Normally I’d be all over her invitation like sauce over a meaty steak, but I stop cold. This woman is every man’s wet dream come to life. Except mine. I’ve already got my dream girl, and there is no way in hell I’m going to risk losing that for a night with a sinfully hot dancer.
“Martina—” I begin to decline when we’re interrupted by a photographer.
“Picture, Martina?” he asks, and she smiles wide, cuddling up to my chest, pressing her breasts close, and cocking a hip.
I barely know what’s happening when he says, “Smile.” On autopilot I smile, but the second he’s got his shot, I back away.
“Martina, your offer is very generous, and a few months ago, I would have gladly taken you up on it. However, I’m in a relationship.”
She pouts, her perfect red lips puffing out, making her look like a sexy, sad dominatrix.
Jesus Christ!
Skyler. Skyler. Skyler.
“Are you sure? We could have some serious fun together. Just the two of us. No one would have to know . . .” She starts to reach for me, and I place my hands up and out, keeping her at arm’s length.
“I’m sorry. You’re beautiful and a wonderful woman. What you did for the ladies in the show was beyond great. Unfortunately, I have to decline. Thank you again, though, for your contribution. We were lucky to have your assistance. It made all the difference.”
Without allowing her to say anything more, I smile and back away fast. “I’ve got to meet up with T-Bone. Enjoy the show!”
As I beat feet to another section, far away from Martina and her offer, I start to realize I turned down a night of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sex with a gorgeous woman. And it wasn’t even hard. Thoughts of Skyler swirl around in my vision.
Her smile.
Her laugh.
Her teasing.
Her humor.
Her sexy body.
Her talented mouth.
Her everything.
She’s all I need or want. I grin, pull out my phone, and glance at the picture she sent me the first night after I left. Hair tousled all over from sleep. Face free of makeup. Lips swollen from my kisses. Eyes gentle and sleepy. Breasts pushed up in tantalizing handfuls. And right then and there, I realize, she’s it for me. I want to be with her. I want to be what she needs in a man. I want to have all of my ups and downs with her. I want this relationship to work, to see it flourish into something even more permanent.
I think I’m falling for Skyler Paige. Hell, I may have already fallen.
The stage lights flash on and off, signaling the show is about to start. I’m sitting next to Sophie, between her and Bo. She grabs my hand and interlaces our fingers. “Mon cher, this is so exciting! I love fashion shows!”
I grin, squeeze her hand, and wait for the lights to dim to a candlelight setting. T-Bone appears from the back of the stage and walks about a third of the way up the runway, a mic in his beefy hand.
He speaks in English instead of Italian. “Welcome, everyone! Thank you for coming to my show.”
“Why didn’t he speak in Italian?” I whisper into Sophie’s ear.
“Fashion is a worldwide business. The international language of fashion is English.”
T-Bone continues. “I notice in the fashion industry, clothing caters to women who are from size zero to size eight. Only the average size of a woman is somewhere between an American twelve and sixteen. Nowhere near the size of the standard runway or catalog models. Fashion has forgotten women come in all sizes and shapes, and I for one want to share in that beauty.”
Wow. T-Bone is finally coming through on his message.
“Besides, no man wants to fuck skin and bones.”
And . . . he just lost it.
Undaunted, he takes a couple of steps and stops, assessing the entire crowd with his beady gaze. “Women are sexy whether they are a school teacher, a mother, a librarian, a sales clerk, a soccer mom, or a college student. Sexy comes in all sizes. I hope women everywhere see these women in my designs and find their own version of sexy, no matter what size they are. Thank you.” He bows and turns on a shiny loafer, the sheen of his satin pants glinting in the lights. His floral sport coat, sleeves cut at the forearms, is a direct contrast to the simplicity of his pants.
I blow out a long breath and wait as the music pipes in. I smile as I note he changed it to the Pussycat Dolls’ “Don’t Cha.” It’s probably the best song for the more scandalous designs.
