by Lori Foster
They wouldn’t stay long anyway.
But he did recognize people he’d worked with in the past: powerful corporation owners, directors, celebrities. Wouldn’t hurt to network and introduce Lakota to them.
He escorted her around the room for about an hour, all the while wondering if Fiona would show, finding it hard to keep his mind on business.
When he did see her, the room became a much more interesting place.
Decked out in a red dress, its sheer panels floating behind her like the fire of a flamenco dance, Fiona wore her hair down. It fell past her shoulders, a shimmer of waterfall softness. As always, her lips were painted with red.
His red.
Lakota was engaged in an intense conversation with an independent moviemaker, one of those cutting-edge kids who’d applied for about twenty credit cards to finance his first movie.
Lakota saw where his eyes were glued and nudged him. “Go get her,” she said over the music.
His first instinct was to act like Fiona didn’t matter, but he was beyond that now. Beyond pretending.
He winked at Lakota, making a mental note to keep an eye on her, even though she’d taken command of every introduction he’d initiated. Then, heart in his throat, Sean inserted himself in the circle of men Fiona had gathered just by entering the room.
Even though she had a smile for every guy there, she lingered on him, lowering her chin, watching him with more seductive promise.
“Mac? You know everyone here?”
He didn’t give a shit. Instead of answering, he jerked his chin to a deserted corner, hoping she’d follow.
Fiona took her time doing it, too, finally extricating herself from the gossip and accompanying Sean to his chosen location.
“You arranged this,” he said, grabbing two glasses of champagne as a waiter passed.
She accepted one. “Thought you could use some help in the office. In Julian, you sounded rather concerned about your place on the nine-to-five totem pole.”
Is that all she’d gotten out of their stay in Julian? His concern about work?
What about that kiss?
“Thanks for the professional courtesy,” he said, stepping closer, catching the scent of jasmine mingling with the summer humidity. “You’re wearing the perfume.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. After that memo you sent me…”
“Oh.” She laughed, dark eyes gleaming. “I wasn’t in the office to thank you.”
“So that’s why it came off the way it did. Like you have no idea what this has turned into.”
Fiona innocently considered him. “Isn’t that how it is with us? No tangled emotions to make sex messy?”
The reminder sat like lead in his belly. “You know better by now.”
“So, the gift wasn’t just another chess move in our competition?” Fiona tweaked his lapel, still teasing him. “You’ve got no ulterior motives?”
He swallowed, reached out to touch her face. “None.”
Her jauntiness disappeared, and she pulled back, lips parted slightly. “Because I feel somewhat claimed.”
Rage and panic crashed together in his chest, exploding. His hand dropped to his side. “Stop this, Fi. Stop pretending you haven’t felt anything.”
“I told you. I’m not that type of girl.”
Was there a note of sadness in her tone?
She glanced toward the party, swishing the champagne around in her glass, smiling at the crowd. “I never will be that kind of girl.”
A vein in her throat fluttered, and he knew she was lying.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he said.
“Sure, I want you. That’s been very clear from day one.” She sipped, paused. “If you’re looking for someone to share in the fantasy you’ve developed about that SUV you said you’d never want, search out of town.”
“Somewhere like Corncob, Iowa?”
That got her. “I’ll never be her again.”
“Why?”
She hefted out a breath, seemingly exasperated. “Sex is all I do. Remember? I have one full day to go until I win our bet, and I can prove I’m not possessive. Or territorial.”
“Your eyes have told me something else. Ever since that first night.”
“Can you be sure?”
Silence filled his lungs. No, he couldn’t.
Fiona shook her head, giving him a pitying look. Then she grabbed his hand, tugging him away, out of the party. He glanced toward Lakota, who was touching her throat and laughing with yet another guy. Conrad Dohenny, the box-office hunk of the moment.
She’d do fine.
He followed Fiona as she took him uphill, to another cottage. One with dim lights shining in the window.
