical voice said, "Good morning, this is the wake-up call you requested. The time is 6:30 a.m. Have a good day."

  His eyes flew open. Wake-up call. Chateau Fontaine. Jack Witherspoon.

  Jilly Taylor.

  He sat up like someone had attached a catapult to his shoulders. Turning, he noted with relief that his sleep-destroying co-worker was not in the bed with him. Raking his hands through his hair, he registered the sound of the shower running.

  Instantly, an image of Jilly, wet, naked and soapy filled his mind, and his groin instantly tightened. Terrific. A morning erection. This day was only forty seconds old and already it sucked. Frowning, he shook his head to clear away the lust-filled fog she'd somehow enveloped him in. What on earth was wrong with him? Hunger. Lack of sleep. Obviously he'd dozed off at some point during the wee hours, but he felt anything but rested. He needed coffee, and lots of it. He wondered if room service would provide him with a caffeine IV drip.

  Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, he stood and rolled his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles, then walked to the window. A peek through the pale green curtains revealed that it was still dark, the expanse of flat landscape illuminated only by the resort's floodlights. Fat snowflakes continued to fall, blanketing the outdoors with a carpet of white.

  The shower cut off, and he turned, quickly crossing to his overnight bag where he pawed through his clothes, then pulled out a pair of dark blue sweatpants. He'd just slipped them on when the bathroom door opened, engulfing him in a cloud of fragrant steam. A tousle-haired, damp, towel-clad Jilly Taylor materialized from that lusciously scented vapor, a curvaceous goddess emerging through the mist like Venus gliding to the shore in a Botticelli painting.

  She caught sight of him and stopped dead in her tracks, clutching the sarong-wrapped towel tighter against her breasts. Every thought except Whoaaaaa, baby fled from his head.

  It certainly wasn't the best moment for him to forget how to speak English, but unfortunately God had given him a brain and a penis, and only enough blood for one of them to function at a time. And at this particular moment, his brain was not in charge. And when—make that if—his brain was ever in charge again, he was going to try to recall when he'd last been so powerfully attracted to a woman.

  "I didn't know you were up," she said.

  You don't know the half of it. Reaching down, he snatched up his sweatshirt from his overnight bag which yawned open at his feet. He rose and, feeling like an idiot, held the worn, gray material in front of his crotch in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. "I left a wake-up call. I'm meeting Jack for breakfast at nine."

  Something flashed in her eyes, sending up a warning flag. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "What time are you meeting with him today?"

  She hesitated, then said, "I'm having breakfast with him as well. At seven-thirty."

  Matt's fingers tightened around his sweatshirt. The fact that she was meeting with Jack first didn't bode well. Damn it, she'd have her foot in the door first, a definite advantage. But the real question was, how far would Jilly go to win ARC'S account? She was ambitious—was she unethical as well? On a clean playing field, he could compete with anyone. But would she play fair? Or would she turn out to be another Tricia and use her feminine wiles to win Jack's favor? After their breakup, he'd learned Tricia had slept with a potential client to get his business. Would Jilly do the same? If so, that was definitely something he couldn't compete with, and gave her an advantage that set his teeth on edge.

  "Look, Matt, I've been thinking a lot about this," she said, regaining his attention. "I'm not any happier about our situation than you are. I think Adam placed us both in a very awkward situation, made even worse by the fact that we're going to end up sharing this room. I called the front desk when I woke up, and there's nothing they can do. And I don't see either one of us checking out and finding a room elsewhere … right?"

  "I'm not moving out."

  "Right. And neither am I." She pushed her damp hair back, tucking the dark strands behind her ear, and he absolutely did not notice how smooth and silky and touchable her damp flesh appeared. "That being the case, I think we should lay some ground rules—just a few guidelines to keep the level of awkwardness down to a minimum."

  "What did you have in mind?"

  "Well, first, I think we should agree to remain, um, clothed at all times."

