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Table of Contents
Cover
Synopsis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by Karin Kallmaker
From the Author
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Bella Books
Synopsis
Anita Topaz, Queen of the Bodice Rippers, is deliberately a woman of mystery. But pressure is mounting for Anita to reveal herself to her clamoring public. It’s scrutiny that writer Paris Ellison ca’’t allow, especially since the glamorous “Anita” is a work of pure fiction.
Lady Diana Beckinsale excels at disappearing into a good role. Especially if that role gets her close to certain objects she desires. When Diana proposes the perfect solution to Pari’’s predicament, Paris is less than enthusiastic. She can’t let someone as unsettling and observant as Diana get too close.
But Diana is persistent. After all, if she and the handsome, secretive Paris both get what they want out of an unorthodox arrangement, then it’s a win-win for them both.
My Lady Lipstick is high stakes on a merry-go-round of lies—it’s all fun and games until somebody loses her heart.
Copyright © 2018 by Karin Kallmaker
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Bella Books Edition 2018
eBook released 2018
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designer: Judith Fellows
ISBN: 978-1-59493-568-8
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Bella Books by Karin Kallmaker
18th & Castro
Above Temptation
All the Wrong Places
Captain of Industry
Car Pool
Christabel
The Dawning
Embrace in Motion
Finders Keepers
Frosting on the Cake: The Original
Frosting on the Cake: Second Helpings
In Every Port
Just Like That
The Kiss that Counted
Love by the Numbers
Making Up for Lost Time
Maybe Next Time
Night Vision
One Degree of Separation
Painted Moon
Paperback Romance
Roller Coaster
Stepping Stone
Substitute for Love
Sugar
Touchwood
Unforgettable
Warming Trend
Watermark
Wild Things
From the Author
One person births a book, but it takes many to create the delivery room. Friends, family, readers, booksellers, librarians, musicians, artists, writers, editors, publishers, bloggers and chocolatiers, who, along with Derry, Dingle, Kinsale, Juneau, Skagway, Seattle, Banff, Calgary, Albuquerque, Santa Fe and the Navajo Nation, all played a part in the creation of this one. Honorable mention to my daughter Lee who brought Zelda and Overwatch into my world, making me nearly, almost, kinda cool.
If Lisa the bartender rings a bell, you first met her in Warming Trend and again in the short story “Good Morning.” Frankly, she’s a bit upset that you had to be reminded.
I consulted websites, personal blogs, medical journals, and individuals about living with anxiety disorder and other issues that keep company with it. Any mistakes in this portrayal are my own.
About the Author
Karin Kallmaker has been exclusively devoted to lesbian fiction since the publication of her first novel in 1989. As an author published by the storied Naiad Press, she worked with Barbara Grier and Donna McBride, and has been fortunate to be mentored by a number of editors, including Katherine V. Forrest.
In addition to multiple Lambda Literary Awards, she has been featured as a Stonewall Library and Archives Distinguished Author. Other accolades include the Ann Bannon Popular Choice and other awards for her writing, as well as the selection as a Trailblazer by the Golden Crown Literary Society. She is best known for novels such as Painted Moon, Substitute for Love, Captain of Industry, Maybe Next Time and The Kiss that Counted.
The California native is the mother of two and blogs at kallmaker.com. Write to her at [email protected] or search for “Kallmaker” on social media—there’s only one.
A complete list of books by this author available from Bella Books can be found at www.bellabooks.com.
When you purchase from the publisher more of your dollars reach the women who write and produce the books you love. Karin thanks you for your support of books for and about lesbians!
Twenty-Eight, the same number as my age when I completed my first novel. Or a perfect cribbage score, sans a one-eyed Jack.
“We know what we are but know not what we may be.”
—Hamlet, IV.5.43-44
Chapter One
Paris Ellison was so angry she made a seven-layer English Trifle and two large pans of double cocoa brownies.
She even dribbled water over the letter from Reynard House, Proud Member of the Reynard Media Group. But the ink refused to smear and the words continued to taunt her.
She’d said no once, and now the nerve—the nerve! To offer her first-class tickets, reservations at a Fifth Avenue hotel, and the assurance of box seats to Hamilton—how rude!
She whipped ganache int
o submission and drizzled it on the first pan of still warm brownies. She’d slice them later before taking them to Lisa’s tomorrow. The second pan of brownies went into the oven, and only then did she pause in her fever of anger-fueled anxiety baking to read the infuriating letter again.
