Unzipped (Harlequin Romance)

by Lori Foster

  When she opened her mouth, no words came out. Instead, her gaze fell to the floor, and she laughed a little.

  “You can’t hear it, but I really am purring inside,” she said softly.

  “Isn’t that what I promised?” He ignored the spark in his chest. “Wait for the cab in here.”

  For a second, she didn’t move. Then, “No. It’s one of those beautiful, warm California nights. I’ll be fine.”

  She opened the door, stepped outside. Through the thin dress, he could see her legs, her curvy figure. Then she left. Done. Gone.

  His conscience tried to placate him:

  Let them go before they start to care. Keep it light. No strings attached.

  Sean McIntyre closed his eyes, shutting out the longing for something more.

  Chapter Four

  THE TWINGE in Fiona’s conscience—as well as the faint vibrations tickling her skin—lasted into the next evening.

  And, dammit all if she couldn’t keep her mind off Mac. The stiff, damp throb between her legs, the constant replay of their night together, invaded her with intangible heat. Reminding her. Thrilling her.

  Taunting her.

  In spite of the air-conditioning, Fiona fanned herself, surveying the scene at the Goddess Gallery on Beverly Boulevard. She’d put together a photography show for one of the clients who had been assigned to her by the firm. Terry Oatman, the artist in question, was a washed-up actor who’d done several straight-to-video bombs during the past few years. Two decades ago, he’d been the hippest Ray•Ban-wearing man on the scene, but now, after a bout with drugs and a freefall from fame, he was sober. Ready to reinvent his image.

  And it was her job to make sure he made it again.

  Things looked good so far. A few A-list rockers and movie stars had made it to opening night; they wandered through the incense-scented gallery, mingling, drinking the gratis champagne, perusing the black-and-white portraits only when they thought it would matter. Fiona had persuaded a movie magazine to do a layout of Oatman’s work and, every few minutes, another flash would light up the white-walled room.

  The only person who seemed genuinely interested in something other than being noticed or eating their fill of hors d’oevres was Lincoln, the lone soap star, isolated by his low position on the Hollywood food chain. He wandered the exhibit, considering each photo.

  Her throat tightened. He hadn’t wanted to talk about last night and what had happened with Lakota, so she’d decided to give him space until he was ready. Give him space because he knew something was up with her, also.

  Brother. Could she stop thinking about Mac? She’d managed to extinguish all the sparks he’d ignited in her. Sort of. It was necessary though, because those dangerous bursts of hope and connection rubbed against the emptiness of her better judgment, shocking her system.

  Had Mac seen what she’d felt, even for that terrifying second? It’d been a mix of instinctive optimism, the utter happiness of contentment. Of finding an equal.

  Fiona leaned against the wall, the black-garbed gallery crowd blurring into one big empty hole.

  At least she’d gotten out of his house before she’d surrendered to the moment altogether. The cab had arrived within ten minutes and, with every moment that ticked by, she hoped Mac wasn’t looking out the window, seeing her standing by herself. Seeing how much she’d wanted to go back inside to be with him again.

  Thank God he’d been called out of the office today, overseeing a star-studded fashion show sponsored by Stellar, making sure all their top talent got tickets, got noticed.

  And she’d definitely felt his absence. But only because sex was still on her brain—the comfort of a near stranger, the warmth of another body reassuring her that she was wanted, if only for a short time.

  She had everything under control now. Mac was nothing more to her than a bet. An intense flirtation. A day-after, first burn of sensual awareness that cried out for more.

  And if he hadn’t called her yet, so what? It didn’t matter.

  Nothing to get territorial about.

  Fiona focused again, the room returning to normal, the black hole vanishing, morphing back into her glamour-and-grunge clients. Her real life.

  A petite woman clutching a clipboard parted the crowd, rolling her eyes in exasperation as she reached Fiona. Rosie, her assistant.

  “Trouble?” asked Fiona.

