Carter couldn't imagine why he was letting her get to him like this. He'd graduated fourth in their class. Rendell and Renfro was a prestigious firm. He'd already made partner, the youngest partner they'd made in years. He didn't need a-what had she called it? A drop-dead smile?-to do a good job representing. Sensuous. Why couldn't she admit it?
She was tapping away on her laptop, so he let his gaze fix on her face. She was undeniably beautiful. Undeniably smart. But that didn't make him inferior. Two people could be smart at the same time.
Gazing at her, Carter made a vow. He could have sex with a host of women. What he wanted from this woman was her respect, and he'd get it while they worked on this case together, whatever the cost.
"If you'll handle the cab fare and the porter, I'll check us in," Carter said when they pulled up in front of the St.RegisHotel. The flight had seemed endless. The sooner he and Mallory were in separate rooms, the better. Leaving her whipping out bills and demanding receipts, he strode into the magnificent hotel lobby and approached the reception desk.
"Compton and Trent," he said to the navy-suited woman who greeted him.
"Yes, Mr. Compton," she said after she'd punched her computer keyboard enough times to have turned out a short story for her efforts. "We have a very nice suite for you." She eyed him as all women did-speculatively.
Carter responded with a credit card. "And for Ms. Trent?"
The woman's fingers slowed. Her confidence seemed to ebb. "You and she are sharing the suite," she said at last. "The person who made the reservation said-"
Too late, Carter remembered what he'd told Brenda. "It's just Mallory," he'd said. "Do whatever sounds most convenient."
Deeply regretting that statement, he leaned across the desk. "I've changed my mind," he hissed, glancing behind him to see Mallory approaching. "Give her the suite and find another room for me."
"Aw. Did you two break up on the plane?" The clerk brightened.
His lips tightened. "No. We're professional colleagues. I just think we'd rather have some privacy after working together all day." Besides, Mallory suddenly struck him as way too cute with her forehead wrinkled up the way it was right now.
A lot more clicking of the keyboard followed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Compton," the woman finally said, "but we're fully booked this week. It's the convention, you know. Hundreds of delegates in town."
"What convention?" Carter barked. He'd steal a room from a drunk conventioneer who'd be too sloshed to notice.
"National Rifle Association," she said, looking up from the keyboard.
"Oh."
Mallory appeared beside him, looking less like a harried traveler with a lot on her mind but just as cute. "Do I need to sign for my room?" she said.
"My secretary booked us a suite," Carter said, deciding to brazen it out. "Separate rooms and baths with a sitting room we can use as an office. Sound okay to you?"
She blanched, and he knew it wasn't okay. He stiffened his spine and waited to be blasted straight through the plate-glass windows.
It's not okay at all. But not for the reasons he was probably imagining. She'd thought the worst was over, that in a short time she'd be ensconced in her own room with her laptop up and running and no earthly need to torture herself with the sight of Carter until tomorrow. She'd skip lunch, spend the afternoon working, take a long, cool shower, order dinner from room service, snuggle up in her weightless travel robe that folded into its own pocket and spend the evening in splendid solitude. By morning, she'd have herself, pulled together.
What if he suggested they have dinner?
What if he smiled at her when he suggested it?
Her knees almost buckled.
"You all right?" Carter said.
"Just fine," she lied. All she needed was time alone to gird her loins for the next day.
She wished the word loins hadn't come to mind. Hers were aching, and girding wasn't what they were aching for. She'd probably stay awake all night wondering if he snored. She wouldn't mind if he snored. She'd love to sleep wrapped in his arms with a soft snore vibrating against her hair. Or her throat. Or whatever his head was resting on at the moment. But not on her travel-garb-catalog wash-and-wear gown. On something silk. On naked skin.
Her head spun. She was going crazy.
She couldn't go crazy. Trents coped; they did not go crazy. What in the world was wrong with her?
She counted to ten really, really fast. "I'm fine and the room arrangement is fine," she said smoothly. "It will be convenient for working late on the case."
"It'll be just like being back in law school, studying together all night," Carter said.
With a sinking feeling, she realized how desperately she didn't want it to be anything like those nights of all work and no play.
"Here are your keys," said the clerk. "The porter will be up with your bags in a minute."
"Honeymooners?" the porter asked, settling Carter's bag on a luggage rack in one of the bedrooms of a suite that was probably larger than most New York apartments. He winked at Carter.
"Professional colleagues," Carter growled, flexing his biceps. He leaned toward the man. "Legal counsel to the National Rifle Association," he improvised.
"Oh, sorry," the porter said hurriedly. "Um, I'll show you around the place. Now here you have your thermostat…"
At that moment Mallory stepped out of her room to put her laptop down on a desk in the living area. She'd shed her jacket and was wearing a sleeveless black top tucked into her black trousers. The trousers were loose and pleated, but they fit her just great, Carter thought unexpectedly. And she had really pretty arms. Touchable arms. Arms to slide your hands up and down.
Carter noticed that the porter was looking at Mallory, too, and his spiel had trailed off. He whipped his gaze away from Mallory and onto the man again.
"And," the porter squeaked, "here you have your kitchen."
His voice warbled on. Carter actually looked at the place. He'd expected a living room in the middle and a bedroom on each side, a standard suite. Instead, there were hallways, arches and hidden entrances.
The porter, who had been in the small kitchen nervously flicking switches off and on, reappeared in the living room babbling, "…laundry service and shoe-shine service. Just put your shoes outside the door at night and they'll be there in the morning, all shined up. Fitness center's in the basement. Business center's on the second floor…"
The suite was decorated in flowered stuff and velvet and Oriental rugs and crystal chandeliers. It was a home away from home-not as big as his home, but a hell of a lot neater without his stuff scattered all over it.
He was going to be shut up in here for a whole lot of nights with a woman he'd just discovered was a lot prettier and a lot sexier than he'd remembered. The stab of heat that inflamed his groin startled him. Respect was what he wanted from Mallory, and he sure wasn't going to get it if he tried to jump her bones.
"…room service twenty-four hours a day," the porter finished up. "Never have to leave the place if you don't want to."
At Carter's sharp look, he said, "But of course you'll want to, and the St. Regis offers the finest dining in New York. There's the five-star restaurant on the…"
Carter whipped out a bill and thrust it toward him.
"Oh, no need, sir," the man said, wiping sweat off his forehead. "It was my pleasure. May I get you some ice? Extra towels?"
Carter tucked the bill in the porter's breast pocket. "Leaving would be a good idea," he said.
With numerous muttered "yessirs" the man backed out of the room.
"What did you do to that poor man?" Mallory said, sticking her head out the door of her room.