Kiss & Makeup

by Alison Kent

  Trade secrets. Insider news. He’d always kept what he knew to himself, not wanting to jinx a project. But this time he felt the urge to get her feedback and input.

  “Between you and me?” he asked and waited for her to answer.

  She looked over, a strangely guarded look in her eyes. “Of course. As much as I talk? I do know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  That was good enough for him. “I’m hoping to convince the band to move to my label. Or at least talk Connie into recording his solo effort for me.”

  “Wow. That would be some coup.”

  It would be. One that would go a long way to sending his bottom line from red into black. “A way to get my name out there.”

  “I’m pretty sure your name is already out there.”

  “In the background, sure. And with the studios where I’ve produced most of my work.” He took a deep breath. “This is different.”

  “It’ll be great,” she said, leaning against him as if knowing how much the contact pleased him. How much her approval meant.

  “Speaking of plans…” He shifted his upper body, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “What are you doing with your name to get a buzz going?”

  She sighed, deflated, beside him. “Right now nothing. I know, I know. I’m not being aggressive enough. But here’s the thing,” she added, gesturing with one hand before he could interrupt. “I have to support myself, which means I can’t do an internship until I’m finished with school. I don’t have time and I’m allergic to living in cardboard boxes.”

  The tangents she took tickled him every time. “Cardboard boxes?”

  She nodded fiercely. “If I don’t work extra shifts once I move in with Evan and April, that’s where I’ll be living. In a box. Down by the river.”

  “So what’s up with the moving thing?”

  “It’s going to happen, I guess.” She shrugged. “Unless the kids get married.”

  The kids. Funny. Uh, wait a minute. “Married? What’re you talking about?”

  “It’s complicated,” she hedged, looking back toward the screen.

  He reached for the wireless remote she’d left in the seat of her chair and lowered Connie’s volume. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  “The reason I’m the one living with Evan is because his grandmother doesn’t believe unwed couples have any business cohabiting. Since my relationship with him is platonic, I pass muster. Though barely.”

  “So they’re going to get married in order to have her approval to live there?” He might be a cynical bastard but he knew that didn’t make sense.

  “That’s what I asked April.”

  “And?”

  “She said if they got married it would be because they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. Because they were in love.”

  “The freebie living arrangements have nothing to do with it?” he asked.

  Shandi shook her head, wisps of blond hair flying. She pushed them back. “April says the marriage is inevitable. Why give up the good apartment if moving up the date helps them keep it?”

  “I’m surprised she wouldn’t be holding out for a big, fancy wedding.” He supposed he was being judgmental, but hey. “She seems the type.”

  “She is the type. Which is why hearing her say it didn’t matter pretty much floored me. Especially because it’s not just the fancy wedding.”

  “How so?”

  “She’ll be giving up a cushy lifestyle to be with Evan. I’m shocked that she has it in her. But really proud, you know?” Quentin heard Shandi’s smile in her voice. “She’s been doing a lot of growing up lately. That can’t be a bad thing. Even if I end up on the street.”

  “I won’t let you end up on the street.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved one hand. “So you keep saying.”

  He glanced down. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” she asked, scowling.

  “Are you the big, fancy wedding type?”

  “Are you kidding?” She snorted. “I doubt I’m even the marrying type.”

  “Married to your career and all that?”

  This time she was the one to look up and over. “Isn’t that what you’ve done?”

  He shrugged, not exactly comfortable with where she’d taken the conversation. “I think of her more as a mistress than a wife.”

  “Oh, I see. All the fun without being dragged down by the baggage?”

  “No. It’s just that until now it wouldn’t have been fair to foist my lifestyle on a woman.” It wouldn’t have been too fair to himself either. Missing the intimacy that came with the commitment.

  “What about the future? Once you get set up in your studio?” Her voice softened, dropped to a whisper. “Do you think you’ll get married?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty set in my ways. I don’t know if anyone will have me.” Or if I’ll find anyone I want, he kept himself from saying.

  He couldn’t say it when he knew that, given the chance, he was ready to see where he could take things with Shandi. All he needed was a hint from her that she was willing to take the same leap.

  “Give yourself a few months in Austin to shed your cynicism.” She reached down, patted his knee. “I bet you’ll be surprised at what you see once you’re looking forward instead of running away.”

  “Are you always this damn deep?”

  “I’m a bartender. It comes with the job.”

  12

  Shandi—Pay the tab you signed the other night or have it deducted from your check. Let payroll know by Monday morning. Oh, I’m taking you up on that offer and taking off Tuesday night. If you think you’ll need help, have HR call in a temp. Armand

  “YOU KNOW, IF I’M NOT careful with these hours I’m keeping I’m going to lose my job and flunk out of school when I’ve only got two semesters to go. If that happens, I won’t be able to afford the rent on even a cardboard box. Then where will I be—broke and uneducated and homeless and unemployed?”

  Not that Shandi cared. Okay, she cared. And she had worked until midnight, only taking off the last two hours of her shift.

