Scandalous Passion

Carter observed her through narrowed eyes. “You think I’m trying to put the moves on you?”

Phoebe arched a brow and aimed for sarcasm. “Aren’t you? The question is why?”

His jaw shifted and then he rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

“About what?” she asked, even though she suspected she knew the answer.

“Whether it would be as good between us as it used to be.”

Her stomach dropped to her shoes. Yes, the thought had crossed her mind a time or ten since making the decision to seek him out, but she had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. The last time she had he’d stolen her heart and shattered it into tiny, irreparable fragments.

She forced a casual shrug and lied through her teeth. “Not really. Now, if you don’t mind, the picture.”

Scandalous Passion

Emilie Rose

www.millsandboon.co.uk

EMILIE ROSE

lives in North Carolina with her college sweetheart husband and four sons. This bestselling author’s love for romance novels developed when she was twelve years old and her mother hid them under sofa cushions each time Emilie entered the room. Emilie grew up riding and showing horses. She’s a devoted baseball mom during the season and can usually be found in the bleachers watching one of her sons play. Her hobbies include quilting, cooking (especially cheesecake) and anything cowboy. Her favorite TV shows include Discovery Channel’s medical programs, ER and CSI. Emilie’s a country music fan because there’s an entire book in nearly every song.

Emilie loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at P.O. Box 20145, Raleigh, NC, 27619 or at www.EmilieRose.com.

My thanks to the staff of the Shriners Hospital for Children in Greenville, South Carolina. I’ve never encountered a more generous group of individuals.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

Clear the skeletons from your closet before your grandfather declares his presidential candidacy or the press will do it for you.

Phoebe Lancaster Drew smoothed damp palms over her most flattering navy suit and marched up the curving brick sidewalk with her grandfather’s campaign manager’s words echoing in her head.

It was rather pathetic really that the only skeletons in Phoebe’s closet were a few private pictures taken twelve years ago. Excluding those nine exhilarating months, she’d behaved like a proper Southern belle her entire life, devoting her time to her family, worthy causes and, lately, her career. But oh, those months…

Her heart beat a little faster and her nerves coiled tighter as she inspected the elegant brick home. Had the university alumni association given her the correct address? A single man had no reason to choose a home with a huge yard in this quiet old neighborhood…unless he’d married and had children. She took a bracing breath, pressed the doorbell with one hand and covered her anxious stomach with the other.

Children. She and Carter Jones had once planned to have a family together.

Well, she stood a little straighter, if he’d found a woman to give him the home and family he’d always craved, she would be happy for him. But the prickle of discomfort between Phoebe’s shoulder blades belied her words.

When no one responded to the doorbell, Phoebe leaned closer to peer through the stained-glass upper portion of the door. Discerning no movement inside, she rang the bell again and huffed in frustration. The sweet scent of the red and white petunias cascading from nearby urns filled her nostrils.

She had limited time to accomplish her task, and showing up unannounced on a Saturday afternoon in late May was risky, but she hadn’t dared make her odd request via phone or take a chance on the photos getting lost in the mail.

Her grandfather planned to declare his candidacy in a matter of weeks, an action that would unleash the bloodhounds of the press on everyone connected to the senior senator from North Carolina. Phoebe would be a prime target because she’d served as his hostess since her grandmother’s death, and she would be expected to continue in that role if her grandfather made it to the White House. She was also his chief speechwriter.

The sound of splashing caught her attention. Was there a pool behind the house? She made her way down the sidewalk and around the perimeter of the house, past fragrant gardenia bushes in full bloom and an open garage housing a black Saleen Mustang convertible. Her brows lifted. Carter driving a high-powered muscle car? The idea wouldn’t mesh with the image of the tall, gangly computer nerd she’d loved to distraction during her first semester of college.

A military brat and a senator’s granddaughter, they’d been an unlikely pair…just like her parents. And, like her parents, there hadn’t been a happy ending for Phoebe and Carter. Her parents had given up everything—including her—for love and they’d died in each other’s arms while chasing their dreams.

