Attitude (11 page)

"Cal, I'm not light."

"You're perfect, and right now my hard-on makes me a
bona fide
superhero." He grinned into her eyes, arched a brow. "Trust me."

"You have insurance?" Her own lips quirked as she locked herself to him. He pinioned her firmly against the shower's glass wall and entered her fast and deep. Ginger shuddered, closed her eyes when the hard length of him filled her. Water rushed over them, a cascade of heat and energy, and she lifted her face to it, felt it waterfall across her shoulders, detour around her breasts now flush against the straining muscles of Cal's chest.

She couldn't fall, because she was flying, and with every thrust of Cal's pelvis, every inch of him taken in, every plunge that went deeper than his last, she rose higher. But it wasn't stars she touched, it was the light in her own heart.

She opened her eyes and they met his, now dark and crazily feral. When her eyes drifted closed again, he said, in a voice dark and rumbling with tension, "No. Look at me. I want to see you come."

A moment later, gazes locked wide and attentive, she gave him what he wanted, coming apart in his arms on a low aching moan.

"You're beautiful... so damned beautiful." The words spilled into her ears before the surge and pounding of his own shuddering release.

It was Ginger's turn to shudder as her body tightened around him. She let her head rest against the glass wall, breathed deep of the steam—above and below—and finally closed her eyes to savor, imprint forever, the feeling of Cal's body merged with hers. Not that there was a chance she'd ever forget.

Cal released his tight embrace, eased her legs gently back to a straight position; they felt like warm putty. "That was—at the risk of bursting what is probably your already oversize ego—truly spectacular," she said, her voice weak and breathy.

When she opened her eyes, she expected to see the usual cocksure smile on his face, but instead found him looking seriously stunned. "And maybe a lot more."

"More?"

He stroked her wet hair back off her forehead. "I don't think I can ever let you go, Cameron." He said the words softly, almost to himself, as if even he couldn't quite believe them. "I think maybe love has entered, stage left." His eyes were mysterious and marvelously misty, looking at her in a way she had never been looked at before.

Ginger stared at him, grappled with his words, while trying to shout down her own dangerous needs. Hopes sprouted in her gray matter like so many daffodils... or weeds. But, no, this was too much, too soon—all the signs of another mistake in the making.

"Don't," she said, reaching around him to turn off the rapidly cooling water. "Words like that after sex are... scary."

"I agree." In the leftover steam from the shower, he grasped her chin in his cupped hand, forced her to meet his own somewhat bewildered gaze. "Definitely scary."

"Then take them back."

He hesitated. "I need to think about that."

She pulled her face from his hand and stepped out of the shower. When she was three feet from his physical presence, she filled her lungs with air and pasted a smile on her face. "For what it's worth, Beaumann, I don't believe in love at first sex." She took a towel from the rack and tossed it at him. "Now, how about that coffee I promised you."

She grabbed her robe and marched out of the bathroom, head high, heart in overdrive.

* * *

The coffee was ready and burbling its last burble, when Ginger heard Tracy's key in the lock.

She braced herself against the counter and dropped her head. Darn, she'd completely forgotten Tracy was coming home this morning. And considering this was the first man in the house since they'd started sharing space, Ginger knew she owed her an explanation. There wasn't much chance of Cal sneaking out her bedroom window. Her lips twisted upward at the thought.

Tracy threw her keys on the table. "Hi, Ginge." She sniffed the coffee-scented air with appreciation. "Have I got timing, or not."

Ginger looked past her.
Oh, oh...

"I'd say not," Cal said, grinning wickedly, then adding, "You must be Tracy. Good to meet you at last."

Tracy nodded like an automaton.

Cal stood in the doorway, with a lilac towel wrapped around his hips, looking like a girl's dream boy toy: big, bad, and ready for anything. His hair was a wet but appealing wreck, his unshaven jaw was touch-me stubbled, and his eyes were full of last night's—and this morning's—sex. Ginger's tummy bottomed out along with Tracy's jaw. Both women stared.

"I need a fan," Tracy said, plopping herself into a chair.

"I need a Prozac," Ginger said.

"I need some clothes," Cal said, his grin widening. "And a coffee."

Ginger poured one and held it out to him. He ambled across the room, took it, then kissed her softly. "Thanks, Cameron." With that he turned and walked out of the room.

Tracy looked as if she'd been hit by a brick. "You did it, didn't you? You actually did
it
with Cal Beaumann!" Her voice held traces of a little girl shriek.

Ginger darted a glance at the recently vacated doorway. "
Shush
." She waved a trembling hand in the direction of her flummoxed friend to shut her up. "He'll hear you."

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it!" She hugged herself.

Ginger rolled her eyes. "Tracy, get a grip and pull your tongue back in your mouth." She poured herself some coffee and cradled the mug. This might be a bizarre scenario, but she'd get through it. When Trace looked up, and it seemed as if she were going to open her mouth again, Ginger held up a hand. "Do not, I repeat, do not ask me how it was."

Tracy closed her mouth, opened it again to say, "You've just lived the fantasy of a million women, and you're not going to share. What kind of friend are you?"

"Trace..."

Tracy crossed her arms, lifted her nose, and turned away.

Ginger couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. "It was beyond fantastic. Okay?"

Tracy spun to face her, eyes overly bright. "I knew it! I knew it would be." She looked down the hall where Cal had walked to Ginger's room. "And he's in our house, probably naked on the other side of that wall!" She stared at the wall, rapt in whatever vision of a naked Cal she'd dreamed up.

Ginger's mouth dried out and she drank some coffee. She didn't need to imagine. "Trace, will you quit speaking in exclamation points. You're hurting my ears. He's just a guy." Right.
And Buckingham Palace is just a house.

