Bootscootin' Blahniks (6 page)

“You should be thrilled to have Mom as part-time help. She’s been a damn good customer. And if she’s working there, her friends will stop by. I’d also hardly call her a dictator,” Zayne added, then laughed. “Not by your standards.”

“My standards are exactly what’s at stake,” Roxy snapped back. “I’m not modifying my designs to match the money flow.”

If she gave in now and brought his mother into Raeve, even as temporary help, she might succumb to the kind of woman she’d thought she’d left behind. The kind of women designers couldn’t afford to ignore if they planned to last past one collection. The kind of women who caused her toes to curl worse than they already were, shoved into her favorite pointed-toe stilettos.

“Have it your way, princess. But I’m fixin’ to tell you a couple things.” Zayne leaned-in close, speaking in a hushed voice. “One, you can’t be controlled by someone unless you allow yourself to be. And two, if you want to make it in this town, you need Mom’s help.”

Roxy bit the inside of her lip, chewing on what he’d said, knowing he was right, but too stubborn to admit as much without a struggle. “So what’s in this for you?”

“It’s simple,” he said, even though his squirminess betrayed him.

“This arrangement will benefit both of us,” he continued, poking at a piece of batter dislodged from a pickle slice. “You’ll pick up some business. And I’ll keep my mother out of mine.”

He reached for her hands and squeezed them between his own, taking her out of the realm of coherent thought. “I need your help, Roxy. Mom adores you — and lucky for us, she doesn’t know you well enough to challenge her misguided notions.”

“Keep it up, cowboy,” Roxy said, bouncing her foot ever-so-lightly off his kneecap while pulling her hands out of his grasp.

She removed her napkin from her plate and dunked a pickle wedge into the spicy Thousand Island dipping sauce, wishing she could attribute her tight grin to an acidic response to his comment. In truth, she couldn’t stand fried pickles. But dammit, she had to adjust to Nashville lifestyles, and developing a taste for fried pickles was a reasonable start. What she wouldn’t give for sushi.

Zayne took a big bite of pickle, then double-dipped the bitten-off end into the sauce cup. “Mom also worships what you and she call Raeve’s element of style. Or something like that. Anyway, if I’m going to get this hybrid ready for the Tomato Festival, I’ve got to get her out of my way. I know she thinks hanging out at the farm every day until the saloon opens is showing me support. But she’s driving me nuts.”

Okay. Call her a sucker. Well, a sucker for a good-looking tomato-growing, bootscootin’ cowboy.

Considering how hard the farm store guys said he worked his dad’s farm, she had no reason to question his loyalty to his tomatoes. But she sure didn’t see the same spark in Zayne’s eyes when he talked tomatoes instead of bootscootin’. Held by the anxious waves in his dark, desperate eyes, though, her resistance was drowning.

“Say something, would ya?” he begged her. “Your silence isn’t comforting.”

“All right. I’ll accept your offer. Bu-” She couldn’t finish her ‘but’ for his cowboy hoot and holler. “I have a couple conditions,” she said, rubbing her ears to relieve the shrill shriek boomeranging off her eardrums.

“Shit.” Zayne shoved another wedge of lime down the throat of the new Corona the waitress had delivered with his second basket of pickles. “I’m not gonna like this.”

“Well, that’s more than fair,” Roxy said, tucking her hair behind her ears, twisting her pride as well as her split-ends, summonsing the courage to state her conditions. “I can’t afford to pay for your truck or your mother’s wages, so you’re truck’s just going to have to wait. I’ll get you the money as soon as I can. And despite wage and hour laws, your mom’s going to have to take her pay in merchandise.”

Appearing somewhat relieved, Zayne repositioned himself in his chair. A smile formed across his lips, cocky and way too self-assured to mean good things were forthcoming.

“So here’s my counteroffer. I’ll drive Mom to your boutique Monday — say around ten o’clock. Trust me, she’ll be thrilled to take her pay in your creations. And about my truck,” he said, his smile so confident, there was no way in hell he’d make it through the saloon’s entrance, despite the double-doors. “You’ll start as my Neon Cowboy dance partner next weekend, which means we’ll be practicing each Wednesday night at the farm.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head as if saying ‘damn I’m brilliant.’ “If you do that the rest of the year, consider the truck paid,
and
since you’re without a vehicle, you can use the truck ’til you can afford to gets yours fixed.”