A large rectangular pool covered only a fraction of the expansive backyard. A single swimmer sliced a straight line through the sparkling water with swift, efficient strokes. Phoebe’s stomach flip-flopped. Was it Carter? He reached the far end, executed an under-water turn and headed in her direction. Her mouth dried. Get it done, Phoebe.

Hoping this tanned man was indeed Carter and not a dark-haired stranger, she crossed the patio on trembling legs to wait on the concrete apron surrounding the pool. As he approached, Phoebe noticed the muscles roping his shoulders, arms and back, and the black barbed-wire tattoo circling his thick left bicep. She exhaled and relaxed her taut muscles. The mystery man couldn’t be Carter, but he might know where she could find her former lover.

She knelt beside the pool’s edge to get his attention, but before she could call out he erupted in a cascade of water and caught her ankle with his long fingers. Startled, Phoebe screamed and fell back on her bottom. She would have scrambled away, but his big hand held her in a vise grip.

The sapphire-blue eyes boring into hers looked achingly familiar as did the lush lips and sharply angled jaw. But those wide shoulders…those bulging biceps…that tattoo… Her mouth fell open. This couldn’t be Carter Jones. Could it?

“Carter?” Her voice cracked.

“Phoebe?” He sounded as surprised as she was.

My God, what had happened to him? He’d turned into—she swallowed hard—beefcake. Blinking, she shook her head. Dampness seeped through her clothing, cooling her hot skin. She’d landed in a puddle. Her silk skirt would be ruined. She clambered to her feet as gracefully as she could given the fact that her knees had about as much strength as overcooked linguini and her stomach resided in her leather pumps. She sighed in relief when he released her, but the ring of his damp fingers remained imprinted on her skin.

“Why did you grab me like that?”

“I thought you were one of my neighbors. They’re notorious for their lousy practical jokes.” Carter heaved himself from the pool in an act of rippling muscles and sheer intimidating size. Phoebe staggered back a few steps and stared in disbelief at the Adonis standing in front of her. She hadn’t forgotten Carter’s impressive height, but he was broader now—much broader—than the lanky boy she’d held in her arms. He took up an overwhelming amount of space on the sun-drenched patio.

Stunned by the changes in him, she let her gaze follow the water streaming from the cords of his neck to his expansive, muscular shoulders and chest, his six-pack abs and shallow navel. He had more chest hair now. Dark whorls spattered his pectorals, narrowing into a thin line that led to brief navy swimming trunks riding low on his narrow hips. Like the rest of him, his legs were well-developed. A series of pink scars marred his left knee, but other than that, the man was perfection personified wrapped in wet, golden-brown skin.

Heat filled her belly and her face. Oh my. She closed her mouth and met his amused gaze.

“I—I—” For heaven’s sake, she manipulated words by trade, but sitting behind a desk and composing moving political speeches was a far cry from coming up with intelligent off-the-cuff remarks when faced with…this.

“You’re going to give me a complex about what a scrawny geek I used to be if you keep staring.”

Ashamed of her gawking, she stammered, “Y-you’ve certainly…built up some muscles.”

His eyes hardened and his lips flattened. “The Marine Corps will do that to you.”

“Marines? You’re a Marine?” She scrambled to make sense of the news. Carter had spent his childhood following his career-officer father around the world. He’d claimed he hated the vagabond military life and that he’d wanted nothing more than to set down roots. With her.

A shadow crossed his face. “Not anymore. What can I do for you, Ms. Drew?”

“Lancaster Drew,” she corrected automatically. He still spoke in the soft, rumbling baritone she remembered, but his voice now carried an unmistakable air of authority and confidence.

“Right. Let’s not forget your ties to the venerated Senator Lancaster.” His bitterness couldn’t have been clearer.

“I, uh…” Can’t think with all that taut skin on display. Wow, he looks amazing.

Don’t stare, Phoebe. Her grandmother’s scold rang in her ears.

