No strings attached (17 page)

He reached out and with one finger tucked the fallen strands of hair behind her ear. She frowned at the contact, shifted slightly, then slowly opened her eyes. Her frown deepened.

“Don’t do that.” He drew his finger down the tiny crease between her brows. “Your face might stick that way. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that when you were a kid?”

She blinked once, twice, then raised up, propped her elbow on the bar and cupped her head in her palm. “I didn’t have a mother when I was a kid. In fact, I’ve never had a mother, period.”

Whoa! He’d known she’d been pretty much raised by her father but…“What do you mean, never?”

She covered a tiny yawn, shook her head lightly. “My mother died in an auto accident before my first birthday.”

Trust Chloe not to milk his sympathy in past discussions. She was too tough for that. Eric tucked back
her hair, which had again fallen free. “Why didn’t your father ever remarry?”

“Are you kidding?” She lost the frown for an expression of mocking disbelief. “Where would he find a woman as perfect as the wife who’d given him five children? Who’d never smoked or drank or raised her voice? Who was beautiful and gentle and content to be the happy homemaker?”

He studied Chloe’s face, the way her cynicism remained, the way her gaze never wavered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “It’s the truth I grew up with. I only recently found out it was a lie. She couldn’t measure up to his impossible standards when she was alive, so he created a paragon of virtue after her death. After a few years, I think he actually believed it himself. He sure as hell made me believe I was inferior.”

Oh, now this was interesting. It wasn’t a past lover, but her father who’d made it damn near impossible for Chloe to trust men. “How did you find out?”

She straightened where she sat, stretched, then draped her upper body over the edge of the bar. “My brother recently came to town and told me.”

“Yeah? Which one?” He knew she had four, but that she rarely saw them.

“Aidan. The oldest. The cowboy.” Her fond smile said he was also her favorite.

“Cowboy.” Eric snorted under his breath. “Why didn’t I know that, Chloe? Why don’t we both know more things like that about each other?” He toyed with the drawstring tied into a bow beneath the baby-doll top to her dress. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if we learned?”

She pulled the silky strings from his hand. “You’ve
had your three wishes. I have the Wild Winter Woman fashion show to get through and then we’ll go our separate ways. I think the best idea is to keep focused on our deal.”

That damned deal again. A devil’s bargain. “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours? Is that it?”

“Do you have an itch that needs scratching, sugar?” Her eyes were still sleepy, her smile relaxed, her posture a limber melting of tired muscles and bones. She looked like she harbored a sexy secret, and when she reached out a hand to share, Eric tensed.

She scraped her short fingernails down his thigh to his knee. The sensation was less the abrasion of a chalkboard and more the downward pull of a zipper. Eric was not going to let this happen.

He knew what she was doing, could see in her eyes the offer she was going to make. She didn’t want to talk about what he wanted to discuss, so she was turning the channel, switching stations, working to tune him in to her broadcast instead.

He should have jumped up from his stool right then, but he couldn’t leave without seeing how far she planned to take him. Or how far he’d let her get before he told her no. Because he would tell her no.

“I can do better than that, you know.” She pushed up from the bar, then from the bar stool. Trailing her nails in a reverse direction until she reached his hip, then drawing them up his torso to his shoulder, she circled to stand at his back.

He’d long since lost the jacket he’d been wearing, and his white oxford shirt did little to deaden the effect of her touch. Her fingertips pattered along his shoulders to his neck, where she skimmed her nails into the hair cut close at his nape. She scratched and rubbed,
finally cupping her hand and massaging his tired muscles. He couldn’t help but groan.

“See? You like it when I scratch your itch.” She whispered the words close to his ear, her breath a tickle of warmth across his skin.

“I never said I didn’t like it. When did I say I didn’t like it? Liking it isn’t the problem, Chloe.”

“Then what
is
the problem, sugar?” The question rolled off her tongue and she cupped the shell of his ear.

He pulled in a shuddering breath. “The problem is that I can’t do this anymore.”

