Kiss & Makeup

by Alison Kent

  She tugged. He moved in, one more step that brought him near enough to feel the ragged breath she released. “Unless my telepathic reception was off and you weren’t begging for a rescue.”

  Cute. Very cute. Covering her nerves with cocky bravado when at this distance he could see the sheen of perspiration on her skin.

  He took the handset away from her and hung it in place without anything close to a struggle. “No. I was begging. And thank you for the save.”

  She shrugged, then tucked her hands behind her. “All in a day’s work.”

  “I’ve heard that about your profession.”

  “Hey, what’s a bartender for but to hear confessions and intervene on behalf of those seeking salvation?”

  Salvation. Was that what drew him to her? The idea that she possessed the secret to saving him from sliding deeper into his cynical pit? “Well, you do deliver a truly religious experience.”

  “I aim to please.”

  God, but her face was amazing. Her smile wide and dimpled. Her eyes reflecting lights found nowhere in the room. Wisps of baby-fine hairs framed her face, and he found himself reaching up, smoothing several where they brushed her temple.

  There were so many things he wanted to know about her, to ask, to hear her tell him in that soft Oklahoma voice. He didn’t know which to ask first, and so in the end he said nothing. He simply stroked the bare shell of her ear.

  “You’re staring, Quentin,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  He blinked, pulled his hand away, clenched his fingers. Most women visibly preened beneath his stare. Shandi’s soft accusation intrigued him almost as much as the hint of a blush on her cheeks.

  “So,” he began, backing a step away, needing even that little bit of distance in order to avoid seeming as if he was only here to get his hands on her. “What’s next?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, a move more protective than defensive. “What do you mean?”

  He nodded in the direction of the bar. “I’m assuming you need to get back to work.”

  “I do,” she said almost in relief.

  “And I can’t stay here forever.”

  “You can’t.”

  “And if Mrs. Cyprus is still drinking me into the poorhouse,” he added with a pained grin, “I’m not going back out there.”

  Shandi held up one finger and pushed open the bar door far enough to look out. When she stepped back, two impish dimples belied her somber tone. “She is. Though I will be sure to tell her you’ve settled your tab with regrets.”

  What he was regretting was that tonight’s time with Shandi was coming to an end. That he hadn’t yet managed to throw out a great line that would reel her in.

  He’d been the pursued, the proverbial trophy for so many years that he couldn’t even remember how to bait a damn hook—proving again how very much he needed this change in his life.

  And then Shandi asked, “Do you ever get used to it?”

  “Used to what?”

  “The groupies? The fame hunters? Whatever you call them?”

  So now she was a mind reader, too? Unbelievable. “If you mean the I’ll-stroke-yours-if-you’ll-stroke-mine come-ons, then yeah. I’m used to it.” He took the admission further. “These days I’m surprised when it doesn’t happen.”

  He’d grown used to women’s scrutiny; it came with the job and the looks, and there had been a time he’d embraced the attention for the perk it was.

  But he was long past that place in his life, past taking advantage of offers or free glasses of wine, past welcoming the advances, past defining his success by how often he was recognized.

  “And here I was just thinking how lucky you are to have turned your passion into a successful career.”

  He liked that she’d been thinking of him. But the last thing he wanted to inspire in her was sympathy. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Look, I’ll be in the city till the first of next week. I’d like to see you away from the bar. Hell, away from the hotel.”

  She pursed her lips into a bow while thinking over his suggestion. “I’m off tomorrow night. And—” she gestured toward the phone “—I was just stood up for a movie date.”

  He grinned. “I’m a huge movie fan.”

  She laughed, a crystal clear sound that tickled like wind chimes. “Is that so? Not even knowing what I was going to see?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in the company.”

  “Okay then,” she said after only a moment’s hesitation. “The theater’s only a few blocks from here. You want to meet in the lobby at seven?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Super.” She clasped her hands together. “I’d, uh, better get back before Armand drags me back by my hair.”

