Temptation's Kiss (2 page)

He stood just inside the door with the calm self-confidence with which he handled every situation. She had no choice but to extend the common courtesy. “Won't you sit down, Mr. Bennett?”

“Thank you,” he said with a scrupulous politeness that made her blood boil. Just once she wished he'd show his true colors and laugh contemptuously at the world instead of playing his cat-and-mouse game with its lowly inhabitants. She knew that was how he really felt. The universe and everyone in it were his playthings, and he toyed with them at will, like a decadent god.

His amber eyes surveyed her insolently as he sat down across from her. Slowly he analyzed the soft, cinnamon-colored hair that feathered back from her cheek and jaw. His eyes met hers for a brief moment before moving downward to her mouth and resting there for an uncomfortably long time. She was almost grateful when they continued downward, until she felt them grazing her breasts beneath the yellow voile blouse, with its dainty vertical tucks and small pearl buttons. To her horror, she felt her nipples pouting as though obeying a softy spoken command. Why hadn't she left on the jacket to her dove-gray suit?

“You're looking well, Megan.”

“Thank you.”

“But then, you always did,” he said quickly, as if she hadn't spoken.

She made a busy project of thumbing through the folders Arlene had brought in to her earlier that morning. “I have a full schedule today, Mr. Bennett. What—”

“That's funny,” he interrupted, arching an eyebrow in the manner that caused havoc in the hearts of women. A scar jagged through his eyebrow's thick curve and made it daringly masculine. “Your secretary said your calendar was open today. That's why she granted me this interview without an appointment.”

Megan's jaw ached from the force with which she held it clenched. Putting down an urge to lash out at him that her calendar was none of his damn business, she asked tightly, “Is there trouble with how we're handling one of your clients’ accounts?”

“No, none at all,” he said easily, unbuttoning his suit coat and hoisting an ankle up to rest on the opposite knee.

His casual posture increased her vexation. If her heart was pounding and her hands were growing slippery with perspiration, the least he could do was look a little bit discomposed. Uppermost in her mind was the thought that he mustn't know how he bothered her. But he probably did know. He knew the devastating effect he had on women, and used it ruthlessly. No doubt he remembered the night when she had succumbed …

“Are you familiar with Seascape?” His question whipped her back into the present.

“Seascape? Yes, the new resort on Hilton Head.” She wanted to compliment him on his agency's outstanding publicity for the lavish new facility on the resort island off the coast of South Carolina. Extravagant ads for the soon-to-open resort were now being seen everywhere, on billboards and in magazines. However, she refrained from expressing her appreciation. She'd never give Joshua Bennett credit for anything except destruction. “Your agency has purchased an extensive package of television-advertising time for it.”

“That's what I want to talk to you about.”

Her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. The amount of television time sold to Seascape had been astronomical. Was he going to withdraw a chunk of it? All of it? It would be just like him to do something so perverse. He had been accused of being many things, but predictable wasn't one of them.

Megan had confidence in her abilities. She'd been given the sales-manager job two years ago because of her sales record. There was untold pressure associated with the job, both from petulant clients and impossible-to-please management. If she met one budget, even surpassed it, they gave her a higher one. Yet she had handled every challenge capably.

She had control over those matters. But some aspects of her job she couldn't control. The economy, for instance. Or decisions made by other people. If the NFL players went on strike and there was no football season, she lost thousands of dollars in revenue from clients who would have advertised on the football games. She also had no control over the dirty politics that were sometimes involved.

If Joshua Bennett arbitrarily pulled that plum of an account out from under them, there would be little she could do about it. Unless he made a demand of her. She shuddered even to think about what that demand might be.

With all the cool detachment she could muster, she said, “Well?”

He grinned sardonically, that lopsided, satanic grin that he must know would be sexually arousing to a woman who was less discriminating than Megan. “Ms. Hampson is handling the account for WONE.”

“She's very good.” Megan came immediately to the defense of her employee.

“Yes, she is. She's a very charming young woman.”

Megan reflected on Jo Hampson's lush figure and bubbling personality and could well imagine how “charming” Joshua Bennett must find her.