The lights dim even lower, and the first model walks out. She’s the librarian and the thinnest model in the show. I think it’s genius he starts with a body type they’ve all seen before. She makes it to the first mirror and does the standard hunched-back, hands-on-hip pose we’ve all seen a million times over in the fashion industry. I’ve never liked that look, but I love the ode to ordinary fashion it gives. Once she starts toward the next mirror, the lights cut out, and everyone gasps. Her bra-and-panty set glows a fluorescent green, like a neon glow stick.
The audience claps wildly as she continues walking, and the next girl comes out. They both stop at a mirror. The second woman is the preschool teacher. Her body type is a little fuller, probably around a woman’s size eight or ten. She looks amazing in the high-waisted, high-cut red panties, a bustier, and a robe falling off one shoulder.
She stops at her first mirror and stands like Wonder Woman, the robe falling enticingly to the crook of her elbows. Showing just enough of her body to make her look sensational and yet still leaving a bit to the imagination. The lights go out, and all the straps of her lingerie glow a bright red.
The models repeat the moves. Each one stopping at a mirror and striking a pose. When four of them are out at the same time, the lights go crazy and a disco ball comes out spinning, lighting the women in a dusting of sparkly lights. This time they do a few of their moves, showing off the lingerie in a variety of ways.
Once the four have moved to the back and the lights come up, the audience gets a great view of the back of the lingerie.
The next set of ladies comes out, and Anna-Maria is leading the charge. She looks positively stunning in her lingerie. Her size twelve body looks molded to perfection. As she starts walking, there’s a man across the aisle who stands up, shouting, clapping wildly, and screaming, “That’s my wife! She’s beautiful! You’re beautiful, baby!”
Every single member of the audience is eating up his excitement and her showing off for him. The lights go out, and her entire robe glows in the dark. She pulls it off, and the lace of her thong and the sexy bow at the tailbone light up the runway in a bright T of color. This has her husband whistling like a lunatic. I’m loving every minute. She’s rocking her design, and based on the smile she’s sporting, she’s having a blast doing it.
“I am going to hire this T-Bone to do a campaign.” Sophie leans into my space and points at Anna-Maria. “I love how he’s empowering women of all shapes and sizes to see their beauty. He’s doing an excellent job detailing their attributes.”
I inhale a deep breath and let it out. “Make sure you’re in control. He can edge toward raunchy when he’s not being advised, but his desire and intentions are sound.”
“I see you added your lipstick to the mirrors.” Her pink lips purse into a knowing smirk. “My message is still on my mirror at home. I like it there. Reminds me of you.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and nudge her temple with my nose, taking in her sugar-and-spice scent I love so much. It’s not peaches and cream, but it’s familiar and reminds me of a great couple of weeks in Paris.
“You are golden, Sophie,” I whisper near her ear. “I hope your new man understands that and treats you like the gem you are. Otherwise, he’s going to have one pissed-off Bostonian on his ass. I’d have to get on a plane just to open up a can.”
She jerks her head in my direction. “What can would you be opening? I do not understand this can you want to open.”
I sigh heavily. “Ugh, Sophie. You need to watch more Netflix. Op
en up a can of whoop ass.”
She tsks. “Whyever would you do such a thing?” Her nose crinkles, and her face is a mask of confusion. “There is no ass needing a whooping.”
I laugh hard, squeeze her shoulder, lean back, and enjoy the rest of the show. The models are killing it. The audience seems to be taking in each piece enthusiastically, and I’ve got my two friends sharing an experience with me.
Life is good.
10
The moment the plane’s wheels touch down in New York, I can hardly contain my excitement. Thank God Wendy booked me in first class and I get to deplane first. I’m positively itching to see Skyler.
I grab my two carry-on bags. Since I knew the case would only be a week, I packed rather light.
In mere minutes, I’m pushing through the airport crush to get to the arrivals area. As I approach, I see little Rachel Van Dyken. She looks as if she walked right out of a badass all-chick commando-type film. Her long, platinum-blonde hair is pulled back away from her face in a series of braids, sticking with the warrior vibe. She’s wearing black cargo pants, a matching tank, combat boots, and aviators. She’s leaning against the wall; one foot pushes off when she sees me. Only she’s not the only one drawing my attention.
