Love Him: A Love Him, Hate Him, Want Him Novel

by Blaze, Stella

  “So, do you like it?” I ventured.

  “Like it? I fucking love it! My god, that gorgeous young man is going to sell the shit out of that book.” I could hear her fanning herself with something, knowing her, it was someone’s writer’s contract.

  I smiled. She liked it… hell, she’d practically had an orgasm over it.

  “Now, sweetie,” and there’s that sweetie again! I wasn’t out of the woods yet. “This one isn’t a one shot guy too, is he?”

  I blinked. “Um, no. He’s local and would probably pose for me again.” I didn’t tell her I already had a few great shots left.

  “Oh, good. Because we’ve decided to make a series out of that one. The writer already sent me the manuscript for book two, and I’m having hot flashes just reading it.”

  “Okay, I’m sure Billy—”

  “Oh, his name’s Billy! That’s just so sweet.”

  I was about to say that he really was a sweet guy, when Janine cut right across me.

  “I’m going to have all the covers you’ve done for us blown up and hung on all the walls of the ballroom.

  Ballroom? I hastily looked at the email again. Yep, there it was. The ballroom at the freaking Hilton in Houston. And then I saw the date.

  “It’s next week?”

  “Of course it is—”

  It was my turn to interrupt. “But how on earth did you get all those authors to agree to come on such short notice?”

  “Sweetie.” Good god, I wished she would stop that! “The Romance Writers of America Association is in Houston next week for the Rita Awards. Haven’t you heard?”

  I felt a deep, paralyzing chill run through me. That meant there would be hundreds of authors, and cover artists, models, agents, editors, and publishing house representatives in town…

  And that meant there’d be more than just five potential clients at the open house. Hell, in a ballroom at the Hilton, the open house was really a huge business party.

  I felt light headed.

  “I c-c-can’t,” I stammered.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Janine demanded, all sweetness gone from her voice.

  I struggled to take in my next breath. “All those people…”

  “Are all coming to meet you,” Janine said so very not helpfully. “They’ve been clamoring for you. Every one of them made meeting with you part of their RSVP to be there.”

  Oh god…

  Images flashed before my eyes. A room filled with publishing professionals… and every single one of them looking at one of my covers and laughing.

  Dear god, take me now.

  I drew in a few more breathes. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  “Hope? Are you still there?”

  I tried to speak, but it came out as a choked gurgle. I coughed and finally got out, “I’m here.”

  Another breath… and another.

  “But I’m just an artist. It’s not like I’m going to be doing a live photo shoot to prove I can make a sexy cover from scratch right there!”

  There was silence on the other end, and then Janine purred.

  She freaking purred like a cat licking its whiskers after draining a bowl of milk.

  “Don’t even think about it!” I practically screamed.

  “Now sweetie,”

  “Quit calling me that!” I shrilled, wiping the sweat from my brow. “It’s creepy!”

  “Sure, whatever you say, love muffin.”

  Oh, that’s just so much better!

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I was just thinking that I could have a filmmaker I know go down to where you… where ever it is you live, and film you doing a photo shoot sometime. That would be a great marketing asset when it comes to luring more fantastic authors to our brand.”

  I closed my eyes. A party from hell, and then having someone filming while I’m trying to work: I wanted to reach through the phone connection and strangle her.

  “Oh, and by the way, Terra Banks is bringing her own personal cover artist with her. Wants me to consider using him instead of you,” she chortled good-naturedly. “I told her you were the only one for me and my publishing house…”

  More infuriating silence.

  “But?” I prompted.

  “Oh, well… all her covers have been done by Poe.”

  Poe…

  My stomach flipped over and my hand shook as I typed his name into Google. Up popped a screen of some of the most innovative, spectacular, sultry images I’d ever seen. Every time I’d seen one of his shots on a magazine, or in an ad on line, I’d just stare and marvel. He was amazing…

  I licked my lips, suddenly ten times more nervous. “I didn’t know he did cover art too.”

  “Well, so far just for Terra… but if—”

  And she cut off that thought.

  I felt as if she’d punched me in the gut. Was she using me to lure an even bigger photographer in to work with?

  I took in a breath to… I don’t even know what I would have said, but Janine spoke first.

  “I’ve gotta run, love muffin. Buy a new dress, something to show off those great legs of yours. And bring a date! Nothing screams needy and pathetic like going stag to your own party.” She chuckled. “I’ll see you there.”

  And she hung up.

  Chapter 23

  I sat there, holding my cell phone to my ear. I sat there for about two, three minutes without moving. What had just happened?

  I could remember it all, but…

  But I didn’t understand how things had gone so terribly, horrifically wrong.

  I should just not answer my phone or my emails. That would cut down drastically on the bad things that just seem to happen in my life.

  I gently set my phone down. I could…

  What could I do?

  I trudged on over to my coffee maker and picked up the pot. The pot was empty. I hadn’t made any yet.

  I set the pot back on the little burner and opened the kitchen cabinet where the coffee and filters lived. I stared at an empty spot where the coffee usually was. I had a vague memory of having used the last of it last night, and…

  I looked over to the fridge where I hung my grocery list. Under a few odds and ends was the word coffee, in huge block letters, underlined three times, with five exclamation points.

