High Praise for HOT PINK
“This erotic contemporary romance shows Susan Johnson at her hottest, which means the lead couple generates enough Thermos heat to keep the Northeast warm in winter. Readers will want the hunk for themselves . . . The audience will relish Hot Pink.”
—Sensual Romance Reviews
“An entertainingly conveyed tale rich in lovingly described sex scenes.”
—Booklist
“A sizzler . . . Readers will not be able to put this down. The characters will get under your skin, and the ending will make you sigh with pleasure.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for the novels of SUSAN JOHNSON
“Johnson delivers another fast, titillating read that overflows with sex scenes and rapid-fire dialogue.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A spellbinding read and a lot of fun . . . Johnson takes sensuality to the edge, writing smoldering stories with characters the reader won’t want to leave.”
—The Oakland Press
“Sensually charged writing . . . Johnson knows exactly what her devoted readers desire, and she delivers it with her usual flair.”
—Booklist
“Susan Johnson writes an extremely gripping story . . . With her knowledge of the period and her exquisite sensual scenes, she is an exceptional writer.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“An enjoyable literary experience . . . [A] well-developed and at times quite suspenseful plot . . . I simply couldn’t put it down . . . The next time you’re in the mood to read a piece of erotic literature, I recommend picking up a copy of Tempting. The plot and suspense angles of the novel are Susan Johnson at her finest, and the romance is both solid and endearing.”
—The Romance Reader
“Fans of contemporary erotic romances will enjoy Susan Johnson’s latest tryst as the blondes heat up the sheets of her latest novel.”
—BookBrowser
“No one . . . can write such rousing love stories while bringing in so much accurate historical detail. Of course, no one can write such rousing love stories, period.”
—Rendezvous
“Susan Johnson’s descriptive talents are legendary and well-deserved.”
—Heartland Critiques
“Fascinating . . . The author’s style is a pleasure to read.”
—Los Angeles Herald Examiner
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
HOT PINK
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade edition / July 2003
Berkley Sensation mass market edition / June 2004
Copyright © 2003 by Susan Johnson.
Cover design by George Long.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN 978-1-101-66688-3
BERKLEY SENSATION™
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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CONTENTS
High Praise for Hot Pink
Praise for the Novels of Susan Johnson
Title Page
Copyright
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
About the Author
ONE
I LIKE MY MEN TALL, DARK AND HANDSOME.
I don’t mean six-foot-one in hiking boots.
I mean barefoot and six-foot-four.
And when I say dark, I don’t mean brownish hair and a light tan.
I mean Goran Visnjic on ER—black-as-sin hair and swarthy skin.
And handsome? Well, that’s all a matter of mood . . .
And Chloe was definitely in the mood after working day and night for three weeks on a humongous web site that she’d finally finished for a new kids’ cereal.
So what the hell was she doing sitting across from this really smarmy-looking guy with a button-down collar and hair the shade of snail shells who had his elbows braced on the table to look taller? Was he even within shouting distance of her tried-and-true criteria for desirable men? No. Did he meet even one of her criteria? The answer to that was obvious. More to the point, hadn’t she sworn that she would never, ever again fall for that line: You have to meet this friend of mine?
Particularly when the speaker was Tess, who everyone knew had absolutely no taste in men. Okay, to be fair, not Chloe’s taste in men. Or possibly that of any female with normal vision.
But what made a bad decision even worse was that her be-nice-to-Tess obligation had inconveniently fallen on the day she’d finished her project.
This was not her idea of celebrating.
“Huh? Sure.” Chloe quickly smiled, not sure she’d heard what the annoying little man had said, but he was holding up her glass and pointing to the bar so she was probably on track. “Thanks,” she added with another smile, because her mother had insisted she not only learn but use good manners, and all those years of training kicked in independent of reason or alcohol consumption. Politeness aside, though, there was no way she was going to spend the rest of the night listening to this man’s unending complaints about his work environment.
One more drink and she was outta here.
So when he returned with her drink—an umbrella drink that Chino’s was famous for—she was really, really polite and smiley and sort of listened while he told her about his new turntable that cost three million dollars or something. But as soon as she’d sipped the last drop of mango-juiced alcohol, she uttered the lie that always saved her from any disagreeable obligation. “Thanks so much, but I have a project that has to be finished, so tomorrow’s a workday for me.” Easing down from a bar stool that overlooked the night sky of downtown Minneapolis, she teetered briefly on her really adorable green-lizard strappy Jimmy Choos, smiled her last artificial smile and waved. “Say hi to Tess.”
