Getting It Now! Read online

  Friends close and enemies closer, he thought. What the hell did a guy do when a woman ended up being both?

  CARRIE HAD SPENT the better part of the afternoon trying—very unsuccessfully—to not think about what had happened between her and Philip this morning.

  Naturally, that endeavor had been an utter failure.

  She still couldn’t believe how swiftly things had progressed from a hot-lipped kiss to her bustier being undone and Philip’s wonderfully talented mouth mere centimeters from her still disappointed nipple. Had his agent—who’d looked entirely too delighted at their indiscretion for her comfort—not walked in when he had, who knows what might have happened?

  Who knows? hell, Carrie thought. She knew.

  She knew that if they hadn’t been interrupted Philip would have made quick work of her bustier and quicker work of the handy, easy-access snaps between her legs…and she would have enjoyed the first orgasm she’d had in almost a year.

  Carrie resisted the renewed urge to whimper.

  The barely functioning logical part of her brain appreciated the interference. After all, having sex with a co-worker on set clearly wasn’t a professional thing to do.

  But the illogical part of her thinking—unfortunately the part in control—had wanted to wail and scream and cry. Wanted to pitch an outright temper fit like a sleepy toddler who’d missed her nap.

  There were a dozen reasons why sleeping with Philip Mallory should be out of the question, but for the life of her, ever since he kissed her this morning, she hadn’t been able to come up with even one.

  And he’d be here, at her house, any minute now.

  Carrie swallowed a quick gulp of wine and shook her hands out, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the tremors. From his bed in the corner of the living room, Hoover lifted his fluffy white head. Probably wondering if she’d lost her mind, Carrie thought. “Oh, go back to sleep, you little lump of fur,” she said, bending down and giving the dog an affectionate pat.

  Okay. She could do this, Carrie thought, trying her best to channel her CHiC courage. Frankie, Zora and April wouldn’t be nervous, she told herself. Were any one of them in her position, they’d embrace the spirit of their girl-power movement and do as Frankie suggested—cook with something besides gas.

  As it was, she’d just been cooking.

  Carrie’s lips quirked. What could she say? It soothed her. Lots of women tended to bake when they were nervous or overwrought. Or sexually frustrated and miserable.

  A knock sounded at her door, inadvertently punctuating the thought. Hoover bolted from his bed and started barking wildly, spinning in circles, then jumping up on her legs. “Calm down,” she admonished. “He’s not an intruder. He’s a friend.”

  Carrie took a deep bracing breath, smoothed her hands over her thighs and quickly made her way from the living room to the front door. Predictably, Hoover continued his yelping waltz all the way there.

  “Hi,” she said, standing back so that Philip could walk past. She caught a decadent whiff of his aftershave as he moved inside—something musky and masculine—and she resisted the urge to bite her fist.

  Philip smiled rather sheepishly and the idea that he too was a tad nervous made her feel slightly better. “Hi, yourself,” he said, bending to offer his hand to her growling dog. He scored points for that, Carrie thought. She didn’t trust a guy who didn’t like animals. “Who’s this?” he asked, gesturing toward her little bichon frise.

  “Hoover. He’s a bad-ass until you pet him, then he’s putty in your hands.”

  He scratched the dog behind his ears, looked up and smiled. “Hoover, eh? As in J. Edgar?”

  Carrie crossed her arms over her chest. “No. As in vacuum cleaner. He eats anything that makes its way onto the floor.”

  Philip chuckled, gave her thrilled dog another fond pat, then slowly straightened. “I had a dog once—a mastiff. He was…He was hit by a car when I was ten. It was dreadful.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, instinctively wincing for his pain. “You’ve never had another?”

  Philip sighed and a sad smile shaped his lips. “‘There is sorrow enough in the natural way from men and women to fill our day, but when we are certain of sorrow in store, why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware of giving your heart to a dog to tear.’”

  “Kipling, right?” Carrie asked, touched that he’d memorized such a beautiful poem.

