Stripped

by Edie Harris

  When he caught sight of the back of the gown as she preceded him into the car, he went breathless all over again. Sheer, iridescent silk fell from beneath her shoulder blades to trail behind her in an airy train, playing peekaboo with the fact that the entire back of the bodice was missing—all the way to the base of her spine.

  Fiona may have been wearing that lacy bra in the bathroom, but she certainly didn’t have it on now.

  They walked the red carpet leading into Dolby Theater, pausing every five feet or so for pictures, it seemed. A few entertainment reporters caught him, but even while offering up a sound bite or two, his palm never left the small of her back.

  Fiona was, as ever, his foothold in the chaos.

  They were seated in the same row as the rest of the Vendetta cast and crew, Wes to Declan’s left and Fiona’s parents next to her. Sadie and Ryan sat on Wes’s other side, the director being notorious for never bringing a date to this sort of event, and then the lights dimmed in the theatre, and the ceremony officially began.

  Declan held Fiona’s hand, clasped atop her thigh, until…

  “The Oscar for Costume Design goes to—” The actress on stage paused for effect. “Rick O’Brien, Vendetta!”

  Hugs and handshaking ensued, their row pushing to a stand as Rick kissed first his wife, then his daughter, and made his way onstage, accompanied by the strains of the orchestra and the applause of the audience.

  Declan reached for Fiona’s hand again, rubbing his thumb gently over her knuckles, until…

  “The Oscar for Makeup and Hairstyling goes to—” Another actress, also pausing for maximum effect. “Paulie Michele, Vendetta!”

  Chest bursting with pride, Declan squeezed her tight before releasing her to stand aside as she, Amy, and Beth followed Paulie to the stage, as had been prearranged, should they win. One short speech by an effusive Paulie later, she was back beside Declan once more, hand locked securely in his.

  Until…

  “The Academy Award for Direction goes to,” with, thankfully, no pause for effect, “Wes Jackson for his film, Vendetta!”

  Amid more hugging and handshaking, Declan had the panicked thought that he wasn’t going to get the chance to do what he needed to. This night was turning crazier by the second, a whirlwind of elation for their merry band, but Declan had a plan, damn it, and he was going to burst if he missed this opportunity because he was too caught up in the heady rush of experiencing win after win.

  Then Fiona took his hand and smiled at him, and the panic receded, enough for him to pay attention to Wes’s acceptance speech.

  “…so many individuals I’ll forget to thank, but I can’t imagine I’d be standing here without the stellar performances from Vendetta’s two leads, Sadie Bower and Declan Murphy.” Cameras found their row in the audience as Wes continued, his statue clasped loosely in one hand while the other extended toward them. “Sadie, you gorgeous creature, you are the meanest little street urchin I’ve ever met in my life.”

  The audience laughed.

  “And Declan.” Wes shook his head. “Man, can I just say, thank you for taking my call last April. We all won the lottery when you did.”

  All Declan could manage was a nod and tight smile, emotion knocking him momentarily sideways. Fiona’s hand came to rest on his chest, and she leaned into his shoulder, helping him find purchase in the chaos.

  Nothing remained but the awards for Actor, Actress, and Picture, and Declan knew the time had come. He put his lips to her ear. “Fi.”

  She tilted her head closer. “Yes?”

  That word. Yes, that was the word. Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he found what he needed, fisted it. His other hand continued to hold hers. “I…I still don’t have the words,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, wondering how he had gotten to this point without a better script in mind.

  She glanced up at him, confused.

  Resting his temple against hers, he whispered into her ear what he’d been dying to say all evening. “Will you marry me?” He lifted her hand, placing the ring he held in his at the tip of her third finger, ready to slide on the moment she said—

  “Yes.” Breathless. Absolute. Smiling. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  “…Declan Murphy as Count Vargas in Vendetta!”

  Lights and cameras found them as the ring slipped onto her finger, and she was clutching his face in both hands, kissing him fiercely. He grasped her wrists as exhilaration sang through his veins. Yes. She had said yes.