Her hands paused in their working of his shoulders, but she quickly resumed her pace. “I don’t get it, Eric. What can’t you do?”

She’d called him Eric. He could deal with her calling him sugar. But when she said his name it made it hard to keep her at a distance. “I’m going to lock up the bar. I’m going to drive you home. I’m going to walk you to your door and, if you’re lucky, I’ll kiss you good-night. But that’s it. No more getting naked.”

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she leaned forward to run her hands from his collarbone to his pecs. Her breasts pressed firmly into his back. “You know, sugar, we never have gotten naked. Not together. Or at the same time. I think we should do something about that, don’t you?”

Eric took the biggest breath his lungs would hold and slipped out from under Chloe’s arms, turning on his stool to face her. He spread his legs, pulled her between, linked his arms behind her back to hold her still.

He knew from the spark reflected in her eyes that
his own burned with the fire eating him alive. “Are you sure you want to know what I think?”

Her flirtatious, come-on smile was uncharacteristically unsteady. “Of course I want to know what you think. I also want to know what you feel like—” she ran her hands up his thighs “—what you smell like—” she leaned toward his neck and inhaled “—how you taste.”

He managed to survive her seduction with only a slight adjustment to his fly and his shorts. Now it was his turn. And he hoped she was ready.

“What I think, Chloe, is that I should kiss you. Kiss your eyebrows—” which he did, one then the other “—the tip of your nose—” he kissed her there, too “—the corner of your mouth—” here he had the most trouble sticking to his game plan because he knew her mouth was so sweet “—before I nuzzle your neck.”

He drew the line at any more physical contact, beyond the fact that his hands were still pressed to the small of her back. He wasn’t made of stone, though in another minute he’d be hard as a rock. The look on Chloe’s face didn’t help. Her eyes were soft and dreamy, and the play of her lips and tongue spoke of her own obvious arousal.

Eric lowered his head, catching a hint of her floral perfume and the clean scent of her skin as he whispered close to her ear, “What I think is that I should tug down your dress and dip my tongue into your cleavage. Then I think I should peel you out of your bra and work you over with my mouth.”

Chloe released a breathy moan, pressing her upper arms together and lifting her breasts for his attention, while walking her hands over his rib cage and around his waist. “I like the way you think, sugar.”

But she’d hate what he was going to do.

He raised his head because he needed to breathe air that didn’t smell like her skin grown damp with arousal. Her wide violet eyes were fairly glazed, and her hands worked madly at his belt buckle. Her juices were flowing, and he had to be crazy, but he knew he had to pull away.

When he slid from the barstool, she took his hand in both of hers and backed toward the end of the bar, obviously intent on using it as a makeshift bed. But he dug into the pockets of his pants for his car keys.

Chloe stopped, her expression incredulous. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.” He bounced the keys in his palm.

Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “If a woman pulled this stunt, she’d be called every foul name in a man’s vocabulary.”

“Chloe, I love you.”

Her lashes fluttered, then stilled. Her mouth softened, but remained closed.

As reactions went, it blew beets, but he gamely forged ahead. “I’d kill right now to be inside you, but it’s not going to happen here or tonight. I don’t want a quickie on a bar counter. Next time I want a bed. And all night. And your full agreement that we’re not going to have sex.”

She blinked. “We’re not?”

Grinning at her disappointed tone, he stalked purposefully forward, grabbed her by the wrist, ready to take her home. “No, princess. We’re not. What we are going to do, when it happens, is make love. It’s about time you learned the difference.”

E
RIC HAD YET TO SEE
a single supermodel.

Here he was at gIRL-gEAR’s Wild Winter Woman fashion show, sitting in front of the runway, sharing prime real estate in the George R. Brown Convention Center with Leo Redding, Ray Coffey, Nolan Ford, Jess Morgan, Doug Storey and Anton Neville.

And there wasn’t a supermodel to be seen.

Chloe, the sneaky little thing, had obviously been willing to pull any rabbit out of her hat, since it had been the promise of the supermodels that had swayed Eric, way back when, to go along with her plan.