“What do you have planned?” he asked, suddenly wary.
“You say that as if you’re ready to give up the bet.”
Damned wager. He was sorry they’d ever started it.
“Fiona.” As she unlocked the door, he held her back, trying to draw her into his arms, to stop this before she ruined every idiot hope he’d discovered within himself.
“We don’t need to do this,” he said, searching her face for any sign of vulnerability.
But there wasn’t much light around, and the darkness allowed her to hide.
“Wait here.” She slipped inside, came out a moment later.
Silk flitted over his hand, and he retracted it.
His pulse started kicking.
Fiona placed her finger on his lips, quieting any response. Then she slid the blindfold over his eyes, taking away the benefit of his sight.
He could only smell her. Hear her.
Touch her.
“Come on,” she said, the pull of her voice luring him.
Right into the cottage.
WHAT SHE WAS DOING would cost dearly. But he was getting to her. Taking her over.
Stop pretending you haven’t felt anything, he’d said.
Oh, but she had, and it scared her to the point of desperation. She couldn’t deal with feelings, with being torn apart by betrayal again.
When Ted had dumped her, she’d told herself, told everyone, that it was no big deal. But once, three months after he and Crissy had gotten married, she’d seen them at a restaurant, and her appetite had disappeared for days.
She’d literally felt broken, her limbs heavy and ready to fall off. Felt like her ribs were cracking under the weight of her mortification.
What was so wrong with her that Ted had married someone else?
And why had he fallen in love with Crissy, who’d somehow wormed her way into Fiona’s good graces for a short time?
See, that’s why Fiona didn’t make girlfriends. Even with females, it all boiled down to a battle—who would win, who would lose.
Most relationships were like that, unless you could find someone exceptional like Linc, who was so nonthreatening and sweet it didn’t factor into the equation.
But Mac posed a different problem. Theirs was a contest of wills. Of who could contain the heat and come out on top.
So he’d called her on a tender moment. That didn’t mean she wanted him body and soul. Did it?
She guided Mac into the cottage, his blindfold allowing her to soften, to stop hiding. As she watched the candlelight swallow him, she melted, losing her proper shape.
His tall body cast a shadow over her, and the trembling started again, deep in her gut, stealing her sense of self.
She let go of him and closed the door, led him to sit in a wide velvet chair. Then she adjusted the blindfold, making certain it was secure. Warped silhouettes danced on the walls from the flames, illuminating the matching ottoman, the canopied bed.
The woman she’d paid to prove her point to Mac.
She was wearing a dress like Fiona’s, a garment with much more material than her usual job required. Fiona had met her in a strip bar when one of her “dates” had taken her there, intending to turn her on, she supposed. Oddly enough, she a
nd Brigette—the woman’s stage name—had hit it off, had experienced a grand old time with Fiona buying her date lap dance after lap dance from her new acquaintance.
Over time, Fiona had brought more men to the bar, fascinated by how they could lose all strength at the sight of a topless woman.
Feeling sorry for them, too.
So when she found out Terry Oatman’s producer was throwing a party, Fiona had invited Brigette, knowing that these crazy get-togethers included all kinds.
Brigette was here to make sure Mac would learn, once and for all, that Fiona wasn’t getting emotionally involved.
It needed to be done.
Fiona gestured Brigette forward. The blonde knew to keep her silence. She was wearing Fiona’s perfume, as well, just to prove the point.
“You sit right there, Mac,” Fiona said, her tone as lazy as a candle’s dance. She stroked his temple, allowing herself the freedom of feeling, just this once, while he was blinded. Her head tilted, and she bathed him with a gaze that took in his rumpled hair, strong chin, arms that had held her that night on a bed of pure kisses.
“Is this what you really want?” he asked.
The question tore at her conscience, shredded all the lessons she’d learned up until this moment.
No feeling. No pain.
