Liar, Liar, Tabloid Writer

by Suzie Quint

  He shrugged. “I went to a good school.”

  Cleo cringed inside. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him. She should have known enough to leave the question unasked when he’d left his credentials off the list. But he was smart. Smart enough to impress her against her will even if his bona fides weren’t of the same caliber as everyone else’s. She picked up an apple from the bowl and rolled it in her hands, so she had an excuse to look away from him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just―”

  “No es importante.” He dismissed her apology with a sweep of his hand. Then he must have seen how awkward she felt because he added, “It was good enough to get an internship at the Washington Post,” impressing her yet again.

  “That’s the kind of internship people kill for. How did you . . . ?” She stumbled to a halt. When would she learn to shut up?

  “Sink so far?” he finished for her. “I don’t think I have.”

  She cocked her head, wanting him to explain.

  He shrugged again. “Is it so hard to believe I didn’t want to be their token Hispanic?”

  “Oh, please. Do I look stupid to you?”

  His eyes flashed down over her body. “Honey, when a woman has a smoking hot body, I almost never ask her to take an IQ test.”

  Heat flashed through her, catching her off guard. Pitching the apple at his head was as quick and instinctive a response as pulling her hand back from a red-hot stove.

  He fended it off. The apple glanced off his shoulder, but his hand swept a wide arc and caught the bottle of juice. She jerked forward, bending, trying to catch it before it hit the floor. She almost made it. The bottle didn’t even tip. It landed straight up, the impact with the floor creating a geyser of juice that splashed her face, her arms, her T-shirt, her hair.

  The sweet-tart juice dripped from her chin as she straightened.

  He caught her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” He looked appalled.

  “It’s fine.” She forced a smile even as she spoke through gritted teeth. “An accident. Could happen to anyone.” Anyone who was a misogynistic pig.

  His gaze dropped to where he grasped her. Already she could feel the stickiness of her skin. Peeling his hand from her arm, he got up, heading for the sink.

  He returned with a wet paper towel in hand, but when he reached out to wipe her face, she caught his hand and took it from him. As she cleaned her face, her nails snagged in a sticky strand of hair. The entire roll of paper towels wasn’t going to be enough.

  “I’m really sorry.” He sat back down and watched her without meeting her eyes.

  “No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have thrown the apple.” Even as she said it, claiming the blame that was rightfully hers, she seethed. She wouldn’t have thrown the apple if he hadn’t been leering. “I need to take a shower.”

  He nodded, still not meeting her eyes. Did he really feel bad? Or . . . She looked down and realized he wasn’t meeting her gaze because he was staring at the large wet splotch where her T-shirt molded to her right breast. Wet and chilled, her nipple was erect enough to poke out insistently. Apparently, that was more than enough to mesmerize Alec and strike him dumb.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered. She didn’t wait to see if he’d shake it off, heading instead for her shower.

  Chapter 5

  Cleo turned on the shower to bring up the hot water before she peeled off her clothes. She left them in a heap on the bathroom floor and stepped inside the stall.

  The water sluiced away the sticky feeling, and she let her mind go blank as she shampooed her hair. Sadly, her mind wouldn’t stay blank.

  Alec was a lot more complicated than she’d imagined, and so was her response to him. She wasn’t sure if she’d thrown the apple at him because she’d liked his frank appraisal, or if she’d been trying to distract him from the pleasure it gave her. Lord, when had she started caring that he thought she was hot?

  How could she be so drawn to someone who wrote for a tabloid?

  You write for a tabloid now too, she reminded herself. Or at least you will as soon as you’ve written something.

  But that was different. She didn’t have a choice.

  There’s always a choice.

  Okay, so it was better than selling her body. But only because of the signing bonus.

  Unless she could handpick her customers.

  But the odds she’d get many customers like the man currently in her apartment couldn’t be good.

  It occurred to her as she soaped her breasts that here she was, wet and naked, with Alec no more than twenty feet and one flimsy door away. She twitched aside the shower curtain. Make that twenty feet and one flimsy, unlocked door.

