by Beth Ciotta
Zing. Zap.
Electrified lust shocked my deprived body. His hat had flown off, revealing a head of thick, silver waves. Distinguished came to mind, followed by sexy. Granted, I’d always had a thing for older men, but not this old. Then there was the matter of those Truman Capote shades, his snobby attire and Pillsbury Doughboy gut. This man was so far from my fantasy ideal we may as well have been on opposite poles. Regardless, I couldn’t deny a magnetic attraction. It had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with high-octane testosterone. The heat kindling between my legs could peel the paint off of my Subaru.
He quirked a lopsided grin and I realized, with a start, that the attraction was two-sided. Arch Reece might have a soft midsection, but there was nothing soft about the anatomy south of his brown leather belt!
Knowing it would be just my luck today, I glanced down at my cleavage and, yes, indeed, my halter top had shifted. If I breathed too deep, there’d be nipplage.
I adjusted my plunging neckline, ignoring his smirk. Addressing his erection would embarrass us both, I assumed, so instead I prodded his noggin for injuries. His hair felt as dry as his skin looked. Being a cosmetic freak, I could suggest restorative treatments, but my instincts told me to shelve the beauty advice. I knew without looking that we’d acquired an audience. Remembering Arch’s lecture regarding being in character 24-7, I settled on a high-pitched voice and a Brooklyn accent. The need to prove myself as a competent actress, especially given this morning’s botched audition, was fierce. “Charlie, baby, are you all right?”
The arrogant SOB answered at a volume for my ears only and, I swear, his lips barely moved. “Stone said you take direction well.”
It only took a millisecond to realize…I had my hands all over him.
He acknowledged the audience with a coy smile. “My wife,” he drawled, shifting into Charles mode as he wrangled us into a sitting position. “She’s crazy about me.”
Smiling and nodding, the gawkers peeled away. They had places to go, people to see. I had a gig to protect. I resisted an eye roll as I scrambled off Arch’s lap, weak-kneed at the memory of his hard-on. I might’ve bruised his backside, but there was nothing wrong with his ego. From what I’d felt, it was massive. “Oh, you,” I teased, punctuating my bemused expression with a ridiculous giggle.
I swear the skycap who’d confiscated my suitcase actually sighed. Apparently, he was enchanted with my seemingly low IQ and pumped-up cleavage.
Men.
Speaking of, two security guards swooped in to save the day—albeit belatedly. They hauled Arch to his unsteady feet—good thing his trousers were baggy—dusted him off and displayed, finally, appropriate concern.
I scooped up my purse and travel tote, and retrieved the renegade cane.
My brain wrapped around an idea the same moment I wrapped my fingers around that brass-tipped spindle of polished oak. What if his walking stick, like my sunglasses, was a prop? I’d applied makeup and a hairstyle in keeping with my character. Who’s to say Arch hadn’t done the same?
A security guard offered my stage husband his hat while the skycap rolled our luggage to the ticket counter. Arch locked hold of his cane with one hand, my elbow with the other. “Our flight boards in eight minutes,” he said while finessing me to one of those self-serve, check-in computers. “I hope you can walk fast in those heels.”
“I hope you can keep up with that cane.”
The corners of his mouth curved as he swiped a credit card and punched the appropriate buttons under the monitor. No verbal response, just that damnable crooked smile. What was going through that mind of his? Was he pleased with my appearance? My performance? Did I pass the audition? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. If he said something like, Not particularly, but you’ll have to do, chances were, I’d self-destruct.
Scraping the bottom of my emotional well for an iota of self-confidence, I hung back and checked out the scene. Why were we in character now? Were other cast members present and currently blending in? How did this play into our cruise ship performance? I had a dozen questions but didn’t want to alienate Arch. I didn’t want to blow this gig, whatever it was. I needed the distraction as badly as the money. As if this day hadn’t been wacky enough, what was with my bizarre attraction to a stuffed-shirt actor who appeared to be several years my senior?
Older man-younger woman.
Visions of Michael and Sasha rolling around in our old bed flashed in my head.