  Her gaze skimmed over his bare chest, and he wasn't sure if he was more relieved or alarmed by the quick flash of unmistakable desire he saw flicker in her eyes. Relieved, because, thank God he wasn't the only one feeling this unwanted attraction. By damn, misery loved company. But alarmed, because, holy hell, if she was feeling the same powerful desire he was, how could they possibly hope to fight it?

  He nodded slowly, forcing his gaze to remain on hers and not wander over her luscious form. "Fine. Clothes on at all times. Although, I have to warn you, that's going to make showering a challenge."

  Her lips twitched, drawing his attention to their ripe fullness. How was it possible that he'd worked with her all these months yet neglected to notice how beautiful her mouth was? He made a mental note to schedule an appointment to have his eyes checked. Or maybe he had noticed, but since he hadn't been thinking about Jilly in terms of kissing her, the lusciousness of her mouth just hadn't registered.

  Well, it was registering now. Big time. Those full, pouty, unpainted lips silently beckoned him to step forward and taste them. It was all he could do to keep his bare feet planted in place and not give in to the temptation.

  "Clothes on at all times—except to shower," she amended.

  He nodded his agreement. "What else?"

  "Well, in the interest of fair play, I think we should agree to stay out of each other's way as far as Jack Witherspoon is concerned." Her golden-brown gaze was direct and steady. "I want this account. I intend to play hard, and I always play to win. I fully expect the same from you. But it's not my style to play dirty. I'd like the same consideration from you."

  He studied her for several seconds, trying to figure out what her angle was. Sure, she seemed honest, sounded trustworthy, looked sexy—er, sincere, but he wasn't about to be taken in again by an ambitious competitor. "You mean don't encroach on each other's time with Jack?" he asked.

  "Exactly. Or try to sabotage each other's work."

  He raised a brow, irked and insulted by the suggestion. "You don't have a very high opinion of me, do you?"

  "I'm suspicious by nature."

  "As am I."

  "Which is why I think it's important that we lay these ground rules. I have every intention of fighting, but you have my word that I'll fight fair—provided you promise you'll do the same."

  "Contrary to what you obviously believe, I don't cheat," he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "I don't need to."

  "Good. Neither do I." She held out her hand. "Deal?"

  Although he remained suspicious of her motives, he nodded. He'd play as fair as she did. So long as she kept up her end of the bargain, so would he. But if she played the seduction card with Jack, all-out war would rage, and then she'd be sorry. All's fair in love and war, Jilly. Not that love had anything to do with this. No. Just war. And he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

  He clasped her hand. Her handshake was firm and professional, and the brief contact certainly shouldn't have whooshed heat up his arm. He had to fight back the urge to yank her into his embrace and start off the morning by breaking the rule of keeping clothes on at all times. Her skin felt so warm and soft against his fingers, and she was only wearing that skimpy towel…

  He gave himself a fi
rm mental shake. He needed to remember who and what she was—an ambitious coworker. A rival who wanted nothing more than to pull the ARC account out from underneath him. Of course, that would be much easier to recall once she put on some damn clothes. As soon as she was once again dressed in one of her conservative, don't-mess-with-me suits, and had her hair all pulled back in that severe bun, all would realign in his universe. Then he'd be able to shake her hand and not feel a thing.

  His gaze slid over her, and he stifled a groan. Man, even when she was again fully clothed, it was going to be really, really difficult to erase from his mind the sensual image of Jilly Taylor fresh from the shower. But he could do it. He'd accomplished tougher quests, completed more difficult missions. He was up to the task.

  She stepped back and gave him a slightly shaky smile. "I'll just get my makeup bag, then the bathroom's all yours."

  "Uh, thanks."

  She emerged from the bathroom seconds later, a tan leather pouch clutched to her midsection. He watched her walk past him, his gaze attached to her backside as if velcroed there, his imagination conjuring up the very fine sight he knew lurked beneath that towel. His erection stirred against his sweats and, with a frown, he stomped into the bathroom and closed the door with a decisive click.