  Water cascaded down from her shoulders, running in rivulets down her breasts.

  Twenty feet. One flimsy door.

  What if that thought occurred to him too? What if he decided to do something about it? What if, even now, he was approaching the door? She closed her eyes and imagined his hand turning the knob.

  She wouldn’t hear more than a snick of the latch. Her heart beating fast, she might pause to listen. Sounds suggesting the shuffle of his feet, the whoosh of his clothes coming off would reach her ears. She’d think about screaming and—

  No, that wouldn’t do.

  She rewound the fantasy and started again.

  The water would drown out his step and the fall of his clothes. Her eyes would be closed as she faced the spray. An unexpected draft would cool her ass. She’d look over her shoulder to find him. Naked. Staring in awe.

  He would tear his eyes away as she turned, lifting them to linger on her breasts until she crossed her arms protectively over them. Her hardened nipples would poke the palms of her hands.

  He would say, “I thought about you, naked . . . soapy . . . slippery.” She would see him swallow. “It made me crazy with need.” And he would step into the shower.

  She would look down to discover a cock the size of a summer sausage.

  No. That was too much and she really didn’t like the food analogy.

  She would look down to discover his cock had perfect dimensions. He would be long and thick and as hard as a marble column.

  Yeah, just like the Acropolis. She shook her head to clear it, then leaned back against the wall of the shower and adjusted her mental image.

  He would be long and thick and hard. Period.

  “What if I don’t want you here?” she would say.

  “You will,” he’d answer, looking deep into her eyes, and she would be mesmerized enough not to object as he peeled her hands from her breasts. Then her good sense would try to assert itself. “No. I don’t want to,” and she would push his hands away.

  “Yes, you do,” he would whisper as he framed her face with his hands and lowered his head to lick the moisture from her lips. Then he would drink from her mouth. When the kiss deepened, his hands would slide down until they framed her breasts, and he would strum her nipples with his thumbs.

  She plucked at her nipples. The resulting vibration skipped down to her clit.

  He’d go down on one knee. A drop of water would cling for a tenuous moment to the hard bud of her nipple before it fell. He’d hold out his tongue and catch it, then he would draw her breast into his mouth. His hands would stroke down her sides, his thumbs nearly meeting in the middle as they slid over her belly. Her flesh would quiver under his touch.

  His hair would be loose but slicked down with the weight of the water, and his skin would be smooth and wet. Beads of water would cling to his dark lashes. It would all combine to make her weak in the knees, but by then, she’d have the shower wall at her back, holding her up.

  When his wandering hands discover the landing strip of hair that survived her last waxing, his eyes would open wide with astonishment.

  Her fingers caressed her mons.

  Of course, that would be nothing compared to his reaction when he noticed the diamond-tipped, curved barbell piercing her clit hood.


  He would release her nipple to inspect that closer, then he would nuzzle between her thighs, flicking the barbell with his tongue, stimulating her engorged clit. Her hands would lay on his head in benediction as he sucked and prodded her to ecstasy.

  She pulled the handheld shower nozzle from its bracket and aimed the flow between her legs. A moan escaped her lips when the hot, pulsing water hit exactly the right spot. For about a heartbeat and a half, she stilled.

  What if he’d heard that?

  Then she decided she didn’t care if he did. Even so, she rolled her lips in tight to muffle any other sounds she couldn’t stifle. She pressed the showerhead against her flesh and prepared to see stars.

  ~***~

  Alec was uncomfortably aware of the sound of the shower. As long as he could hear the water running, it was hard to ignore that Cleo of the killer body—the kind that made adolescent boys beg and grown men weep—was naked and wet two rooms away.

  “What are you? Twelve?” he asked himself, as he flipped sightlessly through The Word’s latest editions. This was the same reaction he’d had when he’d been on the edge of puberty and realized girls were naked under their clothes.