Well, that wasn’t quite the truth, he mused, shifting in the utilitarian convention center chair. What had convinced him in the beginning to barter his services had started months ago, before he’d been paired with Chloe for Macy’s scavenger hunt.

Because he played soccer with Anton, Eric had originally been introduced to Chloe by Lauren last year during the league’s spring season. He’d seen Chloe off and on during the months that followed and heard tales of her reputation through the local testosterone grapevine.

Tales that left him curious and disbelieving.

Curious because he’d never been able to reconcile the stories of her ball-busting skills with her sugarcoated, marshmallow appearance. And disbelieving
because he’d never met a woman who had it in for all men.

The scavenger hunt pairing had made him a convert.

But knowing the truth of her nature hadn’t made a bit of difference when he’d glanced up that late Saturday afternoon to see her sitting at the bar, wearing a football jersey, cross-trainers and a look of distress.

He’d dusted off his knight-in-shining-armor duds before she’d even filled him in on the particulars of her dragon. Now that he’d gone a round with the son of a bitch, Eric could testify to the beast’s bullying hide, intimidating scales and razor-sharp teeth tempered in cruelly abusive flames.

This damsel-rescuing business was hard work, though being a damsel had to be worse. Still, the lack of reward was almost reason enough to throw in the towel…or the chain mail.

Eric hadn’t seen Chloe for two weeks now, not since the night he’d driven her home and walked her to her door after the party they’d hosted. Telling her what they were going to do, then not doing anything, had been as hard to pull off as a two-outs, bases-loaded, bottom-of-the-ninth save. He’d started to kiss her there beneath the covered portico leading to her front door. But, true to form, she’d told him not to bother.

And now, sitting and tugging on the collar of his tuxedo shirt, he was trying to convince himself that he was here at the fashion show because he was her escort and that he wasn’t doing the kick-me, beat-me, make-me-beg routine.

It wasn’t an easy case to make when not one of the gIRL-gEAR partners was to be seen.

Up until a few minutes ago, at least, he’d been able
to carry on a conversation with Ray, who sat on his right, or with Anton and Leo, to his left. But now, with the DJ mixing old disco and new house music, setting what Eric supposed was a clothes-wearing mood, he had nothing but his thoughts for company.

Compared to supermodels, it was lousy entertainment.

The lights dimmed. Colored spotlights swept the room. The music surged to a crescendo, then died down to a low background beat. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome our hostess for the evening. Star of the locally produced and nationally syndicated talk show
Speak Up!,
Dr. Kate Lindsey!”

Automatically rather than enthusiastically, Eric joined the huge crowd in applause as the auburn-haired psychologist stepped from behind the curtain and made her way to the podium at the left of the stage.

“Good evening, Houston.” Dr. Lindsey’s greeting was met by another lively ovation. She smiled warmly out at the crowd. “It’s wonderful to see this amazing turnout and so many familiar faces. But save your energy for the show. Trust me. You’re going to need it. Because what I’ve seen backstage will blow you away.”

Again the crowd roared. Again Eric offered desultory applause. He was too much of a blue jeans and T-shirt kinda guy to get excited over seeing a bunch of women’s clothing. Now give him a supermodel…

“Houston? Get ready to be wooed. Get ready to be wowed. Get ready to open up your wallets and spend till it hurts! We have bragging rights to the hottest fashion ticket in the country. Now, let’s show the
world how we dress it up, Texas! Get ready for the girls of gIRL-gEAR!”

Eric shook his head and sat back. No wonder the girls had made themselves scarce. Supermodels. Right. And he was a major-league ball player. Still, he couldn’t wait to see Chloe strut her stuff…uh, as long as her stuff was covered.

The spotlights returned to dance across the stage. The curtain parted. Ground-hugging fog rolled forward, hovering over the platform, dissipating feet in front of the runway in smoky fingers of orange, yellow, pink and green.

The music turned funky and eight lithely androgynous gymnasts, poured into leotards of like colors, tumbled through the murky haze. Eric found himself caught up in the stylish production. But then the stage lights brightened and he quickly pulled a straight face.