  Rosie’s pale cheeks were splotched pink, and strands of her strawberry-blond hair spiked out from the tight bun she wore. Even her off-the-rack suit was a little rumpled. Fiona would have to take the enthusiastic girl shopping if she wanted to get ahead.

  “Fiona, Jerry Rute’s had too much to drink again, and he’s starting to hit on the movie magazine photographer.” Rosie adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. “His handler just took him out the back door.”

  Jerry Rute. One of those boy band singers who’d turned movie star and didn’t quite know how to handle his middling fame.

  Fiona kept frustration at bay. “His manager should’ve taken all those drinks out of his greedy little hands. Isn’t that why these stars have entourages? To keep them out of trouble?”

  “Or to get them into it.”

  She stepped out of her corner. “You’re learning quickly. Are you sure you want a job that usually requires cleaning up messes instead of preventing them?”

  The assistant brightened. Like everyone else in this town, she wore her ambition in her gaze. “I’m sure. Oh, and I’ll let the caterers know that we need more fontina risotto balls with that marinara sauce. They’re going like hotcakes.”

  “Thanks, Rosie.”

  “No problem.” The young girl started to dash away, then turned around again, holding up a finger. “By the way, those premiere tickets came through.”

  A bolt of adrenaline shot through Fiona. Score one for her. This was where she’d regain her shine. If she pleased the ragtag bunch of clients Stellar had dumped on her, more powerful talent would gravitate her way.

  She could win their game.

  “Excellent work,” she said to her assistant, making her glow.

  As the young woman darted behind a white wall covered by a mammoth image of an abandoned filling station on Route 66, Fiona couldn’t stop an emerging grin.

  Let’s see, she thought. A limited number of tickets to the hottest movie premiere in town next week. Who would benefit the most? The actress who was living down a very public struggle with anorexia? The actor whose last film bombed during opening weekend? Or all the B-listers who wanted so desperately to be A-list?

  She hated choosing. Hated hearing the client’s voice on the phone when they realized they weren’t important enough to score the most sought-after prizes of fame.

  If only she could please them all.

  Lincoln passed into her view as he moved to a new picture.

  His posture tore at her: the slightly slouched shoulders of someone who knows he’s not wanted at the popular kids’ party, the too-intense scrutiny of the art.

  Fiona slid up next to him. “See anything you like?”

  Linc didn’t say anything for a second, then he shrugged, his classy-cool bomber jacket creaking.

  “Oatman’s got a good eye. Not that any of these people would care.”

  “It might help if you mingled with ‘these people.’ Schmoozing is worth its weight in gold. Come on, let’s work the room.”

  He shot her a wry glance. “I’m in soaps. And, guess what? I kind of like being there. You’re the one with all the high hopes for me.”

  Was he angry with her? “You deserve the best, Linc. That’s what I want for you.”

  She felt him take her hand, squeeze it, then let go. “I know.”

  “Something else is bugging you though.”

  “Not here, Fi.”

  “Okay. I got it. You’re fine. You big he-man who no want to deal with woman problem.”

  Another partygoer who happened to be interested in the actual display wandered by them, lingered, th
en moved on.

  Linc stirred, moved closer to Fiona. “I need to stop throwing my whole heart into relationships. It kills me.”

  Not that he fell in love with every woman he met, but when Lincoln was smitten, he was gone. Completely devoted to the point of becoming the other person. His love wasn’t of the healthy variety, yet she’d done her best to support him throughout the years.

  “You’re just that way,” she said, keeping her voice low enough to avoid announcing their conversation, loud enough to overcome the soft, live acoustic guitar music being played in the corner by yet another client.

  She continued. “You’re intense, and someday you’ll find a woman who’ll accept all your love. But she’s not going to be easy to find.”

  “I smother them, don’t I?”

  They’d had this heart-to-heart before. “If you’re talking about Lakota…”

  “Lakota’s a free bird, not a clinging vine.” He laughed without humor. “The whole ‘other woman’ deal provided an excuse for her to leave. That’s that.”

  The other woman. The phrase reminded her of Ted, her ex. But in Linc’s case, there had been no other. Only Lakota.

