Fast & Loose (11 page)

She was suddenly grateful for the anonymity that art brought with it. Certainly a lot of artists were famous, and many of them actively cultivated their fame. But there were far more—like Lulu—who enjoyed working in their studios, away from the masses, sending their art out for the world to enjoy without having a recognizable face attached to it. Lulu didn’t even put her photograph on her website alongside her very brief bio, because she wanted the art, not the artist, to grab the attention.

Yep, there was no chance Pufferfish Girl would ever appear again as long as Lulu performed the job that she performed. And she fully intended to keep it that way.

Cole was still signing autographs—and still hadn’t had more than a few sips of his beer—when Bree joined them fifteen minutes later. While Cole was still preoccupied with a particularly insistent young woman, Lulu leaned close and told her friend about the phony name she’d given him, both of them giggling when Bree warned that Aunt Hortense better not get wind of it. Lulu outlined the rest of her plan, too—to make herself look as undesirable as possible in an effort to boost Bree’s already abundant charms—so that by the time Cole finally, finally had a long enough break in his renown to catch a breath, the two women were gazing at him innocently, as if neither had been blinded by the sheer wattage of his fame.

He exhaled a long, exhausted sigh, smiled weakly at the two women, then reached for his beer and took a long, leisurely quaff. Then he grimaced. “God, it’s warm. I hate warm beer.”

“Let me buy you another one,” Bree offered magnanimously. Then added, “Somewhere else.”

Cole glanced first at Bree, then back at Lulu. And then he grinned. “I have a better idea, Hort…ah, Hortense and Bree,” he said, only stumbling over her phony name a little bit this time. “Why don’t you let
me
buy
you
ladies a drink somewhere else. And then you local girls can tell me all the things I should do while I’m visiting your hometown.”

IF SHE LIVED TO BE A HUNDRED AND FIFTY, LULU
would never be able to figure out how she came to be sitting at a table not far from the jellyfish in Felt with her best friend since childhood and the Bad Boy of the Thoroughbred Set.

Just how did one get to be the Bad Boy of the Thoroughbred Set, anyway? she wondered as she reached for the club soda she’d begun drinking when Bree and Cole ordered round number four. Probably, she thought further, she didn’t want to know. Because even if she didn’t know how a man came by such a distinction, she’d witnessed what it meant to assume it, not the least of which was signing lots of autographs for lots of women, some of whom seemed to lose control of both their spines and their clothing whenever they came within autograph distance of the Bad Boy of the Thoroughbred Set. Lulu knew that because a couple of them had come up to their table at Felt to ask for autographs, and each of them had had to lean forward
waaaaaay
more than was actually necessary when she handed Cole pen and paper, and her dress somehow slipped right off her shoulders. And even though Lulu had never earned less than a B minus in science, she couldn’t think of a single law of physics that would explain a phenomenon like that.

“Let’s see,” Bree was saying now, in response to Cole’s question about the must-see Derby events happening while he was in town, “there’s the balloon race, the steamboat race, the bed race, the rat race, the wine race—”

“Bed race?” Cole repeated. “Rat race? Wine race?”

Bree nodded. “The Run for the Rosé. I’m doing that one myself. All the local restaurants enter someone from their waitstaff to race with glasses of wine. I’ll be representing the Ambassador Bar. The rat race is the Run for the Rodents, and the prize is a loving cup full of Froot Loops. With the Great Bed Race—which used to be called Bedlam in the Streets and was actually
in
the street, but now they’re at the fairgrounds—you have teams from local businesses that decorate beds and race them.” Bree slung an arm around Lulu’s shoulder. “Back in the day, Hortense and I were on the winning team for the copy shop where we worked when we were in high school.”

Cole smiled, and just like that, Lulu was ready to skim off her panties and do the whole silver platter thing again.

“And then there’s the parties,” Bree added. “You’ve got everything from the Barnstable Brown affair to the Derby Bash, which is great fun and raises money for the Fairness Campaign. Hortense and I go every year. You can come with us.” Before he had a chance to decline, she hurried on, “Of course, I’m betting you already have an invite to the Barnstable Brown affair.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I do, actually. But I wasn’t planning on attending.”

“Oh, God, yes, you
have
to attend,” Bree exclaimed. “It’s
the
party to be seen at. Everyone wants to go to that, but even if you can afford the tickets—and even before the scalpers get a hold of them, they’re hundreds of dollars—they’re impossible to get. You need a date?” she inserted with what sounded like almost genuine carelessness.

“Wait a minute. I have to
pay
to go to a party I’m
invited
to?”

“All the big Derby parties are fundraisers,” Lulu told him.

Bree nodded. “The Barnstable Brown party raises money for diabetes research. The Mint Jubilee raises money for cancer research. The Grand Gala raises money for a bunch of different stuff. It ain’t cheap to be a party animal during Derby,” she concluded, “but at least you know you’re getting shaken down for a good cause.”

