Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  Grady’s voice broke her meteor vigil. He stood in the doorway, holding an open bottle of champagne and two glasses, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck, the first three studs of his shirt undone. A James Bond cliché? Yes. Devastatingly sexy? Oh yes, even as she wanted to strangle him with his bow tie.

  She faced him, stood as tall as she could, squared her shoulders, and said, “Congratulations. I’m sure you and Priscilla will be very happy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m calling it a night.” She started to move, intending to brush by him and glide up her apartment stairs with the dignity of an eighteenth-century countess.

  “Amanda.” He grabbed her arm. He set the bottle and glasses on the cement. “Wait.” He held her shoulders.

  She looked at him, knowing that even in the dim light, he could tell she’d been upset.

  “It’s a publicity stunt. We’re not engaged.”

  Either he was the biggest jerk in the known universe or she was losing her hearing. She continued to stare, debating whether or not to believe him. “What?”

  “It’s just for the publicity tour. The minute it’s over, we break up. Two weeks. I spoke to the president of the studio tonight and tried to talk him out of it, but he’s beyond reason. There’s something going on he couldn’t tell me about. I didn’t want to do this and I tried everything I could to get out of it.”

  She looked at him as she considered the remote possibility he was telling the truth.

  Grady stroked the bones of her shoulders with his thumbs. She liked when he did that. “I tried to tell you on my way to the stage, but obviously you couldn’t hear me.”

  She remembered him calling over his shoulder to her, “It’s not . . .” Real. He was telling the truth. He wasn’t engaged to Priscilla. She inhaled, sighed it out. She looked past him into the dark barn. “Oh.”

  “I’ve been looking for you to tell you.”

  “Okay. Well. I guess I know now. Thanks. I could use some of that.” She pointed to the champagne. He took the cue, and she backed away to her original spot on the slab and resumed studying the sky while he filled a glass and handed it to her. She drained it in several gulps, squelched a burp, then resumed staring at the heavens.

  After a long minute she asked, “How do you leave here? It’s so beautiful.”

  “Nowhere near as beautiful as you.”

  “Has that line worked for you?” But her stupid heart took a stutter step.

  “This was its world premiere.”

  He stood facing her and tried to lace his fingers with hers, but she snatched her hand away and folded her arms across her chest, still holding her empty glass. She stubbornly stared at the silver and inky sky behind and above him. He skimmed his index finger slowly from the hollow at the base of her throat to the upper reaches of her cleavage.

  “Don’t.” She pushed his hand away.

  “You look amazing.”

  “Harris’s fault.”

  “No. It’s all yours.”

  The beginning strains of the Isley Brothers’s “This Old Heart of Mine (Is Weak for You)” pulsed through the air. “Ah! This is a great song, and you owe me a dance.” He took her glass and set it with his and the bottle on the floor just inside the barn, out of the way. “Come on.” He pulled her into him and started to move in time to the beat.

  “I don’t . . . I’m not in the mood—”

  “You promised.”

  For a moment she resisted, but the champagne told her it would be fun and she had promised, after all. She had to agree with the champagne, so—slowly—she began to move with him. Plus, it was a great song.

  Grady whisked her through twirls and spins, reeling her in and out of his arms, knowing exactly where her hand would end up and taking it again only to let go and send her on another whirl. Her dress flared out, which made her feel pretty darn sexy. It was like jumping a grand prix course on a horse she knew so well, she only had to think what she wanted and the horse would do it. Grady was her perfect partner, precise, balanced, and assured. She laughed and yelped in surprise when he spun her out, and he couldn’t seem to stop smiling at her. And, oh, but didn’t he look wonderful silhouetted against the Milky Way?

  Definitely, agreed the champagne.

  As the song ended, he launched her on one final high-velocity twirl, and she caught her heel on the cement and stumbled. His hand whipped around her waist, catching her.

  “Whoa!” she cried.

  “I gotcha.” He steadied her. “I gotcha.”

  Boy, but she liked his arm around her waist. It was there, exactly when she needed it, and it felt so certain.

  They faced each other, Grady’s hands circling her waist. He was breathing as hard as she was from dancing at eight thousand feet, and his face was flushed. He was grinning like an idiot, and she could tell from the ache in her cheeks she was mirroring him. She was afraid to move, acutely aware of some kind of weird magic swirling around them. She felt like they were the only two people in the world. Their attraction was practically visible, like tiny bolts of lightning flashing between them. The band played “When a Man Loves a Woman.” He lowered his gaze to her mouth. His own mouth relaxed, and his eyes went from sparkling to predatory.

  All the endorphins in Amanda’s body were congregating in the pleasure center of her brain, where they were about to stage the mother of all pep rallies. Everything conspired against her willpower to resist Grady Brunswick—the stars, the music, the dance, the charm that came off this man in tidal waves, and the champagne, which handed out pom-poms and sparklers to the endorphins. She was doomed. She was going to give in.

  She could hardly wait.

  His voice raspy and dark, he said, “I . . . want . . . you.” These three words burst with an entire summer’s worth of frustration, desire, and hunger. She stared back at him with unfocused eyes as her ears roared.