  He tossed his sweatshirt onto the white marble counter and looked down at his tented sweatpants and grimaced. Damn. Had he just thought he was up to the task?

  Well, it certainly appeared that he was. Damn, damn, double damn.

  * * *

  Jilly listened to the bathroom door close behind Matt, then squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a long, fervent sigh of relief.

  When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell on the rumpled bed where they'd slept. Together. A humorless sound escaped her. Slept? Ha! Good thing she'd caught some z's before he'd arrived because she hadn't slept a wink the rest of the night. All she could think about was the warm, sexy, almost-naked male body less than three feet away. She'd recalled what that body felt like pressed against her. Wondered what it would look like completely naked … and feel like wrapped around her. Her very unruly hormones were letting her know in no uncertain terms that nine months, three weeks and now nineteen days were their absolute limit.

  When the digital clock had finally glowed 6:00 a.m., she'd risen and indulged in a long, steamy shower in an effort to wash the image of Matt Davidson from her mind. Instead, all she'd accomplished was stirring up a maelstrom of fantasies in which she, Matt, the pulsating shower, and a bar of soap figured prominently. Disgusted with herself and this uncharacteristic, unwanted and unacceptable lust, she'd finally managed to set her sensual thoughts on the back burner long enough to formulate a set of ground rules to present to Matt—rules she'd arrived at purely for the purpose of self-preservation. While she had no intention of roaming around undressed in front of him, she wasn't certain how uninhibited he might be regarding nudity, and she absolutely, positively, did not want to see him naked.

  Yeah, right, her detestably honest inner voice chimed in. You want to see him naked more than you want to be able to eat unlimited Rocky Road

  ice cream and not have it permanently adhere to your ass.

  Yikes. Since that Rocky Road

  fantasy was one of her fondest dreams, this was not good. Okay, so she wanted to see him naked. Big deal. Who wouldn't? She was female and possessed a healthy, if somewhat recently starved, libido. But damn, why did it have to be him who had her insides melting to goo? This was like sleeping with the enemy. She glanced again at the rumpled bed, eyeing his still scrunched-up pillow that rested perilously close to hers. This was sleeping with the enemy.

  Well, she just needed to remember that that's what he was. The enemy. The only thing standing between her and bringing home the ARC account. She could well imagine that he intended to try to turn this weekend into a "boys' club" scotch-swilling, cigar-smoking bonding session with Jack Witherspoon. Probably planned to hang out in the men's locker room, and take a steam—or whatever the hell men did in locker rooms. She couldn't compete with that. And she wouldn't let him get away with it, either.

  Drawing a resolute breath, she marched over to the closet and mulled over her wardrobe possibilities, finally deciding on her red suit. The color was bright and empowering, and its slim skirt that hit just above her knees provided the perfect combination of professionalism and femininity. As soon as she was dressed, she'd feel more in control. All this bare skin was too distracting. What she needed was a robe—a heavy-duty one—and she made a mental note to visit the gift shop to see if they sold any. In the meanwhile, it was time to forget about Matt and focus her attention on Jack Witherspoon and the ARC account. Fortunately, with her strong work ethic, she knew she'd be able to focus on winning the account. Unfortunately, with everything female in her raising a ruckus, she wasn't so sure she'd be able to forget about Matt Davidson.

  * * *

  Matt turned the brass knobs to shut off the shower, then reached for one of the thick, white towels. Securing the terry cloth around his waist, he blew out a long breath. The pulsating hot water had refreshed him, cleaned the cobwebs from his brain, and—thankfully—washed his ardor down the drain.

  The muffled hum of a hair dryer filtered through the door, indicating Jilly hadn't left yet. No problem. He'd just shave and brush his teeth, and surely by that time she'd be on her way out. Then he'd order up some coffee from room service and go over his presentation for Jack.

  Whistling softly under his breath, he wiped off a section of the steamy mirror then pulled his razor from his shaving kit. He'd just finished applying a thick layer of shaving cream to his face and throat when a knock sounded on the door.

