by Alison Kent
Chloe stopped, her expression incredulous. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Watch me.” He bounced the keys in his palm.
Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “If a woman pulled this stunt, she’d be called every foul name in a man’s vocabulary.”
“Chloe, I love you.”
Her lashes fluttered, then stilled. Her mouth softened, but remained closed.
As reactions went, it blew beets, but he gamely forged ahead. “I’d kill right now to be inside you, but it’s not going to happen here or tonight. I don’t want a quickie on a bar counter. Next time I want a bed. And all night. And your full agreement that we’re not going to have sex.”
She blinked. “We’re not?”
Grinning at her disappointed tone, he stalked purposefully forward, grabbed her by the wrist, ready to take her home. “No, princess. We’re not. What we are going to do, when it happens, is make love. It’s about time you learned the difference.”
12
ERIC HAD YET TO SEE a single supermodel.
Here he was at gIRL-gEAR’s Wild Winter Woman fashion show, sitting in front of the runway, sharing prime real estate in the George R. Brown Convention Center with Leo Redding, Ray Coffey, Nolan Ford, Jess Morgan, Doug Storey and Anton Neville.
And there wasn’t a supermodel to be seen.
Chloe, the sneaky little thing, had obviously been willing to pull any rabbit out of her hat, since it had been the promise of the supermodels that had swayed Eric, way back when, to go along with her plan.
Well, that wasn’t quite the truth, he mused, shifting in the utilitarian convention center chair. What had convinced him in the beginning to barter his services had started months ago, before he’d been paired with Chloe for Macy’s scavenger hunt.
Because he played soccer with Anton, Eric had originally been introduced to Chloe by Lauren last year during the league’s spring season. He’d seen Chloe off and on during the months that followed and heard tales of her reputation through the local testosterone grapevine.
Tales that left him curious and disbelieving.
Curious because he’d never been able to reconcile the stories of her ball-busting skills with her sugarcoated, marshmallow appearance. And disbelieving because he’d never met a woman who had it in for all men.
The scavenger hunt pairing had made him a convert.
But knowing the truth of her nature hadn’t made a bit of difference when he’d glanced up that late Saturday afternoon to see her sitting at the bar, wearing a football jersey, cross-trainers and a look of distress.
He’d dusted off his knight-in-shining-armor duds before she’d even filled him in on the particulars of her dragon. Now that he’d gone a round with the son of a bitch, Eric could testify to the beast’s bullying hide, intimidating scales and razor-sharp teeth tempered in cruelly abusive flames.
This damsel-rescuing business was hard work, though being a damsel had to be worse. Still, the lack of reward was almost reason enough to throw in the towel…or the chain mail.
Eric hadn’t seen Chloe for two weeks now, not since the night he’d driven her home and walked her to her door after the party they’d hosted. Telling her what they were going to do, then not doing anything, had been as hard to pull off as a two-outs, bases-loaded, bottom-of-the-ninth save. He’d started to kiss her there beneath the covered portico leading to her front door. But, true to form, she’d told him not to bother.
And now, sitting and tugging on the collar of his tuxedo shirt, he was trying to convince himself that he was here at the fashion show because he was her escort and that he wasn’t doing the kick-me, beat-me, make-me-beg routine.
It wasn’t an easy case to make when not one of the gIRL-gEAR partners was to be seen.
Up until a few minutes ago, at least, he’d been able to carry on a conversation with Ray, who sat on his right, or with Anton and Leo, to his left. But now, with the DJ mixing old disco and new house music, setting what Eric supposed was a clothes-wearing mood, he had nothing but his thoughts for company.
Compared to supermodels, it was lousy entertainment.
The lights dimmed. Colored spotlights swept the room. The music surged to a crescendo, then died down to a low background beat. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome our hostess for the evening. Star of the locally produced and nationally syndicated talk show Speak Up!, Dr. Kate Lindsey!”
Automatically rather than enthusiastically, Eric joined the huge crowd in applause as the auburn-haired psychologist stepped from behind the curtain and made her way to the podium at the left of the stage.
