No strings attached (15 page)

His face remained a hard mask. “Do you want us to be exclusive?”

How was she supposed to answer that when he had her bound to him? Every time she moved she felt his possession. “Yes. Until we finish this Faustian agreement.”

Eric eased his body free, eased her legs from his supporting hold. He slipped an arm behind her and helped her to sit on the edge of the table. He rid himself of the condom, adjusted his clothing and looked her in the eyes.

Chloe could barely move. Her back ached, her hip joints screamed. Her inner thighs throbbed. Her sex burned. Her conscience stung, and any control she’d once had had long since ceased to exist.

Working her dress down over her hips, her straps back over her shoulders, she slid from the edge of the table onto shaky feet, stood and smoothed her hair. She prayed for Eric to keep his mouth shut and leave without saying another word. But her prayers had rarely been answered.

He put his hand on the doorknob, paused and turned to meet her defiant gaze. “Let me tell you something, Chloe. The reason I call you princess is because your ivory tower is so damn high. You make it hard for a man to get close to you, much less claim you as his.”

She lifted her chin. “And now you’ve breached the tower, you think you own me? That you have a say over how I run my life?”

“Is that what you think I want, Chloe?”

“Isn’t it?” When had a man ever wanted anything less?

“No, I don’t want to own you. I want to know you. There’s a helluva lot left for me to learn. And I mean to learn it, princess. All of it.” He stepped into the hall and reached back for the door, his gaze hardening. “No matter how many walls I have to scale.”

For long moments after Eric left, Chloe stared at the closed door. But no matter how hard she pressed a hand to her heart, she couldn’t stop its flutter of foolish hope.

C
HLOE REFUSED TO PANIC
.

She remembered having rushed past a ladies’ room during Eric’s earlier mad dash for privacy. And she scurried there now, before anyone could see her.

Before Eric, who was pacing the hallway—thankfully at the far end and in the other direction, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and looking down at the floor—could say anything more about what had just happened, and add to her regrets.

Or to her hopes.

Her face was an absolute mess. Her lipstick was completely gone, or else smeared across her cheeks and her chin. Her foundation was damaged beyond any repair she could make with a compact. And what was left of her blusher was a joke.

Her mascara had fared better, though it left her with a serious case of raccoon eyes. And she hadn’t even gotten to her hair. Her brush, along with her makeup, was in the tiny black feather-boa bag she’d left hanging on her chair, thinking she wouldn’t be gone from the ballroom for more than a minute or two.

She’d never expected to find herself dragged off like a cave woman by a caveman.

She stared at her reflection, thankful the ladies’
room was off the beaten path and empty. She couldn’t face seeing anyone just yet. It was hard enough to face herself. What she’d just done was exactly what she’d promised herself and sworn to Sydney wouldn’t happen.

She’d jeopardized the very career she was trying to save by walking out on the gIRL-gEAR gIRL awards for a quickie. And she couldn’t begin to understand why.

She never went into a sexual relationship without using her head before using her body. And sex, as a rule, came in one of two flavors: Sinfully Sweet Fun or Power Trip Delicious.

The intimacy she and Eric had just shared was beyond her ability to define. Her head hadn’t factored into any part of their joining, yet she’d felt more than bodily connected. She feared she had put her heart on the line. Eric’s accusations had cut to the bone and his words continued to sting.

Experience had taught her not to involve emotion, and to avoid give and take. Giving was too tied into giving
up
for her comfort. After so many years of being told what to wear, how to behave, where to focus her studies, she was finally
in control of her life.

Every single aspect of her life. And no one was going to take that away by convincing her they loved her and, because they loved her, knew what she needed, what she wanted.

Who she was.

She turned on the faucet, the rush of water a drowning sound ridding her of old memories and those still fresh, still sticky and new. Damn Eric Haydon and his ivory tower promises.

Knowing she wasn’t going to be going anywhere
until she did what she could to fix her face, she splashed warm water onto it and, resigned to using the liquid hand soap, had just started scrubbing her forehead when she heard the bathroom door open.

Taking a deep breath before taking her medicine, she lifted her head, opening her eyes just enough to peak through the bubbles and get a glimpse of Melanie Craine in the mirror.

At least it wasn’t Sydney. Or Eric, Chloe thought, hoping to avoid facing both of them.

