Scandalous Passion. Emilie Rose
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“Would You Quit The Casanova Routine Already?”
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
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