Bootscootin' Blahniks

by D. D. Scott

  Zayne covered his headset microphone with one hand.

  “Don’t make me kiss your over-dressed bad ass,” he dared her with a hoarse whisper, letting go of the microphone in time to catch her raised arm by the wrist.

  She countered his block with her free arm, raised her bejeweled hand, opened her palm, and steadied her aim for the swift slap he deserved.

  But she was too late.

  Zayne captured her chin in the palm of his hand, positioning her mouth only inches from his. Pulling her tight against his oh-so-sweet-toned body, he moved the microphone away from his lips and covered her mouth with his, kissing her until her head spun and her heels wobbled.

  Not exactly the smack she had in mind.

  “Are you done playing cowgirl?” he asked then displayed a ridiculously sexy smile. “Why don’t you go home? We’ll finish this later.”

  Still pinning her up against him, he brushed away the loose bangs that had tumbled onto her forehead. Steadying her as if she were a doll he was placing back on a shelf, he stepped away from her and returned the microphone to his mouth.

  “Are we ready for some bootscootin’?” He spoke into the headset, spinning her around to face the wide eyes of his students.

  Before she had time to respond, Hot Apple Pie’s “Hillbillies in the Hay” and Zayne’s booming voice taunted her through the saloon’s speaker system.

  “I see you’re right in time for my favorite song. Coincidence,” he mused, leaning into her, his warm breath tickling her burning ears. “What do you think, class? I seriously doubt Roxy does anything accidentally.”

  Not one of Zayne’s floor-full of students seemed remotely interested in bootscootin’. Instead, they focused on Roxy, bringing more heat to her already over-cooked cheeks.

  She’d made her move right at the point in the lesson where Zayne picked a partner. Perfect timing, Vaughn.

  It was all she could do to keep her rushing pulse from exploding. With cold air blasts from the ceiling fan freezing the remnants of his kiss onto her lips, she didn’t have the composure to determine how she should react. She was beyond finesse, beyond frustration and beyond finagling.

  “On eight, class,” Zayne instructed, counting down the measure, tapping his boot against the floor.

  The song’s intoxicating rhythm pulsed against the parts of her held firm against his side.

  “I’m not done with you, Zayne. That estimate is bullshit,” she hissed and on her own count, ground her heel into the toe of his boot, not the least bit concerned her effort may have been borderline overkill.

  “Keep playing dirty,” Zayne said then laughed as he laced his fingers through hers. “This is some kind of foreplay.”

  The raging-mad butterflies swarming Roxy’s stomach declared mutiny, settling into fluid flitters of delight matching the suggestive tease of Zayne’s voice.

  Fine. She’d go along with him because she never turned down a chance to dance. She did a mean grapevine and a beautiful box step, probably the result of winding her way through the masses during big sales at Bloomingdale’s.

  So what if she’d given up on slapping him? Who wouldn’t after that kiss?

  But when the lesson ended, Zayne was hers for a fine dressing down. To hell with her bootscootin’ butterflies.

  Chapter Four

  Following a tantalizing Texas Two-Step and a gigantic Achy Breaky Heart, Roxy sank into a chair at one of the oak tables bordering the Neon Cowboy’s dance floor. Fanning herself with a menu, she attempted to cool down from her impromptu dance lesson. Even with the air whirring, her heart continued pumping hard. With each unsteady breath, she coaxed her restless spirit to take five, but a disconcerting mix of pleasure and stymied frustration blocked her progress.

  Dancing with Zayne may be a dream worth its weight in the stock options she used to own, but dealing with him on truck repairs was proving disastrous.

  She fidgeted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable plank in the straight-backed chair. But comfort eluded her. With each hushed whisper she heard or imagined she heard about her limit-pushing look, simmering bubbles of doubt flooded her ego, drained her confidence and tsunami-sized her predicament. She knew what the fuss was about but had decided a long time ago to weather the initial shock.

  She popped her knuckles even though she didn’t do that anymore, wishing her angst would vanish with each crackle and pop.

