by CORY CYR
I laugh again, this time at the paradox she presents. She’s right, though—it really doesn’t make much sense, but I suppose book models don’t want their goods really hanging out for the whole world to see.
“Well, at least you’ll have amazing memories, if you ever retire,” I say, patting her hand.
“Oh no, dear, this job keeps me young, and my husband likes it because I come home wanting to ride the pony,” she says seriously.
My eyes pop out of my head and I hope she doesn’t notice.
“I’m old, dear, not dead. I’ve been with the hubby for over thirty-five years and he does so enjoy the ride. You know it keeps your—she points to below her waist—‘down there’ young too.” She says all of this with a no-nonsense, straight face. I want to high-five her and run away screaming at the same time.
All I can do is attempt to wipe the picture of Bertrice and her hubby having sex out my mind so that it doesn’t get tattooed on my brain. I don’t know what to say. Should I bless her heart, or feel depressed since she is seeing more action than I am?
It isn’t fair!
I look around and I am not seeing any other people with whom I’m familiar, the ones I normally see at book events.
“Bertrice, do you know anything about invitations for a book shoot or a book signing?” I ask. “I’m not really sure which one it actually is. The invitation is rather vague.”
“I’m not sure about that, dear, but those make-up artists or the models would know more than I would. Just go over there; they’ll get you to the right place,” she replies, pointing over to where the Greek god is sitting.
I stroll over to where Greek god and the make-up people are, and, I swear, I honestly try not to stare. I attempt to keep my eyes straight ahead, but they seem to gravitate toward Greek god’s briefs. My ocular reflexes are embarrassing me.
“Excuse me. I have this invitation for a book cover shoot. I’m not sure what it is, or if I’m even in the right place.” I feel flustered.
Greek god jumps out of his chair. Wow, he towers over me, and I’m tall, especially in heels. He’s so close I can smell the oil—baby oil.
“I’d shake your hand, but these idiots went crazy with the rub,” he replies in a British accent. He grabs a towel and starts wiping his hands. When I hear him speak, I feel a sense of déjà vu.
“I’m not sure if I’m even in the right place. This invitation got dropped off while my bookstore was closed and it didn’t have a lot of information and now I’m rambling . . . sorry,” I say apologetically.
He mumbles something as he turns toward me with a scowl on his face.
“I’m Keenan Stone. Please sit down, Miss Wells.” He motions to one of the other stools.
How does Greek god know my name? This is creepy. All of a sudden, I seem to be a magnet for hot, strange men.
“Call me Haven. I’m curious how you know my name.” Very curious . . . had I met him before? I would have seriously remembered someone who looked like him. Wait, I do know him; he’s on Alicia Anders’ romance covers. Oh my God, it is him! He looks extremely agitated and nervous, so now that makes two of us. I am beginning to get anxious and I left my pills at home.
“I’m afraid you may have been brought here on false pretenses,” he says, his voice low. I’m actually stunned by what he says and concerned by the revelation.
“Okay, I’m confused . . . false pretenses? I’m not getting it; explain it to me.”
I’m getting tense with all this mystery. It’s obvious that no one in this building, more specifically at this shoot, knows anything about an invitation to a book cover shoot. I am getting very upset. Greek god—Keenan—appears to be stalling. I have already blown almost half of my day coming here. I stand up, pretending to remove non-existent lint off my pants and send Keenan Stone an incensed look.
“Mr. Stone, this is obviously a waste of my time. And since you’re not offering any kind of explanation for why I should be here, I think I should get back to my bookstore and actually do some work.” I am fuming. I feel as though this was someone’s idea of a joke and I got played.
A pinched expression crosses his face. “I’m so very sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused you. Truly, it was never my intention, and my only excuse is coercion.” He looks defeated.
At this point, I’m thinking what the hell is he talking about?
“Please, Miss Wells . . . Haven, stay. You’re already here and I promise you, all will become clear,” he says.
Become clear? This guy sounds like a fortune cookie, and if I don’t get some answers soon, I’m going to break him in half myself.