She finished cleaning her face, then rinsed her skin free of soap and rinsed it again. Melanie hopped up onto the far end of the counter, handing Chloe several paper towels once she’d turned off the water.

She straightened, patted her face dry, grimaced at the reflection in the mirror of her splotchy red skin—the result of the harsh soap, the rough towels, her embarrassment and the abrasion of Eric’s beard.

That last was harder than anything to look at because of the undoubted repercussions, both personal and professional. And professional she had to deal with first. She turned her gaze to Melanie. Melanie, the doll who hadn’t forgotten Chloe’s purse.

“I owe you for this.” Chloe went straight for the tiny bottle of moisturizer. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Your guard dog is sitting on a bench outside the door.” Melanie crossed her feet at the ankles and swung her legs. “You might want to tell him that Peppermint Peony is not his color.”

Chloe squeezed her eyes closed. Perfect. A walking, talking billboard advertising her bad timing and loss of judgment. “So everyone has seen him and knows?”

“Actually, I don’t think so.” Melanie caught
Chloe’s purse before it slipped into the sink. “You managed to pick an out-of-the-way rest room.”

A light at the end of the tunnel? “Do me a quick favor?”

Melanie nodded, watching as Chloe worked the lotion into her skin. “Stick your head out there and tell him to beat it.” When the other woman’s dark brows lifted in question, Chloe added, “And tell him I’ll call him when I get home.”

Melanie hopped down from the counter’s edge. “Didn’t you two come here together?”

Shaking her head, Chloe dug into her emergency makeup bag for foundation. “He met me here. He’s only my escort. We’re not dating. Remember?”

Melanie’s reflected expression echoed her disbelieving, “Yeah. Right.”

But she stuck her head out the door, anyway. Chloe listened to the mumble of voices, not able to make out any specific words. But Eric’s tone of voice was enough to convey his displeasure at being blown off.

She wasn’t blowing him off. She really wasn’t. But she could deal with only one disaster at a time. And Sydney had to come first. If only Chloe could figure out how to diffuse that bomb before it dropped.

Melanie returned, hopped back onto the counter, dragging the hem of her short dress in the second sink.

“You’re going to ruin that silk.”

But Melanie, being Melanie, and thinking on a technical plane, couldn’t be bothered with Chloe’s fabric care tips. “He left, but he wasn’t happy about it.”

“So I heard.” Chloe paused, makeup sponge hovering above her nose. “You told him I’d call him, right?”

“I did.”

“And? I’m not in the mood to pull teeth here, Mel. What did he say?”

She shrugged. “He’ll be waiting.”

He’ll be waiting?
“That was it?”

“We didn’t take time for a long chat. I thought you wanted him gone.”

She did. She didn’t. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m not at my best right now.”

“Now I find that hard to believe, seeing your postorgasmic glow.” Melanie’s arched brow dared Chloe to deny the obvious.

So Chloe told only half of a lie. “This is not a glow. This is the result of washing my face with industrial-strength cleaner.”

“And Eric was wearing your lipstick because you were doing his colors?”

Chloe returned the foundation to her bag, dug out her powdered blusher. What was the point of beating around the bush when the obvious was so damn obvious? She attacked one cheek with the brush.

“Okay, yes. I’m wearing a head-to-toe postorgasmic glow. Eric and I just screwed our brains out.” She attacked the other cheek. “Was it worth ruining my face and my panties? You’re damn right it was. Was it worth screwing up my career?”

She left the question hanging. She needed time to think, to make more than a few decisions about what she was doing with her life.

“Panties, huh?”

Chloe sighed.

“Your career is fine.”

Chloe snorted. “Sure. You can say that. You’re not the one who ran out on one of the most important
nights gIRL-gEAR has ever put together. I let everyone down.”

“I told Sydney you were sick.”

Snapping her compact shut, Chloe cut her gaze from the mirror to Melanie’s face. “What do you mean, sick?”

“It was obvious to everyone at the table that you weren’t your usual self. You sat through the entire meal and program without tossing off a single smart remark. Then Eric dragged you out of there right after you ate that lemon stuff.” Melanie shrugged. “Since the rest of us had chocolate, it was an easy enough bluff.”

Chloe’s heart thudded. “You really think anyone, Sydney especially, bought that I’m sick?”

“It’s worth a shot. Eric’s gone. You can say you sent him home, which is the truth.”

“Yes. But it doesn’t say much for his character, does it? Leaving his sick date all alone?”