Anita Topaz did not make personal appearances. Paris had been perfectly clear about that from the get go. But with the merger the new people at Reynard House preferred not to notice that little detail.
A scratch and yowl at the door made her look at the clock. Right on time, Hobbit sidled in to offer mid-morning greetings by way of gracing Paris’s jeans with orange tabby tomcat fur.
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know. I’m just Second Breakfast to you.” Yielding to the cat’s single-minded agenda, she dropped a small scoop of crunchy dry food into the dish next to the door. Hobbit promptly abandoned his adoration of Paris’s ankles and dug in.
“Just because Reynard House is the new owner, that doesn’t mean my contract is revised. Not yet at least.” Hobbit ignored the bowl of fresh water Paris set down next to the dry food. “They can’t make me, so there. I owe them four books in the next two years, and on schedule. Not one thing more.”
The oven timer beeped and she left Hobbit to his loud snacking. She turned the pan in the oven and reset the timer. The custard was cool enough now to assemble the trifle, and she devoted herself to carefully lining the bottom of her only clear glass bowl with fresh sponge cake and splashing it with sherry. Apricots and silky vanilla custard followed, then she repeated the layers until the glass bowl was nearly full.
At least the Misses Lambeth and Richards upstairs would love the treat. She’d take it up after supper and check on the progress of the colds that had kept her usually gregarious and active landlords in “little old lady” mode, as they called it. They did like a drop of sherry now and again, and nobody could feel out of sorts with a dessert like this one.
Except her, maybe. Her day had begun as peacefully and predictably as any other since the day she’d hunkered down in this haven. Then the mail had arrived this morning, again bringing demands.
Hobbit finished up Second Breakfast and padded across the faded linoleum to the soft brown carpet of the living room. He stretched and flexed, then sauntered to the sunny window seat, lord of all.
Paris ignored the loud, disapproving sniff at the layer of cat hair on the cushion. “What do you think this is, some swanky New York hotel?” She prodded the top of the brownies in the oven with a fingertip and judged them as needing one more minute. “Speaking of which, look at this letter.”
She carried the offending paper to the window seat and showed it to Hobbit. Hobbit let out a grudging purr, and granted access to his belly while Paris read the letter aloud with renewed outrage.
“Looking forward to finalizing all the details, sincerely, blah blah blah,” Paris finished. “See? They’re trying to bribe me into going, and you know why I won’t.” Hobbit had heard all about why Paris had moved three thousand miles from her last job. “Anita Topaz isn’t going to this meeting. She’s not going to do a TED Talk or whatever Reynard Media calls it for any—” She whirled to face the kitchen. “Foul word!”
She dashed across the living room toward the ominous you’re-too-late scent of overcooked brownie. Her socks slipped on the linoleum, catapulting her through the kitchen door. She yanked the pan out of the oven, burning her wrist on the door. The pan slipped out of her grasp. She lunged to save it and whacked her head on the counter so hard that the world went dark for a moment.
The dancing stars in her vision went away finally as she Jackie-Chan rubbed the dent in her skull. At least it felt like a dent.
Hobbit coiled into view from around the corner of the kitchen island, tail kinked with annoyance that the clatter and cursing had disturbed his morning nap and petting. Rightly presuming that the fallen brownies were not anything he would want to eat, he pointedly began cleaning a paw.
“I’m not leaking brain matter,” she told the cat’s back. “Thanks for asking.”
At least the brownies had landed face up. The edges were hard and tasted burnt, even for people who loved that part. Increasingly foul-tempered about the whole world, she set to using a melon baller to scoop out the still moist and edible interior. Chocolate, sugar, and butter in any form was edible, right? Brownie Curls… Lisa might still be able to use them.
Now that was an idea. Why wait until tomorrow? Getting out of the house would probably make her feel better. It had been three…four days? Her last brownie delivery to Mona Lisa’s as a matter of fact. Not for the first time she was happy to have found a way not to eat her bouts of anxiety-baking all by herself, and it even involved exercise. If Lisa didn’t think anyone would buy the salvaged brownies, they could certainly eat a few themselves. It was that kind of day.
Five minutes effort with little plastic bags and ribbons to tie them closed went without major mishaps. Two dark, moist curls of brownie in each. Paris thought they looked appetizing, but Lisa would have to agree. She shoved the letter into her back pocket, thinking she’d ask Lisa’s advice about it.
Hobbit gave a discontented moof as she dumped him on the front porch.
“Go find Elevenses wherever it is you spend the rest of your time. I know it’s early, but I’m getting some fresh air.”