Roxy struggled to swallow the last drop of her beer while her brain searched for an answer to his proposal. Her debt would be paid, and she wouldn’t have to get her car repaired right away or rent one, whatever was cheaper. She’d also have an excuse to bootscoot, and be Zayne’s partner, meaning he’d noticed she knew her way around his dance floor.
Hmmm
.
Odd
. She couldn’t come up with better alternatives.

“So why not teach me here at the saloon?” She asked, pleased to see him squirm although distraught to note her body was also unable to remain at ease.

Spending that much time alone with him at his farm, although titillating, would be treacherous. The last thing she needed to do was bring a cowboy home for Christmas in Manhattan. She’d be completely disowned. Although, that thought had merit.

“Remember, I want our patrons to keep coming back because they’ve seen how well I teach. You need to be polished to perfection by the time you hit this dance floor,” Zayne said then pulled the original estimate out of his shirt pocket while his kiss me-or-kick me smirk returned.

Damn she loved the confident spark in his eyes and how it bolstered that I’m-all-yours-Baby grin.

“You know damn well I’m perfection out there. But okay, Cowboy, if you want shown up on your own dance floor…well then…you got yourself a deal.” She stood up from the table and tilted her hat back into place. “But keep stuffed under that hat of yours that I may make your mother miserable. Designers are notorious for being difficult.”

“I’m counting on you to make each other miserable,” Zayne threw his head back, laughed and winked then ripped the estimate in half and tossed it into the air with way too much pompous ass drama.

“Asshole.”

Roxy left him laughing and stormed across the dance floor, dodging the dancers gathered for the band’s final set. She maneuvered through the crowd like a midtown-Manhattan bike messenger zigzagging in and out of traffic during rush hour.

Two thirds of the way across, her stiletto found a second wood-grain imperfection. She toppled off her heel, falling to the floor with a bang.

Once again, all eyes in the saloon were upon her. All mouths were wide open, conversations and laughter halted midstream. She felt like she’d awoken from another bad dream, hazy, unsure of what was reality versus what was la-la-ville.

Before she fully comprehended the nature of her latest disaster, Zayne was kneeling at her side, protectively shielding her exposed upper torso. Cold air trickled across her tummy and nipples, which were apparently on display since her jacket had popped open when she hit the floor.

Note to self
:
reinforce closures
.

“I told you those damn shoes were a safety hazard,” Zayne said while tucking her breasts back into her jacket as if it was all part of a normal days work, although his flushed cheeks betrayed him. “I’ve always thought you should flaunt it if you got it, but Girl, you’ve forever redefined that philosophy.”

Even in pain, the effect of Zayne’s touch on her bare skin was numbing.

Once his eyes met the tears welled-up in hers, he stopped ribbing her. “Gosh, darlin’, are you okay?”

Before she could answer, his warm, calloused hands were rubbing her ankles, one of which hurt like a son-of-a-bitch with every bit of pressure applied.

“Ouch. That hurts.”

“Well, it looks like you’d better get this one x-rayed,” Zayne said, handing her what was left of the sole of her shoe as he pulled the heel out of the floor joint. He then swept her from the floor and into his arms before she could resist. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s too damn expensive.” She wiped a runaway tear from her cheek, but then winced as pain shot up through her left leg. “Okay, so maybe I’d better. I can always sell the Mercedes.”

“You might need Mom’s help at Raeve after all,” Zayne crooned with enough honey to catch a thousand bears before tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

“Don’t forget,” she said kicking out her right foot. “This one still works.”

A
fter three hours in the Baptist Hospital Emergency Room and a sprained ankle to-go, Zayne balanced Roxy in his arms while she punched in the code to her brownstone’s front entrance. Holding her, her more than ample cleavage heaving under his nose, twisted his stomach muscles into heated missiles. Hearing the latch click, and glad for the diversion, he used his shoulder to push open the door.

“Watch my walls and the furniture,” she commanded as he stepped into her home, closing the door using the heel of his boot.

He maneuvered her and her surgical boot through the narrow foyer, their path lit only by the beams from her porch light streaming through the windows lining the door. Another night, another couple, the moment may have been a contraceptive commercial without the dumb bath tubs.

