by Lisa Plumley
“Of course you can. You deserve it.”
Carol eyed the bottle dubiously. “I can’t pay you back.”
“You’re not supposed to! It’s a gift.”
“No.” Eyes closed, Carol shoved it away. “Thank you.”
Rachel exhaled. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “It’s a freebie. From a goody bag,” she lied. “I got two.”
“Oh.” With a wide grin, Carol opened her eyes. “Hurray!”
“Don’t use it all at once,” Rachel warned with a faux-admonishing finger wag. “I’ve heard it’s irresistible.”
They laughed. After a few minutes of chitchat, Rachel headed for her client’s apartment-size bedroom suite at the end of the expansive hall. She liked Carol—and most of the other employees she met on the job—but business was business.
She lowered her voice. “Alayna?”
No reply. Like Rachel, the pop star typically wasn’t out of bed much before noon. But today, with so much going on for her birthday, Alayna had asked Rachel to be there early—to oversee the work of her hairstylist and makeup artist and to bring alternate evening bags to go with whichever dress (of four) she ultimately chose to wear to her party tonight.
As backup, Rachel had three more gowns on the rack in her car, along with the selection she’d brought for other clients she’d be seeing today. Over the years, she’d learned to expect the unexpected from her biggest client…like not being anywhere near ready at the time they’d agreed to meet today.
“Alayna? We’ve got to get busy—”
Putting on her most no-nonsense expression, Rachel nudged the door open, then entered Alayna’s sitting room. She strode past a profusion of happy-birthday floral arrangements, a sleek settee, and a side table piled with well-thumbed tabloids.
Seeing them, Rachel shook her head. Alayna kept obsessive watch on her appearances in the media—a mistake, in Rachel’s opinion. Stars might live and die by their press, but that was no reason to drive yourself crazy tracking every up, down, and makeup-free, poorly focused, paparazzi horror shot.
“Everyone’s scheduled to be here at ten, so you’d better—”
Alayna was in bed, but she wasn’t asleep.
“—Get a move on.”
And she wasn’t alone either.
Rachel glanced up from her watch, still hugging her armful of evening bags, and was confronted with the sight of a rumpled bed, a tangle of arms and legs, and a set of unmistakably hard-pumping naked male buttocks. During the millisecond that Rachel stood there, Alayna wrapped her lithe, famous arms around her partner and urged him on with both hands clamped on his rear.
“Yes, yes!” she cried in her unmistakably accented voice.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Not again.
Torn, Rachel hesitated. This wasn’t the first occasion she’d stumbled upon Alayna in a private moment, but it was the most time-sensitive. And the most inconvenient. Uncharacteristically indecisive, she glanced at the tableau again, trying to gauge how much longer the twosome might be.
Hmmm. If she stayed much longer, her retinas might be permanently scarred. Also, lingering even this long was a pretty major (if accidental) invasion of privacy. On the other hand, if she bolted, Rachel knew, Alayna might be late for her own birthday party. Failure to prepare a client properly for an important (i.e., photographed) event was grounds for dismissal.
Losing her biggest client would be disastrous.
Making up her mind, Rachel averted her eyes. As quietly as she could, she headed back to the sitting room. She’d put the evening bags there, then zip down to the car for the other gowns she’d brought. By the time she hauled them upstairs, more than likely this ménage à deux would be complete, and she could get on with her day. She still had other clients to see, several shops and designers to visit, a lunch at The Ivy….
Just as she reached the doorway, a huge masculine groan ripped through the air. No. No. Tiptoe faster. Faster!
“Yeah, oh yeah. You like that, don’t you, Pookie?”
Instantly, Rachel froze. She craned her neck around.
She knew that butt! And, she realized all at once, she knew the man who went with it, too. She whirled around. “Tyson?”
Chapter Two
Honestly, she hadn’t meant to blurt it aloud. But there was something about the shock of seeing your own boyfriend in bed with your biggest client that erased all the usual boundaries.
