What? That he thought Margot had nursed some hopes about what might’ve happened after finally admitting she was attracted to him? That she’d had a flicker of a deeper emotion, as he did, and wondered if their obvious attraction might turn into something more lasting?
Hell, no. Romantic what-ifs weren’t his style. Had never been.
But today, after holding her, feeling her... It’d all come rushing back.
Maybe he really had pinned his hopes on something that had never materialized back then, thanks to that practical joke. Whatever potential there was between them had been destroyed.
And he’d been nicked good, too.
One of the fraternity brothers by the pool, Tyler Hague, had overheard their conversation.
“Is our studliest stud in love?” he called out, while hovering over a pool-bound pledge doing a series of jumping jacks. “Hate to tell you, Barrows, but Margot wasn’t so thrilled about you buying her basket last night.”
Laughter ensued around the pool. Hilarious.
But they hadn’t seen her today with him.
His ego told him to crow about his earlier encounter with her, just as he might’ve bragged back in college about all the other women he’d kissed and dismissed. Yet somewhere along the line, he’d lost his taste for conquests, and it’d happened after Margot and the video.
They were all staring at Clint, waiting for him to come back with a confident retort.
He kicked back into his chair instead and said, “Margot and I have agreed to forget about the basket. There’s nothing between us. Never has been, never will be.”
His brothers good-naturedly offered some off-color remarks about Clint’s manhood that he ignored, and they soon refocused their attention on the pledges, ordering them out of the pool and telling them to drink from some full red beer cups that a brother had brought over.
Clint looked away. It’d been good to visit the old house where he’d lived throughout most of his college career. It’d been nice to gaze at the wall of pictures—of brothers come and gone—and to give a heartfelt hug to Mother, a paid house mom who’d watched over them and still watched over a new generation of beer-guzzling kids.
But during this particular visit back to his old stomping grounds, Clint realized that there had to be something more than drinking and floating along from day to empty day.
He just wasn’t sure what that something more was yet.
“If you wanted to win some brownie points with Margot,” Riley said, getting to his feet, “I think you just scored.”
Clint stayed silent. Riley didn’t know it, but he intended to score a whole hell of a lot more tonight.
* * *
LATER THAT DAY, Margot was running on all cylinders, almost as if she’d eaten an entire bowl of raw sugar and she needed to burn it off.
Antsy. Nervous. Almost regretting that she had told Clint to report to her at nine o’clock, after the reunion-closing dinner had been served downstairs.
If she were smart, she would just call off this fiasco-in-the-making, distancing herself from Clint altogether. How hard could it be, anyway, when tonight was the last official event of the reunion? She wouldn’t ever have to see him again, wouldn’t ever have to think of his cocky smile, his sure hands, his way of making her feel as if she were the only woman he’d ever touched in the way he’d touched her this afternoon.
But Margot didn’t want to be smart about Clint Barrows. Not after the heights he’d taken her to with only a little foreplay.
Since Dani had opted to stay back at the hotel, Margot and Leigh had decided to get out and about, to see some of their college downtown haunts while they still could. Margot didn’t mention that she actually had another agenda, and it had everything to do with the piece of paper Clint had pulled out of her basket.
Le Crazy Horse, Paris...
She told herself that she was in this merely for the fun as she and Leigh combed the tree-lined downtown streets, meandering in and out of the shops, some of which had survived the years, while others had been taken over by corporate chains.
When they came to The Boudoir, the lingerie shop that every Cal-U girl had visited at least once in her college career, it was just as kitschy and tempting as it had been when Margot was young. Back then every sex toy had made her and the girls giggle and every see-through nightie had been a romantic dream.
Margot managed to slyly purchase a couple of erotic items while Leigh perused the massage-lotion area. Back outside, they passed a new tavern that advertised Red Bull drinks and Rave Night, a far cry from the country bar that used to thrive here.
“Were those booby tassels I saw you buy?” Leigh asked out of nowhere, her boot heels clicking on the concrete as they walked.
So much for secrecy. “Why would I need tassels?”
“Exactly my question. Because I’d think they wouldn’t be so comfortable to wear. They seem too...jiggly.”
“I know.” Margot scoffed. “I don’t wear tassels.”
At least, she hadn’t in the past. But she was rather looking forward to it tonight.
Too much, actually.
Leigh narrowed a glance at her. “And I saw some sexy bubble bath going into your bag, also.”
“Do you have eyes in the back of your head or something?”
“Marg, you’re just really bad at trying to be stealthy.”
Nosy old biddy.
And Leigh wouldn’t let up. “You told me that you canceled Clint’s basket, but you didn’t, did you?”
“Maybe I just want to take a nice bath tonight. Did you ever think of that?”
“Some bath. I’ve never used booby tassels for one of those.”
Up ahead, Margot spied Alicia’s Bridal Boutique, and a clear way to get out of this conversation came to her like an angelic chorus.
She grabbed Leigh’s arm and steered her toward the store. “Check it out—we can do some reconnaissance work for Dani here.”