  My mind was like a tilt-a-whirl on overdrive: spinning one way, canting drastically to the side, and then spinning even faster the other way. I closed my eyes and tried to catch the thread that had caused all this. Why was I so confused?

  Had I just woke up?

  Was I still asleep and dreaming?

  And then I looked over at my laptop. The email from Janine glowed from the screen.

  Shit…

  The world blazed back into crystal clarity, garish and too loud… too fast.

  My head did the tilt-a-whirl thing again…

  And I heard someone hyperventilating.

  I was hyperventilating. It kind of hurt, and my head became even more off balanced and swirly. I was so dizzy.

  What do they do when someone hyperventilates in a movie?

  I looked under my kitchen sink for a paper bag…

  But there were none. All I had was a pile of the usual plastic bags you get from Wal-Mart and the Piggly Wiggly.

  What was I…

  Mental head slap! It didn’t matter what the bag was made out of!

  I pulled one out and fluffed it open and I brought it up to my mouth.

  I huffed and puffed into it as I headed for the front door. Just being out of the house—and away from the blazing Dell computer screen with Janine’s email seemed to help. The sun radiating down on my skin helped. And the sudden quiet the street almost never boasted helped too.

  I huffed and I puffed, in and out, sitting on my porch steps, feeling the dizziness slowly go away. I closed my eyes, trying not to think about what had just caused me to hyperventilate in the first place.

  How had my life gotten so screwed
up that I was now, for the first time in my life, hyperventilating? What next? One of those anxiety attacks that feel like you’re having a heart attack?

  I cringed at the thought.

  I needed to talk to someone… someone who would figure all this out for me, come up with a way for me to get out of it… someone that had coffee.

  Bette!

  She’d shown in the last few weeks she could fix nearly any situation, and I knew she had very good, expensive coffee.

  I looked over to her house and groaned. Her Caddy was gone.

  No Bette… no coffee…

  And then I smelled something—something delicious, something warm and right out of the oven; something all together unfamiliar but utterly inviting.

  I stood and started walking, slowly, following the scent. About ten paces away from my front porch I discerned the rich aroma of coffee too.

  I sighed in relief and walked a little faster. I walked straight toward the source, which turned out to be the back of Raphael Morales’ house.

  No warning bells or whistles went off in my head. No inner voice screamed for me to flee the way I’d come. There was only the want and need for coffee… and whatever the hell smelled so freaking delicious.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized the work crew was gone, though their tools and equipment, and the ginormous backhoe was still there.

  I ducked through the opening in the sheet plastic and tiptoed through the detritus of the work site. They’d pulled up half the back porch, and had dug a pretty big hole there.

  I didn’t give it a second thought, and headed right for the back door. I knocked on the glass—a sheet of slightly tinted transparency. It was tinted rose. I’d read in a book once that every house needed a rose colored window in it.

  Maybe that’s what I needed; what I was lacking?

  With a newspaper in his hands, Raphael came to the door, his eyes trained on what he was reading. When he got to the door he looked up, and when he saw me his eyebrows shot up. He laid the newspaper down and carefully reached for the knob of his back door.

  When he opened it, that delicious smell, and the entrancing aroma of fresh coffee flooded me.

  “You offered me some coffee earlier,” I said, my voice cracking, sounding embarrassingly pathetic.

  “That I did,” he said, his voice even and careful.

  Boy, I must look about around the bend if this male chauvinist asshole was treating me with kid gloves.

  But my ire just floated off with the next wave of desperation that flooded through me. I needed coffee, and to talk… and whatever was making that amazingly scrumptious smell.

  Dear god let it not be him…

  I tamped down on my pride, and all the crazy that was welling up inside me, and looked up into his dark, infuriatingly sexy eyes.

  “Well?” I said impatiently.

  His eyebrows lifted again and he turned half a turn, extending his arm in a gesture of welcome. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  I walked into his warm, great smelling kitchen and followed my nose straight to his coffee maker. I stared down at the black ambrosia. When I looked up again Raphael was standing beside me, a spotless white coffee mug held out to me. I took it and reached for the pot, pouring myself some.

  “Sugar, cream?” he asked.

  I shook my head and brought the mug up to my lips, scenting the piping hot liquid like an old lover. It smelled different, and when I took a tentative sip, it tasted different too.

  Actually, as I took another, not at all tentative drink, I realized it was the best cup of coffee I’d ever had.

  Maybe it was the fact that I was going through some short-term caffeine withdraw… but I’d gone through that before. The next cup of coffee was always beyond delicious, but this was mind-blowingly good coffee.

  I shot him a hard look. “You doctor your coffee?”

  He shrugged a cotton clad shoulder and gave me a sneaky smile, bringing his own perfectly white coffee mug up to his lips.

  “That’s a mortal sin, you know?”

  He licked his lips and smiled even wider. “So you won’t be having anymore?” He held out his hand to accept my mug.