“Rachel!” With a gasp, Alayna wriggled partially sideways. She clawed up several yards of über-thread count Egyptian cotton, making it billow around her and an oblivious Tyson.
“Oh yeah, baby. Rachel, Rachel!” he mimicked in his deep voice, unaware of what had happened. “Whatever does it for you.” He paused and looked down at her. “I always thought the two of you probably had a thing going on the side. That’s hot.”
Alayna smacked him. “No, you idiot. Rachel!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Head back, Tyson kept pumping. “Oh yeah.”
For the first time, Rachel realized exactly how dumb her boyfriend really was. Self-centered, too. Clearly, Alayna was no longer into the main event, but Tyson hadn’t noticed. Suddenly, all those nights that Rachel had lain awake, frustrated beyond belief but thinking it was her fault, made a lot more sense.
She really should have seen this coming. She should have recognized Tyson sooner, too. But in her own defense, she had never actually witnessed him in action from this angle before.
With her gaze wide, Alayna pointed. “Rachel is here.”
She squirmed harder, then tried to shove Tyson sideways.
“Ooh, you’re a wild one, Pookie.” He chuckled, sounding a little breathless. “Why don’t you—” Abruptly, he broke off.
Guided by Alayna’s pointing finger, Tyson glanced over his shoulder. He saw Rachel standing there. His eyes widened.
For a few heartbeats, everything stopped except Tyson. To her horror, Rachel watched as he gave another enormous groan of pleasure—one she recognized—then ground to a halt. A giddy grin slid onto his handsome face. Exhaling, he slumped atop Alayna.
Rachel could not believe it. She’d caught her own boyfriend doing the horizontal mambo with her most important client, and he hadn’t even had the courtesy to skip the grand finale!
Impatiently, Alayna shoved him off her.
Tyson plopped on the pillow beside her, then shook his head. “You two planned this, didn’t you?” he asked hoarsely, glancing between them. He held his thumb aloft. “Awesome.”
Incredulous and unable to move, Rachel stared at Alayna across the length of that deluxe, treacherously outfitted bed. Her mind spun with questions, with decisions that needed to be made right now (because what she did right now would determine her life and career for the foreseeable future), but most of all, she couldn’t help hearing, over and over again…
Pookie. Pookie. Pookie.
That was Tyson’s pet name for her. The name he called her whenever he felt especially affectionate. The name he called her when he stroked her hair and listened to her career problems. The name he used when he promised they were made for each other.
“Rachel.” Alayna spread her arms wide, palms facing. “This didn’t mean a thing. It just happened. We didn’t plan it. We’re so, so sorry. Please, if you’ll just forgive us—”
Nope. Sadly, that wasn’t what the pop star actually said. That was what Rachel, in her distraught and disbelieving state, imagined she would say.
In reality, Alayna merely slid out of bed—naked, perfect, and utterly confident—then sauntered to the adjoining bathroom. She swished with some mouthwash, peed, then emerged.
“I’m so glad this is finally out in the open.” With a yawn and a languorous movement, Alayna tied a silk robe around her waist. “This was inevitable, you know, Rach. Both of us living next door to each other. Tyson dropping by to visit…”
Incredulously, Rachel glanced at her boyfriend.
Her former boyfriend. He’d been dropping by to visit?
For an instant, watching them cuddle (and nearly get caught up in a kiss), all Rachel could feel was hurt. The long-suppressed, non-Hollywood, Midwestern girl inside her couldn’t help it. Why, why? she wailed. Why were they being so mean?
Thankfully, she got a grip on herself. “What about me?”
“I’ve already thought about that.” Alayna glanced up, a red carpet-worthy smile on her face. “I’ve got the perfect idea.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.” Ooh, sarcasm now, too. That was better. More like herself. Rachel crossed her arms, waiting.
“Can you outfit Tyson with something for the party, too?”
Rachel frowned. She had to be hearing things.
But they both stared at her expectantly. Seriously.
“You want me to style Tyson?”