  A sharp elbow to his ribs jerked him back to the present. Declan shot a questioning glance at Wes. “What?”

  “You won.”

  The orchestra swelled and applause rang out, and, in a haze, Declan found himself standing, then walking, then on the stage with a statue of a naked gold man being thrust into his hands. The microphone beckoned under the hot glare of the lights, and he searched the audience until he found her.

  He thought she might be crying.

  He blinked furiously for a moment before stepping up to the mic. “I didn’t prepare a speech,” he began with a small grin for the crowd. “Not because I didn’t think I’d win, but because I was too busy tryin’ to figure out another speech today, so I’ll just thank my agent, Molly Traeger. Wes Jackson for, you know, callin’ me.” The audience laughed. “The incredible crew. My costar, Sadie Bower.” Speaking grew difficult. “My family in Ireland, and the family I made here.”

  Finally, he turned his attention to where it was meant to be. “And Fiona, who one minute ago agreed to marry me.” He raised his voice over the cheers that rang out. “You are the best choice I ever made. Thank you”—he laid a hand over his heart, because his heart demanded he do so—“thank you for loving me.”

  Unable to remain on the stage a moment longer, he ignored the presenter waiting to take him backstage and rushed down the steps and back out into the audience.

  Fiona met him in the aisle. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she beamed up at him, oblivious to the applause roaring around them. “You’re my best choice, too.”

  He cupped her cheek in one hand as the arm holding the award looped around her waist. “I love you,” he said, and kissed her. Nothing almost about it.

  Author’s Note

  Much of the action of this novel centers around the production of a film entitled Vendetta. While the film itself isn’t real (of course), Fiona and Declan’s story actually arrived after the conception of Vendetta—which, in my head, was its own Victorian steampunk-esque romance between the scarred antihero Count Vargas and his runaway sidekick-slash-conscience, Bit. I hope to write Vargas and Bit’s tale someday, as they’ve been patiently waiting a couple of years for me to get my butt in gear, but it was nice to be able to play with them—even secondhand—through Declan and Sadie.

  Acknowledgements

  Immeasurable thanks to my mother, who devoted her valuable time and considerable skill as an editor to help make this experiment a reality. From historical to contemporary, she has used her red pen on every manuscript I’ve written to guide me into creating something stronger, better. She is a good friend, a consummate professional, and oftentimes the sole voice of reason in my life.

  Every writer needs an editor. Thank you, Mom, for being mine.

  Want a peek at what’s next for the city2city series?

  Turn the page for an excerpt from Scorched, coming soon!

  EXCERPT from SCORCHED

  A naked woman was singing in Kitt Jones’s shower.

  Under most circumstances, Kitt would have no complaints. But, seeing as he didn’t have the first clue who the naked, singing, soon-to-be-clean woman was, complaints seemed necessary.

  It had taken him a minute after unlocking the door to his third-floor condo in Chicago’s Wicker Park to realize the noises he heard weren’t coming from the unit below him. Dropping his duffle bag with a heavy thunk as he closed the door behind him, Kitt paused, staring at a pair of hot-pink women’s flats that most definitely hadn’t b
een in the front hall when he had locked this place up five weeks ago.

  Other signs of someone else’s life appeared as he wandered slowly into the kitchen and living area. A window was open, the ceiling fan on, and a trio of reusable grocery bags sat on the marble peninsula countertop. Next to a purse.

  Kitt didn’t own a purse, nor did he own hot-pink shoes. He knew he was in the correct place to begin with because there, on the wall opposite the dining table, was the black-and-white photograph of his World Series-winning play two seasons ago.

  His mom had gotten it enlarged and framed for him as a Christmas gift. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he found looking at a picture of himself every day over breakfast kind of embarrassing.

  The sound of a shampoo bottle falling to the shower floor, followed by what might have been a giggle changed the game for him. Returning to the front hall, he opened the coat closet to snag one of the many baseball bats he stored there. On the off chance that the naked, singing woman wasn’t alone in his shower—because who giggled when they were showering alone, seriously—he wanted to be prepared.