“But she's young and doesn't inspire the confidence Terry Bishop needs at this point.”

“You're referring to the developer of Seascape.” Megan recalled Jo Hampson's mentioning the designer and builder by name.

“Yes. He's a genius at a drafting board, with a pencil in his hand and visions in his head, but as a businessman he needs constant guidance. He's created a virtual paradise on Hilton Head and he's been granted unlimited funds to promote it. Money's no problem, but I've had to spoon-feed him every step of the way on marketing the total-resort concept.”

“If you're personally in charge on his account, Mr. Bennett, I'm sure there can't be any serious problems.”

Irritation thinned his lips before he forced another grin. “Thank you, but Mr. Bishop needs a second opinion. A consultation, if you will.” He leaned forward in his chair, all business now. “I want you personally to handle the account for Seascape.”

Their eyes locked and held over the soft patina of her desk top, and for a moment they were no longer talking about Seascape. Instead Megan was drawn back in time to the night he had pinned her against the latticed wall of a gazebo and said, “I want you to kiss me and then tell me that you love James Lambert.”

“I can't,” she said now with the same uncertainty with which she had answered him then. She licked her lips and tore her eyes away from the seductive power of his gaze. “I can't. This account means a big commission to Ms. Hampson. She's doing well. I can't just pull her off the account for no valid reason.”

He sat back in his chair. “I'm not asking you to. I only want you to oversee it more closely. I want Jo to check every decision with you before she acts on it. I want you to meet Terry Bishop and reassure him that the commercials already produced are superb.”

“If he doesn't trust your opinion, why should he trust mine?”

“Because I've told him how damn good you are,” he said sharply, finally giving vent to the impatience she had known lay close to the surface.

His words took her aback, and she jumped to her feet, going to the window for the second time that morning. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, and the city suddenly looked dreary. How apropos, she thought. The day had started badly, with her confrontation with Barnes. Now Josh Bennett had further disturbed her peace. Still, she couldn't help but bask in a small light of pride that he considered her opinion worth so much. “Why would you tell him I'm so good?” she asked.

“Because it's true. He trusts your judgment. As do I. At least in business matters.” She heard him stand up, and panicked when his footsteps came close behind her. “I'm proud of what you've accomplished.”

“Well, don't be,” she said waspishly, whirling around. It alarmed her to find him standing so close. She had to tilt her head up to look at him. She'd forgotten just how tall he was. He always seemed to tower over her. Her husband, James, had been short, much more complementary to her petite height. If nothing else, Josh's sheer size terrified her. “I don't want to hear any patronizing praise for the poor little widow struggling in the cold cruel world,” she said. “Especially not from you.”

“I'm not patronizing you, damn it. My people tell me that if they always worked with a sales force as competent as yours, they'd have no problems.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, conceding to let him flatter the people working under her.

“Why wouldn't you consent to see me after the funeral?” The unexpected question struck her in the heart like a bullet, opening up a wound that had refused to heal in three years. “You wouldn't return my calls. You didn't answer my notes. Why?” he demanded.

She stepped away and glared up at him with undisguised hatred. “I didn't want to, that's why. I found your insincere bereavement at James's funeral ludicrous and wanted no part of your hypocrisy.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed and hardened. The irises of his eyes glinted like amber glass. “When James collapsed in his office, I administered CPR myself. When that didn't work, I drove him to the hospital, not even waiting for an ambulance. I did everything possible to save his life. He was my good friend, my best employee. How can you reasonably say that I wasn't grieved by his death?”

“Because you did your best to kill him.”

“You know better than that, Megan.”

“No, I don't. The long hours you demanded, brought on his coronary. He was thirty-five years old!” she shouted. “Men that age don't drop dead of heart attacks unless they're under intense, insurmountable pressure. I would think guilt alone would have made you too ashamed to come to the funeral, much less mouth your insincere platitudes to me afterward.”