  Fight it though he would, he kept picturing Cleo slick with soap, her hands caressing her breasts, her belly, her—

  He shoved the tabloid away. What he needed was a distraction, and the paper wasn’t doing the job. He stood up and paced across the kitchen into the tiny living room. His steps took him to the open bedroom door. From there, he could see the bathroom door. She was there—naked—just beyond that barrier.

  Behind him, her phone trilled. He turned his head, his eyes locking onto it there on the end table beside the loveseat. It wasn’t proper etiquette to answer someone else’s cell, but damn it, he wasn’t supposed to get hard from the sound of running water either.

  So if he was overstepping his bounds, it was really her fault.

  “Hello. Cleo Morgan’s phone.”

  There was a momentary pause, then, “Well, hello, tall, dark, and handsome.” The woman practically purred the words at him.

  He smiled. The running shower had him primed for flirtatious banter. “Well, at least two out of three.”

  “Oh? Which two?”

  “Tall and dark. Handsome is an opinion, so your mileage may vary.”

  A throaty laugh floated through the ether to the phone. “A sense of humor. Or is it humility?”

  “Must be humor. No one accuses me of humility and lives to tell about it.”

  “You just keep getting better and better, don’t you?”

  His smile grew wider. “It’s a failing of mine.”

  “So, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Maybe Handsome, what are you doing answering my Cleo’s phone?”

  “She’s in the shower.”

  “Oh. So why aren’t you in there washing her back, stud muffin?”

  She was supposed to be distracting him from thoughts of washing Cleo’s back—and her front—so he ignored the question. “Stud muffin? Is that a promotion from tall, dark, and handsome?” For all Cleo’s stuck-up pretensions, she certainly had interesting friends.

  “Maybe handsome. But I suppose if you’re there in Cleo’s apartment, we can assume you’re devastatingly gorgeous. She has exquisite taste in that sort of thing.”

  Something in her tone warned him she didn’t find Cleo’s taste so flawless in other areas.

  “I think I heard the water shut off,” Alec said, relieved his torture was over. “She should be out in a minute or two.”

  “We’d better hurry then if we’re going to get to know each other better. So where did Cleo find you?”

  “We work together.”

  “At The Inside Word? Oh, that’s delicious. After she got on at The Sun and then started dating that Martin Howard Prescott the third”—she put on a snooty accent for the name—“she got a little uppity about us common folk. I’m glad she’s shaking the dust of his yachts off her feet.”

  Alec still didn’t know who he was talking to, but settling onto the loveseat, he suddenly remembered he was a reporter. He had a source to pump. “You know I saw that in her. So what happened with her and old Marty?”

  “Oh, the second she asked him for help with the teensiest, tiniest, itsy-bitsiest, little problem, Mr. Moneybags decided she was too much trouble and dumped her.”

  Alec tsked. “You know the rich can be that way. They’ve got people groveling all the time, waiting on them hand and foot. What kind of problem did Cleo take to him?”

  “Well, she— Oh, aren’t you the sly one? Cleo does that, too. Interviewing me like a reporter. Can I trust you . . . ? What’s your name anyway?”

  “Alec.”

  “I’m Annaliese. So can I trust you, Alec?”

  “Of course you can trust me, Annaliese. Cleo does. After all, here I am, unsupervised in her apartment while she takes a shower. How much more trusting can she get?”

  “A truly trustworthy man would be in there soaping her back. What she really needs is a man who can make her howl. Someone who’ll fuck the daylights out of her. Repeatedly.”

  Since the shower had turned off, his body had begun to stand down, but her words made him harden again. Desperate for a distraction, he focused on ferreting out details. “You’re sure I can’t get you to tell me what the teensy problem was that broke up Cleo and her boyfriend?”

  “It was actually my problem, but Cleo wanted to help me out.”