  He smiled. “Before you go?”

  She arched both brows, nodded.

  “Is there another way out of here so I don’t have to sneak out through the bar?”

  “C’mon. I’ll take you out through the kitchen. Chef is pretty famous in his own right, so he’ll totally understand wanting to avoid the groupies.”

  Quentin turned to follow her through the swinging doors at the rear of the room, the same lightness in his step that he’d noticed after making the decision to return to Texas.

  He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad and quite frankly right now he didn’t give a damn.

  SHANDI RIPPED THE YELLOW long-sleeved silk T-shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor on top of the cropped black jeans, the denim corset dress, the rose-colored ruffle-front blouse and at least four other similarly inappropriate outfits.

  Evan, who’d been sitting on the foot of her bed, collapsed onto the mattress with an exasperated groan. “Why am I here, Shandi? Why the hell am I even here?”

  She plodded out from behind her room divider, a silk screen of Mae West prints. Wearing her ratty chenille bathrobe, she dropped to sit on the hardwood floor in the middle of all the clothes.

  “You’re here because A, you have nothing better to do, B, April can’t be here and C, I happen to trust your taste and I need the opinion of an eye other than my own.”

  “I’m gouging mine out now, so you’re SOL.”

  She picked up a lime leather miniskirt and threw it at him. “And you call yourself a roommate.”

  “I call myself male, and I come with the requisite lack of fashion sense.”

  “Or—so the rumor goes—you don’t come at all.”

  Evan levered himself up onto his elbows again. “Is that a reference to my love life? Because I can assure you that the rumor is wrong.”

  “Been taking matters into your own hands again?”

  “As often as possible.”

  Shandi laughed but stopped short of admitting she shared his pain. Her love life of late was nonexistent and her sex life a figment of her fantasies, her hands and one or two very special battery-operated boyfriends.

  She sighed. “If I were going out with you or April, I wouldn’t be having this problem, you know.”

  “Right. April and I don’t rate.”

  “It’s not that and you know it. It’s just that with the two of you I can be myself.”

  Evan heaved an enormous sigh. “This may come as a big shock, Shandi, but guys like women comfortable enough to be themselves.”

  “I know.”

  “Then be yourself. I can’t imagine any hetero guy with half a brain and at least one good eye not being attracted to you.”

  Aww, he was so cute with his compliments…or maybe not! “Now I see why April is so crazy about you. You are one amazing sweet-talker, Evan Harcourt.”

  “Shandi, shut the hell up and get dressed.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to be yourself without sending a member of the opposite sex screaming into the night.” Willowy cat’s tail of a filly. Long, tall drink of whiskey and water. Uh-uh. Not tonight.

  “Woman,” Evan said with a growl, “I’m about to kick your whiny ass
back to Oklahoma.”

  “That’s it. As The Donald would say, you’re fired. I’ll just do this on my own.”

  “Best news I’ve heard all night.” He smacked his palms to his thighs, pushed up from her bed and stood. “Just no blaming me if anything goes wrong.”

  “How can it go wrong?” She gave him a narrow glare. “I’m what every half-witted, one-eyed man wants.”

  “And on that extra whiny note, I’m gone.”

  “Fine.” She stuck out her tongue, then collapsed onto her back in the mountain of clothes and stared at the ceiling.

  She was being childish and she knew it, but stress tended to do that to her. She grew pouty and petulant and always felt better after pitching a fit.

  But now it was time to get over it. She sat up and thought about Quentin—what she knew of him, what she hadn’t yet learned, what different impression she might make as his date than she already had as his bartender.

  It was time to turn the heat up a notch. But how?

  It was when her gaze landed on the short green-and-blue-plaid skirt hanging in her closet that she knew exactly. Ooh, but she loved it when a plan came together!

  You have a thing for waifish schoolgirls, do you?

  “I THINK I STARTED SINGING in front of audiences as soon as I learned to talk.”