She moved forward, blocking out the slight injury of his words. “Evidently,” she said, scratching her fingertips lightly against his emerging arousal, “this is what you want. And that’s what’s important.”
Before he could answer, she placed her hand over his mouth, her middle finger sinking between his lips, lost in a wet kiss.
Why did he have to be so…so Mac? Regretfully, she took back her hand, nabbed the velvet ties sitting on a nearby table.
“Remember,” she said, “it’s just sex.” With care, she trussed up his hands, running her fingers over his knuckles once she’d secured him.
“I want you to tell me that afterward, Fi.” He smiled, almost knocking Fiona over with the power of it. One glance at Brigette told her that Fiona wasn’t the only victim. The woman fanned herself like Scarlett O’Hara on a sweltering southern day, then rolled her eyes.
“You know the part where I’m supposed to look in your eyes and find nothing?” He let out a low, gravelly laugh. “You’ll see.”
But he wouldn’t. Not with the blindfold.
Fiona moved away, beckoning Brigette toward him, going to the stereo in order to turn on some lazy music that would drown out the throb of the bigger party downhill.
“Regrets,” by the Eurythmics. The tune slithered into the speakers, the pulsating synthesizers contrasting with the chugging beat and the buttery smoothness of Annie Lennox’s vocals.
Quietly, so she wouldn’t give away her location across the small room, Fiona spread her hands over her face, blew out the trembling breath she’d been holding.
Brigette gave her a shall-I-go-for-it? glance, and Fiona eked out a nod, muscles fighting the approval.
The stripper started by gyrating to the electronic drums, getting into the groove of her job. Then, she bent to her knees, slid her hands over Mac’s lower thighs.
Oh, no. Fiona’s eyes automatically shut, but she forced them open again. This wasn’t supposed to be bothering her.
Mac had unclasped his hands, spreading them out in front of his chest. His nostrils flared, and Fiona knew he was relying on his remaining senses to connect with her.
Did Brigette’s skin react with the perfume the way Fiona’s did? Did he want the dancer as much as he said he wanted Fiona?
As the woman sketched her chest up his shins, parting his legs, Mac leaned back his head.
His reaction knifed at her, screwing, bladelike, into her belly.
But his jaw was shut tightly, his fingers still spread as if warding off the sexual advance. Her pulse gave a tiny jump, a spark escaping from a fire.
“I want to see you,” he ground out.
Brigette backed off for a minute, seeking Fiona’s tacit advice. It was a moment of sweet relief.
Fiona took a step forward without thinking, stopped herself. Was this Mac’s way of manipulating the bet again? If she showed weakness here, revealing herself, she’d lose. Everything.
She couldn’t give in. Not after she’d promised to never hurt again. Not after the way she’d suffered before.
Fighting the urge to give up, Fiona motioned for Brigette to continue.
The dancer paused, glancing at Fiona with concern. She was losing it, wasn’t she?
Go, Fiona motioned, and with one last gaze, Brigette turned around and coasted over Mac’s lap, rubbing her workout-tight butt over his thighs, pressing into him, back, nearer his groin.
Fiona paced toward them, fidgeting with her hands. Brigette winked at her; she’d been instructed on how far to go. They weren’t friends, but the woman was a professional, knowing her tip would be higher if she obeyed instructions.
As Brigette gyrated, Mac strained, cursed, rested his forehead and hands against the dancer’s spine. And Fiona knew the exact moment he realized the body wasn’t hers.
He straightened, and his mouth went as tight as barbed wire.
“Go, Fiona,” he said, strangled.
His anger almost brought her to her knees, slumped with relief. Thank God the dance was over.
He didn’t want the other woman, did he?
So when was the buzz of power and victory going to screech through her? Shouldn’t it have happened by now?
It only took her three strides to cross the room. Gathering herself, Fiona daintily helped Brigette off Mac’s lap. The other woman stood to the side, waiting.
“Territorial?” Fiona asked with a hint of trembling flirtatiousness, untying his wrists.