  He felt a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. He generally had a good sense for people, even on short acquaintance. Annaliese was more than a little outrageous. He would have bet that she was the type to take charge and woe to anyone who got in her way. She seemed like an unlikely friend for Miss Uptight-and-Superior in the bathroom. Still, the opportunity to make points with Cleo wasn’t something he could pass up.

  “Is there anything I could do to help out, Annaliese?” he asked, repeating her name in hopes of creating a psychological bond.

  “Oh, you are a dear. I don’t suppose you have fifty grand to loan, interest free?”

  He made a small coughing sound before he could stop himself. Was she serious?

  “Yeah,” Annaliese said, “I didn’t think so, but it was worth a shot. I’ll tell you what. If you take care of Cleo—get her to loosen up. Make sure she doesn’t have any unfulfilled sexual fantasies—she’s always repressed her best fantasies. You do that for me, and we’re good.”

  He’d met direct women in his day, but this one was the gold standard. It was sweet though that she was looking out for Cleo’s welfare, even if it was in an unconventional way. “How do you know Cleo?”

  “Oh, we’re family.”

  That explained it. A cousin, he guessed. Maybe a sister. But the clock was ticking. Time to prioritize. “Don’t suppose you could give me any clues about these fantasies of hers. You have to sneak up on the repressed ones, you know.”

  Another throaty laugh. “Oh, you are going to be so good for her.”

  A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Cleo stood there, fists planted on her denim-clad hips, glaring. Even her generous breasts covered by a fresh T-shirt pointed accusingly at him.

  Sure, he’d be good for her. If she didn’t kill him first.

  ~***~

  Cleo’s annoyance turned to panic-laced fury when he held the phone out to her. “It’s Annaliese.”

  She snatched it as though she could stop him from catching a contagion if she got it away quickly enough, but she knew it was already too late. Her voice was tight with anger when she said, “Hello.”

  “Sweetie, who is that delectable man who answered your phone?”

  “You don’t already know?” She turned her back on Alec and walked into the kitchen. “From the little I heard, it sounds like you’re already old buddies.”

  “Now don’t get your panties in a bunch. We were only having a little fun.”

  Yeah, at my expense. Some things never changed.

  “Is
he as good looking as he sounds?”

  “Better.” And he’d cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. At least he was good for something. “You’d like him a lot. He’s just your type.”

  Not that Annaliese limited herself to only one type.

  “But the question is: is he your type?”

  “No, Annaliese, that’s not the question.” This wasn’t the first time Cleo was grateful she’d been calling Annaliese by her first name since she was ten. She’d be mortified if Alec ever guessed he’d been talking to her mother. “And even if it were, the answer would still be no.” She opened the fridge and helped herself to one of his Cokes.

  And he wasn’t why Annaliese was calling. She glanced at the clock. The banks were still open, but she’d left her car in the parking garage at work. She’d need to pick it up soon if she didn’t want him tagging along when she deposited her bonus check.

  “I know I said I would―”

  But her mother wasn’t done with the subject of Alec. “You know I can always tell when you lie to me.”

  She could, too. Her mother had a nose for lies any reporter would envy.

  “Then stop asking me questions I don’t want to answer.” Cleo popped the top of the Coke.

  She heard her mother take a deep breath. “Okay. We won’t talk about the hunk while he’s there. So . . . what about the money?”

  The check. The carrot that had brought her here. The leg chain that condemned her to stay. The moment she deposited it, her chance of escape diminished to almost nil. Cleo sighed. Her hope of escape was little more than an illusion anyway. “Before the day is out.” She felt the rope around her neck tighten.

  “Good. Jada’s getting nervous. She doesn’t like being beholden to Sebastian.”

  “That makes two of us then.” Owing money to your boss was always a risky proposition, even when you had a long and personal history with him as Annaliese had with Sebastian. “I’ll call you later. When it’s . . . done.” She sounded as though she was planning something illegal, a contract killing maybe, or a bank robbery, instead of merely promising to deposit a check, but Alec was certainly listening and she wasn’t going to blow it this close to the end of the conversation.