“You’re not all alone. I’m here. And I helped you send him home. Besides, this is your career, Chloe. If you have to choose between gIRL-gEAR and hot sex…” Melanie let the sentence trail off, picked it up a second later. “It’s not really a choice at all, is it?”

For all that she wanted to agree, Chloe found herself unable to do anything but twist the wand back into her mascara, leaving her eyes halfway bare. She looked over and met Melanie’s gaze. “What if it’s not just hot sex?”

Melanie blinked, blinked again, then slowly scooted off the edge of the counter and leaned against the wall. “You are kidding, right? You and Eric? Wait. You and anybody? Since when is this mission to clean up your act the real thing?”

“It’s not. Never mind.” Chloe went back to fixing her eyes.

Melanie edged closer. “Don’t tell me to never mind. You wouldn’t have asked that question if you weren’t seriously wondering.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want to think about what I’m thinking about. I don’t want it to be on my mind. I want to get through the Wild Winter Woman fashion show and be done with this escort business.”

Except she owed Eric one more wish. And even then she wasn’t sure she’d have settled anything in her mind. Or what so strangely felt like her heart.

A
NTON
N
EVILLE STOOD
facing the converted freight elevator that would take him up the four floors to Lauren’s loft. He took one last drag on the cigarette he didn’t want, dropped the butt to the concrete walkway and crushed it beneath his boot.

What the hell did Lauren think she was doing with Nolan Ford?

She’d moved out of Anton’s place six weeks earlier, claiming he was a control freak, that he couldn’t deal with her sexuality or her sexual past, that he was too uptight and had never taken the time to get to know her the way he would have if he’d loved her.

Anton could have thrown the same accusation into Lauren’s face. But he hadn’t. Because they’d both been guilty as charged. He was man enough to take what was coming to him. He wasn’t going to ask her to come back.

He had been going to suggest they start at the beginning, that they take things easy and slow and forget they’d ever tumbled head over heels. He’d been going to suggest all of those things because he couldn’t believe Lauren had thrown away the year they’d been inseparable.

But now he wasn’t going to suggest anything.

Not when she was seeing Nolan Ford.

Anton shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy
designer suit pants of dark brown corduroy. He’d left his jacket and his tie in his Jaguar when he’d parked in the garage adjacent to the loft.

After the gIRL-gEAR gIRL ceremony, he’d dropped Annabel at her place and had been on his way home. He’d enjoyed her company and was quite sure she would’ve been happy to make sure he ended the evening a very satisfied man.

But he wasn’t in any frame of mind for a new involvement. Not when he hadn’t yet given up the old.

He hadn’t been aware of any conscious decision to stop and see Lauren. But old habits were hard to break. And now that he was here he didn’t know whether to leave or to take the ride to the fourth floor and see if she wanted to…get a cup of coffee and talk.

The thought of finding her in the throes of drinking coffee with Nolan Ford was what finally turned Anton away from the elevator and back toward the garage. Thinking about Lauren with another man was bad enough. He didn’t need to give witness. And so he was walking away. Except two steps down the hallway, he heard the elevator motor engage.

He hesitated, waited for his heart to regain its usual rhythm.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
And he stopped, turned back, listened to the mechanical bellow and groan as the car made its way to the ground floor.

He had his hands in his pockets and his feet spread wide, prepared to come face-to-face with the laughing couple, and ready with the excuse of having stopped by for a DVD he was certain he’d left here and had promised to drop off for his teenage brother in the morning.

But when the door creaked open it was Lauren, alone, and she was taking out the trash.

She wore thick white socks and had shoved her feet into clogs. Her sweatpants were purple, worn and baggy. Her hair still tumbled to her shoulders in the same big curls he’d wanted to get his hands on all night.

She hadn’t yet scrubbed the makeup from her face. Her eyes glittered. Her skin glowed. She was incredibly beautiful. And the T-shirt she wore was a concert souvenir she’d bought him weeks after they’d started dating. Even if Nolan
had
been standing beside her in the elevator, she was still wearing Anton’s shirt.

He took the black plastic bag from her hands because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his voice. Lauren fell into step at his side and walked with him down the hallway to the back door and the building’s Dumpster. Her feet made a shuffling, scraping sound that echoed off the high brick walls.

“Did you have a good time this evening?” she finally asked, and her voice echoed, too, breaking the uncomfortably awkward silence.