  Philip nodded. “The Power of the Dog.” He gazed almost wistfully at her puppy. “Hard when we lose them, eh?” He flushed, evidently thinking that he’d said too much. “You’re sure you’re not too busy?” he asked, casting an idle look around her foyer.

  “Not at all,” she said, a little unnerved. She called the dog, then started toward the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow her. No doubt they’d both be more comfortable, she thought, then realized that technically wasn’t true—her bedroom offered the ultimate luxury. She couldn’t imagine anything more comfortable than a soft bed at her back and Philip’s hard body hovered above her. Unless, of course, she considered his hard body beneath her and then…Carrie resisted the urge to fan herself.

  “Wow,” Philip said as they passed through the dining room and entered her kitchen. He glanced up and whistled at the ornate copper ceiling tiles. “Now those are gorgeous.”

  Hoover trundled over, nudged his food around the bowl and when Honey Nut Cheerios didn’t magically appear, he lost interest and found his bed. He had one in almost every room.

  Carrie’s lips curled in an indulgent smile at the dog, then she glanced at Philip. “Thanks. The tiles are original. The previous owner—a friend of mine’s husband—had the entire place completely restored.”

  He nodded appreciatively. “He did an excellent job.”

  Carrie chuckled and shook her head. “Trust me, Ben Hayes wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

  Philip shot her a startled look. “Ben Hayes, the photographer?”

  Carrie wasn’t surprised that he’d heard of him. Ben was a local celebrity of sorts. “One and the same.” She sighed.

  “He does beautiful work,” Philip said, settling himself at her kitchen table. “I’ve got a print of his—the one of the tree. Quite compelling. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

  Carrie offered him a glass of wine and slid a cheese and fruit tray toward him. “Oh, yeah,” she said with another quiet laugh. She gestured to the slight mess around her kitchen. “Another friend is getting married beneath that tree this weekend.”

  His eyes widened. “That’s the wedding you’re catering?”

  “It is.”

  He snagged the notepad she’d sketched Frankie’s cake on and looked it over. “That’s gorgeous,” he said. “Fondant right?”

  Carrie nodded, propped her hand beneath her chin. “Yeah. I like the smooth texture.”

  “It’s a challenge to work with.”

  Her lips twitched. “I’m quite capable,” she said, somewhat defensively.

  Philip shot her a look and laughed, the sound rich and intimate between the two of them. “Of that I’ve no doubt.” He glanced at the drawing again. “The hummingbird is a nice touch, better than a bloody dove. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it done before.

  Marzipan or sugar?”

  “What do you think?” she quipped.

  “Sugar, definitely. It’s the most difficult of the two.”

  She selected a strawberry. “Am I that predict able?”

  “No,” he said, thoughtfully considering her.

  “You’re just that stubborn. I’ve watched you work.

  You never do anything in half measures.”

  “What would be the point?”

  “Efficiency?” he offered.

  “I’m efficient, too.”

  “And very modest, I’ve noticed,” he teased, those silvery eyes sparkling with humor.

  Carrie laughed, easily relaxing as a result of their playful banter. Philip looked quite at home in her k
itchen. He wore a pale green linen shirt which complemented his unique coloring and a pair of loose khaki shorts. It was the first time she’d ever seen him out of his proper work clothes and the end result was a guy who looked classy yet comfortable, both in his clothes and in his skin.

  His hair was slightly mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through the messy waves, and that wonderfully wicked mouth of his was presently curled in a slight smile. He caught her staring and she had the privilege of watching those pewter eyes darken and droop.

  “Er…so why a hummingbird?” he asked abruptly. “I assume it has some special significance for the fair bride?”

  Carrie blinked and cleared her throat. “It does. Ross, her fiancé, gave her a stained glass hummingbird when they were dating. He said it reminded him of her—strong but delicate. The perfect combination of beauty and strength.” Carrie slid a finger over her drawing. “He was right.”

  Philip nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like your friend has met the right guy.”

  “I think so,” Carrie told him. Her lips slid into a self-deprecating smile. “Out of the four of us, I’m the only one left unattached. The only CHiC without a rooster.”

