“Nothing.” But it was said too quickly, and Val was much too persistent to let it go at that.
“Spill it, sis. I mean it. What’s up with you and McCabe?”
Tasha looked around, making sure no one else was in earshot. Val’s sister was the only one of her family and friends who knew what Gideon really was. She and Gideon had decided not to alarm her parents—or force them into an early grave—by announcing the fact that he was a Cupid. The arrangement, so far, was working out well.
Her sister took a deep breath and leaned toward her. “He’s irritating. He’s a damn macho Cupid, a throwback to the days when men didn’t believe women could think for themselves. His perfect idea of a wife is a little lady who will tell him how great he is and make sure dinner is on the table at six. God, I just want to throttle him.”
She pushed her hair back in frustration, then took another long drink from her glass. “But that’s not even the worse part. Oh no. Have you looked at him, Val? He’s sexy as hell. That so pisses me off.”
Val stared at her sister in amazement. “You’ve got the hots for him.”
“I do not.” The outrage sounded false, even to Tasha’s own ears. “I just…okay, fine, I’ve got the hots for him. But I can live with that. What really irks me is that he seems to have the hots for me too, and he won’t leave me the hell alone.”
Val smiled at her sister. “Just tell him you’re not interested.”
“I can’t. Damn it, I can’t.”
“And you can’t because?” She left it hanging as a question, waiting for her sister to admit that she was just as attracted to McCabe as he was to her.
“Shit, Val, I can’t leave him alone. I already made a big mistake, and it’s too late to fix it.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
Tasha looked down at the floor, then glared over at McCabe, who was grinning at them for all the world like a cat who had just caught a huge, juicy mouse for his master. “Because in a moment of drunken loneliness, I asked for McCabe for Christmas, and it seems like I got him.”
Val’s jaw dropped, and then she laughed so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks. As everyone in the other room stopped talking and turned to stare at her, she laughed and laughed until she had to double over and hold her stomach.
Her sister. And McCabe. Another Cupid in the family. God, she wanted to be a fly on the wall when Tasha got her claws into him.
MESMERIZED
Jordan Summers
One
Cluck, cluck, cluck. Quack, quack, quack. Oink, oink, oink. Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw.
Amanda Dillon’s eyes widened and her head snapped around as the last hee-haw faded. She glanced at the five gorgeous men crawling around at her feet like barnyard animals, each one more delicious-looking than the last.
Someone was certainly getting into it tonight.
A smile played at the corners of her mouth as she snapped her fingers twice. “Woo me!” she shouted. “Win me over with your professions of love.” The men instantly transformed from helpless critters to wanna-be Romeos all vying for her attention.
If only it were that easy in real life.
One recited poetry, while another blond Adonis crouched on bended knee, attempting to sing a love ballad. It was a good thing he was gorgeous, because cats fighting in a garbage can maintained better pitch. Amanda turned from the crooner long enough to look at the audience, which consisted mainly of women, who broke into giggles at the sight before them.
Amanda pinched her nose and waved her hand in front of her face. The crowd roared. She’d earned the reputation as the “Man Tamer of Manhattan” after two years of sold out shows. Amanda looked around the small hardwood floor stage half expecting to see a stool and a whip appear.
“Man Tamer of Manhattan.” She snorted under her breath. If they only knew the truth.
She wasn’t particularly proud of the nickname, but it did pay the bills—and kept men at bay. A rather disappointing repercussion of achieving success that, willing or not, she’d grown accustomed to. Not that she had the time or inclination to date. Her jaundiced gaze scanned the men. These same types of men validated her career-imposed celibacy every night.
Amanda smiled wistfully, and then turned back to the Lotharios. The men groveled and begged as she rolled her eyes. Every woman’s fantasy. Hardly.
Each performance was the same. Amanda was bored with the act and it showed. If only she could find something to liven it up. Then again, was it her act—or her life that needed livening as of late? Amanda wasn’t sure and decided not to delve too deeply into her thoughts.
Heck, she’d settle for finding a man who would be into a no-strings kind of relationship, who didn’t require induction in order to tell the truth.
Come back to planet Earth, Amanda. It isn’t going to happen.
One bold man on stage took that moment to snatch her hand in his, shaking Amanda from her thoughts. Not you, sweetheart, she mused, as the man began placing Gomez-style kisses along the length of her arm. Amanda chortled and fought to keep from laughing louder, before extracting her hand.
Ah, well…time for the big finale.
She pasted a smile on her face and raised her arms. “When I count to five you will awake feeling refreshed and rested, as if you’ve had an hour-long nap filled with pleasurable dreams. One, two, you’re feeling more awake and aware of your surroundings, three, four, sounds in the room are growing louder, five, open your eyes.” Amanda snapped her fingers twice.
The men blinked, looking around, brows knitted in confusion. They took in their surroundings as if for the first time. One particularly cocky participant stood, stretching his limbs before resting his massive arms across his wide muscular chest.
At another time in her life, Amanda would’ve found the man attractive and desirable, but not now. To her jaded eyes, he looked like a Neanderthal ready to beat his chest for attention. No thanks.