“Guilt?” His irregular eyebrow cocked over his eye. “Guilt over what? What's the real issue here, Megan?” Spoken softly, the question was all the more deadly. “I didn't force James to smoke five packs of cigarettes a day. I didn't insist that he take a different client to a three-martini lunch five times a week. It wasn't my fault that he didn't exercise. What do I have to feel guilty about?”

Lord, she wished she'd never broached the subject. She couldn't—wouldn't—look at him. Did he know that her heart was thudding painfully against her ribs, that only part of her agitation was due to her anger over what they were discussing? He was standing so damn close! He smelled so healthfully masculine. Each time he spoke, she drew his breath into her body like a disciple of hedonism.

“Nothing,” she said. “You don't have anything to feel guilty about. I only want you to leave me alone.”

He leaned toward her like a jungle cat moving in for the kill. “What do I have to feel guilty about, Megan? We're not talking about the work James did for me, and we both know it. We're talking about the night before you married him.”

“No!”

“Yes,” he said, grasping her upper arm before she could turn away from him. “That's what all this animosity boils down to: those few stolen minutes in the summerhouse. After you and James were married, you avoided me like the plague. If you could help it at all, we never even saw each other. You've been angry ever since that night, Megan.”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Why shouldn't I avoid you after the despicable thing you did to me and to your friend, James?”

He leaned over her until his mouth was mere inches from hers. His warm breath was a fragrant, moisture-laden vapor that taunted her lips. “You're not angry with me because I kissed you. You're angry because you liked it so much.”

Blinding rage stunned her into immobility. For ponderous seconds she only stared mutely up at him. Then the import of his words registered with full force, and she yanked her arm free of his strong fingers and shoved herself away.

“Get out of my office, Mr. Bennett. Get out of my life.” Her chest was heaving, and, to her further outrage, he seemed fascinated by the movement of her breasts beneath the fragile cloth covering them.

When at last he dragged his eyes to her face, he said, “I'll go. For now. But be honest with yourself, Megan, and admit that I'm right. You've been nursing this insane anger for years. You'd better be careful of it. Since it's self-directed, it could also be self-destructive.”

Long, unhurried strides carried him to the door. With one hand on the knob, he turned back. She stood rigid, her fists balled at her sides, her spine as stiff and straight as a crowbar. “I'll be in touch,” he said, and he stepped out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

When Megan relaxed her rigidly held muscles long minutes later, she had to catch herself to keep from crumpling onto the floor. She staggered toward her desk and, propping herself over it with one arm, fumbled with the buttons on the intercom with the other trembling hand. “Arlene, please hold my calls. I … headache. I'm going to rest for a while.”

“Are you all right?” Arlene asked with immediate concern.

“Yes, yes,” Megan hurried to assure her. She didn't want anyone to know how much Josh's visit had upset her. “I'm going to take an aspirin. I'll be fine.”

“That's the first time you've met Mr. Bennett, isn't it?”

“No,” she said slowly, after considering telling a lie. “My husband worked for him.”

“I didn't know that. He's something, isn't he?” Arlene asked breathlessly.

Megan's lips hardened bitterly. “Yes, he's something.”

Her knees felt rubbery as she walked toward the long sofa that took up a portion of the wall opposite her desk. Slipping off her sandals, she lay down on the nubby, oatmeal-colored upholstery and closed her eyes, trying to block out the image of Josh's face and everything he'd said.

Her thoughts were random and nebulous, but eventually they merged and came into sharp focus around the night she wished could be erased from her life—the night before she married James Lambert.

Her mother and stepfather had rented a large room at the country club for the party in honor of their daughter's marriage to James, a young advertising agent she had met while selling commercial time for a local radio station. He worked for the Bennett Agency, and the future looked bright for the young couple, who happily greeted their guests between turns around the dance floor and trips to the champagne fountain.

Megan would always remember her dress. She'd never worn it again but had hung it in the corner of a closet in her mother's house. She'd never wanted to see it after that night, though it had been beautiful. The sea-green color reflected her green eyes. The soft fabric clung alluringly to the gentle curves of her petite figure, hanging straight from a halter neckline. Jeweled combs had held her hair in a soft topknot, and she'd worn her diamond engagement ring on the third finger of her left hand.