I sit back down in a director’s chair and watch as Keenan Stone walks over to a bed surrounded by bright lights. A very young, beautiful woman joins him on the bed. She’s also projecting the illusion of nakedness. Jesus, it’s bad enough I read this crap, but now I have to watch the erotica turn into reality? I have to admit that I’m also somewhat excited; I’m actually seeing a book cover being made.
I feel someone behind me. I can sense him. I can smell him. Goose bumps prickle my arms as the pretty man from the party casually saunters in front of me. He is more breathtaking than I’d ever imagined. I remember that he is tall, and he definitely appears to be a few inches over six feet. I was correct that night—his hair is a dark mocha brown, but it has sun-bleached strands going through it and it still looks wild and unkempt. I hadn’t been close enough to see his eyes. They are paralyzing, an intense green laced with gray hues, ringed with a deep blue tone, and outlined with long ember eyelashes. His chin is still shadowed with facial hair and it gives him a dangerously seductive look. His lips are thick and full, parted slightly to show a display of very white teeth.
The jeans he’s wearing hang low on his hips and are cut to mold his body perfectly. A black t-shirt stretches across a muscled, wide chest. His arms and face are deeply tan. He obviously spends a great deal of time working out and being outdoors. I bite my bottom lip when I feel a flash of panic race through me. This is the man I had a one-night stand with, and then vomiting and passing out because he’d wanted oral sex. My shoulders tense as I cringe with humiliation.
A smile curls his exquisite lips. I bolt out of the chair—escape is paramount.
“Always trying to get away from me, sweetheart?” His voice is a mix of tease and faint accent.
I stand and face him. “Was it you? Are you the one who left the invitation? Why would you do that?” I ask. No—I demand.
This doesn’t make sense to me. Why would this über attractive man go to all this cloak and dagger crap to get me here? I try not to look at him directly because between his looks and his voice, I can’t trust myself. At least I’d worn pants.
“Don’t be angry. I wanted to see you again,” he replies.
“Oh my God, it was you! This wasn’t part of the deal. You said no names. It was a one-night stand. I assumed that to mean no contact, ever. It’s only been two days. How . . . why?” I ask, infuriated with his actions.
He moves closer, our bodies almost touching, and I shiver. Just being in close proximity to him is causing my core to tighten and I feel my breathing start to restrict.
“I realized that I lied to you that night. I need to clarify one of my statements.” His tone is serious.
“Okay, I’m listening. Frankly, I’m dying to know why you would go through all this trouble. You do realize you could have just left me a note, sent me a text, or called me on the phone. Why all the mystery?”
I’m trying so hard not to look at him, but with us standing so close, even with my four-inch heels on, I’m staring directly into his dreamy chest. I feel shell-shocked, giddy and nervous like a damn schoolgirl. I cannot fathom why this hot, drop dead gorgeous man went through all this trouble.
“You were saying a lie,” I repeated, still locked onto his chest.
He quickly closes the distance between us, backs me into the chair, and rests his hands on the arms of the chair, basicall
y corralling me in. I can feel his warm breath, smell his cologne, and I swear I can hear his heartbeat. Or maybe it’s mine. My sex pulsates in my pants. Every single nerve in my body is acutely aware of this man’s presence. I close my eyes. His lips brush my left ear and he chooses that moment to confess his lie in a thick, throaty accent.
“I lied when I told you I didn’t want to fuck you. I haven’t been able to think of anything else but being inside of you.”
My eyes fly open and I can’t catch my breath. This man shocks me. He’s exasperating and electrifying all at the same time.
“Well, sweetheart?” His tongue nibbles at the edge of my left ear, causing my nipples to harden.
“You are constantly saying outrageous things to me. You did all this, created an elaborate hoax, just to get in my pants?” I ask while waving my hands around.
He leans back and laughs.
“You find this funny? I find it creepy. I’m sure you have mountains of women just dying to be with you. Go stalk them,” I say angrily.