“I don’t know,” Leigh said as she was pulled along. “She wasn’t too happy about us butting in with the auction.”
“But she warmed up to those wedding-gown pictures during breakfast.”
Unwilling to take no for an answer—and to hear any more of Leigh’s all-too-on-the-nose suspicions about Clint—Margot hauled her into the shop. A bell dinged at the door and a white puffy lace heaven of bridal finery welcomed them.
The clerk wasn’t around, so Margot left Leigh and headed straight for the veils, choosing a flowered crown with a fall of tulle.
“Here we go,” she said, pretending to wear it while showing Leigh. “Elegant and very Princess Grace-y.”
Leigh grinned as she chose her own veil—a simple white flower with netting. She poised it on top of her head and to the side, making sure the netting came over one eye. “Do I look like Miranda Lambert at her wedding to Blake Shelton?”
“Better. There isn’t a country singer in the world who could carry that off the way you do.”
For a second, Leigh got a look on her face that was very un-Leigh. In fact, it was downright dreamy.
Margot put her veil back. Neither she nor Leigh had ever possessed illusions about getting married. But as she saw Leigh go to a mirror and look at herself with a starry-eyed gaze, she wondered if, somewhere along the way, Leigh had deserted her in the Single Girl Forever Sisterhood.
And... Well, it was lonely being abandoned like that, especially in the middle of a bridal store. But Margot had learned to be independent a long time ago, moving from place to place, never setting down roots or getting to know anyone—especially boys—on a deep level. Yes, she’d kissed her share of them, but there was always a distance that she felt, because she knew she would be leaving.
And things hadn’t changed, even in college. She’d been comfortable being on her ow
n, doing what she wanted to do, never being attached at the hip to a guy like some of her sorority sisters tended to be.
But now...
No, she wouldn’t think of Clint. Why had he even popped into her head when she was just going to have a secret no-strings, this-one’s-for-my-libido fling with him tonight? She’d scratch the itch that had been burning in her ever since that night in college, appeasing the curiosity of what his mouth would feel like on all the throbbing places on her body. She’d fill herself up with him as she’d filled herself with adventures her entire life, then go home, closing that chapter for good.
Wandering toward the gowns, Margot focused on Leigh as her friend checked herself out in the mirror, flushed.
“Are you thinking about the guy who bought your basket?” she asked.
That seemed to wake Leigh up, and she let out a belly laugh as she put her veil back on its rack. The laugh sounded a little hollow.
“I told you I don’t ever get my hopes up about men,” she said, her hand lingering on the veil one extra moment before she walked away. “I’m still just like you in that way, Marg.”
Just like her.
Margot didn’t like the sound of that, even if she’d made a career and a brand out of “independent woman adventures” with her books.
But it was as if something had dropped inside of her now—a little stone that fell and fell through the emptiness until it hit bottom, making a pinging splash that reverberated through her.
Leigh ambled around until she came to a tea-length gown. She tilted her head, as if picturing herself in it.
“Leigh,” Margot said, without even realizing that she’d intended to talk. “Maybe I’m not the best example for anything.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Leigh how her glamorous life wasn’t so glamorous these days. Without steady work or success, she wasn’t sure how happy she could be or would be.
Leigh looked baffled. “Don’t say that, Margot. You live under a lucky star, whether it comes to men or anything else, and I always thought how damned nice it’d be if I didn’t have to work twice as hard to do everything you did so easily.”
Margot swallowed. A confession was there, in her throat, but it had balled up, burning, waiting for her voice to utter the words.
But they never came.
* * *
CLINT DIDN’T BOTHER to go down to the final dinner in the Golden Coast Ballroom. He was hungry for something else entirely, and he had no stomach for mere food.
He took a long, cold shower, then forced himself to sit in front of the TV, watching ESPN until five after nine.
He didn’t want Margot to think he was too excited.
Still, before he left, he brushed his teeth one more time, put his Stetson on and went to his door. Then he backtracked, cursing under his breath, and grabbed that white negligee he’d bought earlier today for Margot, gathering all the soaps and lotions, too. He left the dressing screen, scarves and bamboo candle stand alone.
As he approached her room, he had a flashback to the night he’d brought Margot to his college room, never imagining that there was a camera set to record them. His veins tangled, just as they had back then.
Before he knew it, he was knocking on her door, waiting, thinking after a long second that, yeah, this was going to be a joke she’d created to exact her revenge, not only for all those years ago, but for today, too, when he’d been less than a gentleman with her.
Not that she hadn’t enjoyed it.
Finally, the lock clicked and the door cracked open. It seemed to take forever.
He couldn’t see her, but it was dim inside the room and music was playing, maybe from that computer he’d seen her using at breakfast with the girls.
The tune was slow and sultry, with an accordion and a woman’s red-light voice.
Le Crazy Horse, Paris, he thought, the words from the note he’d drawn from Margot’s basket flashing in his head like neon.