  “A rooster?” he scoffed as though insulted. “For future reference, I’m certain that any man who wants to attach himself permanently to you will take exception to being compared to the least intelligent of the barnyard animals. Call him a stallion, for pity’s sake,” Philip said with a manly beat of his chest. He shook his head. “A rooster. Preposterous.”

  A deep laugh bubbled up Carrie’s throat and she felt her eyes mist with mirth. “You missed the CHiC reference,” she explained. “My friends and I are the founding members of Chicks in Charge. You might have heard of it.”

  Philip’s eyes bugged and a strangled laugh burst from his throat. “Ch-chicks in Charge?” he sputtered. “The bossy women’s movement?”

  Carrie feigned offense. “Not bossy,” she explained patiently. “In charge. There’s a difference.”

  Philip tossed his head back and laughed until his sides heaved. “Oh, this is rich. Wait un-until I tell R-Rupert.”

  His agent? Carrie wondered. What interest in Chicks in Charge could his agent possibly have? She chewed the corner of her mouth and shot him a questioning glance.

  Philip caught her look and tried to flatten his smile. “He was telling me about it,” he explained. “Wait until he hears that you’re one of them. And not just one of them—a founding member.” Evidently unable to control himself, he chuckled again. “Sorry,” he said. He coughed. “Really. I’ll stop now.” He darted a speculative look in her direction. “That explains a lot. On the surface you seem quite manageable, but that’s hardly the case. You’re a crafty CHiC,” he said, with a reluctantly impressed smile. “And actually, that would have been a handy little piece of information to have before we met for dinner last Saturday night. I would have used a different tack.”

  Carrie laughed and cocked her head. “You mean you wouldn’t have tried to make me be your assistant?”

  “Definitely not,” Philip said promptly. “I would have coaxed you into thinking it was your idea.”

  She harrumphed under her breath. “Do you really think that would have worked?”

  Philip winced. “Probably not.”

  Carrie took another sip of wine, felt the heady warmth of the alcohol loosen her limbs. And her tongue. “Is working with me all that bad?” she teased softly.

  Philip’s gaze caressed her face, skimmed over her mouth. “No,” he reluctantly admitted. “Surprisingly not.” He let go a breath. “You’re excellent at what you do. You’ll never hear me say otherwise.” His brow furrowed. “It’s just…”

  “The clothes,” she finished knowingly and, for whatever reason, found herself marginally satisfied with this kinder confession. He’d said as much before, but at least she understood why now.

  “Or lack thereof,” he told her, flashing that endearingly crooked smile. “I can’t control myself.” He gestured wearily. “You saw what happened this afternoon. I burned a tenderloin, then had to kiss you because it was your fault.”

  Carrie’s eyes widened. “My fault?”

  His gaze met hers over the rim of his wine glass. “Yes, of course.”

  Oh, this should be good. She grinned. “And how was your burning the tenderloin my fault?”

  “I was distracted,” he explained patiently, as though she were a half-wit. “By your breasts.”

  Carrie cocked her head and smiled. “Back to those, are we?”

  He muttered something which sounded suspiciously like, “I wish.”

  She shot him a look, then stood. “Do you mind if I work while we talk?” she asked, thinking that a change of subject was in order.

  Before she did something stupid, like lean forward and kiss him again. Or remove her shirt so that they would pick up exactly where they’d left off this afternoon.

  Philip swiftly swallowed the drink in his mouth, set his wineglass aside and hurriedly stood. “Better still, how about I help you?”

  Carrie darted a droll look at him over her shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d hate for you to get distracted.”

  Philip’s eyes crinkled, and he bit his bottom lip as his gaze instantly dropped to her chest. Her nipples tingled and an answering warmth burned in her sex. “I should be fine so long as you don’t take off your shirt.”

  Carrie didn’t know what made her do it—faulty reasoning, the inability to resist a dare, sexually induced insanity. Who knew? But one second she’d been standing there fully clothed and the next, she’d grabbed the hem of her shirt and slowly—deliberately—pulled it up and drew it over her head.

