Eve’s gaze zeroed in on the blond hunk who stood near a giant hammer-shaped ice sculpture (made in honor of her new brother-in-law, who was the founder and owner of Hire-a-Hunk Construction). Linc “Shooter” Adams—so named for his style of laying low during the first half of a race, then shooting into the lead during the final stretch—looked mouthwatering in a black tuxedo. He had his arms draped around two different women—a brunette on one side and a strawberry blonde on the other—while he smiled and flirted with a very attentive female reporter who was holding a microphone in front of him.
“It’s all good, sunshine.”
The deep, rich southern drawl echoed in Eve’s memory and awareness skittered up her spine. She frowned. “I might trade in that football-playing Bachelor—he did pick the wrong woman—but the rest of those drivers are definitely preferable to Linc Adams.”
Trina and Eve watched as the reporter laughed at something Linc said and leaned in even closer. Eve’s frown deepened. “He is every Womanist’s worst nightmare.”
Which was why, when Skye had offered to fix Eve up with him last year, she had actually agreed to it. She’d needed to do something to win back the Rebellious Daughter title she’d held for so many years. Big mistake.
“He’s a chauvinist?” Trina asked.
Eve nodded. “He’s the one who guzzled beer out of a bra cup at the Victoria’s Secret party after last year’s spring fashion show.”
“That was him? I saw that on E!” Trina’s eyes narrowed as she sized up Linc. “But he looked a little . . . different.”
“He doesn’t usually dress this well. When he’s not racing, he lives in board shorts and T-shirts and a very inebriated grin.”
Eve’s thoughts rushed back to the Sonoma race she’d attended the day of their blind date. The first car designed and manufactured by the MacAllister Magic Race Team had been introduced that day. But Eve hadn’t felt nearly as much excitement at seeing her brother-in-law’s groundbreaking car as she had when she’d glimpsed his new driver. She’d been dreading the fix-up date following the race, but when Linc had climbed from behind the wheel and smiled at Eve, she’d started to think that she might actually enjoy the date.
He’d had a really great smile and he’d looked nice enough. While she’d heard the rumor that Linc was a wild player-type interested only in sex, she’d thought maybe it was just that—a rumor. He was a competitive athlete, after all. Competitive athletes had to have drive. Determination. Talent. Substance.
That’s what she’d told herself. But when the race had ended, Eve’s fantasy of stimulating conversation and a meeting of the minds had melted away.
Linc had shed his racing suit, pulled on a worn, ripped pair of shorts and a T-shirt that read I BRAKE FOR BEER, BABES, AND AMMO, and proceeded to flirt with every female within hearing range during their dinner date. Eve wasn’t sure why it had bothered her so much. She knew his type all too well. She was his type.
Or rather, she had been.
While she still looked every bit the wild, sexy, do-any-and-everything woman, she’d changed inside. Turning thirty (she was now thirty-three) had hit her hard and forced her to reevaluate her priorities. Having fun had its place, but it didn’t pay the bills or fill her with a sense of accomplishment. Sugar & Spice Sinema did that, and so she’d started to focus on furthering her career as a producer.
No more wasting time on meaningless affairs with equally meaningless guys. She’d decided that the next man she devoted her attention to would be that perfect someone with whom she could build a life and have a family. The next man would be the real thing. The man of her dreams. Her Mr. Kaboom.
And so she’d promptly told off Linc in a voice that made most men tremble. But he’d simply smiled at her and murmured in that deep, rich southern drawl, “It’s all good, sunshine.”
She, in turn, had traded his celestial reference for one with more anatomical accuracy. She’d tossed a breadstick at him for lack of anything better, and walked away.
She’d kept her nose to the grindstone ever since. A choice that was now paying off. Just last month she’d been commissioned by HBO to produce twelve segments detailing the evolution of sex in American culture.
This was it: the big time. Her chance to garner major exposure as a serious filmmaker. Provided she could keep her focus over the next nine months, until the project’s completion.
“I can’t remember,” Trina’s voice pushed into her thoughts. “What sort of bra did he drink out of?”