Alayna nodded. “Absolutely. Something to match me.”
Briefly, Rachel entertained the idea of beating them both silly with her armload of evening bags. One was a Judith Leiber crystal-embedded clutch. It would probably make a dent in their stupid selfish heads. But she was a professional, she reminded herself. She could handle this.
Besides, she didn’t have time for a personal life anyway, Rachel decided as her cell phone rang again. She was always too busy. And she’d been styling Alayna’s steady dates for years. There was no other way to maintain a cohesive image. She didn’t want Alayna to go all Britney and K-Fed on her, did she?
“All right.” Rachel faced them both, hoping to make it clear by her tone and her demeanor that she wasn’t heartbroken by this. She refused to be. Besides, now this was business. “But you’re paying the same rate as any other client.”
Tyson gawked at her. “I don’t want you to dress me!”
Alayna shushed him. “Of course you do, Pookie.”
Ugh. There it was again. Rachel nearly lost her resolve.
“I want you to break up with me.” Naked from the waist up, Tyson roused himself enough to sit up against the headboard. “Do you know how long I’ve been coming over here?”
“Shhh, Pookie. Let’s not rub it in, okay?”
“Three months! And you never even noticed. Because all you ever do is work. You don’t have time for real life. You don’t have time for me!” Looking disgusted, he scanned her up and down, his gaze resting on her evening bags. “You’re pathetic.”
Rachel couldn’t help but flinch. To her amazement though, she managed to hold her ground. She lifted her chin.
Then she raised her brow. “You’ll be sorry,” she said.
From the bed, Alayna and Tyson stared at her—probably envisioning her creating some kind of horrible, scandalous scene. Dimly, Rachel registered the hubbub still going on downstairs as the party planning, decorating, and cleaning crews labored to create the birthday of Alayna’s dreams.
Rachel could create a scene if she wanted to—a scene that would filter into all the tabloids and press and expose Alayna for the man-stealing traitor she really was. It wouldn’t be difficult. There were always spies among the service staff.
But all at once, Rachel had a better idea.
A more delicious, more public, more vengeful idea.
“Because I’m the best stylist in the business,” she informed them both blithely. “I could make you look fabulous, Tyson. But…whatever. You can stick with your prefab, cookie-cutter, discount Abercrombie & Fitch style if you want to.”
Alayna gasped. “You told me that was vintage Ralph Lauren!”
Caught, Tyson shrugged.
“In the meantime, Alayna, I’ve got some fantastic new dress options for you.” Mentally, Rachel inventoried the selection in her car. None of those would do. Not for this special occasion. “I’ll be back this afternoon to show you all five of them.”
“Oh goody!” Alayna clapped. “I can’t wait!”
Rachel only smiled. She’d just bet she couldn’t….
Chapter Three
By the time he found himself sidestepping his dad’s dirty socks and underwear on the way to the coffeemaker in the morning, Reno Wright had had enough. There was only so much a grown man could be expected to take—and realizing that his own father had begun living like a teenager was the last straw.
Freshly showered and barefoot, dressed in a pair of low-slung jeans and his usual T-shirt, Reno dragged on a flannel shirt as he stared at his slumbering, pajama-clad father.
The sofa was too small for such a big man. Sleeping while clutching its cushions for dear life—even in his dreams—made Tom Wright seem unusually vulnerable somehow.
But “beggars can’t be choosers,” as his dad had said with a chuckle when he’d arrived on Reno’s snowy doorstep a week and a half ago. And sons couldn’t be the ones to refuse a safe winter harbor to their fathers. All of which explained why Reno had allowed his dad to crash on his sofa in the first place.
He glanced around, assessing the damage wrought by that decision with the same speed and certainty he’d once used to evaluate field conditions, wind speed, and potential kick rush as a kicker in the NFL. What he saw didn’t encourage him.