Out of nowhere, a horde of paparazzi swarm, their camera flashes going at warp speed, blinding me where I stand. I lift my hand to block some of the flashes. My elbow is grabbed, and Rachel is yelling out commands to the photographers clicking away.
“What does Skyler think about your betrayal?” one man says.
“Did you take both women back to your hotel?” another shouts.
“Will Skyler forgive you?” I hear a third yell.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I toss out, confused, tired, and flustered. I’ve just arrived after a nine-hour flight, and I’m being slammed by a round of questions I know nothing about.
Rachel yanks on my elbow. “Do. Not. Say. A. Word. Follow me,” she grates through her teeth.
“But I don’t know what they’re going on about this time.”
Jesus. Every time I take a continental flight, I come back to chaos.
Growling my frustration, I push out with my suitcases and follow Rachel to the car waiting at the curb. Nate is in it.
“Good Lord!” he roars when he sees the swarm. He’s on me like flies on shit.
“Welcome home, Mr. Ellis.” He pushes back the crowd with his arms so I can move past him and into the blacked-out SUV. “Give the man his privacy, you vultures!” I hear him yell as I toss the luggage in the back with me and close the door.
Rachel whistles, already in the driver’s seat. Her husband jumps into the passenger side and spins around so he can make sure we’re not followed.
“Nice to see you guys, but what the hell was that? How did they even know I’d be here?”
Nate shakes his head while Rachel’s jaw firms.
“Your little friend, Martina, talks a lot,” Rachel responds snidely.
“My friend? She is not a friend. We hired her team to teach the models how to move their bodies.”
Rachel nods, her lips in a flat white line. She pushes a button on the car stereo, and the sound of a telephone call being made can be heard through the speakers.
“Do you have him?” Skyler’s voice is warm but direct.
“We’ve got him,” Rachel responds, focused on maneuvering the SUV out of the airport and onto the freeway.
“Skyler. What’s going on?” I ask openly, not giving a shit who hears me.
“We’ll talk when you get here. I’m glad you made it safely.” Her voice is now monotone, lacking any feeling. Not exactly the welcome home I expected from her.
Before I can say anything more, she hangs up.
“What is going on, guys? Talk to me. Please.” I’m not above begging. Something’s wrong with Skyler, the paps are swarming, and I’ve got the cold shoulder coming from the Van Dykens.
Nate turns around, his face a mask of unconcealed anger. I lean back and lift my hands in a gesture of surrender. “Bro, I have no idea why the press were here or why. You look like you want to tear my head off with your bare hands.” He could probably do it too. The guy is ripped.
“Probably because I do!” He frowns, and his voice takes on a serious tone. “You steppin’ out on Skyler?”
I jolt up straight in my seat. “Fuck no! What would give you that impression?”
He tosses two smut mags over the seat back to where I sit. On the cover of one is a picture of Skyler in tears. Not sure where the hell that came from or when, but the one next to it has my full attention. It’s the picture of Martina and me backstage before the show yesterday. The caption above says “Skyler in Tears. Parker Wooing Exotic Dancer in Italy.”
I groan and look at the next one. “Parker Gets Around. Skyler Is Furious.” This one has a picture of me with my arm around Sophie, the two of us laughing at something Bo said at the fashion show. Bo, of course, has been conveniently cut out of the picture. Next to the image is one of Skyler angry, which honestly looks like a picture taken years ago. Her hair is a different color now and much longer.
“Where do these bastards get off making this shit up! Martina was a teacher in the show. Sophie is my friend.” I press back into the seat and rub at my temples. “Is Sky pissed?” I hold up the two mags. “She believes this shit is real?”
Nate shrugs and turns to the front.
“I wouldn’t ever hurt Skyler like this. I care too much about her.” A pang hits my heart, and my chest feels tight.
Nate nods. “Yeah, we figured something was up, but we have Sky’s back first. You understand.”
I nod. “Does she believe this crap?” I toss the smut rags to the floor.
