No strings attached

by Alison Kent

  And then he heard it again, a cross between a sniffle and a sob, so tiny, nearly imperceptible. Had he not seen the hitch in her chest he might not have realized she was the one who was crying.

  Chloe crying. What the hell was there to cry about? Oh, he wasn’t up to dealing with this. Nope. He wasn’t. But he did shift in the old-fashioned seat and lean toward her, slipping his arm around her shoulder.

  He didn’t even have a chance to pull her close because she was moving his way on her own, tucking her shoulder up into his armpit, her head into the crook of his neck.

  She was cold, that was it. Her bare arm was dimpled with goose bumps. He rubbed his palm up and down her skin. She was cold and probably premenstrual, what with the crying coming from nowhere.

  And the sappy movie wasn’t helping, not that he’d paid much attention to what was going on between Cary Grant and the actress. But now it looked like someone had died, and there was an old lace shawl that meant something to Grant’s character.

  Eric brought his lips close to Chloe’s head and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up, her expression one of confusion, her eyes wide and wet and intoxicating in the inconsistent lighting thrown by the film.

  “For what?” Her question was mouthed more than spoken.

  “I should’ve picked out something more upbeat.” He nodded toward the screen, lowered his whisper another notch. “But I knew you liked this stuff. I thought it would be fun. I didn’t think it would make you sad.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” She reached over and laid a hand on his cheek, her soft touch at odds with her name-calling. She leaned even closer and whispered, “I’m not sad. I love this movie. It’s so romantic.”

  Romantic he didn’t know about, since he hadn’t been paying much attention to the story unfolding on-screen. But even now what was happening with the film was nothing compared to what was happening here, with Chloe’s breath heating the skin just below his ear. Where even now she seemed to be nuzzling with her nose.

  A soft nuzzling. A gentle brush of her cool skin to his warmer, rougher cheek. He really should’ve shaved. But the bristle of his beard didn’t seem to be a problem. Chloe hadn’t backed away. And when he shivered at a touch from the tip of her tongue, she cuddled even closer.

  “You’re missing the movie,” he muttered, and she responded, “I don’t care,” tearing him up as she said it. He wanted her to stay right where she was. He wanted her to climb into his lap. He wanted her to turn her attention back to the screen and leave him alone with his honorable intentions.

  He pulled back to look into her eyes, to see if she’d stopped crying, if she was using his cheek to hide her tears or just as a toy for her tongue. And if he hadn’t been sitting against the wall, with a dozen legs between his seat and the aisle, he would’ve popped up and out for a soda he didn’t need.

  What he saw cracked open with frightening ease his vow to avoid all damsels in distress. It bashed his resolve to leave her at her front door at the end of the night. Ripped apart his determination to pay attention to the rest of the film so they could talk about what they’d seen later, over drinks.

  As it was, he couldn’t pull his gaze away from her face. And when she raised her head, her eyes questioning, her lips trembling and seeking, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  It was the first time they’d kissed, and he knew he’d remember it forever because she tasted like salt and warm buttered popcorn.

  They’d once shared a kiss meant for show while under the influence of an audience and too much tequila. But this wasn’t that kiss. This kiss was real, possessing more true intimacy than the sexual encounters they’d shared.

  Her lips were soft and tentatively searching, as if she wasn’t sure he’d want to accept the sweet offer of her mouth. As if she was afraid he’d turn her away. He’d never known a woman so contradictory, so confounding, or a woman he wanted to kiss more.

  He settled his mouth over hers and answered her unspoken question. The kiss was nothing more than a brush of contact, a moment of simplicity and innocence. But it stabbed Eric in the gut with its sharp insistence that simplicity and innocence weren’t what they appeared to be.

  Chloe had never been innocent. He knew virtually nothing about her past, but he tasted her strong desire to be wanted, her deep, piercing need for acceptance. And he knew. As her tongue touched his lips and moved into his mouth, he knew.

