Good thing she’d eaten while partying, although she’d skipped the carne asada, going for all the tortillas she could stuff in her face instead, along with more chips than all the boys had eaten together. Then there’d been those awesome cheese quesadillas, plus churros for desert, along with another shot of tequila when Tucker hadn’t been nannying her.
She squirmed away from his arm as they continued up the stairs.
“I can do it,” she said.
She heard Buzz’s voice behind them. “Twenty dollars says she takes a diver before she gets to the top.”
“Hey!” she said. Buzz had found her highly amusing all night. Jonsey, too.
The kid spoke up. “Girl, I don’t think you realized before now what straight tequila does to a body. It ain’t water.”
Oh, really? But if she’d already known that, why had she drunk so much? Oh, like that was even a proper question, because she damned well knew: She’d gotten cocky, as some people did when they drank, too. Mostly, though, she’d been upset, because when she’d marched into the neon den of the Pink Ladies, she’d still been running away from the sight of that cherry juice coming at her.
And, whether she would admit it or not, she’d also been running away from her renewed embarrassment with Gideon.
When Tucker eased her away from his supporting arm, giving in to her wishes to walk on her own, her knees wobbled.
Behind her, she heard Gideon mutter. “Jesus H.”
She held up a finger to him, but didn’t quite make it all the way around to face him. Tucker steadied her.
“I can do this,” she said.
Tucker sighed. “Guys, how about I just get her settled for the night? She doesn’t need an audience.”
Rochelle didn’t know what made her do what she did next—uh, maybe the booze?—but she did it anyway.
“Quick-draw,” she slurred to Tucker, grasping at his shirt as if this were of the utmost importance. “Cowboy bodyguard and I have biz-ness to discuss.”
Everyone went silent. She thought she heard Gideon shifting uncomfortably, although that could’ve been her imagination. Maybe she even wanted him to be doing that.
She made an impatient sound at everyone’s nonreactions. “Yeesh, I only need to make plans with my employee, thank you very much. We’ve got to talk about that media inner-view in the morning I didn’t know about.”
If she had, she wouldn’t have gone out boozing. As it was, they had left the Pink Ladies at ten o’clock, when Suzanne had texted about the new interview. Rochelle would be lucky to get four hours of sleep before she had to shower.
As Tucker brought her up the remaining stairs to her room, she heard Gideon’s boots on the steps in back of them, following. Good little boy, she thought. Perversely, she loved having him on a leash, even if she was paying him to be that way.
When they got to her room, she thumped onto her bed, lying back against the pillows that the maid who came with the rental had fluffed. The room didn’t spin, and she was eternally grateful.
Tucker stroked his chin as he looked her over, with Gideon right by his side.
“What a happy wreck,” her cousin said.
“I’ve got this.” That was Gideon. And, my oh my, was he scrumptious in that black shirt and pants or what? A dark defender. Her hero . . .
Tucker was giving Gideon a stare that Rochelle would’ve said was curious. Hadn’t Gideon clued her into that earlier, though? He’d warned her about the boys noticing her attention to him.
Oopsie.
Gideon seemed uncomfortable under Tucker’s scrutiny and left her bedside. “I’ll see if she has some aspirin to go along with a glass of water.”
“Top drawer!” Rochelle shouted. When she noticed Tucker staring at her now, she gave him a friendly, innocent smile.
“Rochelle . . .” he said, and it sounded like he was about to have a serious talk with her.
But she didn’t want to hear him warning her off of the town Lothario, so she misdirected him. That’s what authors did in books when they wanted people to think something they didn’t want them to think.
“Shh,” she said. “Stop yelling at me for drinking too much, Tuck.”
“I’m not yelling.”
Don’t ask me about Gideon, she thought. But if Tucker went there, she’d just ask him about how he’d kept visually caressing that Mary Agnes dancer at the Pink Ladies. He’d nearly been eating the girl right up with his gaze as she’d gone from lap dance to lap dance. What was up with that?
He sighed, pushing back the thick, dark hair that curled at his neck, and it seemed he was just about to brave forward with a question when Gideon returned, handing her a glass of water.
“Drink,” he said.
Rochelle shrugged at Tucker. Laters with the questions.
Thwarted, Tucker glanced once more at Gideon before he left the room.
“Door!” she said when he failed to close it.
He backtracked, reluctantly doing her bidding.
She energetically drank the water, realizing only now that she was thirsty. Damn, it was good. Then Gideon handed her the aspirin, and she popped the pills into her mouth, chasing them down with the liquid.
“Ahhhh.”
Gideon took the glass from her as she leaned back like a ragdoll. He jerked his chin at her Jimmy Choos.
“You going to sleep with those on?”
I don’t know, stud. Would the sight of me in them and nothing else get your motor running if you crawled in here with me?
Even tipsy, she didn’t dare. “I’ll take ’em off in a sec.”
Patiently, he bent to her feet, unstrapping her Choos. Hah—her Choos. Funny. That joke just never got old for her.
He was done in a flash. God, he could’ve been sexier about it, going slower with the de-Chooing. But maybe it’d been his intention to be unsexy.