Rachel shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when she sees her boyfriend plastered all over the papers on the arms of two separate but equally beautiful women.”
Attempting to cool down right now is impossible. I’m seething. “Fuck, all I wanted to do was come to New York and spend some much-needed one-on-one time with my goddamned girlfriend. Now I’ve got to explain a completely innocent situation! Fuck me!” I run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots until I feel the bite of pain centering my anger.
“Talk to her, man. She’s waiting for you in the penthouse,” Nate offers. The anger in his voice and demeanor is gone now that he knows the truth.
Rachel pulls up, and Nate walks me into the building and straight into the elevator. I stand in silence, waiting for the numbers to rise to the fortieth floor, where I’m going to have to explain myself regarding a bullshit situation the media and paps created.
The elevator doors open, and Nate unlocks Skyler’s door, letting me in. “You guys going out tonight?”
“Fuck no.” I grit my teeth and enter the condo, every footfall harsher than the next. Her scent fills the air, and even though I’m pissed, the familiar, welcome scent soothes me.
“Sky!” I holler through the room, wanting to go right to her.
“In here!” she yells somewhere near where the kitchen is centered.
With quick strides, I make it to the kitchen. My girl is bent over the oven, ass in the air, checking something.
“Baby . . . ,” I whisper, and she stands up straight, closes the oven door, and spins around.
She’s a vision. Blonde hair down in beachy waves, her face with a hint of makeup, but nothing to take away from her natural beauty. She’s wearing an olive-green tank, which goes great against her honey skin tone. Her bottom half is encased in a tight, form-fitting pair of skinny jeans, which mold to every curve. Her feet are bare, toes painted a dark wine color.
I grind my teeth for a moment, taking in all that is her before I spew what’s on my mind. “Tell me you don’t believe any of the shit they printed?” My shoulders seem weighted to the ground, my feet in concrete boots as I wait for the verdict.
Skyler grins, which turns into a sparkling smile. S
he runs toward me and jumps up. I catch her at the ass, and she locks her legs around my waist and smashes her lips to mine. Her lips are warm and taste of cherry lip balm. I dip my tongue in, not waiting for her invitation. I need a taste, and when our tongues meet, we both groan. I turn around and place her on top of the counter, barely able to hold myself up, let alone her too with the amount of relief crashing over me. Skyler threads her fingers through my hair, tugging on the overlong strands curling at the top. She moans into my mouth, and I kiss her harder, deeper. I run one hand up her thigh, locking on to her hip, the other up her spine and into her hair, where I cradle her head. Our tongues duel for supremacy, both wanting to lead. I win, tipping her head to the side so I can delve deeper, take more, until we’re both a mess of wet, bruised lips.
Needing air, I ease back. She follows, and I smile against her lips. “Thank God.”
Skyler blinks her eyes open almost sleepily. “I never believe everything I read in the papers. Though the look of real concern on your face when you saw me said it all for you. I’m not sure what happened, but I trust you, Parker. If we can’t trust each other, we have nothing. Especially in my business.”
I press my forehead against hers. “I had no idea all that crap was printed. Once more, I got off a plane after landing in the States and was bombarded by the paparazzi spilling their lies.”
“So the picture of you and that Martina woman was fake?” She leans back enough so I can look her in the eyes.
“No, but they made it look like more than it was. Martina was a dance coach for the models Bo and I were hired to help. She taught them how to move their bodies. She and two others from her dance company. We spent the week working with women who’d never modeled before. It was amazing and exhausting at the same time.”
“Then she didn’t ask you out?”
Now how do I avoid this topic. Unfortunately I don’t think I can. I suck in a long breath and grip Skyler’s hips. I run my hands up and down her thighs, soothing my battered soul through touching her. “Actually she did ask me out. Offered me a no-strings-attached night of ‘fun,’ but I didn’t take her up on it. The picture was taken immediately after she asked me out. A random photographer came up and asked for a picture and said smile, and baby, I did it on autopilot. I’m sorry.”
International Guy: Milan, San Francisco, Montreal (International Guy Volumes Book 2) Page 11