  “Me, too.” The floodgates officially opened. She half-sobbed as she whispered, “Oh Grady, I want you so much.”

  His eyes held an overpowering mixture of astonishment, longing, and need as he lowered his mouth to hers and gently took her lower lip between his lips, as if to ask permission. Then he covered her mouth with his, and there was nothing gentle about it. He held her close and she slid her arms around his neck, pressing against him. She closed her eyes and moaned softly as their tongues danced as intricately as their bodies had moments before. He kissed so artfully, she thought she’d explode from sheer pleasure. Quivers galloped down her spine as he pressed the length of her body to his.

  After what felt like a full millennium and only a millisecond, he pulled away to look at her, a slow, sexy smile forming on his full lips. He touched his palm to her cheek and she nuzzled against it, eyes closed, like a cat. He kissed her mouth again, more softly this time, then skimmed his lips across her cheek to the sensitive spot behind her left ear. In between kisses that caused her to actually whimper, he whispered, “What would it take for you to stay? With me?”

  “Grady . . . I—”

  “Shhh. Think about it. Tell me in two weeks.” He nibbled on the rim of her ear while his thumb sought and found her nipple through her dress and played over it, making her gasp. “Let me walk you home.” His breath on her ear generated debilitating shivers.

  “Oh. Yes,” she whispered. She was on fire. Every champagne-soaked nerve ending sprayed sparks.

  “Don’t move.” He retrieved the bottle and glasses. Back at her side, he pulled her close, kissing her as they walked into the dark barn. When they got to the bottom of the stairs to her apartment, she eased away from him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You’re engaged.”

  “Yeah, but it’s fake.”

  “Yes, but it’s your party. Your guests don’t know it’s fake. You have to go back there and be a good host and fiancé. You have to put on a good show.”

  “I want to be with you tonight.”

  “I want to be with you. But we can’t. If this blows up, it could wreck your career.”

/>   “Now who’s being dramatic? It’s not going to wreck my career.” He sighed. “But you’re right. As usual.” He knocked his head against the wall twice. “I hate this. I absolutely hate this. It’s so ridiculous . . . Hey, why don’t you come back to the party?”

  “It’s late. I have to get up at the crack of dawn. These stalls aren’t going to clean themselves. Anyway, it would drive me crazy, having to see you with Priscilla, looking like you’re head over heels in love.”

  “You’d be jealous?” He grinned.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Amanda Vogel, you just made my night. Here.” He handed her the champagne and glasses. “Get some sleep. Dream of me, okay?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

  He slipped his hand around her waist and kissed her once more. A solid, no-nonsense kiss that said I want you and I’ll have you . . . just not now. It actually made her shiver.

  “Good night, lady in red. You’re killing me.”

  “Good night.”

  Amanda floated up the stairs. She turned at the top to find Grady still there, watching. He blew her a kiss and she beamed at him. He bowed, sweeping his arm across his body, and she waved good night.

  Once inside her apartment, she leaned against the door. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh my, Amanda. You’re in over your head. Or over your heart.”

  16

  The next morning, by some heavenly force, Amanda dragged her hungover self out of bed at six, pulled on cutoffs and a T-shirt, and sleepwalked through her barn chores. Ninety minutes later she collapsed onto her bed.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang!

  Someone was pounding on her door. Please, please let it be Grady.

  “Good morning, Amanda.”

  It so wasn’t Grady.

  Amanda moaned and almost fell out of bed. She opened the door to find Estelle perfectly put together. The woman stood on the landing in a designer sundress and flat sandals that probably cost more than Amanda’s pickup.

  Amanda gathered her civility. “Good morning. Would you like coffee or tea?” She really wanted to ask what the hell Estelle was doing here and if she would please leave and send her son down mach schnell for some world-class snogging.

  “Oh, no,” Estelle said with the same inflection she would use if offered sulfuric acid. She sidled past Amanda, stood in the middle of the small living room, and looked around. Amanda watched the hawk-sharp eyes rove over the couch and beige chairs, the rustic pine coffee table, the lamps from Target, and the kitchenette where the champagne flutes she and Grady had used the night before sat in the sink. And the bananas, with their pink ribbon.

  “What charming . . . servants’ quarters.” Estelle’s nose twitched. “I suppose you get used to the smell.”

  Amanda wondered what she meant, but then remembered not everyone thought horse barns smelled good.

  “At any rate, I accidentally opened your mail. There were some . . . interesting items I want to talk to you about.” She lowered herself regally onto the humble couch and leaned back into the cushions as if she owned the place.

  What did she mean? Why did she talk like a soap-opera villain? And why was Cruella de Vil touching her mail?

  Estelle continued, “I’m especially interested in a particular . . . hospital bill.”

  Adrenaline flooded Amanda’s body. “What hospital bill?” She sounded relatively calm. Which was good.

  Estelle said coolly, “It’s nothing personal. I’m merely trying to protect my family.”

  “From what?” Amanda couldn’t figure that one out. Then again, her brain was operating at about 67 percent capacity right now.

  “I’m no doctor, but any man on the street can tell these expenses were incurred at a psychiatric facility. For all I know, you’re a psychopath, and I don’t want a psychopath around my grandchildren.”