Ouch.
Old news. Old hurt. Why did it feel so fresh?
“Dinnae get skittish on me now, Sugar,” Arch said as he punched more buttons.
Did he sense my turmoil or was he merely pointing out the fact that I wasn’t hanging all over him as directed? I couldn’t help comparing the two of us to Michael and Sasha. The age difference chafed. Not to mention the thought of snuggling with another woman’s man. Did Arch have a significant other? I knew our alliance was a charade. All the same, guilt pumped through me at the thought of groping someone’s loved one.
I squeezed in close, my voice a controlled hush. “Are you married?”
“Is that a trick question, love, or did that tumble ball up your memory?” The automated system spit out our boarding passes. He retrieved the e-tickets with his right hand while waggling his ring finger. “You and I were married three weeks ago in Vegas.”
“I mean for real.” I cringed at my obvious impatience, swallowed hard when Arch turned to face me.
His expression and tone were neutral, but his words stung like salt to an open wound. “So that’s what he meant by conservative, yeah?”
He, I assumed, was Michael. I interpreted conservative to mean predictable, boring. Had Michael bitched to this man about my inadequacies? My temper flared in tandem with buried hurt. Conservative. I suddenly felt like a Hush Puppies loafer in a closet of Jimmy Choo high heels.
Before I could lash out, Arch moved in. He cradled the back of my head, nuzzled my ear. “No spouse. No one special. This is strictly business, yeah?”
So, he was unattached, available. Single. My knees wobbled with relief, or…something. His gentle touch and caring tone worked like balm on my raw nerves. He brushed his lips across my cheek and the heat between my legs raged. Good Lord.
“In or oot?” he asked when the ticket agent called, “Dupont!”
Because I suspected Michael expected me to bail, and because going back to what I knew in Atlantic City was scarier just now than sailing the Atlantic with a complete stranger, I croaked, “in,” swallowing a sentimental lump when Arch produced a wedding band and slipped it onto my third finger. I’d ditched Michael’s ring the day he’d ditched me. Wish I could say the same for my lingering affections.
I wrestled with my issues as Arch wrestled with our luggage. Whether his grunting effort was feigned or real, I didn’t know. The ticket agent and I both gave him a hand with Big Red. When she advised him of an additional charge due to the excess weight, he produced a wad of bills and paid cash. He didn’t comment, though he did cast me a sidelong glance.
I smiled, trying to look cute and clueless.
The ticket agent looped destination tags around the baggage handles. “I need to see your boarding passes and photo IDs, please.”
I reached into my purse, but Arch squeezed my free hand, offering the agent two passports from his inner jacket pocket.
The woman gave the documents a cursory glance before handing them back. “Your flight leaves out of gate A6. If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss it.” She noted Arch’s cane. “I’ll have transportation waiting on the other side of the security screening checkpoint.”
Though curious about those passports, my thoughts centered on Arch as we ascended the escalator. He moved pretty fast for a man with a limp. I started to say, a man of his age, but I didn’t know his age. I reminded myself that this was an act. Charles Dupont was a character. Were the deep creases in his forehead genuine or the result of expertly applied makeup? Was that trimmed beard—one
of those perpetual five-o-clock shadows—homegrown or store-bought? Were his shoulders truly stooped or was he purposely slouching? What about his awkward gait? Real or affected? His current accent differed slightly from the one I’d heard on the phone, and again I couldn’t pinpoint it, except to say it was Cary Grant-like, which was in keeping with Curtis’s portrayal of the snobby oil tycoon.
I pushed my sunglasses up on top of my head, trying to see through Arch’s disguise, and saw that other people were staring, as well. Not at Arch per se, but at us as a couple. The novelist and the showgirl. Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe. Talk about your odd couple.
For a moment, I identified with the young woman who’d professed undying love for Michael Stone. Then I thought about my love for the same man, and quickly threw up barriers. I didn’t want to sympathize with Sasha. I didn’t even like her. She’d stolen my husband.