  The crowd in Erotique had been smaller than usual for a Saturday night. Not surprising at all since a new piece of sensual performance art was premiering in Exhibit A, and the show came complete with complimentary champagne and Chef’s famous hors d’oeuvres.

  Shandi had also left a message on payroll’s voice mail before clocking out. Now to wring the tab money out of Evan to cover the deduction in her check. Or else he could buy all of next week’s groceries.

  Armand had given her his blessing to leave since, after seeing his note posted on the board in the bar’s back room, she’d agreed to cover him Tuesday, her usual night off. And it was the weekend, so she didn’t have class tomorrow.

  There. The analysis made her feel a bit better.

  Still, having Quentin take her out on the town was worth whatever she had to pay, because the night they’d just spent out was one no man she’d ever dated would have thought to put together, much less been able to afford or organize without pulling a lot of strings.

  She wanted to hate that Quentin had pulled strings, but she couldn’t. It had been a dream date—the man, the dinner, the dancing. The carriage ride. All of it into the wee hours of Sunday morning. He’d made special arrangements. Used his clout, promised favors.

  And he’d done it for her, to be with her.

  She hooked her arm through his as they walked back to the hotel, her feet aching in her heels when she was used to the practical leather lace-ups she wore when tending bar. She didn’t care about that either.

  All she cared about was keeping the fantasy night from ending. Unfortunately it was doing that way too soon.

  “Where you would be,” Quentin said, getting back to her rhetorical question, “is in a better place to take me up on my offer and come with me to Austin.”

  Sigh and double sigh. She didn’t want to get into this tonight. She wanted tonight to be pure girlie-gir
l, castle-in-the-sky, Cinderella time. Dealing with real life could wait for the sun. “You mean your offer that makes no sense since I still won’t have my degree or money to live on?”

  He glanced over and down. “I have money. And trust me, with the studio contacts I can make? You won’t need your degree.”

  “Quentin Marks.” She jerked her arm from his, lurched to a stop and thrust her hands to her hips. “What in the world is wrong with you?”

  “What?” He turned toward her where she’d stopped a half block from the hotel’s entrance. “I’m not allowed to call in markers on behalf of a friend?”

  “No,” she said, wondering why, after her haranguing of the past week, he still didn’t get it. “Because then I’d be indebted to you, and I’m really trying to do this career thing on my own.”

  He mirrored her stance, hung his head. “Can we forget about this career thing for tonight?

  “I don’t know, can we?” She crossed her arms, knowing she needed to drop it or risk ruining what of the fantasy night remained. “It seems like it’s taken on a life of it’s own.”

  “My fault. I wasn’t thinking.” At her glare, he came closer and acquiesced. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just hard for me to get my head around the fact that I’m going to have to give you up.”

  “I know.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, shivering as she absorbed his words.

  “I don’t think you do, Shandi. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He looked toward the street, looked back after finding his words. “And with all the pull I have professionally, I can’t do a damn thing to find a way for us to be together.”

  “We’re together now,” she offered softly, certain that very soon her heart was going to break. How could what had been a night of unbelievable delight quickly turn so glum?

  He stared at her, the wind whipping strands of his hair that had escaped from his leather band, his eyes filled with confusion and longing. “Are you coming in with me or am I taking you home?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  Oh, but it was going to hurt to say what she had to say when he was standing so close and she wanted so much to step into his arms. “On whether or not you can let everything go and enjoy what we have left.”

  “You mean the whole forty-eight hours?” he asked, his tone impatient.

  She gathered the blowing ends of her wrap tighter, wondering whether the ache in her chest was disappointment or anger or love. “I think I’ll just grab a taxi.”

  “No.” He reached out, took hold of her hand. “I don’t want to fight, Shandi. Not unless it means we can kiss and make up.”

  She felt the warmth of his fingers, the intent in his hold. He wanted her, needed her. And wasn’t that all she was asking for? She squeezed back before moving into his embrace. “I suppose we can stay here. I hear the rooms are nice.”

  He heaved a huge sigh of relief. “The rooms are beyond nice.”

  “I don’t think I ever got to see all of yours.”

  “I’ll be glad to give you a personal tour.”

  “Okay,” she said, taking a breath to settle her nerves and her hands that wouldn’t stop shaking as they crossed the lobby and headed for the elevators. It didn’t work as well as she’d hoped.

  Star Wars couldn’t hold a candle to her raging internal battle.

  Should she stay the course or take Quentin up on his offer for a free ride?

  What kind of choice was that? In the end, his contacts would be invaluable. No one made it in this industry without connections. It was a given of the lifestyle she’d chosen as her own. She knew all that.

  But for two years now she’d stood her ground. She’d worked her ass off temping until landing the Erotique job. She spent five mornings a week in class. She scrimped and scratched and clawed to make ends meet.

  So why was the idea of letting the man she was coming to love provide for her, help her realize her dream, giving her such holy hell?