“What?” Eve’s attention shifted back to her friend and the familiar predatory light in her eyes.
“What sort of bra?” she asked again.
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m wearing a Very Sexy Body Bra. Double D. They give a nice comfy fit for Pam and Dolly.” She cupped her sizable implants and gave them an affectionate squeeze. “I bet they would hold a lot of beer, don’t you think?”
“He might not be in a beer mood tonight,” Eve heard herself say. “He might not be drinking at all, for that matter.”
Yeah, right.
From the stories being printed in the tabloids and broadcast on every major show from CMT’s fun Celebrity Homes to ESPN’s more serious Live and in Color, NASCAR’s latest and greatest wasn’t just racing for the championship. He was drinking and partying his way into the Bad Boys Hall of Fame. Undoubtedly he was drinking tonight, and doing anything and everything else Trina might have in mind.
“He might be the designated driver,” Eve added. “Besides, you don’t do the jock type, remember? You’re all about expensive suits and net worth.”
“He’s so hot, I’m willing to make an exception for one night and give him a ride home.” Trina pulled her shoulders back, pushed out her ample chest, and grinned. “Or just a ride. I think I’ll walk over and introduce him to Pam and Dolly.” She cast one last glance at Eve. “You’ll never hook up sitting in this corner. Men are visual.”
“So is my mother, which is why I’m staying right here.”
For the next five minutes, Eve watched as Trina made her way through the crowd toward Linc Adams. When her friend reached him and drew his attention away from the reporter, Eve downed the rest of her margarita in one long gulp.
Not that she cared. She was just thirsty.
Linc’s gaze swept over Trina and he smiled, and Eve pushed to her feet and headed to the bar. “I’ll have another margarita,” she told the bartender.
She was very thirsty.
She looked back over at Linc while she waited for her drink. The rumors circulating about him had to be true. He was a dog, all right. The hound of all hounds. Mr. Tramp himself. Number one on the pound’s Most Wanted—
“There you are!” The familiar female voice shattered her thoughts. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“On second thought,” Eve told the bartender, “forget the margarita and give me a shot of tequila. Straight up.” She forced her best smile and turned to greet the woman who’d stepped up behind her. “Hi, Mom.”
Chapter 2
Age had done little to soften Jacqueline Farrel. At fifty-six, she looked every bit as imposing as she had when Eve was thirteen. The years had added a little weight to her mother’s tall frame and turned her shoulder-length blond bob slightly gray. But she still wore her signature silver-framed glasses that had always been too large for her narrow face, and her dress was its usual beige. Bottom line, she still scared the hell out of Eve. Particularly when she tried to look pleasant. Like now.
“Where have you been?” Jacqueline asked, her expression concerned rather than irritated.
“Right over there.” Eve made a sweeping gesture with her arm and tried to quiet the alarm bells suddenly ringing in her head.
“Where exactly?” Her mother’s gaze scanned the area.
“There.” Eve pointed in the opposite direction of her hiding spot, toward her mother’s table and the ice sculpture.
“I didn’t see you,” Jacquel
ine said. “And your father and I have been at the same table for the past hour.”
“Or maybe it was over there.” Eve pointed toward the far side of the dance floor. “I’m a little disoriented from all the flashing cameras. I’m practically blind. Hey, maybe that’s why you haven’t seen me.” Well, it sounded good.
Her mother looked as if she wanted to argue, but then shrugged. “I have been the victim of far too many pictures.” She smiled. “But that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is that I’ve finally found you.”
“Your mother is a busy woman. I doubt she’ll have the time to torture you more than she already does.” Trina’s words echoed and hope blossomed in the pit of Eve’s stomach, only to burst and deflate when she heard her mother’s voice.
“I’ve been thinking. We really don’t spend nearly enough time together, dear.”
“Sure we do. I see you every week.”
“Only for a fifteen-minute coffee break. That’s not nearly enough time to really connect. We need to visit in a more substantial manner. We need lunch.”