  How ludicrous! Amanda blinked. “I am not a psychopath,” she said with a nervous, high-pitched chuckle that made her sound like a psychopath.

  “But you were under psychiatric care. So if you’re not a psychopath in every sense of the word, I have to assume that, at the very least, you’re, shall we say . . . mentally unstable.”

  Amanda stared at Estelle and imagined how she would look in a coffin.

  Someone knocked softly on the door.

  “Amanda?” Grady asked.

  Her heart zinged at the sound of his voice and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling, knowing Grady had come to her. Without taking her eyes off Estelle, she said, “Come in.”

  He looked at her with a big apology in his eyes. “I just found out she was here.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips and then planted himself in front of his mother.

  “What are you doing here, Mother?”

  “Did she tell you she was crazy? Didn’t you do a background check? Or did you think it was perfectly fine to have a mental patient teach your children because she has a nice rack?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Estelle continued. “I accidentally opened her mail.”

  “Accidentally,” he snorted.

  “It must’ve been divine providence, because not only is she a threat to my granddaughters, she’s a threat to you.”

  Amanda said, “You are way out of line,” and stood next to Grady. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Darling,” Estelle said, “she’s accumulated quite a bill from the loony bin. I can’t imagine her salary could come close to covering it. Dear, she’s after you for more than your good looks.” She shifted her icy gaze to Amanda. “Which he gets from me.”

  Amanda felt her eyes open wide and her facial muscles go slack. This was the most preposterous thing she’d ever heard. Tears of frustration and disbelief formed in her eyes.

  “That’s enough,” Grady practically growled. “Give me those.” He snatched the envelopes. “You can go now, Mother.”

  Estelle rose and strode to the door like a lioness.

  She opened the door and said to Grady, “She’s a golddigger.”

  “Well, Mom, you’re right about one thing.”

  “More than one, but what would that be, dear?”

  He flashed Amanda a sexy, cockeyed grin and said, “She does have a very nice rack.”

  Amanda’s heart and loins galumphed.

  Estelle scowled, then said to Amanda, “Nevertheless, it’s not going to work, dear. Go back to the swamps of Florida or Alabama or wherever you’re from.” And she left.

  Grady dropped the mail on the coffee table, faced Amanda, and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Do you want coffee? Tea?” she asked.

  “Either, and only if you do.”

  “I do.” She squirmed away and began to make a pot of coffee from whole beans. She was dismayed to find that, thanks to Estelle, not only did her head feel like a horse had stepped on it, her stomach did, too.

  Grady sat on a stool at the counter, leaned on his elbows, and said, “Don’t let her get to you. She’s only doing this because she wants me to really marry Priscilla.”

  Amanda stiffened microscopically, but he must’ve noticed because he quickly added, “Which will never happen.”

  She was surprised that she trembled as she ground the beans and poured the fresh grounds into the paper filter. She pressed the on button, then stared at the coffee maker’s carafe as dozens of disturbing thoughts tornadoed in her aching head.

  As the first steaming brown drops plunked into the glass, she felt Grady slide behind her in the narrow space between the kitchen counter and the bar and settle his hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes, then turned around and leaned against him. He slid his arms around her waist and nuzzled her hair, and she felt like none of her problems could reach her.

  Oh, but it felt nice to have his arms around her. His warmth. It felt so good there, against him. It felt right. He smelled clean and she could hear his heartbeat. She rubbed her cheek against him and savored the softness of h
is T-shirt. He stroked her hair, then rubbed her arms for a long, silent minute.

  I fit here, she thought.

  The smell of coffee reminded her it was ready. She raised her head to look at him. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” She slipped out of his embrace and poured them each a mug while he massaged her shoulders.

  “And I’m not after your money.”

  “Jesus, I know that. Does Harris know about the overdose?”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone here except—”

  “Except?”

  She swallowed. “Luke.” She stilled, then turned around to look up at him. His eyes were the color of denim now. She shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  His lips formed a hard, straight line. Then he said, “You dated that guy for five minutes. You see Harris every day and he adores you.”

  “I don’t go around telling people I tried to kill myself.”

  “I’m trying to understand why you’d tell Luke this deep dark secret when you hardly knew him. Yet you still haven’t told Harris, who you see every day and have become good friends with. And you only told me the night before last.”

  “I thought things were going somewhere with Luke. Okay? That’s why I told him.” I was going to sleep with him so I’d stop obsessing over you. But of course she couldn’t tell him this.

  “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell Harris.” His voice was acquiring a hardness she didn’t care for.

  “Harris and I don’t talk about that kind of thing.” We mostly talk about you. There’s not much time for anything else. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop judging me.”

  “I’m not judging you. I’m simply trying to understand. I told you things I’ve never told anyone. I thought we had something Friday night in the barn. And last night.”

  “We did! We do.”

  “But I need to be able to trust you. Trust is a two-way street—if you don’t trust me, how can I trust you? It’s not just about you and me and whatever has started between us; it’s about my kids. I’ve trusted you with my daughters. Was that a mistake?”

  She felt her mouth open in astonishment. “Of course not.”