Pretending his sudden appearance wasn’t unusual suited him. “I did, thanks. Did you?”

She nodded, gave a slight smile. “It was fun to finally see the program come together after all the work we put into it.”

“That was a good thing gIRL-gEAR did, awarding those scholarships. And you picked the perfect girl for the job.” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten her name.”

“Deanna Elliott.”

“Deanna, right.” He hesitated for a second, then went ahead with what he wanted to say, even though
the issue had long been a bone of contention. “She seemed as passionate about fashion as you’ve always been about art.”

“Are you dating Poe?” Lauren asked, exchanging one bone for another.

“We’ve been out, but we’re not dating.” He pushed open the heavy steel door that opened onto the walled-off section behind the lofts and contained the building’s Dumpster, loading dock and maintenance shed. A lone streetlight illuminated the big asphalt square, and the night was cool and misty.

Anton tossed the bag in with the rest of the trash and returned to the door Lauren held open. “What about you and Nolan? Are you and the old man serious?”

Lauren released the heavy door. It slammed shut, the reverberating echo ringing in Anton’s ears.

“Nolan is not an old man.”

“Relatively speaking, I suppose not. But he’s got, what, twenty years on you?”

“Seventeen, if it’s any of your business, which I don’t think it is.” She turned and started her shuffle and scrape back down the hallway to the elevator.

Anton wasn’t going to let her slough off the subject as easily. “So what
is
going on with you two?”

“Does it really matter, Anton? I don’t remember us agreeing to stay in touch and keep tabs on each other’s lives and loves.”

“Is that what Nolan is? A love?” Anton hated the weakness that caused him to ask.

Lauren wrapped her arms around her middle. “Nolan is a friend. A supportive friend who shares my passion for art.”

Anton kept himself from asking what other of her
passions the older man shared. He hadn’t come here to get into a sniping match and he didn’t really want to know. “Right. And since he seeded gIRL-gEAR, he no doubt thinks pouring all your energies into the company is what you need to do. Instead of, oh, say, exploring what else is out there. What bigger and better things you might do with your degree.”

Another long-standing argument that had played a part in Lauren’s decision to break off their relationship. But she replied, “Actually, he’s made me realize that what I want to do is go back to grad school.”

And that surprised him. Pleased him on one hand, caused a sharp pang of resentment on the other. “You never even hinted that you wanted to go back to school when we were together.”

They’d reached the elevator now and stopped. Lauren delayed hitting the button that would retrieve the car. She looked at him instead, frowning slightly, as if trying to see something she’d missed before. Or something she’d hoped had since disappeared.

“I didn’t know it myself. Leaving gIRL-gEAR was not something I wanted to think about. That I did know. But I hadn’t considered going back to school while working.”

“Why that particular change of focus? School instead of a career change?” He liked that she was talking about taking her career forward. He just found it curious, since she’d been so adamantly against any change all those nights they’d argued.

She gave a thoughtful shrug. “It seemed to make sense. I won’t be giving up a career I love, but I’ll be keeping future options open.”

Which was all he’d ever wanted her to do. Did she
now think differently about him? Or had she still not figured out he had her best interests at heart?

“Nolan agrees that it won’t be easy—”

Bitter, Anton shoved his hands to his hips. “I should’ve known. This is Nolan’s doing.”

“No. It’s my doing,” Lauren said, raising her chin.

“But you’ve talked it over with him.”

“The same way I would have talked it over with you if you hadn’t been so set on me looking beyond gIRL-gEAR.”

Had their relationship really been so lacking in communication? “I never suggested you leave immediately.”

“You never suggested I do anything
but
leave, Anton.” Lauren appeared on the verge of pulling out her hair. “We never discussed other options. You put down your foot and told me what was best for me.”

“I suppose Nolan gave you those options.” Anton practically spat out the other man’s name.

“As a matter of fact, he did. I talked to him about what I would need down the road if I wanted to move into marketing or even into film.” A grin touched the corners of her mouth as she drew an imaginary theater screen in the air. “Art Director, Lauren Hollister. I like the way that sounds.”

Anton ground his teeth. “You could’ve talked over your ideas with me.”

She shook her head, her gaze finding his. “No. You weren’t open to anything but things being done your way. I hadn’t even thought of film until Nolan brought up the subject.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found someone willing to humor you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and frowned. “Nolan isn’t humoring me.”