“Lunch?” Eve swallowed and tried to draw air into her lungs. Slow, easy. It’s just an occasional lunch. No reason to hyperventilate.
“A weekly lunch.”
Okay, now you can hyperventilate.
“A nice, long, leisurely lunch first thing every week in addition to our Friday coffee breaks. We can start tomorrow at that divine new bistro down on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Market. It’ll be our special mother-daughter place.”
First a ritual lunch. Now a ritual place.
“I can’t.” At her mother’s narrowed gaze, Eve rushed on, “I mean, I can’t do it every week. I’m really busy right now with this new project.” The project. A career-maker. Or breaker.
She licked her suddenly dry lips and shifted her weight. Yellow tulle moved with her and clung to her clammy legs.
Clammy?
Oh God, she was clammy.
Her fingers balled and she became acutely aware of her damp palms. Her pulse raced.
Breathe, she told herself again. But the breathing was getting her nowhere. She needed to think. To say something, anything, to send her mother running in the opposite direction.
“Here you go.” The bartender’s voice drew her around and she downed the tequila shot in one gulp.
“Dear, you really should watch your alcohol intake. Otherwise, your father and I will have to drive you home.”
“I’m fine. Really, Mom.” Eve turned toward the woman. “That wasn’t even a real shot. They water those things down so much that you have to drink a half dozen to get the full effect of one.” She moved away from the bar and her mother followed. “Oops, I think I see Skye motioning for me.”
Jacqueline turned and glanced toward the head table where Xandra and Beau sat flanked by the other members of their wedding party. Skye sat just to Xandra’s left, her attention fixed on the tall, dark, handsome man who sat beside her. Clint lifted a forkful of wedding cake and fed it to his smiling wife.
“It’s brainwashing, I tell you.” Jacqueline shook her head. “Skye looks like a lapdog.”
“A really lucky lapdog.” The words were out before Eve could stop them. Despite her upbringing, Eve envied the happiness her sister seemed to have found with her brother-in-law.
Her mother turned an Et tu, Brute? gaze on her. “Clint is the lucky one. He’s managed to undermine your sister’s free, independent thinking with a few sexy smiles and charming words. Why, he’s probably a card-carrying Himanist.” The Himanists were a group of Bubba Beer- drinking men who relished the old days when men were men—clueless and chauvinistic and insensitive—and didn’t have to apologize for it. Their ideas were in direct opposition to those of her mother’s famed Womanist organization. The Himanists were as much a thorn in Jacqueline’s side as Cherry Chandler, the ultra-femme talk show host and best-selling author of the Sensitive series. Cherry taught women how they could find the man of their dreams; meanwhile Jacqueline was a firm believer that no such man existed.
“I’m sure Clint’s not a Himanist.” Eve tugged at the sweetheart neckline of her dress. “And even if he is, he’s still good to her. He takes out the trash and rubs Skye’s feet.”
Jacqueline smoothed the beige satin jacket that matched her floor-length shift. “True, but in turn, she’s cooking and cleaning—for a man—and she’s given up her membership in Womanists, Inc.”
“She had to. The bylaws forbid married women to maintain membership.”
“That’s my point. She’s gone completely off the deep end, and now Xandra has followed her.” Jacqueline sighed. “But not you. You’re still free and independent and sane.”
Okay, Eve had been called many things by many people, but sane wasn’t usually one of them. Creative, yes. Inventive, always. Daring, of course. Once she’d stripped down to her underwear and marched down the halls of Georgetown High to protest their new gym uniforms.
“I’m really not sane, Mom. I have weird, distorted, wild thoughts.”
“I realize you’re a little bold, dear, as in the way you dress and behave, but that can be a good thing. You’re unique.”
“I’m an oddball. A spontaneous, do-any-and-everything nutcase. A total nonconformist.”
“You’re a little artsy, that’s all.” Hearing her mother say this with such a calm, patient voice totally undermined the entire concept of being artsy. She was supposed to be the only tornado in an otherwise cloud-free sky. The only Dorito in a bag of plain Baked Lays potato chips.
