Kiss & Makeup

Crud. “Uh, no. The wall around the corner from the end of the bar? There’s a panel door. It’s hidden, but if you find and hit the button, it’ll swing open.”

“You’re going to make me work for it then?”

It? Oh…my. “Lesson number one.” Anticipation lent a sultry breathlessness to her voice. “I’ve never been one to make it easy on a man.”

A beat of silence, then he said, “Now that I can’t wait to see. Stay there.”

No problem, since she couldn’t move to save her soul. She listened to the phone disconnect, her heart pounding in her ears along with the lost signal’s beep.

And then despite standing frozen in place, Shandi began to sweat.

3

QUENTIN FOUND THE DOOR, found the button and seconds later found himself on the opposite end of the room from where Shandi stood.

She held her cell phone pressed close between her breasts, her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace visible even from here.

Her eyes sparkled. He could see the starry flash in the flickering light cast by the one and only fixture running the length of the ceiling. He let the door close behind him slowly, let the latch click, let the echo fade away before he took his first step.

She wore a pin-tucked tuxedo shirt in a dark rosy-pink, a black satin cummerbund, bow tie and tuxedo pants, and leaned against the wall beside the main doorway leading from the back room into the bar.

She looked as if she couldn’t wait for him to reach her. As if the phone’s empty wall unit next to her head was just an excuse to get him alone. He held the handset tightly, his palm sweating as he approached her.

Sweating even more when the look in her eyes grew bold and warm in ways that surprised him.

He wondered what it would’ve been like to meet her later. Meet her in Austin. To get to know her on his own turf, his own terms, instead of in an environment where he’d long ago quit trusting anything to be real.

He wanted her to be real. He so wanted her to be real.

Shandi held out her hand. “I don’t take kindly to blackmail, you know.”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know her at all. And since he’d be leaving the city in a matter of days, he’d never have the full pleasure—a thought that caused quite the uncomfortable hitch in his chest.

“Got it,” he said. “Blackmail’s off-limits. Lying’s on the can-do list.”

“Uh-uh. I never lied.” She reached for the handset he offered, but he wasn’t ready to let go, and when she pulled, he followed, the momentum bringing him closer still. She arched a dark blond brow but didn’t push him away. “You did have a phone call. A very conveniently timed one.”

She tugged. He moved in, one more step that brought him near enough to feel the ragged breath she released. “Unless my telepathic reception was off and you weren’t begging for a rescue.”

Cute. Very cute. Covering her nerves with cocky bravado when at this distance he could see the sheen of perspiration on her skin.

He took the handset away from her and hung it in place without anything close to a struggle. “No. I was begging. And thank you for the save.”

She shrugged, then tucked her hands behind her. “All in a day’s work.”

“I’ve heard that about your profession.”

“Hey, what’s a bartender for but to hear confessions and intervene on behalf of those seeking salvation?”

Salvation. Was that what drew him to her? The idea that she possessed the secret to saving him from sliding deeper into his cynical pit? “Well, you do deliver a truly religious experience.”

“I aim to please.”

God, but her face was amazing. Her smile wide and dimpled. Her eyes reflecting lights found nowhere in the room. Wisps of baby-fine hairs framed her face, and he found himself reaching up, smoothing several where they brushed her temple.

There were so many things he wanted to know about her, to ask, to hear her tell him in that soft Oklahoma voice. He didn’t know which to ask first, and so in the end he said nothing. He simply stroked the bare shell of her ear.

“You’re staring, Quentin,” she said, her voice a whisper.

He blinked, pulled his hand away, clenched his fingers. Most women visibly preened beneath his stare. Shandi’s soft accusation intrigued him almost as much as the hint of a blush on her cheeks.

“So,” he began, backing a step away, needing even that little bit of distance in order to avoid seeming as if he was only here to get his hands on her. “What’s next?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, a move more protective than defensive. “What do you mean?”

He nodded in the direction of the bar. “I’m assuming you need to get back to work.”

“I do,” she said almost in relief.

“And I can’t stay here forever.”

“You can’t.”

“And if Mrs. Cyprus is still drinking me into the poorhouse,” he added with a pained grin, “I’m not going back out there.”

Shandi held up one finger and pushed open the bar door far enough to look out. When she stepped back, two impish dimples belied her somber tone. “She is. Though I will be sure to tell her you’ve settled your tab with regrets.”

What he was regretting was that tonight’s time with Shandi was coming to an end. That he hadn’t yet managed to throw out a great line that would reel her in.

He’d been the pursued, the proverbial trophy for so many years that he couldn’t even remember how to bait a damn hook—proving again how very much he needed this change in his life.

And then Shandi asked, “Do you ever get used to it?”

“Used to what?”

“The groupies? The fame hunters? Whatever you call them?”

So now she was a mind reader, too? Unbelievable. “If you mean the I’ll-stroke-yours-if-you’ll-stroke-mine come-ons, then yeah. I’m used to it.” He took the admission further. “These days I’m surprised when it doesn’t happen.”

He’d grown used to women’s scrutiny; it came with the job and the looks, and there had been a time he’d embraced the attention for the perk it was.

But he was long past that place in his life, past taking advantage of offers or free glasses of wine, past welcoming the advances, past defining his success by how often he was recognized.

“And here I was just thinking how lucky you are to have turned your passion into a successful career.”

He liked that she’d been thinking of him. But the last thing he wanted to inspire in her was sympathy. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Look, I’ll be in the city till the first of next week. I’d like to see you away from the bar. Hell, away from the hotel.”

She pursed her lips into a bow while thinking over his suggestion. “I’m off tomorrow night. And—” she gestured toward the phone “—I was just stood up for a movie date.”