she didn’t know.
“It won’t happen again.”
One of his eyebrows rose, making him seem vaguely irritated and, if she wasn’t mistaken, amused by her naiveté. That riveting black gaze sent goose bumps racing over her skin.
“You crossed a line I wouldn’t have crossed, Liza.”
“Forgive me, Senator.”
What else could she say? Ducking her head and giving herself a swift mental kick in the butt for her unspeakable impulsivity, she hurried out before the mortification sent her entire face up in flames.
There she was.
John saw Liza Wilson the millisecond he walked through the double glass doors of the conference room at his Cleveland headquarters and all but cartwheeled with excitement.
It was still dark outside and ungodly early—five-thirty in the morning. They’d all been up for hours because John had gone with his staffers and the whole entourage for an early-morning swim at his club, and yet she looked fresh and beautiful in her green dress and black boots, her head bent low over her clipboard as she murmured with Takashi and their cameraman over in the far corner near the sideboard. They’d begin filming soon, so her heavy on-camera makeup was in place, but John found himself wondering how she’d look without so much paint. After a minute he came to the unwelcome conclusion that she’d be more beautiful rather than less.
Damn woman.
Two long days had passed since The Kiss because she’d been recalled to Washington to confer with her executive producers about the logistics of her new assignment with him and Sitchroo. But she was back now, and the sight of her made all his body’s systems—pulse, temperature, breath—go haywire, just like always.
Edging past the bleary-eyed but cheerful staffers already assembled at the massive table, calling good morning as he went, John could acknowledge the magnitude of his mistake in spending time alone with her. What had he thought? That Liza would irritate him? Had he actually been that stupid?
Yeah, Warner. You were that stupid.
She’d been so irritating he’d almost swallowed her whole.
What else had she been?
Unexpectedly sweet. Charming and funny, but also fierce and strong.
Sexy enough that his blood still ran hot every time he thought of her. Really hot. So hot he was in danger of melting the clothes off his own body.
And her smell…some sophisticated combination of a spring garden with a healthy dose of sultry siren thrown in. The kind of scent that made a man’s knees weak, his mouth water and his eyes cross.
Liza, Liza, Liza.
The woman demolished his reserve, destroyed his focus and made him think crazy thoughts, like the following:
Campaign? What campaign?
Or: what harm could there be in kissing her?
Or this little gem: I wonder if I can lock this cabin door, throw her across my table and make love to her until the plane lands. Would anyone really notice if we were in here alone together the whole night? It could work, right?
That’s right. He, Jonathan Matheson Warner, who had never in his life done anything impulsive, had been millimeters away from grabbing that woman and taking her any way she wanted it. Hard and fast? No problem. Soft and easy? No problem. Well…no problem after the first hard-and-fast time. Upside-down while hanging off the plane’s wing? Whatever Liza wanted, he was there. Who cared about a presidential campaign when there was a woman like that in the world?
John shuddered. Five minutes alone with Liza Warner and he was now wallowing in self-destructive behavior. Could playing Russian roulette be far behind?
He already had a paparazzi fire to put out at this morning’s Sitchroo meeting because a tabloid was running pictures of an airheaded celebutante kissing him at a Hollywood fundraiser last week. His poll numbers had already taken a hit because of it—a small hit, but still a hit—and he didn’t have any more numbers to lose.
The last thing he needed was another fire about his personal life,
“It won’t happen again.”
One of his eyebrows rose, making him seem vaguely irritated and, if she wasn’t mistaken, amused by her naiveté. That riveting black gaze sent goose bumps racing over her skin.
“You crossed a line I wouldn’t have crossed, Liza.”
“Forgive me, Senator.”
What else could she say? Ducking her head and giving herself a swift mental kick in the butt for her unspeakable impulsivity, she hurried out before the mortification sent her entire face up in flames.
There she was.
John saw Liza Wilson the millisecond he walked through the double glass doors of the conference room at his Cleveland headquarters and all but cartwheeled with excitement.
It was still dark outside and ungodly early—five-thirty in the morning. They’d all been up for hours because John had gone with his staffers and the whole entourage for an early-morning swim at his club, and yet she looked fresh and beautiful in her green dress and black boots, her head bent low over her clipboard as she murmured with Takashi and their cameraman over in the far corner near the sideboard. They’d begin filming soon, so her heavy on-camera makeup was in place, but John found himself wondering how she’d look without so much paint. After a minute he came to the unwelcome conclusion that she’d be more beautiful rather than less.
Damn woman.
Two long days had passed since The Kiss because she’d been recalled to Washington to confer with her executive producers about the logistics of her new assignment with him and Sitchroo. But she was back now, and the sight of her made all his body’s systems—pulse, temperature, breath—go haywire, just like always.
Edging past the bleary-eyed but cheerful staffers already assembled at the massive table, calling good morning as he went, John could acknowledge the magnitude of his mistake in spending time alone with her. What had he thought? That Liza would irritate him? Had he actually been that stupid?
Yeah, Warner. You were that stupid.
She’d been so irritating he’d almost swallowed her whole.
What else had she been?
Unexpectedly sweet. Charming and funny, but also fierce and strong.
Sexy enough that his blood still ran hot every time he thought of her. Really hot. So hot he was in danger of melting the clothes off his own body.
And her smell…some sophisticated combination of a spring garden with a healthy dose of sultry siren thrown in. The kind of scent that made a man’s knees weak, his mouth water and his eyes cross.
Liza, Liza, Liza.
The woman demolished his reserve, destroyed his focus and made him think crazy thoughts, like the following:
Campaign? What campaign?
Or: what harm could there be in kissing her?
Or this little gem: I wonder if I can lock this cabin door, throw her across my table and make love to her until the plane lands. Would anyone really notice if we were in here alone together the whole night? It could work, right?
That’s right. He, Jonathan Matheson Warner, who had never in his life done anything impulsive, had been millimeters away from grabbing that woman and taking her any way she wanted it. Hard and fast? No problem. Soft and easy? No problem. Well…no problem after the first hard-and-fast time. Upside-down while hanging off the plane’s wing? Whatever Liza wanted, he was there. Who cared about a presidential campaign when there was a woman like that in the world?
John shuddered. Five minutes alone with Liza Warner and he was now wallowing in self-destructive behavior. Could playing Russian roulette be far behind?
He already had a paparazzi fire to put out at this morning’s Sitchroo meeting because a tabloid was running pictures of an airheaded celebutante kissing him at a Hollywood fundraiser last week. His poll numbers had already taken a hit because of it—a small hit, but still a hit—and he didn’t have any more numbers to lose.
The last thing he needed was another fire about his personal life,
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