  It didn’t matter that she claimed to know men, that she professed to have experience in relationships, that she said she knew all about romance. Eric knew better. He knew the truth. Her mouth told him.

  With the gentle, rubbing press of her lips to his and the tender caress of her tongue, her mouth told him.

  She was simply looking to be loved.

  THE BALLROOM at the Renaissance Hotel looked like it had been pulled straight from the Web pages of www.girl-gear.com for the following night’s gIRL-gEAR gIRL competition.

  The hotel’s event organizers had worked with the partners to decorate in the company’s color scheme of lime-green and orange, hot-pink and bright yellow.

  Two tablecloths in contrasting colors draped every table. Centerpieces had been designed with bright green foliage and a cluster of hothouse blooms in orange, yellow and pink.

  Confetti in the shape of a tiny g littered the floor, the tables, even the chairs. Chloe knew she’d be shaking bits of it from the black feather boa fringing the knee-length hemline of her dress for the entire life of the garment.

  Sitting at a huge circular table for twelve, she flipped through the program introducing the finalists vying for the title of gIRL-gEAR gIRL. Marketing had done a super job putting together the souvenir brochure for the evening’s event.

  All six of the finalists had appeared onstage earlier to deliver their introductions, along with an oral presentation detailing the influence of fashion on their lives. Each girl had since returned to model the formal ensemble she had not only designed but constructed from the inside out.

  Whether a dress or a combination of separates, every seam, every buttonhole, every piece of trim had to be the work of the contestant. Even the accessories had to be handcrafted. Footwear was the only exception, though each of the finalists had extended her creativity to her feet as well.

  Now all that was left to be done was the scoring and the tabulation. And the first gIRL-gEAR gIRL would be crowned.

  All in all, Chloe was totally amazed. Amazed and more than a bit envious. Not by the girls’ imaginations and talent, but by the fact that here they were, seventeen or eighteen years old, knowing exactly what they wanted to do with their lives.

  At that age, being forced to study fashion instead of phys ed, all she’d known was that what she wanted to do with her life was never going to happen.

  She wasn’t sure about her partners, but she definitely had a particular favorite among the girls. A favorite who probably wouldn’t win the competition once the scores were tabulated. But the girl—her name was Deanna—touched Chloe’s heart in ways she’d thought herself untouchable.

  Deanna’s talent for fashion wasn’t in question. She had all the right answers, as well as the body and the face. There was one thing, however, that Chloe was certain would keep the girl from walking away with the highest score.

  And that was her demeanor. Her slacker-speak. Her punk-ass attitude. An attitude that was nothing but show, a cover for her insecurity, a red herring to draw attention from her lack of self-esteem.

  Chloe recognized so much of herself in Deanna it hurt.

  Oblivious to the distress churning in Chloe’s stomach along with the rosemary chicken, the rest of her tablemates chatted quietly, the five partners pouring over the score sheets in the portfolios they’d had now for over a week, the men waiting the arrival of the evening’s dessert.

  In addition to Eric, who sat to her right, Chloe shared the table in front of the stage with Melanie, Kinsey, Sydney, Lauren and Macy, along with their dates. It was a sort of
boy, girl, boy, girl reenactment of the scavenger hunt pairings.

  Macy, of course, sat as close as she could to Leo without actually climbing into his lap. Melanie had brought Jess Morgan, who Chloe really did like and thought perfect for Mel. And Kinsey had invited Doug Storey.

  The last two pairings, however, had Chloe and the others shaking their heads.

  Sydney’s date for the evening was Ray Coffey, which wasn’t so strange in and of itself, because the two were known to go out from time to time. But tonight they’d barely spoken. Ray looked mad as hell and Sydney totally pissed off and as uncomfortable in his company as the rest of the table was with Lauren apparently dating Sydney’s father, Nolan Ford.

  Not only because Sydney and Nolan barely spoke to one another these days, which had made for an awkward dinner for all, but because at the table behind, Poe sat with Anton Neville. Chloe shook her head.

  “You’re being too quiet.”