  "Matt? I'm sorry to bother you, but are you going to be much longer in there?"

  His body tensed at the mere sound of her voice. Damn. "I'm just about to shave. Why?"

  "Well, I'm ready to go, but I need to brush my teeth. I can stand the sight of your razor blade if you can stand the sight of my toothbrush. How about sharing the sink?"

  He hesitated, then glared at himself in the mirror. Get a hold of yourself, man. It's not as if you've never shared bathroom space with a woman before. Be cool, be casual, and let her be the one thrown off balance.

  Drawing a resolute breath, he opened the door. "Sure, come on … in."

  His words faltered as he took in her appearance. His gaze traveled over her, his brain noting that her fire-engine red suit was tasteful, flattering, and conservative. All his nerve endings, however, noted that it hugged her curves and showcased her legs in a way that made him feel as if someone had set a match to his towel.

  His wayward gaze jumped upward. Their eyes met, and his jaw clenched at the unmistakable awareness simmering in her golden-brown depths. Then he noted the dark, silky curtain brushing her shoulders. "Your hair is down," he said in a voice ripe with suspicion.

  She raised her brows and looked at him as if he'd just escaped from a mental ward. "What are you—the hair police? Listen, unbound hair may possibly be illegal in certain parts of the world, but here's a news flash—New York isn't one of them."

  "You always wear your hair pulled back." He should have known better than to trust her. Here she was already breaking their "play fair" rule. He didn't doubt for a minute that this new look, which was decidedly softer and sexier than her usual severe hairstyle, was an attempt to use her feminine charms to sway Jack Witherspoon. The question was, exactly how many of her feminine charms would she be willing to use to win the account?

  "I don't always wear it pulled back. Some days, like today, I just happen to have a good hair day."

  Good hair day? She could say that again. Those thick, glossy raven curls had him fisting his hands to ward off the overwhelming urge to sift his fingers through them.

  "And before you cast aspersions on anyone else's coif," she said, her eyes alight with amusement, "you might want to check your own. You've got a kind of 'finger-in-the-light socket' look happening right now—" her gaze roamed ove
r his shaving cream-covered face and her lips twitched "—Santa."

  Annoyance snaked through him. "That's from towel-drying. Not primping."

  She blinked, then laughed. "Primping? Me? You've got to be kidding. I'm about as low maintenance as you can get. Since we're forced to share space this weekend, you'll be relieved to know I don't take an hour in the bathroom. I do, however, require a minute or two to brush my teeth, which is what I'd like to do now—if you don't mind?"

  Decidedly irritated, but not certain if the feeling was directed more at her or at himself, Matt stepped back, out of the doorway, and she breezed in, her shiny black, high-heeled pumps clicking against the white ceramic tile floor. He breathed in and his senses were inundated with the delicate fresh scent of clean laundry.

  "Thanks," she said, reaching for the toothpaste and toothbrush resting in a water glass in the corner. He tried to busy himself with his razor, but found himself immobile as the intimacy of them sharing this small space hit him like a punch in the gut. The sight of her bent over the sink sent his heart into overdrive, and he had to draw a deep, steadying breath—which didn't help at all since it only served to fill his head with her elusive fragrance.

  Before he roused himself from his stupor, her toothbrush landed back in the glass with a soft clink, and she patted her mouth dry with the corner of a hand towel. Without so much as glancing at him, she tossed out a breezy "thanks," then exited the bathroom. Seconds later she reappeared in the doorway, clutching the handles of a black leather laptop case.

  "I'm leaving," she said. "I guess I'll see you later."

  "I guess so."

  She hesitated, then said, "In the spirit of fair competition, especially as this is the holiday season, I wish you luck. May the best man win."

  "Right back at you, Jilly."

  She left the room, the door closing behind her with a muted click. He narrowed his eyes at that closed door. Fair competition? We'll see, Miss Wearing My Hair Down. But no matter what, Matt intended to see that the best man did indeed win the ARC account.