by Michele Hauf
Becca tossed the paper aside on the limo seat and texted the Jesster. Perfume lunch with the Italians. See you later for coffee?
Jess texted back: Ur so lucky to pick a perfume!
She wasn’t exactly doing that. Becca had been tapped to be the face for a new perfume coming out from her favorite designer. Upon reviewing the offer, she’d agreed that if she liked the scent, she’d consider it. It paid well. She didn’t need the money, so all proceeds would be channeled to JUSTGIVE. She'd been told the advertising would tout the scent as fun and wild.
Right. Why was she finding it weird lately to wear the wild label? Not so much weird as…uncomfortable.
Jess’s next text said she was tied up all day but she’d make coffee on Wednesday.
Tucking her phone into her purse, Becca scanned the passing buildings as the limo drove by and surmised that they were close to the meeting spot. Her eyes swept over the back of Hawk’s head and his profile. He was chatting with the driver. She never listened, or rather, she didn’t care and was usually occupied with her own drama.
Such a straight slant from his forehead and down his nose. Had she ever noticed that before? And a single crease at the corner of his eye. Not even a crow’s foot, more like a crow’s toenail. Oh, that was an odd thought. She smiled, and at that moment, Hawk looked over his shoulder at her, furrowed his brows in question, then turned to face the front as the limo pulled up to the curb.
Caught her looking. Would he wonder if she had been checking him out? It would be a great tease if he did. But who did it tempt more? Because she wasn’t supposed to be checking out her bodyguard. He was an employee. And not on the list of acceptable dating material. And that leather jacket. Ugh. Had he found it at a thrift shop in the flashback to the 70s aisle? Not a stylish bone in his body. And he certainly couldn’t afford her tastes. Nor could he whisk her away to Italy for the weekend on a whim.
So why did she run her tongue between her lips now as a replay of his mouth crushed against hers stormed her brain? Just thinking about it warmed her neck and trickled lower, scurrying across her skin and then tucking away between her thighs. She had to stifle a sigh.
There was something about Clinton Hawk. Something she had never noticed before. And now that she was noticing, Becca felt sure she would never be the same.
“Miss Wylde?”
Startled from her thoughts, she realized the back door of the limo was open, filtering in a cool breeze across her legs. Hawk stood on the curb, leaning in.
“You okay?” he asked. “I said your name three times.”
Really? She’d never thought the man could prove such a distraction. But she was surprisingly okay with that.
“Just thinking,” she said as she slid out, accepting his hand as she stepped onto the curb in her five-inch Yves Saint Laurents.
As he pushed the door closed, she inhaled and caught the whiff of spice. She was going to have to get him to change that aftershave. And the idea of dressing him up a bit also appealed. A little Pygmalion, anyone?
This could prove fun.
There was no annex or waiting room, so Hawk had been invited inside the lab where Becca currently chatted up the suave Italian technician who had been showing her various perfumes and waving a tiny strip dipped in that scent under her nose.
Hawk…was getting a headache. Even standing by the door and close to the open window, he wanted out of here. But much as his slipping quietly outside to wait on the other side of the door wouldn’t be remarked upon by Becca, the Italian, or the other half a dozen sycophants in white lab coats who were gazing adoringly at the heiress, he couldn’t force himself to leave.
Because she was really playing it up this morning. The woman’s flirtation skills were honed as sharp as a blade. And the Italian was giving as good as he got. Hell, even the three female assistants were casting goo-goo eyes at Becca's subtle flip of hair over her shoulder, and her lowered lashes as she leaned in to sniff yet another sample.
Hawk had never realized that the act of sniffing a scent could look sensual, almost as if she were falling into a lush dream of wild sex. Whew! Where had that come from? Stop thinking like this, he admonished inwardly. Or suffer the humiliation of having to hide a woody that threatened to pop up.
Right. Bodyguard mode: activated.
Except, now Becca bumped the Italian’s hand and burst out laughing, grabbing his fingers apologetically—but it was all a careful game.