  Chloe looked up at Eric just as he presented her with a bite of the lemon sorbet the waiter had delivered, along with the rest of the guests’ chocolate mousse.

  She accepted his offering, trying to remember when she’d told him of her preference for lemon desserts, wondering how richly he’d greased the waiter’s palm. Then she realized five pairs of female eyes were trained her way.

  She thought about sticking out her tongue but knew that exposing a mouthful of smeared, melting lemon would not earn her any Sydney points. So she smiled sweetly and went back to marking her score sheet.

  “C’mon, princess,” Eric urged. “Talk to me.”

  “I hate it when you call me princess.” Chloe slammed the portfolio against her thigh and poked Eric in the shoulder with her pencil’s sharp point. “Why do you have to call me princess?”

  Eric pushed his chair back a foot from the table, braced his elbow on his thigh and then leaned into her space. “Tell me why you hate it and I’ll tell you why it fits.”

  “It does not fit,” she muttered, unsure why she was so irritated tonight, and denying that it had anything to do with Eric’s tenderness at the movies last night. Or the lemon sorbet. “I am not some goody-goody little spoiled ingenue.”

  “That’s not what the word brings to mind.” Eric ran his index finger up and down the tender skin of her bare inner arm.

  Chloe shivered because she was cold. Not because his touch was nothing more than the barest whisper. Or because his knuckle brushed the swell of her breast. He stroked his thumb into the pit of her elbow and she finally pulled away, too aware of other places she’d felt his touch.

  He was being way too sweet, making her crazy with all this kind and gentle crap when she was in the mood to growl. “Then think of another endearment if you have to use one at all.”

  “Sure thing. Peaches.”

  “No.”

  “Lamb chop.”

  “No.”

  “Doll baby.”

  She considered the expression. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

  “Works for me.” This time he scooted his chair a foot closer to hers. “Doll baby.”

  Eyes at half-mast, she cast a glance to the side. “Are you trying to sit in my lap? Because it’s absence that makes the heart grow fonder.”

  Eric laughed and draped an arm across the back of her chair. He pretended interest in her scoring process. “So this really is all happening live, huh?”

  “Right before your very eyes.” She indicated the score sheet bound into the back of the portfolio. “Now that the girls have all done their thing, we grade them on a complicated point system. The results will be compiled by our accountant while everyone finishes dessert. So, if you don’t mind…”

  Tapping the portfolio still open to Deanna’s profile, Eric leaned farther into Chloe’s space. “Is she your favorite?”

  He smelled warm and comfortable, and Chloe hated herself because she wanted to burrow into his body beneath the blankets on her bed. She could barely think to answer his question for fighting the urge to tickle his neck with her nuzzling nose.

  Why did he always make her think about sex? And not just about having sex, but enjoying sex. Wanting his body because no other body would do. Last night, after that kiss, she would’ve given him anything. But he hadn’t even asked.

  What kind of guy kissed like that and then didn’t ask for sex? “I like this one, yes. And, no. It’s not because she has an eye for color.”

  “You mean an eye for pink.” Eric’s wandering hand was back, fingering the thin strap holding up the deep-cut bodice of Chloe’s hot-fuchsia, flapper-style dress.

  “She has good taste. She knows what to wear with her coloring. That’s all part of the picture.” God is in the details. Where had she heard that before?

  “There’s more, though, isn’t there? I’ve watched you turn back to this one over and over.”

  Chloe wasn’t sure she could give Eric a coherent reply without revealing her entire life story. He didn’t need to know that she and Deanna shared a motherless upbringing. Or that the identity Deanna found in fashion, the seventeen-year-old Chloe had found in sports.

  And now here was this girl, on the cusp of realizing her dream, her father in the audience looking nervous and ready to puke, while Chloe had followed the same path with one hundred percent resentment for being forced into a field of study in which she had no interest.

  Chloe had the career this girl would kill for, and she couldn’t have cared less. How was she supposed to explain that to Eric?