Conflicting emotions stormed the wall around my heart like a battering ram. The best I could do was smile Sugar’s smile and walk Sugar’s walk as Arch maneuvered me through the security checkpoint and onto the golf cart thing that sped us to our gate.
By the time we boarded our plane and took our seats, he’d flashed those passports twice more. As soon as I caught my breath, I intended to ask for a look. Just now I absorbed the captain’s announcement regarding rough weather, dug in my tote for a Dramamine and struggled with the rumblings of a full-blown panic attack.
CHAPTER FIVE
I WOKE UP IN A DARK ROOM in a strange bed. Where was I? Where was Arch?
My heart and head pounded with a ferocity that made my stomach roil. I’d been dreaming about going down in flames—my career, not the plane. Standing in front of a car dealership in ninety-degree weather, wearing a gorilla costume and holding a sign that said, You’ll go APE for our prices!
That’s what you get for flashing those forty-one-year-old tits, Michael had admonished, standing next to a Cadillac, his arms wrapped around pubescent versions of Sasha and Britney.
I massaged my aching chest, waited for the depressing fog of the nightmare to dissipate. But, dammit, it clung. Just as I’d clung to my alcoholic beverage as the plane had dipped and bounced through that electrical storm. Probably hadn’t been smart to mix Dramamine with two glasses of vodka and cranberry. In fact, I sort of remembered someone saying so. An older man with nerves of steel and a sexy smile.
Arch.
I also sort of remembered him half carrying me out of the airport and finessing me into a cab. I had a vague memory of peeling off my cashmere shrug because the air was hot and sticky, and noting the palm trees and Monet sunset with a slurred, “Beautiful, beautiful.”
Arch had agreed.
Everything else was a blur.
At least my jaw hadn’t locked, and I hadn’t puked my guts into an airsick bag. Not that I recalled, anyway.
Determined to pull myself together, I flicked on the bedside lamp and padded toward the bathroom, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth—lovely. I needed to wash my face, down two glasses of water and pee. Not necessarily in that order.
A scream lodged in my throat when I eased open the door. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered man hovered over the sink, squirting hair product into his hand. Smoke curled from the cigarette anchored between his lips. Black wires dangled from the buds lodged in his ear.
Paralyzed, or maybe I should say mesmerized since this stranger’s body was freaking hot, my gaze trailed down his sculpted back, following the wires that led to a superslim MP3 player clipped to the threadbare hotel-issue towel wrapped around his taut waist. I glanced farther down and caught his bare foot tapping to whatever music he was listening to. Whoever he was, he’d just showered. The steamy room smelled of Irish Spring, tobacco and shaving cream. It was a sexy scent, smoke and all. Probably because it was so manly. I breathed in the testosterone-charged air and nearly climaxed on the spot.
He shifted and dragged his gelled fingers through his wet hair, the muscles in his shoulders rolling with the effort. I told myself to stop staring at his impressive biceps—was that a Celtic band tattooed on his right arm?—and to back away from the threshold with my dignity intact. Was this another cast member? The producer? Where was Arch and why had he left me alone with a stranger?
My fantasies took a detour and kicked into hyperdrive along with my pulse. What if this was all a bizarre plot to get rid of me? For good. Maybe Sasha had brainwashed Michael. Lord knows she’d done something to get him to the gym every day. Maybe Arch had been hired to deliver me to this guy. Maybe he was going to whack me or sell me to some wife-collecting sheik!
Maybe I should lay off Dramamine and B movies.
The dark stranger snuffed his cigarette, nabbed a hand towel and swiped it over the fogged-up mirror. Our gazes locked.
He turned and pulled out the earbuds.
I yelped and shot backward, tripping over something big and red—Big Red—screaming—I was me, not Sugar—when the stranger rushed out of the bathroom.
I landed flat on my back.
He landed flat on top of me, his big hand covering my mouth. “Stop screaming, for fuck’s sake. It’s me. Arch.”
I recognized the voice, the accent, if not the man. I blinked up at him, amazed. Although, I should’ve known. All that testosterone. “Wah hahpn oo yor air?”
He removed his hand from my mouth. “What?”