Cole smiled at that. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“The Run for the Rosé is Tuesday down on the Belvedere,” Bree said. “You should come.”

Instead of replying to Bree, Cole looked at Lulu. “Will you be there?” he asked. Then, as if he were fearful the question might be too intrusive, he quickly added, “To cheer your friend on?”

Lulu looked at Bree, who was studying her warily. “I…” she began. “I usually do go to cheer Bree on,” she said. Somehow, though, she was thinking maybe Bree didn’t want her to this year.

“Depends on what’s going on at the track that day,” Cole said. “But I’ll do my best to be there. So I know Bree tends bar, but what do you do, Hort…ense?”

Wow, Lulu thought. He almost didn’t stumble over her phony name at all that time. Of course, she’d also noticed he’d been going out of his way all night to avoid using it at all. Then she remembered he’d asked her a question about her job that needed an answer. And since most people found the idea of making glass for a living interesting enough to ask a lot of questions about it, she told herself to come up with a fake occupation that wouldn’t interest him so that the conversation would stay focused on Bree or, better yet, would be repellent enough to discourage any further conversation about Lulu at all.

Briefly, she thought about saying she styled dead people’s hair, but she didn’t want to end the conversation
that
completely. So she told him, “I work on the assembly line for a manufacturer of kitchen appliances.”

Cole’s expression didn’t change, so she wasn’t sure if he wasn’t interested in her alleged job or if she’d already put him to sleep.

So she added, “I’m the one who attaches the little utensil basket to dishwashers.”

He nodded at that. “Fascinating.” But, like his expression, the word was completely bland, telling her nothing of what he might actually be feeling.

Nevertheless, she managed a smile and tried to warm to the subject. “It is, actually. Not many people realize how much thought and planning goes into where you put the utensil basket on a dishwasher.”

“Well, I know I sure don’t,” Bree said. She punctuated the comment by kicking Lulu under the table, a not-so-subtle reminder to ixnay on the ishwasherday anufacturingmay.

Ightray. Lulu had orgottenfay. This was all about Eebray.

“Anyway,” she said, “that’s what I ooday. Ah, do. For a living.”

She still couldn’t tell what Cole was thinking, but at least he wasn’t looking at her like she was a few brushstrokes short of a paint-by-numbers horse head.

“Bree’s job is much more interesting than mine,” she said halfheartedly.

“But
your
job is the most interesting of all,” Bree told Cole enthusiastically. “What’s it like, living a lifestyle of the rich and famous?”

His expression darkened almost imperceptibly, but Lulu noticed the change and realized this wasn’t a line of conversation he wanted to follow. This time she was the one to kick Bree under the table in an effort to warn her away from the champagne wishes and caviar dreams thing.

But Bree either didn’t get the hint or chose not to take it, because she leaned in closer to Cole and said, “I mean, I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to have everything you ever wanted. Dream job. Oodles of money. California real estate. Oodles of money. Racehorses. Oodles of money. Not to mention good looks and fashion sense.” She smiled. “And did I mention oodles of money?”

Lulu winced at her friend’s forwardness. Bree was pouring it on even more than usual. Normally, she was a little more tactful. Normally, she only mentioned oodles of money twice.

She waited for Cole to say something snappish, like that it was none of Bree’s business. Or maybe he’d be polite and just pretend he hadn’t heard her. Or maybe he was just going to stall for a while, she thought further when he only lifted his beer to sip it, and set down the glass without a word. When he finally looked up with an apparent intention to reply, he dragged the tip of his middle finger around the rim of his glass, slowly, carefully, and with great attention. And when he opened his mouth to speak, it was to look not at Bree, but at Lulu.

Then, very softly, he said, “Well, I wouldn’t say I have
everything
I’ve ever wanted.”

And suddenly, it was as if the finger making its way leisurely around the rim of the glass was making its way leisurely up her spine instead. Something in his curiously green eyes spoke of barely banked embers and smoldering coals that might burst into flame again any minute if given the slightest little poke. Lulu felt like she was sitting in front of the torch in her studio, the one she had to burn at about eight million degrees to melt the glass to the consistency she wanted before molding it. It was a heat unlike any other in the world, one that surrounded and smothered and entered every pore, settling deep under the skin, scorching down to the bone. A heat that should have been uncomfortable, even unbearable, but was instead oddly pleasurable, because it lent to the creation of something wondrous and beautiful. A heat that would be destructive under other circumstances, but in glassmaking generated something lovely and unique, and fragile enough to need constant care.