“Suzanne’s sure not gonna be happy with you,” he said.
“Not my fault she made another last-minute appointment. Someone dropped outta the segment slot for the local mornin’ show.” She pursed her lips. Then, with all the focus a tipsy girl could have, she rested her hand against her forehead. “Oy, if they ask about the creeper, I’m gonna throw up tequila on ’em. It’ll pro-lly still be in my system.”
He started to guide her feet into prime sleeping position on the bed and pulled up the sheets.
“Hey,” she said, motioning to her dress. “This ain’t a nightie. It’s an Oscar de la Renta.”
“I don’t care whose Renta it is; I’m not undressing you, Shel.”
Her heart felt bruised. Or maybe it wasn’t her heart, just her punctured libido . . . which had somehow made its way into her chest.
“Plus,” she said, kicking at the sheets, “I gotta brush my teeth, wash my face, all that.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you formed an intense relationship with Patrón tonight.”
“I know, right? How dumb.” She thumped her head. “Silly and dumb.”
And upset and liberated. Bad combination.
“Hey, now.” He took the water glass from her. “Let me get you more water so you’re not completely dehydrated. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
He was probably used to women thanking him for more than that in the morning. And she was never going to be one of those women, was she?
Reckless, she heard herself totally ignoring the reason she’d insisted he come in here, and she blurted, “Why so many, Gideon?”
He halted his steps, gripping the glass. Man, he looked so good, with those muscles and that chest and everything else she remembered kissing and touching today. Everything that had firm bumps and smooth ridges . . .
“What I mean,” she said, “is why have you had so many women?”
“Do we really have to talk about this?”
&
nbsp; “Indulge me.”
“I think you’ve had enough indulging.”
She gave him her best gamine eyes, even if thirty-five was way too old to be that way.
But it worked every time. Damn, she was almost as good as Cherry had been, for better or worse.
Gideon sighed. “I don’t know why I like women the way I do. Why do birds fly? Why is the sky blue?”
“So you were born that way.”
“Some men are. We don’t all need a driving psychological reason to fuck a lot.”
His rough words made her gut go warm.
“I understand,” she said softly. “I haven’t ’xactly been a wallflower, either.”
He looked at her for a long time, as if he wanted to ask her to say more. But how could she tell him that she’d had the driving need to screw him out of her memories? That she had only wanted to convince herself that she wouldn’t ever again be the mess she’d been with him, and that she could please men, make them come back for more as long as she wanted them?
He finally started walking to the bathroom, and when he got there, she heard the water running. When he returned, he set the full glass on the linen-covered nightstand near her bed.
“That should do it, then,” he said softly, turning to go, maintaining that distance between them and creating even more.
Leaving her to sit there with the light on, aching for him until sleep finally overtook her, Oscar de la Renta and all.
***
Gideon felt like he’d dodged a bullet last night.
What had Rochelle been doing, asking him about how many women he’d banged? Talking about that kind of bullshit was only going to put them back where they’d started, and the fact that she’d even asked the question made him nervous, because if she didn’t care, why would she be interested?
And why was he so damned interested in how many men she’d been with?
He’d almost asked her to tell him more about it, and if he’d taken that one little step over their ever-crumbling line, that would’ve been it.
It would’ve been way too personal.
Frankly, it was bad enough that he’d wanted to slowly peel that dress from her, easing it off her shoulders, then over her chest, exposing her skin inch by inch until she was just as bare to him as she’d been yesterday morning . . .
Thoughts like that hectored him as he rolled out of bed before the crack of dawn, took a long, cold shower, got ready, and made sure he was up and around before his client. He even had time enough to start the espresso machine—yeah, they called this shit coffee—and sit in the near dark at the kitchen’s island counter looking through the sliding glass door where the sky was feathered with a hint of the coming sunrise. The infinity pool spilled over its edge, seemingly into the winking lights of the Strip beyond.
He felt like a tourist in la-la-land, a fixture in the kind of house that he’d never belong in, with a woman he had no business thinking about.
When he heard the shuffle of bare feet on the marble floor, he set down his dainty-fied coffee and turned to find Rochelle. She was wearing a slim patterned dress that slid over her curves like molten bronze, with a red belt cinching her waist and her hair in another side ponytail. She even had on some . . .
Sunglasses?
“The day’s not even started,” he said, biting back a smile. “I don’t think the sun’s glare is gonna be a factor for you right now.”
She headed straight for the fridge. “Everything’s too bright, even the dark. I’m glad you don’t have the lights on.”
Opening the door, she grabbed a Sunny Delight, went to a cupboard for a glass, and then poured herself a dose. She drank it down with unladylike gulps and then let go a grand ahh. “So good,” she said. “You almost ready to go? The limo should be here soon.”
She was doing pretty good, considering the condition she’d been in not too long ago. Maybe she was one of those people who got drunk fast, only to have it wear off quick.
“I’m all set,” he said. “Harry’s gonna meet us there.”