  She didn’t care if the entire bar judged her wardrobe. Dammit. Let’ em keep sizing her up and pointing her out to their sidekicks. She worked hard to be a trend-setting designer. The key being trend-setting. She created the looks. The rest of these people would soon see the benefit in following her muse.

  To hell with whether or not her style was a Music City fashion faux paux. She wasn’t going to change her design elements to mingle in Nashville’s spur-heeled saloons instead of Manhattan’s Moomba-esque martini lounges. She planned to merge both worlds and would get ‘er done in her new blue collar comedy home.

  She placed her hat onto the chair next to hers as if the chair was a mannequin, turning and fluffing it to showcase her design. She fancied her latest wide-brimmed creation a hybrid cross of Chanel and Stetson…a rather bizarre, but interesting marriage of Fifth Avenue and Music Row. Running her hands across the copper beads encircling the hat’s crocodile-banded stock, she concentrated on the feel of the smooth edges of the large glass baubles. With each pass of her fingertips, she tried to block her memory of Zayne’s svelte, well-defined shoulders.

  She tugged on the faux fur of her jacket then readjusted the hook-and-eye closures, centering the fasteners at the lowest point between her breasts. Despite the fact she had nothing on underneath, at least it appeared she was a tad bit demure.

  Nashville would catch on to her designs…at least she hoped so…and before she ran out of start-up cash. Thinking about her finances, especially the red numbers her adding machine spewed, ripped holes in the pit of her stomach, giving the bumbling butterflies their freedom. She wasn’t in denial. Oh no. She knew she was a piggy bank without a plug.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have emptied her savings into the closet-sized boutique she called Raeve. She sat straighter in her chair. Yes, she should have. Absolutely. You bet your sweet ass she should have and did. She wasn’t giving herself the option of failure. Failure wasn’t part of the Vaughn vernacular.

  She scanned the packed house on the saloon’s main level and the crowded booths bordering the balcony. Yep. These people could most definitely use her designs. She still had a market. Thanks to her dare-to-be-different looks, her Accessible Accessories line already had a captive audience.

  Steadying her gaze on her French-manicured feet, her sour mood lifted. She admired the delicate straps holding them to the stiletto heels of her favorite pair of Blahniks. The crocodile mid-heel halters complimented the band on her hat. Too bad she’d ended up on the dance floor and desperately in need of a podiatrist.

  Blahniks simply weren’t made for bootscootin’. And if for no other reason, Zayne needed one of the designer’s high-dollar heels wedged in his ass for his part in committing her feet to a rest home at the tender age of thirty-four.

  Before she could delight in the prospect of spearing him with her stilettos, the tomato-growing cowboy was once again in her face.

  “If you ever interrupt my class again…” He tossed his hat on the table then leaned down to her eye level, wrapping his arm around the top of her chair. “Listen, why don’t we just call a truce? Let’s just forget you ever put a dent the size of the Brooklyn Bridge in the back of my work truck and almost ruined my tomatoes.”

  “Oh, no, Beefsteak,” she said, calling him by the only tomato name she knew. “Do you see me waving a white scarf?”

  Instead of challenging her to a verbal duel, Zayne offered up a heavy sigh. Pushing his hands through his earth-kissed, layered locks, he caught a drop of sweat before it escaped onto his brow.

  “I’ll interrupt you anytime I feel like it, being
as you stuck me with a repair estimate from hell,” Roxy said, continuing her admonishment, holding back a tad since he seemed a bit too tired to tango.

  Maybe dancing together had him over-heated and out of cooling mechanisms too. She certainly empathized. Being close to him again, her body temperature continued to soar. Each time he invaded her personal space, her norms registered new baselines. So much for getting back to normal biorhythms.

  Zayne’s jaw tightened as he removed her hat from the empty chair across the table then placed it on her head. He turned the chair-back against the table edge and straddled the seat. Saying nothing, his smoldering gaze soaked up the silence.

  Now I’m getting somewhere. Aren’t I? Roxy leaned back in her chair, taking time to choose her words. “You ever spring a proposal like that on me again, and you’ll have the heel of my shoe stuck in more places than the tip of your boot.”