Hobbit slithered under the hedge with a parting yowl.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve been called worse.”
She pulled on her coat, grabbed up the basket with her wares, and let herself out into the blustery blue day. Lisa wasn’t expecting Paris to show up with baked goodies until tomorrow. Still, as Lisa had said in the past, there really was no limit to how many brownies a bar full of sports fans could consume.
Tipping her face to the sunshine, she zipped up her hoodie. The sharp wind off Massachusetts Bay shouted winter, but the sun was seductively whispering spring. San Francisco was never this extreme. She pushed away the pang of longing for Gorilla Barbecue and the pale, sandy beach at Pacifica.
She’d grown to like this town of Revere and nearby Boston, but in the nearly five years she’d lived here it hadn’t turned into home.
It was hard to stay angry on such a glorious day. The blue sky refreshed her eyes and the sun warmed the tip of her nose. It was as if the long, frozen, wet, dirty, slushy, slogging New England winter was over. But she knew that was a lie. As her landlords had warned her, March coaxed you out of your jacket, then dumped a foot of snow down your back. Much like life itself.
The only aspect about her apartment she didn’t like was its position near the bottom of a hill even San Franciscans would call steep. It did mean that her landlords had a great view toward the harbor and that Paris’s rental space was light and airy. But the location was a challenge to someone without a car.
She took a deep breath and set off up the hill with steady, long strides. Steep roads aside, renting the basement flat of the Lambeth/Richards house was still an ideal arrangement. The ladies had cash to help with their bills and repairs, and Paris had sunny windows, a solidly constructed kitchen that allowed her to bake off her anxieties, and an oversized bedroom with a big bay window where her desk was turned to face the flower and vegetable garden.
Her name appeared nowhere on a lease or utility bill. Exactly the way she wanted it.
That Anita Topaz’s meteoric success meant Paris could afford more—a lot more—didn’t make a bit of difference. Anita Topaz was not online, didn’t Tweet or chat, and she did not do personal appearances!
In danger of losing her recovering good spirits, she paused halfway up the hill. There was plenty of mud and slush lurking in the gaps between squares of sidewalk. Fortunately, her Doc Martens were perfect Adventuring Gear for New England winters. Snow and mud never slowed her down. Once she made it to the top of the hill, it was only two more minutes to a frequently scheduled bus that was only two short stops from the T—and from there all of Boston was within reach. It was also only three minutes to
a grocery and five minutes to Mona Lisa’s. Her living quarters were as close to the rest of the world as she wanted them to be.
With her hoodie pulled up and zipped to her chin, jacket flapping in the wind and wrinkled jeans scruffy at the knees, she might have been any of the local youths walking home from the high school for lunch. True, none of them carried a picnic basket right out of Little Red Riding Hood swinging from one hand.
At the top of the block she paused to inhale deeply and smiled in spite of herself. There was a finch chirping in the distance. Spring was indeed coming. The last of her anger seeped away, leaving behind cautious contentment paired, as always, with the tickle of anxiety.
No news there. She’d known all along that her Berserker Baking Blitz was rooted in her hyperactive flight-or-fight instinct.
The flashing Sam Adams Lager sign over Mona Lisa’s familiar green door was a welcome sight. The flutters and shivers that had tightened her chest eased. Note to self—fresh air is good for you. It wasn’t the first time she’d told herself that. It wouldn’t be the last.
The steamy, golden air inside the bar was also good for her, she decided, even if her sunglasses immediately fogged up. The familiar sharp aromas of beer, furniture polish, and tangy tomato soup were immediately comforting. She shucked her coat and unzipped the hoodie. Her word count could wait. She’d clearly needed this break.
Mona Lisa herself was working the front of the house, and that was always a beautiful thing. It was just past noon and customers were scarce. By five o’clock there wouldn’t be an empty seat at the gleaming oak bar, especially if Lisa was still working it. Paris didn’t know where Lisa had picked up her mad skills, but she made filling a beer mug as eye-catching as a striptease. It certainly helped that she had a mane of sun-streaked yellow hair and a figure that filled out a Shetland sweater and Levi’s in all the best ways.
Paris sent a chin nod Lisa’s way, hoisted the basket into view and got a nod in return. Her usual cushioned chair in the corner near the front window suited her just fine, especially with her face to the sun and back to the TVs. At the moment the muted televisions were replaying a broadcast of a baseball game so ancient it was in black and white. It still roused a cheer from a die-hard Red Sox fan at the far end of the bar. Next month, on opening day, the place would be packed.
My Lady Lipstick Page 1