“Good evening, Houston.” Dr. Lindsey’s greeting was met by another lively ovation. She smiled warmly out at the crowd. “It’s wonderful to see this amazing turnout and so many familiar faces. But save your energy for the show. Trust me. You’re going to need it. Because what I’ve seen backstage will blow you away.”
Again the crowd roared. Again Eric offered desultory applause. He was too much of a blue jeans and T-shirt kinda guy to get excited over seeing a bunch of women’s clothing. Now give him a supermodel…
“Houston? Get ready to be wooed. Get ready to be wowed. Get ready to open up your wallets and spend till it hurts! We have bragging rights to the hottest fashion ticket in the country. Now, let’s show the world how we dress it up, Texas! Get ready for the girls of gIRL-gEAR!”
Eric shook his head and sat back. No wonder the girls had made themselves scarce. Supermodels. Right. And he was a major-league ball player. Still, he couldn’t wait to see Chloe strut her stuff…uh, as long as her stuff was covered.
The spotlights returned to dance across the stage. The curtain parted. Ground-hugging fog rolled forward, hovering over the platform, dissipating feet in front of the runway in smoky fingers of orange, yellow, pink and green.
The music turned funky and eight lithely androgynous gymnasts, poured into leotards of like colors, tumbled through the murky haze. Eric found himself caught up in the stylish production. But then the stage lights brightened and he quickly pulled a straight face.
Dr. Lindsey adjusted the podium’s reading lamp and moved to her script. “Recently awarded a full scholarship along with the title of gIRL-gEAR gIRL, please offer your congratulations one more time to Miss Deanna Elliott.”
Eric nodded to himself. So, Chloe’s favorite had won. She hadn’t told him. He wondered why she hadn’t. Not that he’d thought to ask…
“Most likely to go to the head of the class, Deanna is wearing a classic back-to-school look. Her red letter sweater tops a kicky private-school plaid kilt. Add a pair of red leather bad-girl boots and find yourself the teacher’s pet.”
Deanna strutted down the runway with one hand at her hip, her chin in the air and a saucy no-one-can-stop-me-now grin on her Julia Roberts mouth. Looking at the girl, Eric could only chuckle under his breath and hope the partners knew what they were doing. They definitely had a monster on their hands.
Deanna tossed her head for the return trip, her sleek black ponytail slapped her shoulders like a whip, and Dr. Lindsey raised her voice above the thunderous response. “Thank you, Deanna. Now, please welcome the woman who gives you the best in guidance and games, editor of gIRL-gEAR’s Web site, Macy Webb.
“From the lemon-yellow tennis shoes and matching cuff watch in neon plastic, Macy’s ensemble is paint-spattered street punk personified. Her skin-hugging pullover in a Picasso-patterned mosaic is paired with a matching skirt covered in colorful subway-car graffiti. This is fashion at its silly unmatched best.”
Eric cast a surreptitious glance to his right toward Leo Redding. Leo, who rarely showed emotion, who wore the straightest of straight faces, sat with his arms crossed, the corners of his mouth lifted in a sardonic twist that said silly wasn’t the half of what Macy was wearing, and she wouldn’t be wearing anything once he got her home. Eric chuckled.
“Macy Webb, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Lindsey said, as Macy skipped off stage and Lauren started down the runway.
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“Lauren Hollister has given the gIRL-gEAR Web site a wildly popular retro design, but now she reaches back further in time to give us a peek at her own inner Victorian. Wearing distressed leather boots laced to the knee and a tiered black taffeta skirt above, Lauren has embellished the antique panache with delicate extras including a fringed scarf from Grandma’s attic, knotted behind the stand-up collar of a denim weskit.”
Lauren made the turn at the end of the runway and Eric made his own casual turn to the right. Halfway down the row of seats, Nolan Ford sat with his head down, disregarding Lauren in favor of taking a call on his cell phone. Interesting, Eric thought, rolling his shoulders and looking to the left and Anton Neville.