"He's a guy you brought home. That's a first."

"True."

"So?"

"So, what?" She drained the last of her coffee.

Tracy gave her an annoyed look. "So... where does it go from here?"

Ginger started to say something glib, but stopped herself and thought for a minute. "From here, Trace, it goes slowly.
Very, very slowly
."

"Not too slow, I hope," Cal said from the doorway. He was standing in the doorway, toweling his hair with another of her lilac towels.

Ginger jumped to her feet. Did the man walk on air? "Don't you know how to knock?" she grumped.

"No door," he stated, reminding her of the obvious. He walked into the room, smelling faintly of her lavender soap. His damp hair, after he finger-combed it back, glistened under the kitchen light. He walked to Ginger, draped the towel around his neck, and gestured toward the coffee. "Can I take another one to go?" He smiled at her, winked at Trace. "I figure my best move is out of here."

"Smart man." Ginger headed to the counter and poured him a coffee. The kitchen, with her, Tracy, Cal, and last night all taking up space was much too crowded.

He came up beside her, took the coffee from her hand, and leaned to whisper in her ear. "I'll call you in an hour. If you're up for it, we'll walk the beach." His voice lowered a notch and he managed to nip her ear. The bite, along with the blush from his warm breath, shot to her groin. "If we're going to go slow, we'd better get started." He pulled the towel from around his neck and handed it to Ginger.

"I'm not in a hurry, Beaumann," she said, keeping her own voice low.

He just laughed at that, then walked to the kitchen door, stopped, and turned back. "Beyond fantastic, huh?"

She threw the damp towel at him, but he just gave her another of his miserably seductive grins, and ambled out.

Ginger pushed the kitchen curtain aside and watched him get into his Cherokee, her flower-patterned mug in his hand. She wondered how many men could handle lavender soap, lilac towels, and flowered mugs and still look so masculine your hormone levels shot to red alert just looking at them. She kept looking until he pulled out of her driveway, then she turned back to Tracy.

Tracy, still grinning like a fool, gave her a thumbs-up. "What I want to do is buy your wardrobe. If sacky suits, XL T-shirts, and Sister Sarah shoes can reel in a catch like Cal Beaumann, you're on to something."

Ginger took a chair at the table. "But that's just it, I don't want a 'catch.' I want a serious guy, a solid guy, ambitious, committed."

"And you're afraid Cal is just another of those pretty faces you've always been suckered by. You're afraid he has no substance, no staying power. That all he wants from you is some easy sex and no ties. Did you ever think you might be judging the book by its cover? That there are no bugs under the blanket, and that Cal is just the clean sheet he seems to be?"

"Which is?" Ginger mulled over the clean sheet analogy, couldn't make it work.

"A decent guy who's working hard at his business and who takes it, but not himself, very seriously."

Ginger hoped so, with all her oft bruised heart, she hoped so, but she didn't want to say it aloud—tempt those givers of bad luck. "He makes me laugh," she said, veering off the subject.

"And that's a bad thing?"

Ginger shook her head. "No. It's just... new, like everything else about Cal." She got to her feet. "I'm going to get dressed." She walked to the door, stopped, straightened her shoulders but didn't turn to face her friend when she said, "I swear, if I've made another mistake, if Cal isn't the man I think he is, I'll be the first woman in the twenty-first century to be welded into a stainless steel chastity belt."

* * *

Cal stepped into his rented condo in time to hear the phone ring. He headed straight to it.

It was Ian, and after leaving the heat of Ginger's shower, his brother's voice was a cold wind. "How's it going?" he asked. "Business still okay?"

Cal groaned inwardly. He should have known Ian's call would be about business. "It's only been a couple of weeks since we went over this, Ian. Everything's good. Like I told you, we'll be opening on schedule." Cal loved his brother, but as a
brother,
not a business partner. His lack of enthusiasm for the core business and obsession with numbers drove Cal nuts. He was counting the days until he could buy him out and own Cinema Neo outright.

"Good to hear."

"But not what you're calling about."

"No."

Silence came down the line.

That silence made Cal's neck hairs prickle. "What's going on?"

"I need the money now, bro."

"Now?" Cal's brain imploded. "You're kidding."

"No. I need a lump of cash. I've got this deal—"

"You've always got a deal."

"Not like this one. But no sweat, I've lined up a buyer for Cinema Neo—and he'll pay top dollar. You don't have to do a thing. I'll handle it all."

"I don't want you to handle anything."

"Gotta do it, Cal. Like I said, I need the money. Unless..."

"What?"

"Unless you can come up with enough cash to buy me out. You do that, we're both happy."

Not a snowball's chance in hell Cal could come up with that kind of cash. In a few months, maybe, but not now. Still, he bluffed. "I'll need some time."

"Don't have any. The buyer's ready to sign. I can't mess it up while you poll every bank in Washington State for a loan. I'll be bringing him up in a couple of days." He paused. "The way I see it, I'm doing you favor. Saving you from nickel and diming yourself while being locked into the indie film business."

"You're an asshole, Ian."

"And you're a dreamer, Cal. And guess which one of us drives a new Jag. And it's not as if you won't be paid—damn well—for your share. See you in a couple of days." He hung up.

Cal stared at the dead phone in his hand. He was about to lose Cinema Neo and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. This sideswipe of Ian's would cost him everything.

He had to figure out a way to make things work. And damned if Ian wasn't right about the banks—they'd take forever to approve a loan, if they did at all.

If it were only him—

A thought bolted through him, damn near stopped his heart. This financial mess wasn't just about him and what he'd lose, it was about Ginger. Last night his body had entered hers. That should have been the end of it—enough. It always had been before, but not this time. Not with Ginger, because in some mysterious way, she'd been the one to enter him.