  It was Tuesday night, nearing seven o’clock. Quentin was sitting in the elegant boutique hotel’s art-deco lobby, relaxing back in one of the plush leather chairs, waiting for Shandi. At least, he was sitting and he was waiting.

  The relaxing part had ceased the minute Mrs. Cyprus had sat down in the chair beside him and opened her mouth. She had yet to shut it.

  “In grade school, I actually sang the lead in Annie. Can you believe it? I wasn’t even ten years old and I won the part over children older than I was.”

  This was what Shandi had saved him from last night, what he wished she would show up and save him from now. Sure, he could save himself by heading to one of the lobby shops, the restaurant or the bar, even back to his room.

  But he had this thing about wanting to be right here to see Shandi walk through the front door. To see her before she saw him. He liked catching her unawares, wanting to weigh the expression on her face as she sought him out. Doing so might not tell him a thing, he mused, frowning as he watched a huge black cat stroll through the lobby, but he wanted those few brief moments anyway.

  “The summer before my freshman year in high school was when I caught the notice of my camp counselors. I organized a routine for my backup dancers and sang a medley of Elvis songs. You should’ve seen our costumes.”

  He nodded, smiled, then braced his elbows on the chair arms and laced his fingers, tapped his thumbs to his chin. He wasn’t going to give up what he wanted more than anything right now because of the annoying woman at his side reciting her résumé.

  He simply tuned her out, shut down the volume, left her running as background noise. Funny how adept he’d become at ignoring what he didn’t want to hear. And how often he had to stop and wonder if he was tuning out what he shouldn’t.

  If he was paying attention when he should.

  If he’d become too jaded to recognize the difference.

  “I studied voice at university. Oh, the raves over my performances. It was the sort of reaction I’d been working toward all my life. And I knew I was on my way. That I’d never get enough.”

  She might not have gotten enough, but this one-sided conversation was edging close to more than he was willing to put up with. And he’d just moved his hands to the chair arms to push himself up and make his excuses when the revolving glass doors swung around and there Shandi was.

  Or so he first thought. It took a second glance and then a very long and lingering third before he was able to convince himself he was seeing Shandi and not a young girl at whom he shouldn’t be staring at all.

  At his side Mrs. Cyprus continued to chatter, remaining oblivious to everything but herself. And that gave Quentin the freedom to focus.

  He started at Shandi’s feet, where she wore penny loafers and white kneesocks, both of the sort he hadn’t seen on girls since grade school. And never on a woman he wanted to bed the way he wanted to bed this one. He felt like a complete perv and loved the thrum of arousal stirring in his groin.

  He followed the long lines of her legs where they disappeared beneath a green-and-blue-plaid skirt so short it barely covered her ass. And from this vantage point, sitting lower than her hemline, that coverage was questionable.

  He was able to see skin and curves and what appeared to be an edge of frilly white lace that had his gut tightening like that of a starving man.

  His gaze had reached her white blouse—gauzy and nearly sheer—when she finally saw him. She turned and headed his way, and he sat immobile and watched the gorgeous bounce and sway of her braless breasts.

  When she lifted a hand to her mouth, he followed the movement and watched her pull a red lollipop from between her lips. This time it was more than his gut that clenched and stirred, and he shifted in his seat to calm the buzz threatening to turn into full-tilt arousal.

  Little good it did. Especially once he got a good look at her hair worn in pigtails. And at her face.

  Her skin was made up to appear as translucent as pale porcelain yet soft and warm instead of fragile. Her lips and cheeks were tinted pink, a shade he only saw when she tilted her head and smiled and the light picked up the shimmer.

  But, oh god, her eyes. He’d seen stage makeup. He’d seen exotic costuming. Hell, working in music videos, he’d seen it all—or so he’d thought, because he didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes like Shandi’s at any time in his life.

  And it wasn’t just the way she’d used the cobalt- and violet-blues, the greens that seemed to reflect every hue between teal and jade. It was the way she’d used her face as a canvas. From her brows to her temples to her cheekbones.