Anton sat forward, elbows braced on his knees and hands clasped, his expression a mix of longing and regret as his gaze moved from Lauren to the floor between his feet. Chloe had been so wrong, accusing Anton of putting on a missing-Lauren act. Eric seriously felt the other man’s pain.
“Our next model, Sydney Ford, holds the proverbial reins of fashion’s rising empire and rides onto the scene wearing white pants with long lean lines tucked into black riding boots. Her sheer white blouse is strategically striped with ribbons of winner’s circle satin. At her waist hangs a belt buckle styled to look like a silver stirrup, and a silver horseshoe bracelet adds the finishing touch of equestrian class.”
Eric had to admit it—Sydney looked hot. Sophisticated, uptown hot. Which made perfect sense, being that she was a Ford. Again Eric had to check out Nolan’s reaction, and this time the cell phone was totally out of sight. Sydney’s father literally sat on the edge of his seat. And the smile on his face was nothing if it wasn’t beaming.
And then there was Ray Coffey, directly on Eric’s right and looking like invisible chains were the only thing keeping him from throwing Sydney over his shoulder and heading for the closest cave.
In his peripheral vision, Eric registered Poe walking down the runway, wearing chunky black-and-white stripes in what Dr. Lindsey described as Soho and Op Art in a mod, mod, mod world. But what had drawn Eric’s attention away from the stage was more than Ray wanting to get his hands on Sydney.
It was the caliber of looks shooting back and forth between Nolan and Ray. And Eric’s curiosity would’ve continued to stew if he hadn’t heard Chloe’s name. He swung his attention back to the stage and forgot not only his burgeoning conspiracy theory, but that anyone else in the room existed.
“Chloe Zuniga’s savvy finesse of cosmetics and accessories modernizes the hippie-chick with wispy gypsy layers of a cotton gauze paisley in colors of deep pink and red. A peasant blouse with shirred sleeves and a matching multiwrap skirt give a dreamy, carefree feel to the ensemble. Silver and garnet drop earrings, stacks of silver bangles and a flower choker in the same paisley print complete the look.”
Eric’s gaze tracked Chloe’s performance as she made her way down the runway. She twirled and posed. She held out her arms, showing off the cut and the transparency of her blouse. She lifted the hem of her skirt and kicked out in a mini cancan. She waved to audience members, blowing flirtatious kisses.
The other “models” had done similar routines, firing up the crowd for the unorthodox fashion show that epitomized the firm’s individualistic style. Eric just hadn’t followed every step of the other acts the way he was following Chloe’s.
Which was why he was watching when she looked down from the runway and into his eyes. And why, when she crooked a finger his way, caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth and smiled, Eric felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the very worst way. Because he didn’t know where she was coming from.
Maybe this come-on was a payback for leaving her at her door when she’d wanted him to take her to bed. Or maybe this was a public demonstration of their exclusive arrangement, less for his benefit than for that of the rest of the room.
Whatever. She had him. She so had him.
In a faraway corner of his mind, Eric heard Kinsey’s look described as blues traveler in rock ’n’ roll indigo denim. And then Melanie took the long runway walk in form-fitting, classic background black to show off pagers and wireless headsets and text messaging tools.
But he didn’t get a look at either of the final two girls. His attention was divided between ignoring the ribbing from his seatmates and working his way backstage. He planned to find out what his sexy little hippie-chick had on her mind.
And what she intended to do about it.
“YOU KNOW, ERIC. This getting me into your bedroom to show me something business is hardly very original.”
Climbing the stairs to the second floor of Eric’s house, Chloe reached up to take off the choker she’d worn for her modeling stint in the fashion show. She was unaccountably edgy, wondering what Eric had on his mind, and the choker was, well, choking her. “All you had to say was that you’d changed your mind about sleeping with me again.”
“I haven’t changed my mind about sleeping with you again.” He reached past her head and planted his palm on the bedroom door. “And don’t take that off.”
Her clutch purse tucked beneath an arm, Chloe’s hands stilled on the choker’s fastener. She looked up and into Eric’s eyes, where he hovered in her space. She waited for him to push the door open, uncertain, if pressed, whether she’d be able to remember what it was he’d just said.