She coaxed the blindfold from his gaze, tried to smile at him. “Possessive?”
His pupils contracted, adjusting to the dim light, closing in on themselves until she thought he’d leave her altogether.
He sat rigidly, almost threatening in his growing rage. “What’s this about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Fiona stood next to Brigette. The blonde rested a hand on Fiona’s shoulder, then ran the inside of her calf over the outside of Mac’s leg.
She’d wanted to see how he’d react to the invitation, no matter how remote the possibility of it happening.
Red began to creep up Mac’s throat, his face. The color marked him.
Fiona lifted an eyebrow, fighting for composure. He didn’t want the other woman.
Adrenaline, cold and insistent, built in her. Run.
Mac shook his head, glared at the carpet. Then, to Brigette, he said, “Will you excuse us?”
“You sure?” she asked, doing her job very thoroughly.
With subtle precision, Fiona lightly pushed Brigette toward the door.
“All right, all right,” the woman said. “Tough crowd.”
Fiona wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t sink into the disappointment in his eyes.
She was this close to winning. Wasn’t that what she wanted?
Fiona went to where her purse lay in the corner, and she paid Brigette, who efficiently left them alone as Fiona turned off the stereo.
Keeping her back to Mac, she glued herself together. Returning to her old flippant self.
When she turned around, Mac was on his feet. If she’d expected that gunslinger stance, she was in for a rude awakening. In lieu of an intimidating glare, he wore disappointment.
It was worse than taking a bullet.
“You’re a piece of work,” he said, voice dry. “You really aren’t going to change.”
For years she’d trained herself to survive. To avoid caring. And, see, she’d let him down. But better to have the inevitable goodbye now rather than later, when it would hurt even more.
“I never promised more than a good time,” she said. “I don’t turn into a quivering puddle of emotion just because of a bottle of perfume.”
“Or a kiss,”
he said.
The music from the big party knocked around the room, and a sob worked its way through her chest, decimating everything in its path. Still, Fiona held on, controlling the damage. After all, that’s what someone in her line of work did best.
Finally, he spoke, his words as heavy as rocks being pushed up a mountain.
“I’m sorry for you, Fi. I’m sorry for the both of us.”
He watched her, the area around his eyes bruised, even though the rest of his tough skin didn’t show it.
Then he walked out the door. She started to go after him, but couldn’t manage more than a step.
“Sean?” she said, voice caught in her throat.
But he was gone.
Hadn’t she known all along that, in the end, he’d walk away from her?
Because she always managed to make sure of it.
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN LINCOLN PHONED Lakota, telling her he had great news, he didn’t expect to find her celebrating with the summer’s biggest action star at The Cool Cat Lounge.
He didn’t expect to find Conrad Dohenny’s arm around her while they leaned against the glowing blue bar in the midnight-dark room. Didn’t expect the flare of crimson jealousy that shrouded his gaze as he watched them: Conrad with his grunge-glamour, shoulder-length brown hair, his lanky frame pressing nearer and nearer to Lincoln’s girlfriend.
Knocked for a loop, he could only stand among the throng of pretty people and watch, stunned.
He wanted to wring the guy’s neck, no matter where Dohenny ranked on the Young Hollywood power lists.
Linc took out his cell phone, dialed Lakota’s number. Obviously a little tipsy, she glanced around, tossed up her hands in goofy realization, then accessed the call.
“H’lo,” she yelled over the lounge noise.
A cigarette girl swayed by him in time to the Rat Pack-era music, winking. Even though she was your basic L.A. beauty, her gesture didn’t affect Linc. “Kota, what’re you up to?”
Laughter. Linc could see Dohenny trying to get the phone away from her.
His confidence slipped. He’d trusted her, not only day to day when they did their scenes together, but with his heart. Had he been wrong to do that?
She used her arm to keep Dohenny at a distance, and Linc’s spirits lifted.