Among the holiday decorations and the space Reno had cleared for a Christmas tree, reading material littered the living room. Not his dad’s usual fare—the Kismet Comet newspaper or even the Sunday Free Press—but a collection of Men’s Health and soft-core girlie magazines. The kind that didn’t boast about their centerfolds, but featured half-naked B-list starlets on the covers instead (this month wearing saucy Santa outfits), cavorting provocatively amid stories about imported beer, fast cars, and the latest video games. And speaking of video games…
Reno nudged aside football and flight simulator games, plus a system controller, shaking his head. His technophobic dad could barely manage Reno’s complex A/V setup with its hoard of remotes and multitude of inputs and outputs connected to a big-screen HDTV. But his dad was immeasurably pleased with himself for getting high scores on the games he played. Reno didn’t have the heart to tell his old man those games were over a decade old, brought out of storage for nostalgia’s—and his dad’s—sake.
“See? Finally played a few of these damn things with you,” his dad had said with a knee slap and a grin. “I’m pretty good!”
Only in his dreams. But Reno wasn’t going to be the one to say it. Especially not now that they were inadvertent roomies. The two of them had been living the bachelor life together ever since the day after Thanksgiving—that fateful day—and Reno was starting to believe he might be letting his dad have too much fun.
With a quick lean sideways, Reno scooped up a pair of grimy socks from his coffee table. He flung them at his dad’s head.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” He waggled the big toe of the foot his dad had stuck out of the covers—in direct defiance of the freezing Michigan winter weather outside. “Time to get up.”
A moan. A grumble. A thunderous rollover on the sofa.
“Just ten more minutes,” his dad muttered. Snore.
“You’ve got things to do. People to see.”
“I’m retired. Buzz off.”
Reno shook his head. Maybe his dad had developed amnesia about their lifetime together, but he hadn’t. He still remembered the obnoxious ways his dad had woke him up years ago.
“Up and at ’em!” He clapped a few times. “Shower first.”
“You’re so damn bossy, Reno. Shut the hell up.”
“Let’s go. Chop-chop. Time’s a wasting.”
Reno grabbed the covers and yanked them off in a whoosh.
Oh man. Mistake. When the hell had his dad grown that much back hair? You could reupholster a water buffalo with all that.
Making a face, Reno dropped the covers. He clapped his hands, made a few more “go get ’em” comments, then bolted for his coffeemaker. The sooner he got to work today, the better.
“Hey, I just thought you might like to get away for a while, Reno.” The rep, Derek Detweiler, stamped snow from his boots. He shivered as he held the football tickets aloft in his gloved hand. “Catch a game, enjoy some sunshine—you know, get away from all this awful wintery weather.”
“I like winter weather.” Reno switched on the sound system, sending Christmas carols wafting through the store’s chilly air.
“Beaches, sunshine, girls in bikinis—”
“You’re wasting your breath.” Reno crossed the store’s equipment-packed floor, automatically adjusting price signs. He stopped at a bin of baseball bats and deftly sorted through them, then moved on to a display of hockey sticks. “I’m not going to Florida, and I’m not franchising my store.”
“Come on, Reno.” Derek spread his arms in a jovial gesture. “Who said this has anything to do with franchising your store? Sure, you’ve got a great concept here. It’s a big success. But it’s a big fish in a little pond here in Kismet. I don’t have to tell you, if you spread around the love a little more—”
Involuntarily, Reno shuddered. Derek made selling out sound like a hippie VD swap. He shouldered past the man, then went to the cash register. His part-time sales clerk had posted a sign warning not to take checks from Ernie Wexler. Frowning, Reno tore down the sign. It was Christmas, for Christ’s sake.
“You’ll be a shark in the ocean, Reno. A shark. They don’t even stop swimming to sleep, you know. Don’t you want that?”
“Sounds like hell with hot sauce to me.”
Relentlessly, Derek pursued him all the way to the packed storeroom, his ninety-nine-cent smile fixed firmly in place. “If you’re playing hardball to drive up the franchise price, it won’t work, Reno. I’m prepared to offer you a generous deal. A very generous deal. I’ve got to be honest with you about that.”