Phoebe spotted a towel on a nearby chair, picked it up and offered it to Carter. He didn’t take the hint to cover up, but merely swiped the water from his hair and face, then draped the fabric around his neck. A dark lock flopped over his forehead and her fingers itched to sweep it back as she’d done so many times.

Struggling to regain a smidgeon of composure, Phoebe averted her gaze and studied the deep, covered porch on his two-story home. Hanging baskets of bright flowers and a hummingbird feeder dangled from the eaves, and she recalled the urns of flowers out front, as well. Carter very likely had a wife. Her stomach burned.

Phoebe took a peek at his ring finger and found it bare, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything since some men didn’t wear rings. Besides, rekindling their romance wasn’t why she was here.

Resolved to get this encounter over with as quickly as possible, she focused on her task, gathered her courage and met his hard gaze. “I wanted to talk to you about the past. Specifically, our past and our…pictures.”

His eyes narrowed. “What pictures?”

Her cheeks warmed. Very conscious of the wet silk clinging to her bottom, she shifted on her feet. “You know which pictures. The intimate ones,” she added the last in a whisper even though there was no one around to hear. They had the additional privacy of thick magnolia trees forming a natural screen between the lawn and the woodland beyond.

Laughter glinted in Carter’s eyes and one corner of his mouth tipped up in a naughty smile, puncturing his cheek with a dimple. He did a little inspecting of his own and Phoebe cringed inwardly. She hadn’t improved with age the way he had. In fact most of the ten pounds she’d gained since college had settled below her waist.

“Ah, those pictures.”

Why did her insides go all fizzy like a shaken bottle of champagne when he looked at her that way? “Do you still have them?”

“Why?” He folded his arms over his bulging pectorals. His hard nipples pointed at her. The memory of how those tiny pebbles had felt against her tongue blindsided her. Heat coursed through her veins.

The man had a body to die for, but the tattoo drew her gaze like an ice-cream truck draws children. “That had to hurt.”

She wanted to slap a hand over her wayward mouth, but she didn’t. Dear heaven, had she regressed to that awkward girl-with-her-first-crush bumbling? Where was her poise, her professional politically correct demeanor?

“If it did, I was too drunk to notice.” More bitterness.

Carter hadn’t been a drinker when they were together, but then, Phoebe hadn’t been old enough to drink legally back then. She’d been barely eighteen when they’d met. He’d been twenty-one and a senior. “Do you have the pictures?”

“Maybe. Why?” he repeated. His poker face held no clue to his thoughts.

What had happened to the guy he used to be? Her friend. Her lover. The one person she could talk to for hours? Everything about him seemed harder: his body, his voice and his eyes. She curled her fingers in frustration and searched for the words to complete her task.

“I’d like to have them—”

“Missing me?” His grin reappeared, dimpling both cheeks this time.

“—and the negatives,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. Her heart was going to pound itself to mush if he didn’t stop smiling that way. That knowing sparkle in his eyes used to mean one, or both, of them would be naked within seconds, and once they were naked…

She plucked at her silk blouse, separating it from her suddenly damp skin. Moisture pooled between her thighs. Shameful. Why couldn’t she catch her breath? She blamed it on the Carolina heat and humidity, and then nearly laughed out loud. Talk about putting a political spin on a situation…

All traces of humor faded from his expression. “Do you plan to show the pictures around and tell everybody about the time you went slumming?”

Embarrassment licked through her. “It wasn’t slumming, Carter. My grandfather is about to announce his presidential candidacy. In the wrong hands those pictures could jeopardize his campaign.”

“So this is about your grandfather’s career again?” His clipped words and ice-chip eyes revealed his anger.

Carter had never understood how much she owed her grandparents for taking her in after her parents had abandoned her—a fact he’d proven when he asked her to choose between him and her grandfather twelve years ago.

“It’s also about mine. I’m his speech writer. I’d like to destroy the pictures. We were young and rash and—”

“No.” He stepped around her, heading for the house in long strides.

Oh, my. His back side was just as firm and impressive as his front side. The muscles rippling in the triangular V of his back as he dried himself muddled her thoughts so badly she almost missed his refusal. “What do you mean, no?”