  Kitt couldn’t remember a single moment of his life where holding a baseball bat had left him feeling unprepared. With a bat in his hands, or a ball, or a glove, he could do anything.

  Verifying that his phone was still in the back pocket of his jeans, in case he needed to call the police in a hurry, he hefted the bat in his left hand and strode toward the back of the apartment, past the laundry and guest bath and into the master suite. The balcony doors were propped open to let in the summer breeze, the sheets on his bed were mussed, and the door to the bathroom—his bathroom—was wide open.

  He was surprised by the momentary anger that flashed through him. Five weeks. He’d only been gone five weeks, and a squatter had already moved in, with her shoes and purses and environmentally friendly shopping accessories. How the hell did something like that even happen in a neighborhood like this?

  Steam hit him like a wall when he stopped at the threshold to the bathroom, and he focused on letting go of the anger. He was tired. He was hurting. He was frustrated to hell and back, but that frustration had nothing to do with this situation. He had to learn to breathe through small stuff like this—because yes, a squatter was small stuff in the world of Kitt Jones—or, according to the shrink, the build-up was going to kill him.

  Him, or his career. He wasn’t sure which would be worse at this point.

  The singing hadn’t stopped, and it was then that Kitt noticed the quality of that singing. Not pop songs from the radio, but something fancy in a foreign language, and the mystery woman’s voice could carry it. As he peered at the fogged-over glass doors of the shower, straining to count the number of potential limbs behind it, he felt that voice like a pressure against his chest. Rich, full, strong and sure, her voice lifted effortlessly to swirl in the steam, casting a spell over him.

  That voice was exotic. Sexy.

  And still coming from within his shower.

  Taking a breath, he used the end of the bat to tap briskly against the open bathroom door. “Excuse me.”

  She screamed.

  Before he could react, the shower door flew open, and out raced a short, wet, extremely naked woman wielding a purple razor. She froze at the sight of him. “Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Your apartment?” he managed as he fought not to stare. But, man, not staring was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Fair-skinned with hourglass curves, dark nipples, and soft thighs, she made his mouth water with the urge to lick every drop of liquid from her stunning body.

  Thank God she decided to cover it up with a towel. “I said, who are you?” The voice that had bewitched him moments ago was harsh, fierce, and more than a little afraid, but her chin was lifted in a show of defiance. “Tell me now or I’m calling the police!”

  The towel made it easier to think, and he stared directly into the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. “That’s not a bad idea, calling the police. Seeing as you’re apparently squatting in my apartment.”

  “Squatting—” She clutched the towel tighter over her chest. “I am not a squatter. I pay rent.”

  He snorted. “And I own it.” Then, relenting, “I’m Kitt Jones. And you are?”

  “Not an idiot.” She gestured toward the baseball bat with her razor. “Put that down.”

  “Only if you disarm, too.”

  “What?”

  “Drop the deadly razor, please.” Shooting him a glare from beneath striking auburn brows, she slowly lowered the piece of purple plastic to the counter as he tossed the bat onto the foot of the bed behind him. Something funny happened in his chest—and something less funny a bit lower—as he watched her wrap the towel tightly around her torso. “Now. What’s your name?”

  She eyed him warily. “Sasha.”

  “Better put some clothes on, Sasha. Looks like we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Edie Harris studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa and Grinnell College. She fills her days with writing and editing contract proposals, but her nights belong to the world of romance fiction. An avid reader/tweeter/blogger, Edie lives and works in Iowa City.

  Visit her website for backlist titles, contact information, and regular updates on upcoming projects. www.edieharris.com

  OTHER TITLES by EDIE HARRIS

  Available Now

  The Corrupt Comte

  Wild Burn

  Ardent

  Love Songs

  Anthologies

  Agony/Ecstasy Anthology (“Shameless”)

  Coming Soon

  Wild Fire

  Scorched

  Sparked