  Was there more than one woman in Mac’s life?

  The thought caused Fiona to cross her arms over her chest, but once she realized what she’d done, she returned to her relaxed, isn’t-this-a-great-party? position.

  Fiona lightly bumped into Linc. “Don’t let your intensity do you in now. Okay? I’ve told you before to keep your distance from Miss Thang.”

  “Not likely.” He turned away from the picture: two fluffy, coy Maltese dogs sitting in a rusted-out car. “The next script has our first scene together and, surprise! The writers are pairing us up again.”

  “Ooo. Well, it was inevitable, wasn’t it? The fans will go nuts for you two, and the network knows it.”

  “Fame costs too much. Maybe I should retire.” He jerked his chin toward an Oatman portrait of a desert landscape. “I’d like to be this guy, taking pictures for a living. That’d make me happy.”

  Fiona remembered how he used to take off some weekends just to capture photos. He’d skid back Monday morning in time for class, then develop his own pictures, never showing anyone else but her.

  “You can do anything you want to, Linc.”

  He laughed, dismissed the idea by turning away from the exhibit. “Now that we’ve hashed out my angst, how about that spark in your eye?”

  Fiona took a step back, laughed. “What’re you talking about?”

  “All right. Have it your way.”

  “No, I mean…” God, she wanted to talk to him about Mac. Talk to anyone about him. Being naturally more comfortable with guys, she wasn’t close to any women, and she definitely wouldn’t tell her family. The only confidant she really responded to was Lincoln. “We…”

  Another art gazer happened by.

  When she was gone, Fiona added, “…You know.”

  “It’s been so long that I don’t think I know. Is it love?” he joked.

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s right. Love will never again find Fiona Cruz. You’ll make sure of it.”

  The truth pinched at her. “Thanks for being direct.”

  “Someone needs to be with you. You were wearing more than your sex drive on your sleeve last night.”

  “That’s how I look at all my victims, so don’t misinterpret lust as something more.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The movie mag photographer walked by them, obviously searching for a worthy subject. Linc straightened, flashed his brightest, sexiest smile.

  The woman reacted to his gesture—what female could resist?—but passed by without a request for a photo.

  The snub knocked the breath out of Fiona.

  Though Lincoln kept his eyes on the crowd, scanning it as if he’d turned around for that very purpose, she could see the pain floating below the surface. He slowly put his hands in his jacket pockets. He maintained that lethal smile, even though Fiona knew it wasn’t real.

  “We’ll get you there,” she said softly.

  The smile dimmed, revealing a streak of vulnerability. “If anyone can dig me out of my hole, you can.”

  Fiona clasped his hands in hers, hardly caring who saw, hardly caring what they would speculate.

  And caring way too much that they probably wouldn’t bother.

  “Six months of staying out of trouble, Lincoln. You’ve already helped yourself back to the top.”

  They stayed connected for a moment, until Fiona, thinking she shouldn’t stay that way for too long, finally let go.

  THREE DAYS and he hadn’t called her. Did that make him a creep?

  As Sean hopped out of his Jeep and made his way across Pasadena’s gas-lamp-lined Colorado Bridge, he stifled the urge to toss his damned cell phone off the side of it.

  Lakota’s manager had kept calling him while he was arranging an Entertainment Tonight interview for another client; she’d insisted that he get himself over to a photo shoot he’d secured for Lakota. A shoot for People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful” issue. What a coup. Unfortunately, they’d requested that she pose with Lincoln Castle, thus upping the interest level for the audience. Ex-lovers reunited on their soap.

  He and Fiona had managed to work out the details via their assistants, but this current situation required his personal attention. Probably Fiona’s, too.

  Dammit, should he have sent flowers? Tapped on her office door to say, “Hey, had a great tumble with you. Wanna go again?”

  Did wager etiquette require that sort of thing? Or should he take it at face value—an affair of convenience. Nothing more.