  I shrank away from his hand like a vampire from sunlight. “I didn’t say that.” I took another swallow, warming, feeling my inner turmoil calm into a placid, glassy pond of peace.

  “So what’s your secret?”

  Raphael’s faultlessly charming expression cracked, just for a heartbeat, and then that irritatingly smug smile returned. “Secret?”

  Oh brother. I so didn’t want to start down this road… and certainly not with him, Mr. Swaggering Peacock.

  “The secret to your coffee,” I said, irritation clear in my voice.

  “Oh, well… my mother taught me this secret when I was but a little boy—”

  “So just a couple years ago, huh?” I smiled at him. Come on, I couldn’t just let that one slide. “I’m surprised you’re allowed to play with hot things.”

  He didn’t move, and nothing about him seemed to change…

  But all of a sudden the look he was leveling at me was scorching hot, hungry, and spine-tinglingly predatory.

  Slowly he took in a breath, and then said, “I play with hot things all the time. You should try it sometime.”

  It felt as if the temperature of the room had spiked to a hundred and ten, and even though he hadn’t moved a muscle—any of his simply yummy looking muscles—it felt as if he was too close, way too close…

  And part of me didn’t seem to mind.

  My next breath came in a gasp, and I broke eye contact with the bastard.

  Not going to happen… I was not going to go down that road.

  I closed my eyes, searching for the darkness it usually afforded me—but there he was, that predatory look in his eyes. That look made him the biggest, baddest wolf on the planet, blowing Billy’s glower right out of the water.

  It was like the difference between a roaring fire in your fireplace, and a forest fire.

  Oh boy, was I in the wrong damn place with the wrong-est man alive.

  “So, what smells so good?” I said, walking away from him and looking at a long loaf of some kind of bread cooling on a shiny metal rack. The rack was suspended in the air with four identical white coffee mugs.

  Didn’t the man own a mug that didn’t belong to a matching set?

  My mind drifted on a fun thought, of buying him a novelty mug, probably from Spencer’s, probably an insulting one.

  “That’s zucchini bread.”

  My nose wrinkled up at the thought.

  “It’s my mother’s recipe… with a few, minor changes.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll bet.”

  He pulled a perfectly white, perfectly plain dish from his cupboard—the thing was filled with those bland, boring dishes—and then pulled out an eight inch bread knife.

  I gulped seeing such a big, dangerous looking thing in the man’s hand. It was just yesterday that he’d been trying to chainsaw down my sycamore tree.

  He caught my unease. “Nervous?” he teased.

  I shook my head and took another drink of his amazing coffee. What the hell did he put in there?

  “Just surprised you feel you need to overcompensate on every front, whether it’s your car, your hair,”—I glanced up at the semi Mohawk on top of his head—“or your bread knife.”

  “That’s just style, chica…” he said, his tone serious and even. “It has nothing to do with content.”

  That… wasn’t the comeback I had expected.

  “So,” he said as he sliced off a thick piece of the delectable smelling, but gross to contemplate zucchini bread, slid it on a plate and handed it to me. “What upset you so much you forgot you hate me,”—he gave me a knowing look—“and sent you over here to mooch coffee off me?”

  I glowered at him as he sliced off another piece and pulled it apart with his long, strong fingers…

  What did he do for a living again?
Did it have something to do with those hands?

  Well, duh! Almost every job on earth involved the use of your hands.

  I glared one more time and then took a nibble of the bread.

  Oh god it was good… it was really, really good. I took another, much bigger bite, and chewed slowly, savoring the warm, lovely explosion of taste on my tongue.

  I looked at him. He was waiting, that infuriating smirk firmly fixed on his face.

  Damn him. How could I hate someone that could make such good coffee, and bread this yummy!

  I rolled my eyes. “Work.”

  He pursed his thick, soft looking lips.

  Bastard was so much prettier than I was.

  Wasn’t freaking fair.

  “Bette tells me you’re a photographer.”

  Bette? The traitor!

  I closed my eyes and bit my lip. I so wasn’t going to tell my woes to this… this…

  “You aren’t going to have a stroke or anything?”

  My eyes snapped open, and he was giving me that look you give the mentally challenged.

  “No,” I said tartly. “I’m just wondering why the hell I’m telling you anything.”

  He did this shrug thing, which between his subtle body movements and his placid expression, said nothing and everything all at the same time.

  Good god, this man was maddening!

  “Out of nowhere my boss has decided to hold a little party, in one of the Hilton’s big old ballrooms, where I’m going to be on display—with my work—to try and lure a bunch of bestselling authors to the publishing house.”

  “And?” he said, cutting me another piece of zucchini bread.

  I bit my lip. Why was I telling him all this?

  I let out a long, slow breath. “I’m an artist… a photographer.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m not some kind of performer. I can’t sing these people a song and charm them into anything.”

  He smiled wryly, “You’re right on that count.”

  Oh, screw you!

  “I… I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Janine’s counting on me.”

  “Janine’s your boss?”

  “Yes. And somehow she’s gotten it into her head that I’m going to be able to get these women to leave their rather successful self publishing careers and sign with her.”