He watched as she went for a loaf of that artisanal bread from an exclusive bakery that delivered. She opened the packaging, tearing into it without any fanfare. She offered him some, but he waved it off.
She went back into the fridge, plucking out a package of lunchmeat, then dove into the bologna and devoured it without any mustard or bread. “This tastes so awesome.”
He’d never seen a woman pig out like this. Her hunger was even kind of sexy—unbridled and real. He liked that she didn’t care that he saw every bit of it, too.
When she was done, she cleaned up after herself, and it was only then that she seemed the least bit self-aware, even quiet.
He knew what was coming.
“About last night . . .” she said.
“What about it? You had too much to drink, and here we are.” He hoped that would do it.
Nope.
“I was a mealy-mouthed dork,” she said, “and I might’ve said a few things that were . . . inappropriate.”
Inappropriate? She had some strange ideas about the definition. Yesterday had been full of inappropriate.
Not that he’d been complaining.
She went on. “I shouldn’t be asking you about your personal life . . .”
The sound of boot steps on the stairway made Rochelle clamp her mouth shut, and when Buzz appeared, that was the end of that.
Thank God for a full house.
Her cousin rubbed his short, dark hair. Obviously, with his worked-in jeans and Western shirt, he was ready to go back to the ranch for the day to check in with the foreman.
“Mornin’,” he said to Rochelle. “What’s with the . . .” He pointed to his face.
She touched her sunglasses. “My eyes just feel better like this.”
“Good luck with those camera lights then. I hear they can be pretty bright.”
Buzz nodded at Gideon on his way to the fridge, and it was such a change from the backslapping of last night that Gideon wondered if Tucker had said anything to his brother about Rochelle and her bodyguard and the strange vibes between them.
Gideon could see a man-to-man talk in his future. But what could he say? What would Rochelle want him to say?
Hell, the last time he’d been so confused about a woman was when he’d been about five, watching cartoons and wondering why he was getting tingly whenever She-Ra came on the screen.
When Rochelle’s driver called, letting them know he was out front, she texted Suzanne, and they all trundled into the limo with best wishes from Buzz.
From there, the day went as well as it could have. Rochelle put aside her hangover and gave good chatter at her morning-show interview. As Suzanne fussed over her in the car after a meal and on the way to the first signing, Gideon tried not to let a twinge of sympathy invade him at the sight of Rochelle blinking back tired eyes.
She’d recovered, of course, and then had done a Q&A before the signing itself. Her readers—none of who included creepers, although someone did ask a question about them—loved everything she had to say, and they bought a bunch of books. She’d even signed the rest of the stock in the superstore. Finally, as dusk came around, she fell asleep in the car on the way to the last signing just out of Vegas.
As they drove, the light from street lamps that flashed into the car revolved over Rochelle as she rested her head against the window. Her lashes fanned over her cheeks, and Gideon’s heart gave a mighty tug at itself.
It was because he felt sorry for her; that was all.
Harry cleared his throat, and Gideon straightened in his seat. Suzanne, wearing a big smile, poked at her smartphone.
“If we can judge by this first week’s response and the numbers in Rochelle’s author sales portals,” Suzanne said, “we’ve got another real hit.”
Rochelle was o
ut, sliding down the window, and Gideon itched to right her so she’d be more comfortable. But Harry would give him hell for minding how Rochelle was sleeping.
Suzanne glowed with success—or maybe it was just the phone screen casting light on her. “I shouldn’t be thankful to the creepers, but I am. They whipped up some great promo. Even Rochelle’s PR team couldn’t have orchestrated such a successful campaign.”
Gideon frowned at her. “If I were into conspiracy theories, I’d think you might’ve asked those creepers to ‘whip up’ that PR.”
Holding a hand to her chest, Suzanne seemed shocked. Too shocked?
Harry butted in. “Hilarious, Gideon.” The look he gave him asked if Gideon wasn’t getting just a little too defensive about Rochelle, jumping to ridiculous conclusions about the creepers now.
And Harry was damned right.
“Joking,” Gideon said, offering Suzanne a smile.
She accepted it, chatting on. “The event tomorrow afternoon at UNLV’s Department of Theatre is going to be the capper on this leg of Rochelle’s tour. I can’t wait.”
Gideon couldn’t help cutting in. “Then she’ll get some rest?”
Harry cleared his throat again.
Temper bumping him, Gideon said, “Well, just look at her.”
By now, Rochelle had slid farther down the window, and Gideon couldn’t take it anymore. He reached across and gently helped her back up. She barely opened her eyes, smiled sleepily at him, and went back to it.
Another damned heart tug.
Another throat clear from Harry, louder this time.
But Gideon was paying more attention to Suzanne as she shrugged.
“Rochelle’s a workhorse,” she said, “not just a show horse.”
Had he just heard her right? Even though it wasn’t his place to upset the food chain, he was still rankled by the manager’s cavalier attitude. For the first time, he realized that everyone in this limo was gravy training off Rochelle, especially Suzanne, and the more publicity she got, the better for all of them. In a warped way, he’d even made a good check from this book tour, thanks to the creepers.
Hot and Bothered Page 13