“Maybe I’d rather stalk you,” he replies smugly, pressing his body as close to me as possible. I swear I almost feel his erection. I roll my eyes. I am sober now, and more prepared for his “amorous” advances.
“So you admit you’re a creeper?” I ask, still talking into his chest.
“No—only with you,” he admits with a chuckle.
“You don’t even know me.” I state matter-of-factly.
“That is a mistake I plan to rectify.” He pauses. “Honestly, considering the events of our last encounter, I would say I know you rather intimately.”
“Yeah, internally,” I mutter. Seriously, I do not need to be reminded of my one and only one-night stand that far surpassed mortification.
“Maybe it’s time we introduce ourselves.” He gently pushes me backwards until I sit back in the chair. He then gets another chair, setting it directly in front of me. My God, he is stunning; I think my eyes hurt from looking at him.
“My name is Latch McKay,” he says with an absolutely straight face.
I want so badly to laugh. Really, what mother names her child Latch? All I can do is grin.
“Boy, I bet you got beat up a lot in school. Mom not like you much? Hard to imagine,” I reply, still grinning.
He frowns. “Very funny . . . it’s a nickname. It’s short for Lachlan,” he points out. So he’s not British. Lachlan sounds Scottish or Irish.
He’s too close. My body reacts shamelessly when he’s this close. I have never felt this responsive even with Jared. My body appears to recognize him, gravitate towards him, and I feel slightly disoriented. He knows my name and he knows about the bookstore. He knew I’d show up today because he knew what would entice me to come. He seems to know too much about me.
I lean back, and my eyes peruse him up and down until a chilling realization hits me and my gaze freezes on his unique eyes. Oh no . . .
“Y-you took me h-home the other night?” I stammer.
“Of course I did. Did you think I’d leave you passed out sick, lying on a lounge chair beside a pool?” His confirmation is laced with disbelief and arrogance, and if I were any other person, I would totally feel the same way.
Right now, I’m not sure what I’m feeling . . . stupid, exposed, and embarrassed sound like possible candidates.
“How did you know where I lived?” I demand, even though I have already figured it out for myself. I guess my question startles him because he eases back slightly. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“You went through my goddamn purse?” I hiss. The tone of my voice makes him leap out of his chair.
“Didn’t your mother teach you that a woman’s purse is sacred? It’s the fucking Holy Grail! A man NEVER goes in it, even if we ask him to!” My voice has reached shriek levels and I had just cursed.
Perfect! Not only am I a slut, but also I’m a sailor too.
He has a thunderous look on his face. “No, my mother didn’t give me that important piece of information. I was trying to be a gentleman; I guess I should have just left you sprawled out by the pool for some pervert to find.” After that tirade, he suddenly seems more amused than angry.
Bastard knows my name, address, birth date . . . Oh crap, my weight. Hell, why can’t I lie on my driver’s license like every other woman?
“It’s an invasion of privacy. You had no right to go through my things,” I spit out, trying to stand toe-to-toe with this giant.
“Oh really?” He moves closer, his voice lowered to an almost breathy whisper. “Invasion of your privacy? You didn’t seem to care what I invaded the other night when I had my tongue so deep inside you that I could taste your lip gloss,” he challenges.
I’m livid. My face feels beet red. This man vexes me like no other.
“I think we’re done here, or at least I am. Nice knowing you, Mr. McKay.” I salute him as
I stand up one final time.
“Oh, we are not done, not by a long shot. No fucking way are we done.” His voice rises now as he bends his head down towards me, trying to be nose-to-nose. People are beginning to notice, including the godlike Keenan Stone.
“Can you keep your voice down? What are you, twelve?” I ask quietly, still angry.
“No—twenty-five.” His reply is casual.
My heart drops into my shoes and I almost stop breathing. Twenty-five, this man is fricking twenty-five years old. Oh God, I’m a cradle robber, a child molester. Even worse, I’m a cougar. This guy can date skinny, blond, plastic piranhas and he wants me, an old lady?
“I know what you’re thinking. I can see the gears spinning,” he gloats.