“He’s giving you what you want to hear. What would you call it if not humoring?”

“Friendship. Caring. Interest.”

Anton snorted, recognizing that what he was feeling was about as shitty as his attitude got. But it still didn’t stop him from saying, “You sure his interest isn’t in finding out what you have in your pants?”

Lauren only stared, then huffed in disgust and smacked her palm against the elevator call button. “I think you’d better leave now. We’ve said all there is to say.”

The elevator arrived. The door opened. Lauren stepped inside. The moment stretched.

Apologize,
Anton ordered himself.
Tell her how you feel before it’s too late.
But his emotions were a jumbled mess, inexplicable even to himself.

So he let her push a button and refuse to meet his eyes. He let her leave, believing he was a first-class prick. He let her go back to her loft and evolving career and a future that didn’t include him.

When the elevator door closed, he would’ve kicked the damn thing, but he didn’t want Lauren to hear the sound of his frustration echo up the shaft. Instead, he turned slowly and headed to the parking garage, his steps heavy.

For the first time in memory, the sight of his gleaming black Jaguar failed to give him a rush. He unlocked the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, wondering if it was too late to pay a return visit to Annabel Lee.

Her reception would be warm. She would probably banish this cold emptiness inside his chest.

But she wouldn’t be Lauren.

Acknowledging defeat, Anton fired up the engine and screamed out of the garage. Hell, who needed a woman? His buddy Jack Daniels could warm him up just fine, with far fewer complications.

C
HLOE DIDN’T THINK
she’d ever been so glad to get home. Halfway across the living room, she tossed her purse to the sofa and kicked off her shoes. The strappy pink heels went flying, leaving her three inches shorter and closer to being able to relax.

She needed to shower, to wash her face again, to wash away her encounter with Eric and the rest of the disastrous night. No matter what Melanie claimed, Chloe wasn’t sure she’d convinced anyone she wasn’t feeling well even if, by the time she’d actually made her way back to the near-empty ballroom, she’d been feeling like ten-day-old garbage.

Melanie had done her best to cover, but Chloe knew she was going to have to clear the air with Sydney herself. It was hardly fair to use Melanie even if the sick-as-a-dog story had been her idea. Chloe was a big girl and needed to swallow whatever bad-tasting medicine Sydney spooned up.

She padded across the thick, cream-colored carpet of her dark taupe-and-mauve living room through the dining area and into her apartment’s nice big kitchen, complete with breakfast nook and walk-in pantry. The complex where she lived was downtown and upscale, and being on ground level meant she was one of the lucky few with a patio courtyard.

After staring blankly into her refrigerator and deciding what she really wanted was a glass of wine—which she didn’t have, so she’d have to settle for a
beer—she reached for a cold Corona longneck and a lime.

With stocking-covered feet slipping on the tiled floor, she carried both to the butcher block island in the center of the kitchen and pulled open the drawer where she stored her bottle opener and paring knives. She pried off the bottle cap, sliced the lime, squeezed the juice from a single wedge into the golden brew and lifted the bottle to her mouth.

As her chin came up, her head tilted back and the bitterly cold liquid flowed into her mouth, her gaze naturally rose until she found herself looking down the line of the bottle and out the patio door.

Eric sat on the black, wrought-iron bench that was the focal piece of her courtyard garden. He leaned forward, his knees spread wide. His elbows were planted on his thighs, his fingers playing with a long blade of monkey grass.

He drew the shoot between thumb and index finger, from end to end, holding the base in one hand until, with the other, he reached the narrow tip. He repeated the process. Stroking long and slow. Base to tip. One end to the other. His eyes remained fixed on Chloe’s even when he moved the frond to his mouth, pulling it between lightly pressed lips, then blowing.

The grass fluttered to the ground.

Chloe lowered the bottle slowly, the cold glass beginning to sweat in her hand, the smell of lime a tangy contrast to the smell of the barley and hops. Against the cool floor, the soles of her feet grew damp, as did the pits of her knees, the creases of her thighs at her groin.

What had initially begun as fear, a sharp metallic fright stinging her skin and hampering her ability to
breathe, was turning into a wave of sweet expectation, wonder, anticipation and want.

How could she want him again so soon, already, when she’d had him only hours ago? When she’d since sworn to redirect her priorities and make reparations and amends and take control of the direction of her life?