He was so close she could see the tiny flare of his nostrils as he breathed. He had one brow lifted, yet the whole of his expression remained unreadable. He smelled like comforting warmth and lightly spiced male skin, and her anticipation heightened.
When he shoved open the door, she moved forward, aware of how close he still stood. Aware that they hadn’t yet touched.
She’d missed their intimacy. She hated to admit it, especially after the way he’d so audaciously turned her down the night of the party at Haydon’s, but she had. And it wasn’t only the sex she missed, even if it had been three weeks since he’d taken her apart in her kitchen.
She’d missed Eric, the teasing and taunting, the playful put-downs, the serious heart-to-hearts and being able to talk to him about anything. She’d missed the way he insisted on opening her car door, the way he called her even if he had nothing to say because that’s what friends were for.
He was the first person to come to mind when she had news to share or a story to relate about the happenings of her day. Yes, what they shared was much more than lust. It was even more than friendship. But she was still afraid to call it love. She wasn’t sure she was ready to give up that much of herself.
Eric closed the bedroom door and leaned back against it, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, his pleated tuxedo shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his tie dangling loose around his neck.
Chloe wanted to gobble him up. She wanted to slowly feast. She no longer knew what she wanted where Eric was concerned. He had her so confused…and so terribly, terribly frightened that she’d never be able to meet his expectations.
What would she do if she tried? And then failed?
And if he hadn’t changed his mind about sleeping with her, why had he swept her up and away after the fashion show even before she’d had time to change back into her own clothes?
What could he possibly want?
She stopped in the center of his room and turned to wait. “You mean there really is something in here you want me to see?”
He nodded, so she walked through his room, admiring the color scheme of navy and rust and deep pine green, admiring, too, the highboy dresser. His sleigh bed was queen-size, his comforter smoothed beneath a stack of pillows in cotton cases of navy and light blue plaid.
But she didn’t notice anything extraordinary. Nothing strange or obvious that he’d want her to see. The curtains covering the room’s one window were a marbled pattern of rust and blues. The door to the bathroom stood open. The color scheme continued into the smaller room.
A stack of folded T-shirts sat on top of an overturned laundry basket. A pair o
f inline skates and three pairs of athletic shoes had been tossed into the corner beside the closet door. The haphazard mess made Chloe feel better. She’d been deluding herself into thinking that Eric was perfect. Perfect as a man. Perfect for her.
She’d circled through the entire room and now returned to perch on the side of the bed, looking up at Eric, who still leaned against the door. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him looking more relaxed. Or more sure of himself, sure of what he wanted, sure of his success.
A shiver ran the length of her spine and settled in to tickle the small of her back. Keeping her voice level required no small effort. “I guess you’re going to have to point it out to me, sugar. I’m obviously too dense to get it on my own.”
Eric pushed away from the door and straightened. Hands still in his pockets, he made his slow and lazy way toward the bed. Toward her. The room didn’t seem big enough for both of them, suddenly. One minute Chloe’s excitement simmered, the next it seethed. Even the tips of her fingers tingled, wrapped around the clasp of her purse.
He didn’t stop when they bumped shins. He continued forward, giving Chloe no choice but to scoot back into the center of the bed. He climbed on top, bracketed her thighs with his knees and bore her down to lie flat on her back, his hands holding his weight on either side of her head. And still she clutched her purse with anxious fingers.
“You’re lying to one of us, sugar. Because if this isn’t about sex, the only thing I can think that you might want me to see is your ceiling.” She couldn’t believe that was her voice sounding so breathless, her stomach launching a flight of butterflies.
“I don’t want to show you my ceiling. And I’m not lying to either of us.” He lowered his body, bracing his weight on his forearms and elbows, stretching out his legs along either side of hers.
She felt the bulge between his thighs against the cleft between her own, a bulge still soft and only beginning to stir with interest. But it was the look on his face, the gentle intensity brightening his eyes, that stirred both Chloe’s interest and her uncertainty.