Kiss & Makeup Read online

  Her concern was strictly that of a friend in the middle. A sucky place to be. “So why doesn’t April take you home? She doesn’t want her parents to know she has a lover?”

  He waited a long time before answering, clearing the hesitation from his throat before he did. “April and I aren’t lovers. And if you tell her I told you that, the ass-kicking switches into high gear.”

  What? Speechless. She was absolutely speechless, her mouth as dry as a bone. April hadn’t once hinted that she wasn’t sleeping with Evan. She’d hinted at quite the opposite, in fact.

  “I don’t get it. You’ve spent the night over there—”

  “On the couch.”

  Unbelievable. “Not in her bed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Huh.” Shandi didn’t even know what to say. “Has she said why? I mean, I’m assuming you’ve tried or told her you want to.” And then a pause as she thought. “You do want to, right? Or is this more of that double-standard thing?”

  “Do we have to talk about this? I’ve got class in four hours.”

  “Drawing? Skip it.” He wouldn’t, and she ought to let him off the hook, but he was her only window into the male psyche.

  The only one whose brain she could pick about what to do with her crush on tonight’s customer. “I need to know what men think.”

  “Why?” He turned his head sharply. “Are you planning to hit on banana man?”

  She shoved at his closest knee, rocking both of his legs. “Would you stop calling him that?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Quentin.”

  “And you want to sleep with him.”

  “I don’t know.” She did, of course, hating how these ridiculous double standards men embraced labeled her because of that want. “He intrigues me. That’s all.”

  “Right.” A snort. “It’s not like you want to do him because he’s hot.”

  Okay, yes, there was that. An attitude she’d always shared with April. Or so she’d thought. But if April wasn’t even sleeping with Evan, the man she loved…

  This complicated love and sex and lust business was for the birds. Shandi wanted things plain and simple, to act on her attraction to Quentin without having him think less of her for doing so.

  Because what he thought of her mattered just as much as having him want her. “Okay. I admit it. I’m obviously a hopeless slut.”

  “Sluts are good.”

  She groaned with frustration, then lay back beside Evan. “Good when I’m the slut in question. Just not when it’s April.”

  “Shandi, this conversation is putting me to sleep.”

  She ignored him. “You know I’m going to have to rag on April for not telling me the truth.”

  “What?” Evan perked up. “She told you we were having sex?”

  Good. The reaction she’d wanted. “No, but she let me think so. Heck, you let me think so. I mean, I don’t get it, but if her not sleeping with you makes her a better catch—”

  “It’s not about her being a better catch.” He sighed. “It’s just that by the time we realized we were more than friends, we were such good friends we didn’t want to ruin it by sleeping together. Not until we were sure it was more.”

  “It is more, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It’s more.” This time his sigh was pure poetry.

  And hers pure envy. She wanted that same more. She really, truly wanted that very same more. “So this guy at the hotel. Quentin. I shouldn’t sleep with him then.”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re interested in more than his banana.”

  QUENTIN MARKS STOOD STARING out the window of his sixteenth-floor suite. He had a meeting at nine. He needed to be in bed. Check that. He needed to be asleep.

  Except, being in bed made him think of being there for sex and being there with Shandi Fossey.

  He had never met a woman with legs like those of Erotique’s bartender. And that was saying a lot considering the legs he’d seen in his lifetime.

  A man didn’t get to be a Grammy-winning record producer without being subjected to a hell of a lot of exposure—perpetrated by women—and more than a few men—wanting his attention, looking to gain an industry in. Using him. Willing to do anything, give him anything, promise him the sexual moon if he would simply listen to their demo, make an introduction, reveal the secrets to success he was a greedy bastard for keeping to himself.

  Yeah. He was a bastard all right. A bastard because he looked out for himself, he mused, stepping from the corner room’s window to the balcony overlooking Madison Avenue and pulling open the French doors. The night air was muggy, the lights muted, the noise level low enough that he had no trouble hearing his thoughts.

  He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad considering lately his thoughts were all about getting back to Austin. And until he took care of business here, made his deals, got what he wanted, he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go home.

  Home.

  He sighed, drained the rest of the brandy that room service had delivered, compliments of management. Quentin had to admit the rumors were true. Hush was the place to stay—even if he’d originally planned to stay elsewhere.

  It was the hotel’s name that had drawn him. It had drawn his assistant’s attention, as well; she’d been the one to show him its promotional material. Later she’d shown him the write-up in the New Yorker profiling the Devon hotel empire and this newest venture that was run—quite successfully—by the daughter, Piper, whose wild-child reputation was one those in the business knew well.

  He’d flipped through both the brochure and the magazine, curious, not as interested in the amenities as much as the privacy said amenities obviously entailed. He wanted his visit to the city to be a quiet one. He wanted to get in, get his business done and get out without a lot of fanfare. He was winding down that part of his life, the one that kept him in the limelight.

  He’d reserved the hotel’s basement conference center for two separate meetings tomorrow—uh, make that today—as well as more later in the week. In the past he’d never had reason to be as involved with the industry’s money men as he was now.