“What happened to your hair?” I repeated. This afternoon it had been stark silver. Now it was jet-black, although it would probably lighten a shade when it dried.
“Temporary dye. Washes oot in the shower.”
A thigh-tingling image came to mind. Mr. Manly Man buck naked. Hot water sluicing over that hot bod. My insides melted as I stared up at him transfixed. He was handsome, in a bad boy sort of way, early to mid-thirties. That closely trimmed beard, when silver, had made him look significantly older. Just now he looked rebellious. His grey-green gaze sparked with mischief. His face, less creased and more defined than upon first meeting, suggested a hard-knock maturity. His body suggested he worked out religiously. Amen.
Snap out of it, Evie. “Did your wrinkles wash off, too?” I asked, tongue-in-cheek as opposed to tongue-hanging-out-of-mouth. Pant. Pant. Drool. Drool.
His sinfully attractive lips quirked. “Peeled off, actually. Prosthetics.”
If I’d had the slightest doubt, that crooked grin confirmed his identity. Arch Reece had a killer smile to go with his killer form. A rock-hard body that was presently squished against me. My heart continued to race although it had nothing to do with fear. “Um. So I guess that beer gut was fake, too.”
“Strap on, strap off.” The grin turned wicked. “What aboot you, Sunshine?”
My mind blanked then he raised himself up an inch or so and leered down at my bountiful cleavage.
Oh.
I smirked. “They’re real.”
“Impressive.”
“With the help of major padding, yes.” The ogling continued so I cleared my throat. I wanted him to roll aside. The pressure on my bladder reminded me how badly I needed to pee. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I value the benefits of push-up brassieres.”
“I mean, do you mind getting off?”
“Why, Ms. Parish, we hardly know each other.”
Lingering chemicals dulled my wit. By the time light dawned, he’d shifted his weight.
“You may want to close your eyes, love.”
“Why?” I asked at the same time I realized something hard pressed against my thigh. Something massive. I rolled my eyes to cover my own arousal. “What are you, on Viagra?”
“What can I say? You’re lovely.”
If I’d thought he was sincere, I would have blushed with joy. “Yeah, right.” I could only imagine what I looked like just now. Tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes. I’d probably smeared red lipstick across my chin when I’d wiped away the drool. Lovely. Snort. “Bet you say that to all of your costars.”
“Only the
stunners.”
Oh, brother. Now I knew he was playing me. This guy was a textbook charmer. And I was way too vulnerable and horny. “I have to pee.” There. That should kill the moment.
“Right.” He stared down at me, one brow raised.
Those eyes. My heart pitter-pattered. Can’t. Breathe. Now I knew why he wore those kooky, tinted glasses in public. They kept the average woman from swooning in his path. If that failed, he could beat them off with his cane.
“Fair warning, love. Lost my towel in the tumble.”
Still going for worldly, I said, “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Yeah, boy, that was a lie. If this were a Warner Brothers cartoon, ah-ooo-gah! would have been the sound effect accompanying the visual of my eyeballs literally springing out of my head as Arch pushed to his feet—full monty. It’s not as if he stood there posing. I got a two-second glimpse, tops.
Regardless, the image was burned into my brain. Holy smoke.
Then he turned around to step into a pair of grey sweatpants and I got a good look at his butt. A spectacular butt. Not quite as breathtaking as John Thomas, but impressive all the same.
I scrambled to my feet and into the bathroom before I said something stupid like, “Nice ass,” or “Is that penis for real?” While I was in there doing my thing, I collected my wits and memories. In one day, I’d been a flasher and a flashee. If you asked me, I was fast on my way to forfeiting my conservative crown. Sullying my reputation and rubbing Michael’s nose in it was a tempting goal.
At least I had something to work toward. I’d already turned cynical; surely I could handle adventurous. So long as it didn’t involve turbulence or rocky seas.
The plane ride came back in mortifying chunks. By the time I’d washed my hands and finger-combed my hair, I’d remembered everything right up until I’d fallen asleep—make that passed out—which was probably one hour into the flight from hell.