Dr. Lindsey adjusted the podium’s reading lamp and moved to her script. “Recently awarded a full scholarship along with the title of gIRL-gEAR gIRL, please offer your congratulations one more time to Miss Deanna Elliott.”

Eric nodded to himself. So, Chloe’s favorite had won. She hadn’t told him. He wondered why she hadn’t. Not that he’d thought to ask…

“Most likely to go to the head of the class, Deanna is wearing a classic back-to-school look. Her red letter sweater tops a kicky private-school plaid kilt. Add a pair of red leather bad-girl boots and find
yourself
the teacher’s pet.”

Deanna strutted down the runway with one hand at her hip, her chin in the air and a saucy no-one-can-stop-me-now grin on her Julia Roberts mouth. Looking at the girl, Eric could only chuckle under his breath
and hope the partners knew what they were doing. They definitely had a monster on their hands.

Deanna tossed her head for the return trip, her sleek black ponytail slapped her shoulders like a whip, and Dr. Lindsey raised her voice above the thunderous response. “Thank you, Deanna. Now, please welcome the woman who gives you the best in guidance and games, editor of gIRL-gEAR’s Web site, Macy Webb.

“From the lemon-yellow tennis shoes and matching cuff watch in neon plastic, Macy’s ensemble is paint-spattered street punk personified. Her skin-hugging pullover in a Picasso-patterned mosaic is paired with a matching skirt covered in colorful subway-car graffiti. This is fashion at its silly unmatched best.”

Eric cast a surreptitious glance to his right toward Leo Redding. Leo, who rarely showed emotion, who wore the straightest of straight faces, sat with his arms crossed, the corners of his mouth lifted in a sardonic twist that said silly wasn’t the half of what Macy was wearing, and she wouldn’t be wearing anything once he got her home. Eric chuckled.

“Macy Webb, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Lindsey said, as Macy skipped off stage and Lauren started down the runway.

“Lauren Hollister has given the gIRL-gEAR Web site a wildly popular retro design, but now she reaches back further in time to give us a peek at her own inner Victorian. Wearing distressed leather boots laced to the knee and a tiered black taffeta skirt above, Lauren has embellished the antique panache with delicate extras including a fringed scarf from Grandma’s attic, knotted behind the stand-up collar of a denim weskit.”

Lauren made the turn at the end of the runway and Eric made his own casual turn to the right. Halfway
down the row of seats, Nolan Ford sat with his head down, disregarding Lauren in favor of taking a call on his cell phone.
Interesting,
Eric thought, rolling his shoulders and looking to the left and Anton Neville.

Anton sat forward, elbows braced on his knees and hands clasped, his expression a mix of longing and regret as his gaze moved from Lauren to the floor between his feet. Chloe had been so wrong, accusing Anton of putting on a missing-Lauren act. Eric seriously felt the other man’s pain.

“Our next model, Sydney Ford, holds the proverbial reins of fashion’s rising empire and rides onto the scene wearing white pants with long lean lines tucked into black riding boots. Her sheer white blouse is strategically striped with ribbons of winner’s circle satin. At her waist hangs a belt buckle styled to look like a silver stirrup, and a silver horseshoe bracelet adds the finishing touch of equestrian class.”

Eric had to admit it—Sydney looked hot. Sophisticated, uptown hot. Which made perfect sense, being that she was a Ford. Again Eric had to check out Nolan’s reaction, and this time the cell phone was totally out of sight. Sydney’s father literally sat on the edge of his seat. And the smile on his face was nothing if it wasn’t beaming.

And then there was Ray Coffey, directly on Eric’s right and looking like invisible chains were the only thing keeping him from throwing Sydney over his shoulder and heading for the closest cave.

In his peripheral vision, Eric registered Poe walking down the runway, wearing chunky black-and-white stripes in what Dr. Lindsey described as Soho and Op Art in a mod, mod, mod world. But what had drawn
Eric’s attention away from the stage was more than Ray wanting to get his hands on Sydney.