“Tess didn’t tell me you had pink hair.”
Her fake it’s-been-nice smile froze on her face at his peevish tone. Her
pink hair went with a damn nice face if she said so herself, along with her three-times-a-week-in-the-gym toned body—well, okay, ideally three times a week. And her pink hair sat atop a reasonably fine brain, certified by a couple degrees from reputable schools. “Pink hair’s a problem?”
“I usually don’t go out with up-towner types . . .”
Or anyone at all, she wanted to say, but damn those childhood lessons on civility were hard to break. “Well, then, everything worked out great,” she replied in her best fuck-you tone. Swiveling around on stiletto heels that clearly were made for such dramatic gestures, she walked away, half pissed, totally relieved and seriously on her way home because she suddenly felt wasted after three weeks of little sleep.
* * *
FIVE MINUTES LATER she was still waiting for the elevator outside the bar.
These were, without doubt, the slowest elevators in town, and if the best bar in town wasn’t on the top floor of this building, she’d not be reduced to a state of frustration too many times a week for a serious working girl. Swearing softly, she jabbed the down button again.
While she waited, any number of pithy retorts for Mr. Dweeb had come to mind. Isn’t that always the way? But—bottom line—did she really give a damn if he didn’t like pink hair? Fuck no. Did she care about anything at all he liked? Same answer. Did she care if he lived or died? Well, it was only ostensibly a drink date or meeting or whatever that miserable encounter could be designated . . . life or death was probably extending the thought process into the surreal. Although, let’s face it, Dweeb Man had to be damned near the last person in the world who could afford to be picky about a date. Unless a subset of women existed who were turned on by whiny men or lengthy descriptions of stereo equipment.
Finally . . . finally—the elevator. Thank God.
Seeing it was empty, she offered up a double thank-you to God, Buddha and her own personal goddess, who had curly red hair and was trés understanding of her foibles. She thanked all three because she was superstitious. She counted stairs way too much for her own good as well, but when you had a grandma like hers, it was inevitable. Genetic, even.
The doors began closing and she leaned back against the rosewood wall, relieved. She’d escaped; she was on her way home.
“Hey!! Hold the doors!!”
She almost didn’t look up; she almost pretended she hadn’t heard. But her mother had much to answer for, she resentfully thought, already lunging to catch the doors. Between her leaping and glancing up and fear of having her fingers crushed, it took her synapses an extra millisecond before the explosive wow registered in her brain.
The man sprinting toward her had black ruffled hair, increasingly ruffled by his headlong pace. His lean, broad-shouldered frame was well over six feet, even estimating it at a distance. And he was racing toward her on what could only be hand-sewn black custom-made shoes because she knew shoes like nobody knew shoes.
“Thanks,” he gasped, charging into the elevator. He immediately began punching the door-close icon.
Thank you she felt like saying, absorbing the full impact of his stark beauty. Definitely a ten, maybe even a twenty, certainly a damned fine representative of his gender.
The elevator doors finally started to slide shut. Blowing out an explosive breath, he turned to Chloe. “Thanks again.”
“Were the fiends of hell after you?” Okay, so she never talked to strangers in elevators; she never even looked at them if she could help it. But Jesus, anyone would make an exception for this very close approximation to Visnjic on ER.
“Yeah, absolutely.” He suddenly grinned. “Nice hair.”
Obviously he was not only a TV star but a man of impeccable taste. “Thanks.”
She would have said more, but the elevator abruptly came to a stop on the observation-deck level and a crowd of sightseers jammed in, separating them. The IMC Tower was a favorite date-night destination for too-young-to-drink teens. They all seemed to be from one incestuous social group, so the decibel levels were ear-shattering.
Thankfully, they emptied the elevator in a lemminglike rush at the ground floor.
Her ER fantasy smiled faintly and moved toward the door. “Thanks again. For saving me from the fiends of hell and all . . .”
“No problem. Anytime,” she said like some klutz, when in her fantasy world she would have said something incredibly clever and witty.
She watched him walk out and turn left.
Unfortunately, she was going the same way, and for an awkward moment she debated standing in the empty lobby until he was out of sight. Deciding that was juvenile for someone who owned her own company—albeit a very small one—or for anyone who perceived themselves as a modern, independent, take-charge kind of woman, she followed him—although she hung back, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Just because she read the books on assertiveness and empowerment didn’t mean she practiced the art every tiny second of the day. Okay?