Hawk almost rolled his eyes, but to do so would surrender to defeat. Her flirting didn’t bother him. It was her MO. A performance.
Though she’d never stroked the back of his hand like that or held it for a few seconds longer while maintaining eye contact. Her laughter was infectious, but calculated. Did she even realize it was a front? She hid behind it. And he knew exactly what she veiled herself from.
That thing she couldn’t have. The closeness of family and perhaps even love. Miss Wylde had but her father, and that man was not in her life beyond a few phone calls a year and the elaborate gifts that arrived without fail on the first of every month.
Hawk had watched Miss Wylde unwrap fur coats and watches and diamond chokers. The card from Daddy was always set aside. Her smile had been forced then, as well.
And it was that sad attempt to appear as though nothing at all in this world could bother her, that kept Hawk within eyesight of her. When she fell, he wanted to catch her. Because such a plummet seemed inevitable.
“Hawk! Come here!”
Startled that she had suddenly remembered his existence, he looked up and shook his head. She held one of those paper perfume strips and gestured.
He shook his head more fiercely. Really, this was not his thing.
So when she slid off the stool and sauntered over to him, it was all he could do to fist his hands and try not to close his eyes at the oncoming torture. Followed by the swarthy Italian, she stopped with a bounce before him.
“Your security man knows fragrance?” the Italian asked in that insipid accent that Hawk was pretty sure had made all the women in the room cream their panties.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Hawk winced when Miss Wylde waved the paper under his nose. It wasn’t awful. But his senses were so overwhelmed with all the scents that he couldn’t tell—maybe?
“Sweet,” he muttered and nodded, hoping that would suffice.
But she didn’t relent. And the Italian leaned over her shoulder, his hand resting on her arm like a conspirator to the torture. Hawk could almost hear his thoughts: Look at that rough example of a man. He does not know this fine, delicate woman stuff! Let us mock him.
Hawk gripped Miss Wylde’s hand and leaned down to sniff the sample, all the while, holding her gaze. Just as she would do if she were intent on winning a donation, or the diamond bling. Steady and even a bit smoldering. She blinked. Her lips parted. The tease had hooked her. And he scented a different tang to the perfume.
“And sour,” he said with knowing. “That’s the one. That one is you, Miss Wylde.” He dropped her hand and stepped back. “I’ll be down the hall. Coffee.” He made his exit from the lab quickly, but not so fast that it might be deemed as fleeing.
As the door closed behind him, the laughter from within cackled in muffled tones. But he didn’t recognize Miss Wylde’s voice in the mix.
Becca waved the sample under her nose as the lab techs laughed over Hawk’s hasty retreat. “Sweet and sour.”
She wasn’t sour. Was she? And yet Hawk had stated it with utter confidence. Though he also thought her sweet? She wasn’t that either. Was she?
Frustrated, she dropped her hand and crushed the sample in a fist.
“That is the one, Miss Wylde?” the Italian asked. His name was Laurent or Ludovico, or something like that. He was sexy as hell and smelled like nothing. Which she assumed was to keep his nose clean of distracting fragrances. “Miss Wylde?”
“Huh? Oh.” She opened her palm, and the sample fell to the floor.
/> Ludovico snatched it and sniffed it. “It is a bit too powdery. We’ll look at a few more.”
“No.” She grasped the paper and closed her fingers over it more carefully. If Hawk had liked it… “Can I take this with me? Think about it a few days?”
“But of course. But I do not believe that is the one for you.”
“It’s one of the final three you had marked for production?”
“Yes, of course. I will get you a vial to take along to think about, as you say.” He gestured to one of the women in a lab coat. Then he clasped his fingers around the hand in which she held the sample. “Would you perhaps like to get a drink later?”
Yes, she would.
“I, uh…” Becca frowned.