It was the caliber of looks shooting back and forth between Nolan and Ray. And Eric’s curiosity would’ve continued to stew if he hadn’t heard Chloe’s name. He swung his attention back to the stage and forgot not only his burgeoning conspiracy theory, but that anyone else in the room existed.

“Chloe Zuniga’s savvy finesse of cosmetics and accessories modernizes the hippie-chick with wispy gypsy layers of a cotton gauze paisley in colors of deep pink and red. A peasant blouse with shirred sleeves and a matching multiwrap skirt give a dreamy, carefree feel to the ensemble. Silver and garnet drop earrings, stacks of silver bangles and a flower choker in the same paisley print complete the look.”

Eric’s gaze tracked Chloe’s performance as she made her way down the runway. She twirled and posed. She held out her arms, showing off the cut and the transparency of her blouse. She lifted the hem of her skirt and kicked out in a mini cancan. She waved to audience members, blowing flirtatious kisses.

The other “models” had done similar routines, firing up the crowd for the unorthodox fashion show that epitomized the firm’s individualistic style. Eric just hadn’t followed every step of the other acts the way he was following Chloe’s.

Which was why he was watching when she looked down from the runway and into his eyes. And why, when she crooked a finger his way, caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth and smiled, Eric felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the very worst way. Because he didn’t know where she was coming from.

Maybe this come-on was a payback for leaving her
at her door when she’d wanted him to take her to bed. Or maybe this was a public demonstration of their exclusive arrangement, less for his benefit than for that of the rest of the room.

Whatever. She had him. She so had him.

In a faraway corner of his mind, Eric heard Kinsey’s look described as blues traveler in rock ’n’ roll indigo denim. And then Melanie took the long runway walk in form-fitting, classic background black to show off pagers and wireless headsets and text messaging tools.

But he didn’t get a look at either of the final two girls. His attention was divided between ignoring the ribbing from his seatmates and working his way backstage. He planned to find out what his sexy little hippie-chick had on her mind.

And what she intended to do about it.

“Y
OU KNOW
, E
RIC
. This getting me into your bedroom to show me something business is hardly very original.”

Climbing the stairs to the second floor of Eric’s house, Chloe reached up to take off the choker she’d worn for her modeling stint in the fashion show. She was unaccountably edgy, wondering what Eric had on his mind, and the choker was, well, choking her. “All you had to say was that you’d changed your mind about sleeping with me again.”

“I haven’t changed my mind about sleeping with you again.” He reached past her head and planted his palm on the bedroom door. “And don’t take that off.”

Her clutch purse tucked beneath an arm, Chloe’s hands stilled on the choker’s fastener. She looked up and into Eric’s eyes, where he hovered in her space. She waited for him to push the door open, uncertain,
if pressed, whether she’d be able to remember what it was he’d just said.

He was so close she could see the tiny flare of his nostrils as he breathed. He had one brow lifted, yet the whole of his expression remained unreadable. He smelled like comforting warmth and lightly spiced male skin, and her anticipation heightened.

When he shoved open the door, she moved forward, aware of how close he still stood. Aware that they hadn’t yet touched.

She’d missed their intimacy. She hated to admit it, especially after the way he’d so audaciously turned her down the night of the party at Haydon’s, but she had. And it wasn’t only the sex she missed, even if it had been three weeks since he’d taken her apart in her kitchen.

She’d missed Eric, the teasing and taunting, the playful put-downs, the serious heart-to-hearts and being able to talk to him about anything. She’d missed the way he insisted on opening her car door, the way he called her even if he had nothing to say because that’s what friends were for.

He was the first person to come to mind when she had news to share or a story to relate about the happenings of her day. Yes, what they shared was much more than lust. It was even more than friendship. But she was still afraid to call it love. She wasn’t sure she was ready to give up that much of herself.

Eric closed the bedroom door and leaned back against it, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, his pleated tuxedo shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his tie dangling loose around his neck.