“See, I told you I couldn’t be hypnotized,” he said, his head bobbing, as a mocking grin spread over his chiseled face.
As tempting as it was to knock the smile from his mouth, Amanda didn’t have to.
The audience burst out laughing at his bravado as Amanda went to the side of the stage and retrieved the complimentary videotape the men received for their participation.
She smiled at the man who’d made the outburst, this time for real, as she handed him his copy. His cheeks flushed red and his eyes flashed, promising her retribution.
Amanda had seen it all before. A week from now he’d laugh about the whole event. “Enjoy the show,” she said, winking at him, a moment before she turned to the audience to bid them good night.
The crowd came to their feet in a standing ovation. Amanda bowed deep, and then rose. “How about a round of applause for our good sports?” She waved a hand in the direction of the men, who were brushing their pants off and straightening their clothes.
The applause and wolf whistles grew louder. A stagehand gathered the participants together, and then led them back to their seats. Amanda bowed one last time, before exiting stage right.
Someone handed her a towel as she made her way down a long corridor to her dressing room. She dabbed at the moisture on her face.
The tiny dressing room held a small navy blue couch with worn cushions, a black coffee table big enough to place refreshments on, a changing screen, and a lighted vanity with a white wicker chair shoved in front of it. Nothing fancy, but it was hers.
Amanda stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She rested her back against the hard wood for a couple of breaths and then pushed away. The room was filled to the brim with floral baskets and bouquets. The blooms’ sweet scents reached her nose. Amanda’s eyes watered and her throat began to itch.
“Perfect,” she groaned.
The tediousness of tonight’s show weighed heavily on her shoulders. The audience deserved better than her split attention.
The show’s success had reached beyond her wildest drea
ms. She’d hoped to have a couple months’ run, but the popularity of the performance guaranteed bookings through the end of the year. It also guaranteed a new kind of pressure, one that required her to expand the show or eventually go bust. Unfortunately, the only way to do that was to promote in the media. She shuddered at the thought.
Amanda received calls daily from every major network and magazine, begging her to grant them an interview or, as she liked to think of it, a chance to rip her “Man Tamer of Manhattan” persona to shreds.
Amanda sighed as she plopped into the wicker chair and began removing her stage makeup, which was thick enough to require a spatula.
She stared at her reflection, before exhaling loudly. She looked tired, weak, stretched thin from so many performances. Her normally sparkling eyes looked wary.
When had that happened? When had the flicker of excitement and rush from performing left her? Had she always been so cynical? A resounding “yes” clamored in her head. Amanda rolled her eyes.
The press could detect weakness at a thousand clicks, which left Amanda stuck between a rock and a smashed place.
The magazines and networks might as well pack it in, because she couldn’t afford to give any of them an opportunity to tear down what she’d created.
Amanda had removed all but two remaining spots of makeup when a knock sounded at the door. “Who is it?” she asked, ears straining for a voice.
She’d learned the hard way not to grant entry without first identifying the caller. The last time that occurred Amanda had found herself eye to belt buckle with one of her audience participants. He’d signed a release like every other participant in the show, but from the crumpled piece of paper in his fist, Amanda deduced he didn’t care.
Luckily, her assistant Wendy had arrived and removed the man with a little finesse. Amanda smiled. Wendy was worth every penny Amanda paid her and then some. The knock sounded again with more force.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Wendy.” Her assistant’s voice rose.
Speak of the she-devil. “Come in.”
Wendy bounced into the room like a ray of sunshine on speed, her russet-colored ponytail swishing from side to side, as she dropped onto the couch. Wearing a pair of designer striped pants with a pullover sweater, the hip clothing fit her lithe form perfectly. Known for her upbeat personality, Wendy filled any space she entered with her larger than life optimism. At parties, everyone gravitated toward her like planets to the sun, drawn by her warmth.
Amanda was exactly opposite to the woman she called friend and assistant. In the solar system of life, she’d be Pluto. Where Wendy exuded warmth, Amanda cultivated the ability to give any man frostbite if he stood too close.
Originally meant to keep her focused on building her career, aloofness wasn’t something she could control any longer. It just occurred and felt comfortable, like shrugging on a well-worn coat.
Amanda was well aware of her ice queen reputation, which was why she’d hired Wendy. The perfect buffer to an otherwise unfriendly world.
“How was it tonight?” Wendy asked, tugging at her lower lip with her teeth.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” Amanda answered, staring at Wendy from the mirror. She froze as her assistant’s expression permeated her thoughts. Amanda turned. “What’s up?”
Wendy fidgeted. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Wendy Ann…” She only used Wendy’s middle name when she knew her friend was lying. “You never bite your lip unless you have bad news to tell me or you know I’m not going to like what you have to say.”
The normally cheerful woman grimaced. “I guess I should work on schooling my face.”
Amanda laughed. “Not a chance. I like being able to read exactly what you’re thinking. You’ve got a face poker players dream of competing against.”
Wendy giggled.
“Now tell me what’s up.”
“Do you like the flowers?”
Atch-oo. “Yes, they’re lovely. Now quit stalling.”
Her assistant shrugged, drawing her feet under her legs. “You received another message, along with all these flowers from that journalist at Mode Times Magazine.”