  But now he had to be. Now was all about his own studio. The Marks label: Markin’ It Up. Finally setting himself up in Austin and going home to stay. Making that dream happen was why he was here. Getting the backing he needed wasn’t going to be the problem. Deciding who he wanted behind him was.

  Right now, however, the thought forefront in his mind wasn’t about financing but about sex. As strange as it sounded, as strange as it felt, his studio plans had kept him too busy these last months to do more than mentally indulge.

  Now he wanted more. Now he wanted Shandi. A woman he shouldn’t have wanted at all. They hadn’t talked much in the way of specifics; no real getting-to-know-you conversation had found its way into their back-and-forth.

  But what she had told him was enough to have made him want to push back from the bar and do his drinking elsewhere. In a quiet corner. At a dark table. Away from her smile and her big blue eyes. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed there with her and drunk her up, too.

  She was majoring in cosmetics and marketing, headed for a career—she hoped, the marketing was a fall-back plan— in the theater, in film, in music videos. Wherever she could find work as a makeup artist in the entertainment industry. The marketing was a fall-back plan.

  His industry.

  An industry that crushed dreams daily.

  He’d been lucky to live his. Others weren’t so lucky. Most weren’t so.

  She was a clichéd breath of fresh air when he was used to inhaling lungfuls of jaded cynicism.

  Hell, these days he didn’t even like listening to himself think, what with the way his own thoughts were so polluted. He didn’t blame Shandi for not sticking around for more conversation beyond the flirting they’d done. He knew he’d been nowhere near as entertain
ing as her animated responses had made him out to be.

  Then again, he wasn’t blind, deaf or dumb to where her attention tended to drift when she’d thought him not looking, when she’d feigned interest in the other bar patrons.

  That interest was what was keeping him up, keeping him awake, keeping him from listening to his years of experience and the common sense that came with it.

  He was hard-bitten; she was exuberantly optimistic. He was turning his back on the bright lights of the big city she so openly embraced.

  He was weary of witnessing the implosion of dreams. She wore hope with the same authority, the same familiar comfort with which she wore her uniform of tuxedo pants and shirt.

  And all he could think about was getting her out of the one without damaging the other.

  2

  Attention: EVERYONE!

  The cocktail napkins are NOT to be used to clean up spills or for handkerchiefs, makeup cloths or whatever picnics you have going on in the bar’s back room.

  BRING YOUR OWN BOUNTY OR BRAWNY!

  Armand & Shandi

  QUENTIN IMPATIENTLY WAITED for Shandi to begin the evening shift at the bar.

  It had been midafternoon before he’d finished the second of his scheduled meetings and accompanied his business advisor and the bank’s trio of officers from the basement conference center to the lobby.

  The group had lingered long enough sharing financial war stories that Quentin had finally suggested a drink—a multipurpose suggestion. He’d felt like a fool paying more attention to the comings and goings in the bar than to the conversation.

  At least in the bar his distraction wouldn’t be as obvious, his obsession as apparent. By the time the others had left an hour later, however, Shandi still hadn’t put in an appearance. Quentin then decided on an early and solitary dinner.

  He’d convinced the hostess in the hotel restaurant, Amuse Bouche, to seat him where he had a clear view of Erotique. He finally caught sight of Shandi, of course, the minute his server walked away after placing his salad of seared Norwegian salmon, mixed greens, cucumbers and yellow-pepper vinaigrette on the table.

  His first instinct was to rush through his meal and hurry into the bar. But then he realized how very much he enjoyed simply looking at her, watching her and doing it while she remained unaware. He usually didn’t have the benefit of flying under the radar and he took full advantage.

  She looked completely at ease, dodging the other bartender, weaving in and out and around as they both filled orders, mixed drinks, poured, served and chatted up patrons. She smiled and laughed, her face expressive and engaged, fresh. She enjoyed herself as she worked. It showed. He liked it. And he found himself relaxing while he ate.

  He took his time and let his anticipation build. He tasted little of the food on his plate and didn’t touch the complimentary wine a female diner sent over. It wasn’t food or drink his appetite required. And he didn’t want to feel obligated because of the gift and get caught up by a conversation in which he had zero interest.

  His only interest was Shandi. Thing was, he wanted more from her than sex. He wanted to see her smile for him, at him, because of him. He wanted to share her optimism, her outlook, her disposition. And then he wanted it all so suddenly that the distance between them was too much, the wait unnecessary.

  He signaled for his server, paid for his meal and headed for Erotique.

  “How did your meetings go?” Shandi asked as he hoisted himself up onto one of the funky black chairs at the half-moon-shaped bar and leaned against the inverted-triangle back.

  The lights above, a strangely cool pink shining down from nested fixtures, turned her blond hair nearly white. Until she cocked her head. And then all he could think about was cotton candy.

  He wrapped his hand around the highball glass she set in front of him, focusing on the drink she was pouring instead of her sweetness and the way he wanted her. “Well enough, I suppose. As meetings go.”

  She laughed lightly, a soft lyrical sound of crystal and bells. “Doesn’t sound like meetings are much your thing.”