  Then she dropped it. An improvised gauntlet, but judging from the smoky arousal in Philip’s eyes and the slow crooked smile sliding across those magnificent lips, she’d done something right.

  Two seconds later he was on her.

  9

  HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER than to taunt her, Philip thought as he watched Carrie suddenly grow still. Watched that martial light spark in those gorgeous violet eyes. Then her hands found the hem of her shirt and well…

  She pulled it off, let it drop purposely to the floor and he’d…come undone.

  He’d registered bare belly, lacy push-up bra and creamy cleavage and the tenuous hold he’d had on reason and restraint had snapped like a fine twig beneath a bull elephant’s hoof. Two steps across the room and she was warm and willing in his arms.

  Two more and he had her against the refrigerator.

  “You win,” he said again, his voice strangled and barely recognizable to his own ears.

  He felt Carrie smile beneath his kiss, her small hands slip beneath his shirt at the small of his back. “I win what?”

  “Me,” he chuckled, toeing his shoes off. He kicked them across the room and from the corner of his eye saw Hoover’s head pop up from his bed. “Aren’t you lucky?”

  She sucked his tongue into her mouth, then moved her hands around to the front of his shorts, ably finding the button. “Ask me in an hour,” she said breathlessly, his zipper humming to her joke.

  Another quick laugh caught him unaware. Granted he was good, but if she thought he had the stamina to last an hour when he seriously doubted his ability to take her without detonating upon entry, then she had more faith in him than he did.

  “Wishful thinking, darling.” He pushed her shorts and panties down her legs, felt her kick them aside, then drew back long enough to shrug out of his shirt and carelessly tossed it aside. Her bra fortuitously fastened in the front. A mere flick of his finger later, he’d popped the snaps, licked the valley between her cleavage and slung the bedamned thing aside. It caught the pot rack hanging from the ceiling.

  A hiss stuttered between his teeth when his bare skin connected with hers. “I’ve wanted you too long.” He laughed. “You’ve, uh, had me in knots since the first time I watched your show.”

  Carrie slipped her hands beneath his s
horts and briefs, forcing them down his legs. Philip almost stumbled in his haste to get them off quickly enough. Now, now, now, he thought, his brain firing the mantra in time with his frantic heartbeat.

  A purr of pleasure vibrated up her throat as he circled the delicate shell of her ear with his tongue. She drew her hands up over his back, tunneled them into the hair at his nape, causing a rush of gooseflesh to break out over his arms. His eager dick nudged at her soft belly.

  Christ. He’d be lucky if he didn’t detonate before entry. She smelled like sugar and strawberries and hot, sweet sex and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. To hell with his show.

  She could have it. He just wanted her. Right now.

  Against the freaking refrigerator.

  “I could say the same about you,” she said, thoroughly surprising him.

  Philip drew back, felt a gratifying smile slide across his mouth. “You could?”

  She leaned forward and licked the hollow of his throat. “I could. I’ve been watching you for years.

  Since before you came to New Orleans.” She nipped lightly at his shoulder, causing his breath to stall in his lungs. “And I’ve been lusting just as long.”

  Philip lifted her up, felt her smooth legs wrap around his waist and his eager dick brush her hot, wet flesh. A shudder racked his body and he set his jaw so hard he feared it would crack. She gasped, rocked instinctively towards him.

  Her kitchen, against a major appliance with her dog looking on, and he didn’t give a damn.

  He braced her back against the refrigerator, bent his head and pulled the crown of her sweet pink breast into his mouth. Ah…heaven, Philip thought as her taste blossomed across his tongue. He fed wildly at her, couldn’t lick, suck or taste enough. Need hammered away inside his head, bludgeoning years of thoughtful lover training into oblivion. He didn’t have the strength, the will, to do anything besides devour her.

  Take her.

  Carrie inhaled sharply, her hips involuntarily rocking forward once more, pushing him even farther between her drenched folds.