  Pencil in hand, she lifted his fingers, which hovered too near her cleavage, and returned his hand to his lap. Then, leaning forward, she passed her portfolio and completed score sheet across the table to Sydney.

  Sitting back, Chloe slid a sideways glance Eric’s way. “You’re getting awfully touchy-feely.”

  “All part of the escort service, ma’am. I’m showing my dedication to you.” This time he shifted the arm draped over the back of her chair, his fingers moving to her nape and tugging on the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. “Besides, you’re fun to touch and feel.”

  “Dedication to me?” She ignored the touch-and-feel part. She was already feeling too much. “That’s why you were sharing your affections with any woman you could get your hands on the other night at the Daiquiri Factory?”

  “What’s this?” He pulled back as if to see her more clearly. “I’ve been spied upon? And I’m now the victim of rumor and hearsay?”

  “The information was passed on to me by someone who saw you there sharing your…dedication.” Her glare dared him to deny the charge.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said, and frowned. “Who’s telling these tales on me?”

  Because Kinsey was all the way on the other side of the table, Chloe cut her gaze to Melanie, the next best thing, sitting, as she was, on Eric’s other side. His hand still at Chloe’s hairline, Eric turned to Melanie.

  “Hey, Mel,” he said, and she looked away from her conversation with Jess.

  “Hey, Eric.”

  “You’ve been feeding Chloe rumors about me, I hear.”

  Melanie shifted her position and studied Eric over her tiny black rectangular frames. “I haven’t been feeding her anything. Kinsey, however, has been giving her the truth.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes that is so,” Melanie said, obviously gearing up to give Eric an earful.

  Chloe made a halfhearted attempt to rein in her friend. “It’s okay, Mel. He’s not going to listen to you any more than he listens to me.”

  “What do you mean, I don’t listen to you?” Eric’s gaze cut from Melanie to Chloe and back again. “What am I missing here?”

  This time Melanie lifted her chin, looking over her frames and down her nose. “Chloe filled us in on your role in her grand plan to repair her reputation.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  Melanie rolled her eyes. “So. What good is your arrangement going to do her if she’s the only one keeping it exclusive?”

  “Exclus
ive?” This time Eric’s head made a slow swing in Chloe’s direction. His eyes flashed and the heat warmed more than the surface of her skin.

  She started to tell him that if he’d had half a brain he would’ve understood that her plan wouldn’t do a bit of good if he continued to date anything with breasts. But she didn’t want him to know she’d given him that much credit.

  Neither did she want him to know that thinking of him with any other woman raised her hackles.

  She didn’t get a chance to tell him anything, however, because he’d turned to Melanie, offered an, “Excuse us,” and now had his hand wrapped around Chloe’s upper arm and a look in his eye that dared her to give him any shit.

  When he insisted, she got to her feet, because she didn’t have much of a choice, he held her so tightly.

  But the primary reason she did as he ordered was because her body refused to tell him no. Her nerves were firing heated rounds from the point of their innocent skin-to-skin contact to other places she remembered the touch of his fingers.

  What was going on with him? And why couldn’t she breathe?

  “Chloe?” Sydney called from across the table. “The results will be back in fifteen minutes.”

  Nodding, Chloe opened her mouth to lay the blame for her departure right where it belonged. But the guilty party took full responsibility with his devilish dimples and a charming, “I’ll have her back in a jiff, Syd.”

  And then Eric propelled Chloe from the table near the stage area to the exit at the rear of the rectangular room. Fortunately, they had the width rather than the length to cross.

  Once out in the hallway, he slid his hold down her arm to her hand, pulling her along behind him as he glanced at alcoves and blind turns and dead ends, and tried every door he passed.

  “Eric, damn you. Slow down before I break my ankle.” But Eric was intent, and Chloe sensed the desperation in his grip and in his silence.

  And the rapid beat of her heart was less about adrenaline and more about anticipation and awareness and the arousing sleight of hand he played in her palm with his fingers.