  “So that’s the thanks I get for getting you a tow and an estimate?” Zayne waved for the waitress to come to the table. “You want anything to eat or would you rather bite my head off?”

  “Is the latter option on special?”

  Roxy pulled a menu out of the holder in the middle of the table. She slammed it down in front of Zayne — like he needed to see what his own restaurant offered to eat — then grabbed it before it slid onto the floor. Putting her palms on the tabletop, she pushed herself to her feet, determined not to subject herself to more of his bullshit.

  Zayne placed his weather-worn hands on hers, stopping her cold. Shots of heated desire rushed up her arms then straight to her stomach.

  She pulled herself out of his grasp and massaged her knuckles, trying to stop the naughty tingles surging beneath her skin.

  “Sit down, Roxy.” His voice remained soft but with enough edge not be taken lightly. “I have an idea I think you’ll like.”

  “I doubt you could say or do anything I’d like.”

  Roxy sat, but not to amuse him. She was hungry. Keeping on the pressure for her gutsy girl act, she planted the toe of one shoe against his closest shinbone. She wasn’t about to let him think her guard was down just ‘cause her stomach was growling.

  “I didn’t hear you complaining when I kissed you,” he said then ordered each of them a Corona and fried pickles.

  “You were saved by the music.” So was she, Roxy thought. That kiss nearly knocked out her resolve to fight for her financial survival.

  Zayne reached under the table, repositioning her foot away from his leg. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

  Oh, she had ideas. The moment his hand touched hers then her foot, she had several delicious brainstorms. Too bad she didn’t have time to entertain those thoughts. And damn him for stirring them. How she could have a chemical attraction to a man that totally irritated the hell out of her was beyond comprehension. Perhaps she should schedule some quality time with her hormones.

  Taking her first swig from the bottleneck of her Corona, she shivered. The juice from the lime she’d shoved down the bottle still lingered on the rim, sending her tongue into a tart tizzy. She swallowed another gulp, trying to recompose her thoughts.

  “I still don’t get how city girls like you worship those God awful Cosmopolitans and can’t stomach a Corona,” Zayne said, watching her, before taking a long pull from his own bottle.

  “You’ve got more to worry about than my drinking habits, Tomato Man.” Roxy tapped her manicured fingers on the tabletop, wishing her plan to stay mad at him was as tough as her nail hardener.

  Zayne set down his beer bottle with a non-relenting clank, evidently abandoning the spirit of surrender. “I thought you’d be glad to get the estimate. Now we can work on settling our issue. Don’t you think?”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” She slammed her own bottle against the table’s well-marred surface, fearful she’d cracked one or the other. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Could of fooled me, princess,” he said, letting his eyes wander the length of her body before resting on the five carat ring her parents gave her last Christmas.

  Before taking time to think through the sting of his innuendo, she covered the obscenely large stone with her opposite hand. Just as quickly, with an even deeper instinctive urge, she uncovered the ring, letting the facets sparkle in their multi-carat glory.

  “I guess I can’t hide from my past. But I’m through with the high society money crowd. You know that. That’s why I came to Nashville. To make my own way,” Roxy said, flustered to have to relive this conversation. She’d told Zayne when she hit his truck that she was operating on loose change. “In your speak, cowboy, I’m trying to dance to my own tune.”

  Zayne leaned back in his chair, far enough that she got a great view of what might lay beneath his oh-so-tight-in-all-the-right-places Wranglers.

  “Look around, Roxy. Do you see anyone else as dolled up as you?” He turned his head about the room, eyeing the classic western crowd then turned his attention back toward her.

  “As a matter of fact, Wise Ass, I have studied this market,” she said, ripping off the corner of her napkin. “The pages of Country Weekly are filled with Nashville celebrities wearing the kinds of things I design. And I’m going to show the rest of the women in Music City they can get that look too but for a whole bunch less cash.”

  “What about your shoes? See any others like ‘em?” He asked then motioned for her to survey his patrons.

  “Nope. Didn’t think so. But now you’ve got a choice. You’ve got the boots you earned dancing with me. Those high-priced suckers you’re wearing now gotta be killing your feet. Although they’re sexy, I’ll give you that,” he said then winked at her. “I could get used to them if you’d keep them to yourself.”