“Oh, I seriously doubt you know what I’m thinking—you can trust me on that.” I squeeze out from where he stands. “I’m leaving now.”
“Haven, please stay. I really want to get to know you. Can I at least take you to dinner?” he cajoles me, staring at me with hope in his gorgeous eyes.
This has to be a joke because this man can have any woman he wants, and here he is begging to take me to dinner. This entire ordeal defies logic. It has to be a sham, or maybe I’m on some new reality show called “Punk the Cougar.”
“Look, I’m too old for you. I’m not wealthy so if you’re looking to be a kept man, I’m not the one for you. I’m sure you have a huge rolodex just filled with women’s numbers,” I spit out.
“Actually, they’re in my smart phone, and I am not interested in someone younger. I want you, and I don’t need your money because I’m rich.” His reply isn’t cocky, it’s just factual. He has no idea what he just said. I, on the other hand, am going to stew about it.
“Mr. McKay, I’m twelve years older,” I tell him, internally sighing because if he were my age, I would jump on his offer.
“I saw your driver’s license. I’m perfectly clear on your birth date, and it’s only a number.” His arms are folded across his chest as his eyes bore into me.
“I’m sorry. No, you’re just too young. Twelve years is a major difference. I mean, why me? I’m sure you have women lying in wait.” I question, looking up at him. My entire body is taut, wanting to do nothing more than to lean into him and inhale his scent. He smirks.
“For some reason, you’re not convincing me, sweetheart. I think you protest too much. I have no doubt that if I was to pull your zipper down right now, and slip a finger into that sweet pussy, you’d be dripping wet.” He lowers his eyes and licks his lips.
I feel faint, only because the bastard is telling the truth. If I spend time around him, I’ll need to be wearing Poise pads to prevent leakage. He so annoys me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something shiny green sticking out of his jean pocket. Dammit! It’s my La Perla thong. The jerk! He has some nerve to walk around in public with my underwear. This man irritates me to no end. I push him aside, grabbing my panties as a smile purses his lips.
“You are . . . incorrigible . . . and stop calling me sweetheart!” I say a
s I shove my La Perla panties into my purse and walk away.
Chapter Four
Latch
Keenan stalks up to me, looking almost as pissed as Haven did when she left.
“That went well, I see,” Keenan snaps as he grabs a towel.
I shove my hands into my pockets. Honestly, I’m perplexed. Keenan sits down in one of the director’s chairs.
“You do understand that she is not your typical type of woman?” Keenan speaks calmly.
I nod in agreement.
“She’s beautiful, but you do realize she’s more mature, right?”
“Obviously . . . her driver’s license was pretty educational.” I grin, running my hands through my hair.
“Latch, you know I love you, mate, but this girl’s different. Not only is she a woman, but there’s something in her eyes. Don’t fuck with her, just leave it alone. She’s not the type you’re used to; you can’t do to her what you do with the others. Just forget her and go on to the next one.” Keenan gets off the chair and tosses the towel at me.
My problem is that I don’t want to leave her alone. Women throw themselves at me. I have a different one every night. Since the minute I first got laid when I was a teenager, it’s been a non-stop fuck fest. I can’t help it. I love women, and I’m blessed because they love me. Not actual love as in the emotion, but they love the fucking, the fame and the money. Relationships don’t work for me. I’ve never actually had one, because I know for sure that being faithful and fucking just one woman for the rest of my life isn’t for me. Kill me now, because that’s never going to happen. What would Google think? I pride myself on holding the title of “womanizing manwhore.” Hell, we all have to excel at something. I’m lucky—I excel in everything I do, especially fucking.
I close my eyes and go back in time to the night I saw her.
Keenan had planned to go with me to Castman’s party, but he bailed last minute because of some runway show in Paris. I, of course, took all the credit for setting his career on fire. Up until five years ago, the only gigs Keenan got were book covers and the occasional print ad. Once I released my video game, Blood Vestige, everyone wanted “Jake Coy,” a character I had created in Keenan’s image. Ever since then, he’s been going non-stop.