“No, you can’t have the pictures,” he called over his shoulder without slowing.

She hurried after him. “Surely your wife doesn’t like you having pictures of another woman in the house.”

He stopped and turned so abruptly she bumped into him. Her palms landed on the bare, hot skin of his chest. Before she could withdraw, he caught her wrists, holding her captive. His gaze ensnared hers just as surely as he’d trapped her hands against his body. His nipples bored into her palms. Her heart leaped to her throat and her breath stalled in her lungs.

“I’m not married,” he said in that low, husky voice that used to melt her like butter in a hot skillet. “You?”

“N-no.” That was not relief sweeping through her system. And surely the weakness in her knees could be attributed to missing breakfast and lunch rather than the thud of his heart and the warmth of his skin beneath her hands. She tugged and he released her. “You live in this huge house alone?”

“Yeah. Got a deal on it. It needed work. I’m restoring it.”

“It’s lovely.” Her palms tingled.

“It’s even better inside.”

The unspoken invitation—with the arch of a challenging eyebrow thrown in—sent alarm racing through her. She broke away from his mesmerizing gaze and glanced at her watch. “I’m a bit pressed for time. Could you please hand over the pictures and negatives, and I’ll get out of your way. I’ll wait here.”

His chin set in a stubborn line. “Come inside and we’ll discuss it.”

She wanted to howl in frustration, but of course, she’d never do that. The senior senator’s granddaughter would never be so crass as to stamp her feet or to publicly show her displeasure. Never let them see you sweat, her grandfather had cautioned on more than one occasion. And never, ever, say words you can’t take back. She’d learned the hard way.

“Carter, let’s not take a trip down memory lane. It would serve no purpose.”

“Except to humor me—the one with the pictures.” Did she imagine the flash of anger in his eyes or the sarcastic twist of his lips? He tugged the towel from around his neck and dried his hips and legs. Muscles rippled with every move. In her dark-suit-and-tasteful-necktie world she didn’t get much exposure to sleek, tanned skin. Her mouth dried and her pulse couldn’t seem to find its regular rhythm.

“So you do have them?”

“Yep.” He climbed the steps of his porch and held open the door. Phoebe paused. She could refuse his invitation and perhaps never see the pictures again. No, the possible peril was too great. She had to stick with her agenda to recover and destroy the evidence of her shameful past. Lifting her chin, she swept up the stairs and into his sunny breakfast area. She felt his eyes on her backside as she passed and wished she could suck it in the way she sucked in her tummy.

“I got you wet. Sorry. Want me to toss your skirt in the dryer?”

She studied him. Did he intend the double entendre? And did he honestly expect her to hand over her skirt? “No, it’s silk. It has to be line dried.”

“I can loan you some shorts and we’ll hang your skirt out on the deck.”

She’d borrowed his clothing in the past, but she couldn’t imagine doing so today. She wasn’t the casual type any longer. Image was everything in politics. Besides, she didn’t intend to be here long enough for the fabric to dry. “No, thank you.”

“Have a seat.” He jabbed a finger toward the kitchen table. “A wet butt won’t hurt the chairs. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Carter disappeared into what looked like the laundry room at the opposite end of the kitchen, but he didn’t close the door. Phoebe could hear him moving around and her imagination rioted at the thought of him stripping off his snug racing trunks, revealing his taut buttocks and the part of him she’d spent so much time exploring. They’d shared a lot of hasty mutual stripping in their past, first in his dorm room and then at out-of-the-way hotels and on deserted back roads once she’d changed universities.

With her pulse racing, Phoebe sank into a chair at the wrought-iron glass-topped table, averted her eyes from the open door and battled an urge to fan her hot face. She hadn’t expected to still find Carter attractive, but the days of giving her heart or her body to a man were over. Carter had been her first lover, but he hadn’t been in love with her or he wouldn’t have broken her heart. She’d fooled herself once and had no intention of repeating the painful mistake of confusing sexual desire with love ever again.

Of all the people Carter Jones had expected to see standing beside his pool, Phoebe Lancaster Drew didn’t make the list.