“But I wear too much makeup rather than glorifying in my natural beauty,” Eve blurted out.
“You’re simply a victim of the impossible plastic image our male-dominated society has created for women.”
“I think Van Halen was and always will be the best rock band in history.” A declaration that always received a horrified look, followed by a Why am I being punished? headshake.
But Jacqueline only smiled. “While they have been known to objectify women, I must admit they are a talented group of musicians.”
Eve’s mind raced. “Hooters is my all-time favorite restaurant,” she declared.
“I’ve been thinking of trying the wings there myself.”
“My favorite movie is Grease.”
Jacqueline opened her mouth, only to close it again. Her jaw ticked. Bingo.
“Sandy did turn herself into a stronger woman,” she finally said.
“To please her man,” Eve pointed out. Desperation pumped her heart faster and she licked her lips. This was not happening. Her mother simply could not be agreeing with her. She never agreed with her. Ever.
“Perhaps consciously, but subconsciously I believe Sandy had the true desire to shed society’s stereotype and break the rules. I say more power to—”
“There’s Skye waving at me again,” Eve cut in. “I really have to go.” That would be a first. Jacqueline was always the one who walked away from Eve, usually shocked and bewildered and cursing the hospital that undoubtedly had sent her home with the wrong child.
“She’s not even looking this way,” Jacqueline said as she turned.
“Sure she is. It must be time for the Modern Bride layout.”
“Modern what?”
“Modern Bride.” As Eve said the name of Jacqueline’s least favorite magazine, the wheels in her brain started to turn and an idea struck. “They’re working on their annual Notable Weddings issue,” she heard herself say. “It’s where they hand out various matrimonial awards for stuff like Best Flowers, Best Dress, Best Cake.” Clammy or not, she could still think on her feet. “They’re giving the Get Sexed Up! Valentine’s special the silver-plated Ball and Chainy.”
“What in heaven’s name is a Ball and Chainy?”
Good question. “It’s, um, the, um, matrimonial equivalent of an Oscar.” Eve hadn’t taken an ad-lib acting elective for nothing. “You’re winning the award for Most Innovative Wedding.” Horror lit her mother’s eyes and
Eve smiled. “Congratulations, Mom. You’re responsible for taking the whole matrimony thing to an entirely different level.”
“Over my dead, decayed body. I’ll just have a word with Barbara about this and have those awful people thrown out this very instant.” Jacqueline turned and made a beeline for the garden outside, where a group of her producers were gathered in a smoking circle.
Eve drew in a deep breath and tried to calm her pounding heart. She’d done it. She’d successfully diverted her mother.
But it was only temporary. Eve knew once Jacqueline realized that she’d made up the whole Ball and Chainy awards story, the woman would come looking for her again.
Eve’s stomach jumped and her hands trembled and she was back to the nervous mess she’d been during the ceremony. Only she wasn’t fool enough to think another drink would calm her. Since she didn’t normally drink, the few she’d already had were sloshing around in her empty stomach and making her feel slightly sick. If she added another to the mix, she might actually throw up. Or pass out.
Throwing up would send her to the ladies’ room, and her mother was sure to look for her there. Passing out would leave her out in the open, unconscious, and in full view of her mother, not to mention her sisters.
Eve didn’t need a drink. She needed a taxi.
She glanced toward the wedding party and caught Skye’s eye. Her older sister motioned her over. Eve waved and held up her hand as if to say, In just a minute.
Okay, so she couldn’t leave leave. Someone would see her walk out the entrance and they would know she’d bolted from her baby sister’s wedding and she would have hell to pay with Skye, not to mention she would surely hurt Xandra’s feelings. Normally, her sisters would understand her behavior when it came to their mother. They’d always understood; like when Eve had dyed her hair and worn her first leopard-print miniskirt and taken the most obnoxious football player to the prom. Even if they hadn’t agreed with her choices, her sisters had always understood. But they were now living on Planet Marital Bliss and so Eve wasn’t placing any bets on getting their sympathy.
Sweet as Sugar, Hot as Spice Page 2