“What’s his name again?” Amanda sniffled.
Wendy stilled, her brow furrowing as she concentrated. “You know, I never caught it.”
“That’s weird. Normally star journalists love the sound of their names rolling off their lips.” Amanda frowned. “How many messages does that make?”
“Fifteen, not counting today’s note.”
“Did he send all these flowers?”
“Yep.”
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.” Amanda sneezed, and then wiped the last two smudges of makeup away. “Is that all?”
Wendy shifted again under her scrutiny. “I was just thinking maybe you should grant him an interview.”
Amanda’s eyes widened. “Why would I want to do that? Do you think he’s found a way into my heart through my hay fever?”
Wendy bit her lip to keep from laughing, and then pretended to pluck fuzz from her sweater. “No, I think you should do it because he sounds kind of sexy and he’s always polite.”
“Sounds sexy, eh?” Amanda arched a brow and began applying moisturizer. “You aren’t trying to play matchmaker again, are you?”
“Yes to the first question and no to the second.” Wendy bit her lip once more.
Amanda’s stomach tightened. Her friend had fibbed again. She tilted her head to get a better look at Wendy in the mirror. Amanda didn’t know what her assistant was up to but she didn’t like it. She paused, her gaze locked on her friend, and then she carefully phrased her question. “When did you last speak with him?”
“Yesterday, when he phoned.”
Amanda spun around to face Wendy, her heart slamming into her ribs. “You didn’t tell him I’d grant an interview, did you? Don’t you remember what happened to my father? One stupid article by one reporter and his life was ruined. Do you want that to happen to me?” Her eyes searched her friend’s face as panic set in. Oh God, the last thing she needed was some strange man showing up at her door.
Wendy waved a hand in the air. “Calm down. Of course not. I’d never do anything like that without your permission. I know your reasons for not granting interviews. And you know I’m sorry about your dad. I just thought that maybe it was time to reconsider. This is your career, not his.”
“I don’t think so.” Amanda humphed. “Every time I consider changing my mind, I picture my father working himself to death, trying to rebuild a reputation that one article shattered beyond repair,” she stated firmly, before her gaze narrowed in suspicion. “If you didn’t agree to an interview, then what did you say?”
Wendy shrugged, but the action didn’t look nonchalant. “I told him to stop by the show and ask you himself.”
Amanda felt the air squeeze from her lungs. It was one thing to turn someone down via e-mail or phone, it was quite another to look them in the face while doing so. “You didn’t,” she murmured in disbelief.
Wendy grinned sheepishly. “I did.”
“Why? You’re supposed to be my defense against the dark side.”
Her friend giggled. “I am, Luke, but what’s it going to hurt? He may look as good as he sounds,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.
“I doubt it.” Amanda soured, dropping her head in her hands. “Oh Wendy, what have you done?” she asked, peeking through two fingers.
“Nothing that isn’t good for you.” Her friend bounced up from the couch and sashayed to the door. She glanced over her shoulder one last time. “There is such a thing as dating and sex in the world, remember? Besides, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him.” Wendy winked, and then exited.
Amanda groaned. She didn’t need a journalist for anything, not even a sexy sounding one. Wendy could have him with her blessing.
Note to self: kill smart-mouthed assistant.
Derek Armstrong sat in his offic
e, smiling to himself. He’d finally managed to get a foot in the door of the “Man Tamer of Manhattan.” An impossible feat no one had accomplished until now.
He could picture the headline clearly: “Man Tamer of Manhattan Purrs Like Kitten” for this reporter. Okay, he’d come up with something a little more catchy before he submitted his article to the editor, but time was on his side.
It had taken a busload of flowers and much sweet talking, something he wasn’t particularly comfortable doing. Derek preferred the direct approach for women and assignments, but he wanted this interview bad, so he tried the subtle path.
In the end, it had worked—on Amanda Dillon’s assistant.
He picked up the photo of the blond performer and studied the image. She didn’t look much like a “Man Tamer” or hater for that matter, although rumors told otherwise. Her blue eyes seemed a bit too reserved, evasive even. Her erect posture belied the softness he sensed in her face. She was a puzzle he looked forward to solving before he exposed her to the world.
After all, that was his job.
Derek recalled the warnings he’d gotten from peers when he’d asked for the assignment. A few of his colleagues told how they’d managed to get close enough to ask the “ice queen” out to dinner. All had been coldly rebuffed.
Apparently, she preferred her own company to that of others, taking long walks in Central Park, visiting the Met whenever a new exhibit opened, and lunching at her favorite restaurant, Le Bernardin on 51st.
She didn’t give interviews. She didn’t date and from what he could gather, with the exception of Wendy Cole, the woman had no friends. If there were secret lovers in her life, the men remained tight-lipped. He arched a brow.
Maybe she didn’t like men.
Derek frowned. His gaze stroked over her full breasts and slightly rounded hips, taking in their feminine curve with rapt attention. His nostrils flared as his cock stirred behind the zipper of his trousers. That would be a pity, especially now that he looked forward to being the one to do the taming.
Bad Boys Over Easy Page 14