Carter ripped off his trunks and swore as the abrupt movement sent a sharp stabbing pain up his thigh. It had been three and a half years since the accident that had ended his military career, and for the most part he was pain-free unless he did something stupid. He’d expected the wavering shadow at the pool edge to be one of his neighbors or one of his ex-Marine buddies, although the pity visits had thinned out since his new company had taken off. Thank God.

He yanked on a pair of ragged cut-off shorts and a tank top. No need to dress to impress the senator’s granddaughter. She’d written him off as her dirty secret years ago. Good enough to screw, but not to marry.

What had happened to the girl he’d fallen for? Had she even existed outside his imagination? Probably not.

Phoebe’s conservative suit and tightly twisted-up sable hair, combined with a ramrod-straight spine reminded him of the day he’d surprised her at her grandfather’s Washington, D.C., home—the day the blinders had fallen away from Carter’s eyes and his world had collapsed. The day he’d discovered Phoebe didn’t love him.

His parents had been coming stateside for his university graduation, and he’d wanted them to meet his future wife, but Phoebe hadn’t been happy to see Carter on her grandfather’s doorstep. She’d acted as if she couldn’t get him out of the house fast enough. When her grandfather had arrived, she’d shown her true colors by introducing him to the senator not as her lover or her fiancé, but as a classmate, for crissake. Her refusal to come with him to meet his parents combined with the lukewarm intro to the senator had said it all. They had no future together. He’d been nothing but a toy to Phoebe Lancaster Drew. Unimportant. Temporary. Expendable.

And now Phoebe wanted to erase what had happened between them twelve years ago. He ground his teeth and struggled to tamp down his anger. Those photographs were proof that the senator’s beautiful granddaughter had done the dirty with a mongrel military brat. Hell, if it wasn’t for the pictures, Carter probably wouldn’t believe the two of them had once been as close as lovers can be. He’d made the mistake of believing their hearts had been as connected as their bodies, but that was the gullibility of youth and inexperience for you.

He padded barefoot into the kitchen, extracted two glasses from the cabinet, then pulled a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. He carried his load to the table, poured and slid a glass in her direction. She looked so damned rigid he wanted to bark, “At ease.”

But helping Phoebe relax wasn’t his job. Not anymore.

Settling across from her, he nodded at her murmured thanks and leaned back in his chair. Her light floral scent—the same perfume she’d worn twelve years ago—hit him with a C-130 military transport plane full of memories. He used to know every pulse point she anointed with the stuff intimately. He swigged his drink to ease the dryness in his mouth and assessed the changes in Phoebe over the rim of his glass.

She was still a beauty with her dark hair and changeable hazel-green eyes, but the fire and excitement had faded from those eyes and tension flattened the lush curve of her mouth. She looked too poised and proper, too much like a storefront mannequin for his tastes. It was almost as if someone had sucked the life right out of her, and that saddened him.

Not your problem, Jones.

“Are you happy being your grandfather’s sidekick?”

She blinked at his question. “As opposed to what?”

“Working at a museum or teaching at the university.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, apparently surprised he remembered her long-ago plans. He wished he could forget those nine months and the pain of discovering he’d never be good enough for Phoebe Lancaster Drew. Despite the fact that he was now worth millions, Carter Jones could never be a part of her old-moneyed, politically connected world.

“I’ll have time for that later.” She fingered her glass instead of meeting his gaze. The thick line of her lashes cast shadows on her smooth cheeks.

“And what about the family you once claimed to crave? Say granddad gets elected and possibly even reelected, although he’s pretty old for a second term. You’re thirty. If you wait for Wilton Lancaster to retire, you’ll be pushing forty before you get started.”

He hated the polite and insincere politician’s smile curving her lips. It did nothing to eradicate the sadness in her eyes. “I’ve decided to focus on my career. And my grandfather will be seventy when he’s inaugurated. He’s eager to break Reagan’s record of sixty-nine. Given that Granddad is in excellent health and is very active and mentally acute, a second term isn’t out of the question.”