Thank God the ER’s ice pack had Velcro straps securing it around Roxy’s ankle. Somehow, he managed to avoid clipping anything except his libido.

“What kind of builder installs a switch on the wall opposite the door?” Zayne muttered, still feeling his way along the wall, trying to ignore her perfect backside resting against his groin.

“He must have planned on me using the garage entrance. Which I do. Normally,” Roxy answered, sounding equally peeved at the inconvenience. “The outlet’s by this door somewhere. Just quit your bitchin’ and help me find it.”

Remembering she was injured, disregarding the strong urge he had to snap at her, Zayne found the switch. Light flooded the foyer, illuminating a three-and-a-half feet taxidermist stuffed alligator laying in wait on an entryway table. Jumping back onto the heels of his boots, he jostled Roxy in his arms like a juggler trying to keep all objects suspended. He’d heard of making your house an extension of yourself, but this was ridiculous.

“What in the Sam hell is that?” Though he could honestly imagine Roxy in a barely-there-bikini, slinging mud, and wrestling gators.

“It’s my tribute…to Manolo,” she answered, her voice catching as if awestruck by the name alone. “He has one just like it in his town house in Bath.”

“Interesting.” Zayne took in the parted jaws of the beast. Its spear-sharp teeth clenched a copper-colored pearl necklace. The olive-brown and black marks flecking its body made for anything but attractive decor. Although, he did like the way gator skin looked stretched across a boot.

“Where to?” he asked, hoping like hell she wasn’t going to say up the stairs directly to the right of the entryway. Having her that close to his body for another flight or two could shatter his nice-guy image.

“The master suite is two flights up,” she said, her matter-of-factness putting him on edge.

After carrying her from his truck to the gator greeter, his biceps burned as if she’d been prodding him with hot pokers. Climbing the stairs with her nestled into his arms’ fiery muscle mass would be ego-annihilating debilitation.

“Somehow, I’d guessed that.” He adjusted her weight in his arms and swore on his dumb luck. Of course her bedroom was on the top floor. Fortunately, she was a petite — though amply packed — powerhouse.

“How about if you put me on the sofa in my studio?” She pointed to the darkened room to their left, a mischievous smile curving her lips.

“I’m all for that,” he said, fighting to keep a victorious smile from escaping his lips. Although he was sure he was more humored by her acquiescence than she apparently was, he wasn’t about to let her see his relief.

Doing his best to remain stoic, as if the stairs were no big deal, he turned to take her in the direction she’d requested, but then pivoted back to the marble foyer table, tentatively taking steps toward the croc. “I just gotta touch this thing first. Make sure it’s dead.”

Still holding Roxy tight, he brushed the backside of one hand against the croc’s head, careful not to disturb the necklace, fearing the beast might be possessive of his treasure. Laying his hand on the gator’s shellacked, knotted snout, he shivered, swearing the damn thing’s eyes twitched. Taxidermy anything gave him the creeps.

“So who did you say had one of these in England?” Zayne asked, toting Roxy toward her studio, still buzzing on an adrenaline high complements of the croc.

“Manolo Blahnik,” she said, appearing somewhat insulted by his ignorance. “He swears no creature on earth compares to a Louisiana alligator.”

“Okay…”
Screw this game
. “And Manolo Blahnik would be…?”

Crossing the studio’s threshold, Roxy reached out to the right of the door and cranked a recessed lighting knob as high as it would go. Zayne didn’t need to wait for her answer. Signed and numbered prints of the man’s sketches and his shoes were immortalized in every available inch. Talk about having a hang up. Roxy may not have room for any other man in her life.

“According to Madonna, Manolo’s shoes are better than sex. And they last longer,” Roxy said, melodrama dripping from her every word followed by a wicked giggle. “He’s the man solely — pun intended — responsible for the design of every one of the thousands of shoes that bear his name. Damn I’m funny.”

“Yeah…freakin’ hilarious.” Zayne deposited her on a red leather couch in the center of the room, his arms tingling even after he’d released her. “I take it you own a pair of each?”

Circling the room, he focused on the custom, glass-fronted, oak cupboards holding hundreds of pairs of shoes. “So you have a shoe designer fetish. Odd. But tolerable.”