  The end result of the application of makeup resembled a colorfully jeweled Mardi Gras mask, complete with hints of ruby and gold. Except there was no mask. It was all done with the tools of her trade.

  But the biggest impact, the one striking him like a blow in the chest, came from her expression. The look in her eyes. The way she was looking at him.

  He couldn’t help it. He slid deeper into his seat, sat on his spine, spread his legs and groaned.

  “I just know there’s an audience waiting out there for my voice, for the way I make every song my own…excuse me?” Mrs. Cyprus looked up as Shandi stepped between Quentin’s knees. “This is a private conversation.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” Shandi sidled closer, fluffing her skirt before sitting down in his lap, her weight on his thigh as her free hand went around his neck. “My bedtime story can wait until you grown-ups are done.”

  Quentin chuckled as Shandi crossed her legs. He brought one hand down behind her to hold her hip in place and draped his other arm over her knees. Now that he had her where he wanted her, he was not about to let her go.

  He cleared his throat lightly, trying not to grin. “Mrs. Cyprus has been sharing her fascinating experiences in musical theater.”

  “Ooh, can I stay and listen?” Shandi asked. “I know it’s late, but I promise to go to bed the minute you tell me to if I can hear one story. Please?”

  “Just one then,” he said, his hand slipping to the hem of her skirt and finding the lacy edge of her panties exposed. “As long as Mrs. Cyprus doesn’t mind. She was telling me how she’s performed everything from Annie to Elvis.”

  “Ooh.” Shandi squealed as she waved her lollipop. “I love Annie. Can you sing it for me? That song about tomorrow?”

  When Mrs. Cyprus looked from Shandi and met Quentin’s gaze, he simply shrugged and tried to appear chagrined—not an easy task with his body tight enough to snap. She got to her feet, smoothed down her slacks and the halter vest that exposed even more than her plunging neckline last night.

  “I’m sorry to have wasted your time
,” she said to Quentin. “But not half as sorry as I am to have wasted mine. Had I known you preferred girls to women…”

  She left the sentence unfinished and then left the lobby, heading into the bar. Quentin watched Shandi watch the other woman go, finally finding enough of his voice to ask, “Do you think she recognized you?”

  “Are you kidding?” Shandi huffed, gestured with the candy. “To recognize me she would have had to actually look at me when she ordered her drinks. Trust me. She’s only had eyes for Armand. And, well, for you. But then, don’t we all?”

  And at that she turned her gaze on him.

  God, but he hoped she was ready for what she was asking from him. Ready for what he wanted from her. He wasn’t twenty years old and he was no longer in the habit of sleeping with every woman who asked.

  Sex, when he engaged, was now about a need deeper than the physical. Not every woman got that. But then he intuitively knew that Shandi Fossey was not every woman.

  He left his hand where it was at the hem of her skirt. “Are we going to be late for the movie?”

  “I was thinking about that.” She popped the sucker in her mouth, popped it out, shifted a bit so that his hand contacted skin as well as lace. “I’m not sure I want to wear this to the theater.”

  Meaning she’d dressed for him and not their date? “You want to change first?”

  She shook her head, threaded her fingers into his hair. “There’s not enough time before the movie starts.”

  He tightened his hold on her knees. “Dinner then? Drinks?”

  She considered him closely while loosening the band holding his hair. It took him several endless moments while he fought down an erection to realize they were still sitting in the hotel lobby, that around them people came and went, that not a soul seemed to notice—or care—how intimately they sat embraced.

  Shandi seemed perfectly comfortable, and he strangely enough didn’t feel one bit ill at ease. Whether it was the ambience of the hotel or their connection, he couldn’t say.

  As long as she stayed right where she was, it really didn’t matter. He just didn’t want her to move.

  “We could do dinner or drinks, sure,” she finally said. “Or we could go to the library.”