  Wasn’t that what a relationship was based on? Give and take and support that came in every color—emotional, mental, financial, spiritual?

  She could buy all of that if this were truly a relationship. And that was the rub. The fact that it wasn’t. It was a fling. A fabulous fling, yes.

  But Quentin would be gone in another forty-eight hours. And nowhere in his invitation to come along had he mentioned his feelings for her.

  Okay, he’d said he didn’t want to give up what they had without exploring where they might take it.

  That was close enough, wasn’t it? After all, she hadn’t admitted her growing feelings to him.

  Did that mean it was simply her pride in the way? That she was so determined to prove her family wrong that she was jeopardizing her own best chance for success?

  Dear Lord, she was so confused.

  The elevator door opened onto the sixteenth floor and, as they had their first night together, they made their way to his room. Only this time they weren’t laughing and adjusting their clothing as they hurried down the hallway.

  This time they walked silently side by side. This time they had a history. What happened between them tonight wouldn’t be about discovering each other and reveling in the excitement of that first time.

  Tonight would be about appreciating the treasures they’d uncovered. About wondering where they were going to go once the night came to an end.

  Even knowing she would spend the day with him—along with her friends, working on her project—didn’t ease the sadness and loss weighing her down.

  She leaned against the wall next to the door and let Quentin walk past her into the room. He turned back when he realized she hadn’t followed, questioning her with no more than a hint of a smile.

  She sighed, kicked off her shoes and made her way toward him, leaning into his chest. It took him no time to respond. He held her close, rocked her side to side.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  She felt the warmth of his breath, smelled the brandy-laced coffee they’d shared before returning to the hotel. “I’ll be fine. Just allow me a melancholy moment.”

  “Not sure I want to do that.” He stroked her back and she shivered. “Melancholy isn’t the mood I was hoping for here.”

  She cuddled closer, enjoyed it when he tightened his hold. “What mood were you going for? Uh, besides the obvious?”

  “I was going to bring you the moon and the stars.”

  “Really?” She stepped back, looked up into his eyes. “How so?”

  He arched a brow, the room’s low light casting his face into shadows. “You’ll be okay here for a minute? You won’t fall apart on me or anything?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He nodded, too. And then, holding her by the shoulders, he dropped a kiss on her forehead before leaving her to cross the room to the French doors that opened onto his balcony.

  They’d been so lucky to have a beautifully flawless sky all night; she’d told him during the carriage ride how much she wished they could stay out until morning.

  He hadn’t been quite as captivated, his interest being less on the blanket of indigo above and more on the one he’d told her covered his king-size bed.

  She watched now as he pulled the plush covering of deep reds and purples, blues and golds from the bed and spread it on the floor. He added the throw pillows, as well as the decorative bolsters that gave the room the decadent feel of a sultan’s palace.

  Playing the part of his harem girl was not going to take any acting skills at all—even if he was the one setting the stage for seduction, sliding the suite’s low coffee table closer to the door and opening the lid of the carved and gilt-edged box that sat on top.

  Inside were vials of scented oil, one of the room’s many sensual amenities—as opposed to the more overtly sexual ones in the matching box he brought over from the glass-fronted armoire. She knew the box was locked, just as she knew what she would see inside once it was opened.


  If it was opened.

  He leaned down, placed the key on top, then stood slowly, capturing her gaze, telling her without words that he was giving her that power, leaving the decision on whether or not to unlock it, to use and enjoy what was inside, up to her.

  And so before he had a chance to say anything, she dropped her wrap, walked across the room to where he was waiting and did just that. Turned the key on the toy box and opened the lid.

  She didn’t look inside. Neither did Quentin.

  But his eyes flared, and his chest begin to rise and fall rapidly. And it didn’t surprise her a bit when he swore under his breath, seeking control, and headed back to the room’s wet bar for two tumblers and the brandy decanter.

  He poured himself a drink, continuing to mutter to himself, then tossed it back. He swallowed, hissed, waited for the burn to subside.

  “Better now?” she asked.

  “No.” He returned to the armoire and turned on the stereo system already set to play some mood-setting sexy jazz tracks. “I wish I knew what the hell it is that you do to me so I could stop it.”

  Her fingers went to the row of buttons beneath the deep-cut neck of her sleeveless black dress. “Is that what you want to do? Stop it?”

  Speechless, he shook his head and stared. The more buttons she released, the more skin she revealed, until she reached the last one at her bikini line.

  She started to shrug off the garment.

  He stopped her, reached for her, peeled the rayon down her arms, baring her breasts, her belly, her mesh thong.

  This time his hiss was long and low, his heated gaze devouring.

  “I’ll take that as a no?” she asked, stepping out of the pool of her dress onto the sultan’s bed, the moonlight shining into the dark room and onto the bright strands woven into the blanket’s fabric.

  “A big fat one,” he said, his hands going to work on his own shirt buttons, his shoes, his socks, the fly of his trousers, until he stood before her in nothing but his wonderfully revealing boxer briefs.