He pushed the door open slowly, and when he stepped into the room, the bathroom door was just closing.
Flickering candlelight showed through the open slit just before the door shut tight.
“I’ll be ready in a minute.” She was talking in a candlelit tone, as if she was waiting for him in the shadows.
As he went to put down the negligee and bath products on the dresser, he pictured what she might be wearing, what she was planning. Something tugged at him inside his belly, tightening him up.
So far this was no joke.
He heard the sound of water splashing against the tub inside the bathroom, and his knees nearly buckled.
Yet she kept him waiting.
And waiting.
He was just about ready to knock down the door when he heard the sound of the shower curtain being drawn, then her voice again.
“You can come in now...without your phone.”
She was cautious about him filming this. “I don’t have it on me.”
“Good.”
Playing it cool, he entered the bathroom. Candlelight flickered orange against the walls and, from behind the shower curtain, he saw light, too.
And a silhouette.
His mouth went dry.
Margot, every curve of her in smoky black shadow. Her hair was down around her shoulders, one hand resting on the back of her head as she stood in profile, accentuating her breasts.
Was she wearing a piece of lingerie that clung to her? He couldn’t tell, but he leaned against the wall to keep himself from ripping the curtain aside and ruining the sensuous image.
Just enjoy, he thought. It’s the only night you’ll be able to do it.
“What’s going on, Hemingway?” he asked, his voice thick as he teased her about being an English major, just as he used to. The scent of peaches wafted to him, making him dizzy.
“This is your first and only stop of eighty,” she said, sassy as could be. “That’s what’s going on.”
“What’s this stop?”
He would play along. For now. Let her feel the power that had been taken away from her with that camera a decade ago.
She touched the curtain, and he sucked in a breath.
“Don’t you remember what that slip of paper said?” she asked. “You drew it from the basket only a few hours ago.”
“Humor me.”
She laughed again, shifting so that her silhouetted hips swayed to the other side. “Le Crazy Horse, Paris. Do you know anything about it?”
“I think I know everything I need to.” Let’s get on with it, his body screamed.
“That’s not how we play this,” she said, swaying again, her hips so ripe, so in need of touching and caressing.
He settled in for her brand of verbal foreplay. “Then tell me.”
She sounded satisfied. “The club was started up in 1951 by Alain Bernardin in Paris. He was an artist with avant-garde tastes and an appreciation for women. Le Crazy Horse is known mainly for its burlesque—racy acts with musical numbers and humor thrown in for relief.”
“Relief from what?”
She pulled on the far side of the shower curtain just enough that it offered a peek of the wall tile, and that was all.
Why did it seem that she was always offering a tiny glimpse of herself, and not just in a physical sense?
Why, dammit, did he want more?
But she was already speaking.
“What kind of relief do you think I’m talking about?” she asked. “If you get a rise out of every female act they perform, wouldn’t you need a break?”
Speaking of which... His jeans were getting awful tight.
The water swished against the sides of the tub again as she began to move to the music—an enticing blend of the singer’s come-hither voice and the lazy pull of that a
ccordion.
Clint watched her for a while, imagining what she might do if he reached behind the curtain and touched her. He hadn’t seen her face this afternoon when he’d brought her to orgasm, and the more he watched her dance for him in silhouette, the more he wanted to know if she had closed her eyes when she came, what her mouth had looked like shaped around a cry of ecstasy.
What she felt when he got close like this.
When the song ended, another one began.
“Do you know who Gypsy Rose Lee is?” she asked. “Or Lili St. Cyr?”
He was dying here. “No.”
“They were famous in the striptease world and a big influence on Dita Von Teese. She’s one of the biggest names in the business, and she played Le Crazy Horse not too long ago.”
He was just about to destroy that curtain when she finally pulled at it, wrapping it over her body so it molded every curve of her figure.
Her face... God, he hadn’t realized it, but he’d wanted to see her face so badly, and the sight of those pale eyes and dark lashes and red lips didn’t disappoint. It gutted him, pierced him through with a lust so strong that he could barely stand it.
“Ms. Von Teese,” Margot said, “does a little number called ‘Le Bain.’”
Clint had barely squeaked by the foreign-language requirement in college—he’d taken a semester of French just because he knew a lot of romantic-minded girls would be in the class—and he remembered what le bain meant.
The bath.
Margot’s gaze locked to his as she pushed the curtain all the way to the side.
His lungs cut off his air supply when he saw her standing in front of a candle in the corner. She was wearing a pink chiffon slip that was so tight it left very little to the imagination. Her arms were slim, toned, her legs going on forever. Under the material, he could’ve sworn that she was wearing tassels over her breasts.
She bent to the bubble-laced water, still looking at him, then splashed a handful over her chest.
As it drizzled down into her cleavage and dampened the material over her breasts, he laughed softly, taking off his hat and tossing it outside the bathroom.
“Don’t do this to me,” he said, half kidding. Because he liked what she was doing, even though it was one long tease that was making his balls blue.
Lead Me On Page 8