  He shrugged. “Depends on the topic.”

  “And this one was?” she asked, nodding toward another customer who signaled for a drink.

  “Money,” Quentin said, ice clinking on glass. She gazed at him quizzically before stepping away to deliver the bourbon-and-rocks.

  He studied her as she moved, as she talked, taking care of her customer, appearing to give the man her full attention yet all the while aware of the needs of the other bar patrons.

  He wondered how long she’d been serving drinks, if it was experience tending bar or her natural ease with people that made her efforts seem effortless.

  Then he wondered why Hush had her wearing pants when the business of the hotel was eroticism and the length of her legs defined the word.

  He could not get enough of the way she walked, of the sway of her hips, the curves of her ass in motion. He’d settled into this particular seat two nights in a row now for that very reason.

  From here he had a clear view of the length of the bar and beyond. And watching her was quickly becoming his favorite pastime.

  When she returned to where he was sitting, she picked up their conversation right where she’d left it, asking, “You don’t like money?”

  “If it’s mine, sure. If it’s not…” He left the sentence hanging and shrugged. “I don’t like being obligated.” He also didn’t like talking business when he wanted to get to know her.

  “Ah, you don’t like being in debt, you mean.”

  This time he shook his head and laughed as much to himself as for her. “A necessary evil, unfortunately.”

  “Tell me about it.” She waved over his head at a cute Gwyneth Paltrow look-alike walking through the lobby. Her eyes danced as she smiled. When he asked, she answered, “That’s Kit.”

  “A friend?”

  “She’s the director of public relations. We’re forever comparing our student loans that rival the national debt. And I’ll probably be paying mine off with my retirement fund since I waited so late to get up the guts to start school.”

  Hmm. “Why did you need guts to start school?”

  “If you want that story, you’ll be here all night,” she replied, a teasing lilt to her voice, a suggestion—one that seemed to be an invitation he do just that. That he insist she tell him. That he stay with her all night.

  He wanted to. He just didn’t want to do it here. Not with an audience. Not when his room upstairs put a sheikh’s palace to shame. So he simply lifted a brow and tapped his fingers on the side of his glass.

  Shandi rolled her eyes, her grin charming him, her reluctance intriguing him, her coy flutter of lashes too cute to be anything but real. “You’re going to stick around until I tell all, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have a single place to go or another person to see.” She might be teasing him, but the reservation in her voice convinced him not to press any button that would send her skittering away. “I’d say you’re stuck with me.”

  She shook her head slowly, leaned into the corner. Leaned close to him. Still not quite comfortable, but near enough that he knew she wanted to stay.

  One dark blond brow arched upward. “Okay, but consider yourself warned. Because when you fall out of your chair from boredom and need stitches on the back of your head, I won’t be held responsible.”

  “Got it,” he said and fought back a grin.

  She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t so much starting school that required the guts as it was moving here against my family’s wishes to go. I already had an associate’s degree, which I wasn’t using, by the way—”

  “Why not?”

  She stared at the bar’s surface, rubbed away a water spot instead of looking at him when she spoke. “Because my parents claimed to need my help at work.” She shrugged, gestured with one hand. “They own a bar. Though compared to Erotique, the Rattler’s really more of a saloon.”

  “Th
e Rattler?”

  “The Thirsty Rattler.” Her grin returned, though almost reluctantly, a shy self-deprecation. “Yeah. If you can believe it.”

  He believed it and he pictured it and had no problem doing either. “Your accent’s not quite Texas….”

  “Oklahoma,” she provided. “Round-Up, Oklahoma.”

  “We’re almost neighbors then. Except Oklahoma’s still a long day’s drive from Austin.”

  “And I don’t live in Oklahoma anymore.”

  He nodded his touché, wondering what about Oklahoma had driven her away, because he was certain that’s what had happened. “So your parents wanted you to stay and work. You wanted to leave and study. Either way, someone was going to end up being unhappy.”

  “That about covers it.” She curled her fingers into her palm and considered her nails. “Though I’m not sure unhappy is the word I would use.”

  He sat back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head. “What word would you use?”

  She laughed then. “Depends on who I’m describing.”

  “Then describe yourself.” He was interested in Shandi, not her family. Especially considering her reluctance to talk about herself.

  That trait made him all the more curious; most women wanted to tell him every detail of their lives, more than he cared or wanted to know.

  He prodded her to go on. “If you’d stayed in Oklahoma, you’d be…what? Bitter? Resentful?”

  Nodding, she smoothed a hand back over the hair she wore in a long French braid. “And guilty for feeling either one.”

  “Because they’re your family.”

  She smiled, the lift of her lips seeming to be more for her own benefit than his. “They may not have my best interests at heart, but I gotta love them anyway. They are who they are, ya know?”

  Then she continued, the rush of words making him wonder how long she’d been holding in what came out as frustration. “And it’s not even about my interests. They don’t think that way. The family has always been one entity. The Fosseys. We’re not individuals. No one is expected to think outside that communal box. The fact that I did…”