  “If you wouldn’t piss me off, you wouldn’t have to worry about where I stick my feet,” she retorted, practically inhaling another gulp of Corona. She wiped a runaway dribble, catching it before it slid down her chin, not sure whether she was more mortified by his dismissal of her unique style or horrified that she’d missed her mouth, like an ill-mannered hillbilly. “I just have to find a way to bring Nashville to Raeve.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of getting folks to find Raeve. Your boutique sits in the rear corner of the tractor supply store for cripe’s sake.”

  “That was a low blow, Zayne McDonald.” She wadded up her napkin and tossed it into the center of her plate. Despite the fact she had several pickles left, she’d lost her appetite. “I’m only renting that space until I save enough money to move to Hillsboro Village.”

  “From the low number of people I hear you’re getting into Raeve, you need my mom in there if you expect to sign a Hillsboro lease.” Zayne signaled the waitress for another round and lifted his brow, as if trying to decide how to play his next hand.

  Too bad he had the world’s worst poker face. Roxy read him like a how-not-to manual.

  “I’m not catering to the whims of anyone but myself. Raeve is my creation, and no one’s going to dictate my styles. I don’t need your mother’s input.”

  “You should be thrilled to have Mom as part-time help. She’s been a damn good customer. And if she’s working there, her friends will stop by. I’d also hardly call her a dictator,” Zayne added, then laughed. “Not by your standards.”

  “My standards are exactly what’s at stake,” Roxy snapped back. “I’m not modifying my designs to match the money flow.”

  If she gave in now and brought his mother into Raeve, even as temporary help, she might succumb to the kind of woman she’d thought she’d left behind. The kind of women designers couldn’t afford to ignore if they planned to last past one collection. The kind of women who caused her toes to curl worse than they already were, shoved into her favorite pointed-toe stilettos.

  “Have it your way, princess. But I’m fixin’ to tell you a couple things.” Zayne leaned-in close, speaking in a hushed voice. “One, you can’t be controlled by someone unless you allow yourself to be. And two, i
f you want to make it in this town, you need Mom’s help.”

  Roxy bit the inside of her lip, chewing on what he’d said, knowing he was right, but too stubborn to admit as much without a struggle. “So what’s in this for you?”

  “It’s simple,” he said, even though his squirminess betrayed him.

  “This arrangement will benefit both of us,” he continued, poking at a piece of batter dislodged from a pickle slice. “You’ll pick up some business. And I’ll keep my mother out of mine.”

  He reached for her hands and squeezed them between his own, taking her out of the realm of coherent thought. “I need your help, Roxy. Mom adores you — and lucky for us, she doesn’t know you well enough to challenge her misguided notions.”

  “Keep it up, cowboy,” Roxy said, bouncing her foot ever-so-lightly off his kneecap while pulling her hands out of his grasp.

  She removed her napkin from her plate and dunked a pickle wedge into the spicy Thousand Island dipping sauce, wishing she could attribute her tight grin to an acidic response to his comment. In truth, she couldn’t stand fried pickles. But dammit, she had to adjust to Nashville lifestyles, and developing a taste for fried pickles was a reasonable start. What she wouldn’t give for sushi.

  Zayne took a big bite of pickle, then double-dipped the bitten-off end into the sauce cup. “Mom also worships what you and she call Raeve’s element of style. Or something like that. Anyway, if I’m going to get this hybrid ready for the Tomato Festival, I’ve got to get her out of my way. I know she thinks hanging out at the farm every day until the saloon opens is showing me support. But she’s driving me nuts.”

  Okay. Call her a sucker. Well, a sucker for a good-looking tomato-growing, bootscootin’ cowboy.

  Considering how hard the farm store guys said he worked his dad’s farm, she had no reason to question his loyalty to his tomatoes. But she sure didn’t see the same spark in Zayne’s eyes when he talked tomatoes instead of bootscootin’. Held by the anxious waves in his dark, desperate eyes, though, her resistance was drowning.