Additionally, she was experiencing that twinge of fear that reflexively comes from being alone in the vastness of an empty hallway . . . at night . . . in the city. With serial killers and rapists too much in the news, this was definitely a creepy venue. And regardless of the man’s incredible good looks, he might just be a very handsome serial killer.
“Are you following me?”
Jolted from her musing, she glanced up to see him standing at the side doors, looking bemused—and drop-dead gorgeous.
Could serial killers be über-charming?
How much had she drunk that she was obsessing about serial killers?
“Or are you parked in the same loading zone?”
“My permit’s legal.” If she was Catholic, she’d have to go to confession.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just thought a woman with pink hair might be driving that silver Audi TT next to my car.”
“Tell me you’re not a serial killer.” Christ, she must have had too much to drink.
“I was tempted tonight, but no.”
“The fiends of hell, right?”
He grimaced. “I probably would have lost the fight anyway.”
“So we both had an evening from hell. Mine didn’t like pink hair.”
“Stupid man.”
“How did you know it was a man?”
“Pursed lips like that. I know that look.”
“Woman trouble?”
He grinned. “Not anymore.”
TWO
HE HELD THE DOOR OPEN FOR HER. “IT’S dark out there. I’ll save you from the serial killers.”
“Thanks.” Maybe she’d been fantasizing about Visnjic too long, she thought, walking through the opened door out into the alley, because her mind was as blank of witty rejoinders as a tongue-tied adolescent. And what thoughts were racing through her mind were highly inappropriate—like, are you married? engaged? have a steady girlfriend? sleep with women you’ve just met? Although the first three questions didn’t really matter if he answered yes to the last—which really meant that she’d had way too many of those mango drinks at Chino’s and should probably call a cab to take her home.
On the other hand, it might not be the liquor talking so much as her three long weeks of hard work and barely any sleep and no sex for what seemed like forever, her slightly—all right, more than slightly—aroused senses reminded her as she stopped at her car.
Quickly running through “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers” twice under her breath, she decided it wasn’t the umbrella drinks after all.
“Keys?” he said in that hesitant have-you-gone-to-sleep-on-me tone.
Damn—when she was already fantasizing about croissants and lattes in the morning—apparently only one of them was aroused. She began digging in her little teeny, tiny embroidered evening bag that held no more than three extremely small items if squeezed in very tightly, and managed to ferret out her key without breaking a nail. Discarding all her gauche comments having to do with him and sex, she uttered, “Thank you,” again, ins
tead of something charming or clever, smiled and unlocked her car.
“Seeya.” With a wave, he walked toward his black, racy, expensive-looking car.
Sliding into her driver’s seat, she turned the key in her ignition and heard a metallic clicking sound that wasn’t at all reassuring. Fuck. Then even the clicking stopped. Double fuck. A rush of tears to her eyes. Jesus, she must be tired.
Get a cab, go home, deal with the car in the morning. But she’d have to hike three blocks in stiletto heels to find a cab in front of the hotels on Seventh Street. Minneapolis wasn’t a cab town. It was the kind of town where you phoned for a cab and it showed up in half an hour—and at this time of night that scenario was even more iffy.
Maybe she’d just rest her eyes for a minute. . . .
The knock on the window startled her.
Visnjic.
He was making a rolling motion with his hand, and after a brief pause for her fried brain to make the connection, she realized—one, it wasn’t a scene from ER; two, it was better because this was real and she was playing a starring role; and three, her Visnjic was smiling.
The automatic window wouldn’t work with that clicky thing going on, so she shoved the door open. “This definitely isn’t my night,” she said with a sigh. “First what’s his name and now this.” She waved at her ignition switch. “It’s making funny noises.”
“Yeah, I heard. It’s either your starter or alternator. Would you like a ride home?”
Then again, maybe it was her night after all, because she was feeling like it must be her starter all right—although her starter didn’t have anything to do with car parts. Dweeb Man and her car troubles vanished into the ether. “If you don’t mind,” she said, swinging her long legs and Jimmy Choo’d feet out of the car.
He noticed her legs.
She noticed he noticed and bit back a highly improper comment; the mango drinks had much to answer for tonight because Peter Piper aside, her inhibitions were definitely juiced. “I should introduce myself,” she said instead of telling him what she was thinking about her legs and his legs, and getting out of her car, she put out her hand. “Chloe Chisholm.”
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