But not with Mr. Suave and Debonair. He was sexy as all get out. Blue eyes and black hair and an accent? And she bet he knew how to please a woman using more direct ways than fluttering a pretty scent under her nose. Those fingers of his were long and dexterous. But he didn’t feel right for reasons that escaped her.
“I have meetings today,” she said absently. “But I’ll take your number.” Because, really? She was probably just hyped up on the perfume samples. She couldn’t think straight. By tomorrow, she’d be wishing she had taken him up on the drink. She tugged out her cell phone and opened the Contacts. “Number?”
He took the phone from her with a finesse of fingers along her wrist that sent shivers up her arm, down her torso, and jetting directly to her pussy. Mercy. She did have a thing for European men…
He handed the phone back and, with a flick of those masterful fingers, tilted up her chin. His eyes were blue. But not just blue, they shimmered and gleamed with a hint of whiskey gold. Like stars in a heavenly sky.
“Call me soon,” he said.
“I will,” she replied. “I mean, because you want to know what I think about the fragrance, yes?”
He nodded, and the lab tech handed him a plastic baggie with a tiny glass vial inside. He tucked it in her purse. “It has been a pleasure, Becca.”
“It has,” she said, and meant it. Yet something stronger compelled her to shake his hand quickly and call out a thanks to the crew as she quickly exited the lab.
She spied Hawk’s broad-shouldered back down the hallway near the elevator doors. Becca walked quickly, and the closer she got to him, the slower her breaths came. By the time she reached his side, she exhaled. Safety here. It always felt right standing near him.
“Going with the sweet and sour?” he asked as he pushed the elevator button.
“Not sure. I took some home to think about it.”
He stepped back to allow her to enter the elevator first, then got in and pushed the lobby button. “Why did you do that?”
“What? Ask you about the perfume?” Because she’d wanted his thoughts. It had been nothing more than that. Yet why had she wanted his opinion? “My nose was filled with scents. I needed a new nose, I guess.”
“The Italian’s wasn’t enough?”
Becca gaped. The Italian? Well, who was being jealous? Was he? No, couldn’t be. Hawk didn’t think of her like that.
On the other hand, she had played up the flirtation with Ludovico, knowing Hawk had been watching. Because a fling with Hawk would be fun. And she thought about it.
All. The. Time.
“If I didn’t know better, Hawk, I’d say you sound jealous.”
He chuckled softly. “Not at all. It’s just that he is another wrong choice.”
“Like you would know.”
“You have a tendency to pick the wrong ones who either abandon you after getting what they want or who stalk you when they don’t.”
“How dare you?”
He shrugged. “Just an observation.”
“Yeah? Well, stop observing me.”
“Can’t. It’s my job.”
He turned a look over his shoulder at her but didn’t say anything else.
Putting on his sunglasses, he crossed his hands before him as he activated bodyguard mode and turned to face the doors. “Where to next?”
He had been jealous. Otherwise, he would have defended himself. The man had feelings for her. Yes!
But what to do about that baffled her.
“Miss Wylde?”
“Huh? Next? Er, I’m not sure. I’ll check my schedule.”
“Do it in the limo,” he said as the elevator doors opened to a clatter of clicking cameras and flashes. “Let’s get you out of here safely. Ready?”
Becca reached out her hand, then realized he wasn’t holding his hand out to her. That was the routine. She walked ahead. He brought up the rear.
She would like to have a hand to hold while forging through the paparazzi jungle. Someone to stand at her side instead of behind her.
Instead, she stiffened her neck, straightened her shoulders, and pasted on a smile. “Always ready,” she muttered and brushed Hawk’s shoulder with hers as she stepped into the fray.
5
Becca stood inside the walk-in closet, a storm of clothing spread across the marble floor that the maid would magically clean up and put away before she got home later tonight. She’d decided on the red House of Harlow dress that was cut low in the front to well between her breasts, and high on the front hem at her thighs. The back of the hem swept below her knees. It was a bohemian style that was not her usual pick, but it looked pretty paired with the laser-cut white Louboutins that laced up her ankles.