She had no idea what to say in response to Cole’s remark. She was too busy battling that heat and being swamped by that heat and having that heat seep under her skin. And try as she might, she simply could not tear her gaze from the slow, methodical movement of his fingertip around the rim of the glass…and around again…and again…and again…and again…

“Wow, is that the time? I had no idea it was so late. We really have to go.”

Lulu started at the rush of words, so surprised was she at hearing them. Especially when she realized it was she who had blurted them out. Not only could she not remember having chosen to say such a thing, but she didn’t understand why she might have said it, since things were just starting to get interesting with Cole, and even more interesting with his fingers, and—

Oh, right. That was why she’d said it. Because she wasn’t supposed to find Cole, or his fingers, interesting. Bree was supposed to be doing that. Even without Bree in the picture, Lulu’s getting interested in any part of Cole—or any of Cole’s parts, for that matter—would be crazy. Lulu liked men who were slow and steady. Not men who were fast and loose. Not to mention only in town temporarily.

When she looked over at Bree, her friend was gazing at her with both curiosity and suspicion. After a moment, though, she nodded slowly and said, “Um, okay. I guess you do have to get up early to make it to the dishwasher plant on time, don’t you, Hortense?”

“First shift,” Lulu replied brightly.

She grabbed her purse from the chair where she’d placed it and stood, noting that Bree took a moment longer and was eyeing her now with something akin to wariness. She wondered if her friend had detected the odd sizzle of…whatever it was Lulu had felt sizzling when she looked at Cole…and wanted it to fizzle out as much as Lulu did. Because Lulu
did
want to fizzle the sizzle. Number one, because Cole Early was supposed to be sizzling with Bree. And number two…

Huh. That was funny. She couldn’t remember reason number two. Oh, yeah, she recalled suddenly. Because he wasn’t her type.

“Thanks for the drinks, Cole,” Bree said reluctantly, clearly not wanting to let her catch, however tenuous, get away. As if wanting to ensure that didn’t happen, she added, “Are you staying at the Ambassador? Will I see you in the bar again?”

He shook his head, but Lulu wasn’t sure if he was answering only one of the questions, or both. “No, I’m not. I’ve got a—” He halted abruptly, then continued, “I’m staying somewhere else.”

“Well, I hope to see you again,” she added anyway. “Soon.”

Under her breath, for Lulu’s ears alone, she added, “Alone. Right, Lulu? Next time we run into Cole, you’ll make yourself scarce, right?”

So obviously Bree had detected the weird sizzle.
Damn.
Though why, exactly, Lulu was cursing that development, she couldn’t really say. What she did say was, “Yes, Bree.” Because there was no way she would ever stand in the way of her friend’s lifetime dream.

Even if it was a stupid dream. And even if, suddenly, Lulu was starting to think maybe she had a dream of her own.

COLE WATCHED THE TWO WOMEN AS THEY MADE
their way to the exit, wondering when someone had snuck up behind him and hit him with a brick. Because sitting with Bree and Hortense—what
had
her parents been thinking to name her that?—he’d begun to feel and think things he hadn’t felt or thought for a very long time.

Like how nice it felt to spend an evening doing nothing but chatting and drinking beer. Cole couldn’t remember the last time he’d just kicked back and relaxed for the hell of it.

A beer drinker, he marveled about Hortense—what
had
her parents been thinking? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out with a woman who’d ordered a beer, either. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ordered a beer himself. Although he loved an ice-cold longneck at the end of the workday when he was on the ranch, or if he was at a track when he didn’t have a horse running and didn’t have to be King Cole. He just didn’t order it when he was out, because it wasn’t the sort of thing major players in the horseracing industry drank.

And that was another thing. Although Bree had been pretty knowledgeable about the industry he worked in and pretty much lived for, Hortense—what
had
her parents been thinking?—didn’t know squat. Cole didn’t normally associate with people who knew so little about bloodlines and broodmares and gate assignments and all the things he’d built his career—hell, his very life—upon. Even worse, she knew nothing—and cared less—about “King Cole.” How could anyone in this town, at this time of year, after the way he’d been hounded by the local press, not know—or care—about him? She’d talked to him as if he were a regular guy, not the larger-than-life image of a man he’d cultivated for himself in the business.

And that was when another—bigger—brick hit him. Because he realized then how enjoyable it had been to drink beer with Hortense Waddy who knew nothing about horses and cared less about him. And then he was slammed by another projectile, this one about the size of a basement foundation: Drinking beer with Hortense Waddy and her friend had kept the groupies and autograph hounds at bay for a good part of the evening. Once the three of them left the Ambassador and came here to…whatever the name of this place was, the celebrity-seekers had dwindled to nearly nothing. Having the women with him had created a nice buffer zone that kept the Trainer Hangers at bay. Of course, that hadn’t been the case at the Ambassador. He’d been constantly interrupted in his conversation there. Here, though, it hadn’t been a problem at all.