  Hell, their bet hadn’t said anything about him becoming territorial. And…

  You know, he wasn’t even going to think along those lines. It’d been a good time. Period.

  So why was he so reluctant to see her? To ask when they would resume the contest?

  They’d both been too busy to come face-to-face in the office. Or maybe he’d made sure that he was buried under more field work than he could stand.

  Damn, he was a jerk. A jerk who couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  Sean approached the screens and lights, the crowd composed of makeup artists, the photographer, the actors and their employees and…

  Damn. Fiona was here.

  She was the only sight he could focus on.

  Drawing nearer, he grinned. Summer sunlight gleamed off her dark hair, the subtle wind blowing a strand across her eyes, masking her. She wore a curve-hugging black suit, propping her hands on her hips, but not in a defensive way. As usual, she was cocked at a provocative angle, loose-limbed. Inviting as hell.

  As he came to stand in front of her, he thought she sucked in a breath. But then her confident business smile took over, erasing any hint of what had happened between them.

  “I knew Lakota would call you, just to one-up Linc.”

  Cool as the smooth edges of an ice cube, wasn’t she?

  He sidled closer, forcing her to tilt up her chin so she could meet his gaze. It reminded him of how she’d stood on her toes, flush against his wall, as he’d pressed her upward, onto him.

  When he didn’t answer, she whipped the hair out of her eyes.

  Pow. Her glare sent a punch of need right through him, a reminder of how she’d met him thrust for thrust, driving him further into madness every time she’d urged him, countered him.

  “Well, Fiona,” he said, dragging out her name just enough to establish the upper hand, “when my client tells me that her demanding co-star won’t be photographed from his left side, it tends to throw a kink in the smooth shoot I had planned.”

  “Did your dainty angel mention that she’s been just as ornery?” Fiona faced him straight on. “Linc wanted me here to sort things out, to make sure the crew knows that he’s willing to cooperate. Lakota’s not his boss. Today, he’s taking orders from the magazine. If she continues to bark out commands—”


  “—He’ll call in the cavalry.”

  A muscle in Fiona’s jaw twitched. “Listen, Mac. Linc’s got more fan mail than anyone else on the soap now, including Lakota. I’m not saying she’s jealous—”

  “—No?—”

  “—but we need to work together on this nightmare. Can we deal with it?”

  It. Was she talking about Lakota’s and Linc’s stubbornness?

  Or was she referring to the heat that hung over them?

  Sean glanced at Lakota, who was surrounded by her minions, clearly at home with her diva role. Three lampposts down the bridge, Lincoln leaned over the rail, ignoring his own exhausted manager.

  These two were going to take up too much of his precious time, weren’t they?

  Sean didn’t turn back to her. “He called and you came running. Either you don’t know how to manage your time, or you’re the ultimate friend.”

  She paused. “That’s right. He called, I came. What can I say?”

  They weren’t talking about Lincoln anymore.

  Suddenly, Sean’s shirt collar felt too tight, the air caught in his windpipe, choking him.

  “Sean!”

  Lakota had discovered his presence, and he had to admit that her timing was exceptional.

  She wiggled on over to him in high heels, a tight red dress that complemented her Jessica Rabbit hair. Makeup was caked on her face, adding years of sophistication.

  “Will you set things straight?” she asked, keeping Fiona in her sights.

  Fiona merely sighed and nodded in Lincoln’s direction, beckoning to him. “We’re going to take care of this ridiculous pissing contest right now.”

  Lakota’s mouth opened, then shut. When she glanced at Sean, he didn’t react.

  “You and Lincoln can make the image spinning easier for all of us,” he said. “Prime-time producers won’t want to hire a troublemaker as a regular for their shows. Remember that.”

  This kept Lakota in check. She desperately wanted to get out of the soaps someday. The sooner the better.

  Lincoln came to stand between Fiona and Sean. “Sorry about this, guys.”

  Sean almost felt sorry for him. He knew how it was when a woman got her dander up. There was no pleasing them. And if you catered to them too much, they took advantage, sometimes even left. Ask his father about that.