She sniffed her wrist where she’d dabbed the perfume sample earlier. The initial powdery scent had dissipated, and while it was still sweet, it carried an interesting undertone. Sour? No, but maybe it had a tang. Something she wanted to explore. It was deep and alluring.
Maybe being sweet and sour wasn’t so bad after all? Did Hawk think about exploring her?
“What I wouldn’t give to know what goes on in that man’s mind,” she said as she grabbed a cute Chanel bag shaped like a matryoshka doll and turned off the closet lights.
Hawk waited below in the lobby, and when he saw her coming, he held the door open. Only a handful of photographers snapped her stride from the doors to the back of the limo. She didn’t mind. There would be dozens at the club.
The music was amazing. Becca hadn’t heard of the DJ, but she liked his riffs on the popular tracks he was spinning. She’d met up with the Jesster and a few others and two hours into the night the clock hands had surfed past midnight, the drinks were flowing, and she couldn’t stop dancing.
More than a few times she’d scanned her gaze around the dark club, searching through the strobe lights for his face. Tucked near the end of the bar, nursing what he’d been thrilled to be served, a coffee.
Jess grabbed Becca’s hand and pulled her from the dance floor, which meant potty break. The ladies room smelled of smoke and stale perfume. Becca got a stall right away, then ended up waiting for Jess. Her doll purse wasn’t big enough for a comb, but when she checked the mirror, the braid she’d wrapped down one side of her head still looked passable. Strands had pulled free but that only upped the bohemian free-and-wild look. She winked at her reflection then almost stepped on the toes of the woman behind her. She apologized but received a rude sneer in return.
Most people knew who she was. Many asked to take a selfie with her, yet others, mostly women, gave her the cold shoulder. There was some kind of weird jealousy at play, and for reasons that were beyond Becca. They might dream to live in her shoes, but the grass was never greener. She knew that much.
“I don’t feel so good,” Jess said as she sidled up to the sink and washed her hands. “I shouldn’t have eaten the pizza before coming here.”
“You had pizza?” Becca asked. “You know we never eat on club nights. It makes us puffy.” She patted her flat stomach, then noticed Jess's pale cheeks. That was not a new makeup style. “I think I’ll have Hawk put you in the limo.”
“Good call.” Jess leaned against her shoulder. “But I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
&
nbsp; “That’s an advance apology for when I puke. You’re not heading home, are you? I saw that biker dude checking you out.”
“He was interesting.” But so not her type. All leather and boots and a chain from his vest pocket to his pants pocket. She imagined kissing him might involve clanking metal and a revving motorcycle engine. “But probably greasy.”
“No, he smelled good! I walked close to him. Had to check out his ass. Tight,” she muttered as Becca led her toward the door.
Becca pulled out her cell and texted Hawk a familiar request. Rescue Jesster.
He texted back ‘K’.
Within three minutes, the limo had arrived and Hawk escorted Jess out through the club's back door. Becca appreciated his devotion to her best friend. But it also made her a little jealous.
“Thank you,” she said as he strolled back inside.
“She's on her way home,” he said. “Poor girl. The driver had a bag, just in time.”
Oh, mercy. Poor girl, indeed.
Hawk’s head tilted down but she couldn’t determine if he were looking at her through the dark lenses. “You heading out?”
“No. I’m not nearly ready. Got a lot more dancing to do.”
“Text me when you’re ready.”
“Yep,” she said, but he had already walked off and into the crowd.
Suddenly Becca felt stunningly alone. It was similar to the feeling she got when surrounded by paparazzi. Flashes going off, voices yelling for her, compliments shouted about her clothing or hair, and random platitudes. She never felt more alone than at those moments when she stood at the center of attention, the whole world seeming to want to take her picture.
Until of course, she felt the reassuring pressure of Hawk’s hand on her back, directing her to the safe confines of the limo, or even simply guiding her down a red carpet when she was blinded by the flashes.