Hot and Bothered Page 13

  Actually, what she usually ordered was a double espresso straight up and a crispy rice treat, but she thanked him and sat. She’d never been pulled over for drunk driving, but right now she felt as though she was walking heel-to-toe along the yellow divider, pacing out the narrow line between yielding to Pete’s whims and telling him to go to hell. Somehow everything depended on her slightly impaired ability to balance, for her sake and for Mark’s. Pete held both of their careers hostage, and she couldn’t just blow him off.

  But God she wanted to tell him to take a hike.

  He gave her a complete once-over, staring down her shirt. Then he said, “So. Have you had enough of Mark Webster yet?”

  There was that attitude again. She knew he wanted her to smile conspiratorially; to say, “Mark’s great!” with her voice and, “We both know better!” with her eyes.

  She hadn’t had enough of Mark Webster, though, and she wasn’t quite sure she’d ever have enough. She wasn’t sure she even knew what it would mean for her to have enough of Mark Webster, and the mere thought sent a reverberation of pleasure through her.

  This will be over in half an hour and you will avoid Pete Sovereign like the plague after that, she told herself.

  “Mark and I get along well,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear you and he didn’t.” And then she thought that maybe her response had been the worst of both worlds—not the sly agreement Pete had been trying to coax out of her, and not enough of an endorsement of Mark’s strengths.

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t get along with him,” said Pete breezily. “He didn’t get along with me.”

  “Well, whichever it was, I hope you can see that doing this tour is in both of your best interests.”

  “Is it?”

  “There’s a lot of money and exposure in it for you.”

  “What else is in it for me?” Pete asked, and there was no missing the note of invitation.

  She’d expected this. Once Mark had told her what had happened between him and Pete, she’d understood their past vividly. There were many things she couldn’t know—how much of Pete’s interest in Lyn had been in Lyn herself, how much had been straight-across sexual envy of Mark, and how much had been fed by ambition. But it was clear that the seeds of rivalry were deeply sown, and it was just as clear that Pete was determined to find a way to use her to get to Mark.

  She had to divert him, had to redirect his jealousy or lust or whatever it was. If she could somehow play straight to his weaknesses, his vanity and his ego, she might have a shot.

  And then she saw her angle. “What’s in it for you? The chance to work on your public image.”

  “My image?”

  She’d surprised him, set him back on his heels, and she savored the victory. “When was the last time you looked yourself up online? Have you searched for yourself to see what people are saying about you on Twitter?”

  He’d recovered his bluster. “I don’t need to ego surf to know where I stand.”

  “There are very few people in the world who wouldn’t benefit from some image improvement consulting.”

  “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my image?”

  “I’m just saying that I think you and I can make a deal.”

  She saw his eyes flick back to her cleavage, and she added, “A purely business deal.”

  “So few things in the world are pure,” he murmured.

  “Business,” she repeated firmly.

  Something flared behind his eyes, but he nodded. “State your terms.”

  “If you drop whatever your vendetta is against Mark and agree to do the tour, I’ll throw in a bunch of free image advice as we go along. I can give you tips and pointers. We’re talking hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars of insight. But you have to stop holding the tour over Mark’s head.”

  “Does Mark know you’re making this deal?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  She hadn’t told Mark she was having coffee with Pete because she knew how much he didn’t want her to. And she definitely hadn’t told him she was cutting a deal with Pete because she was pretty sure Mark would be livid with rage.

  “Why is it so important to you to give him such a hard time, anyway?” she asked.

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  Something in his expression knocked a puzzle piece into place for her, and all at once, she knew. “You were in love with Lyn before she started sleeping with Mark.”

  “That’s bullshit.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, his jaw hard and his shoulders high. “Fuck this. Forget it. I don’t need to make a deal with you or anyone else. I don’t need Mark Webster’s crap, or yours.”

  She had almost blown it. She’d slipped, lost track. Seeing that Pete had been hurt by what happened between him and Mark had made her soften toward him and play the hand badly.

  But Pete wasn’t anywhere near ready to admit to her that he’d lost something in the scuffle over Lyn, and she couldn’t afford to have him walk out on her now. Mark couldn’t afford it.

  “Wait!”

  Pete hesitated.

  “Come back. Forget I said that. Look. What do we need to do to convince you?”

  He stood there, arms crossed, expression dark. Then a slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth, and that was way scarier than the darkness. “I heard Mark’s speaking at the Noteworthy fund-raiser.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I want to give that speech.”

  “Do you really care about kids and music lessons?” she asked.

  “Nope, but neither does Mark.”

  “He does,” she said, but she knew it was futile to try to argue this with Pete.

  “The point of that speech isn’t that I give a crap about kids’ music lessons. It’s that it’ll be good publicity and it’ll make me look good. It’ll be good for my image, right?” His tone mocked her.

  Haven sighed. “I can’t give you that,” she said. “The programs are printed, the PR firm has already gotten the word out.”

  “Are you gonna be there?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Mark?”

  “Mark’s going to be there with Cindy Sheldon.” Cindy was a classically trained singer with widespread popular appeal, the type who had her own Christmas and children’s lullaby albums. Cindy had the perfect image to help rehab Mark’s—she was beautiful, refined, heavily involved in charitable work and musical in a clean, unblemished way. And Cindy, by being seen with Mark, would reach out to a wider audience of pop lovers, increase her pop-music street cred.

  “Go with me,” Pete said.

  For a moment she didn’t understand.

  “Be my date,” he clarified.

  Oh, God.

  Of all the—

  And yet she wasn’t really surprised, because she’d known this was Pete’s endgame. He wanted to stick it to Mark in a way that would hurt, the way it had hurt Pete—still hurt Pete, apparently—that Mark had slept with Lyn.

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  Because you and Mark have a history. Because I can’t be the second woman to be “shared” between you guys. Because it would kill Mark, and that would kill me.

  Only she couldn’t say that. They’d made it this far without Pete getting wind of the fact that she and Mark were...what they were.

  “Look,” Pete said. “I need a date to the fund-raiser. And you need me to agree to do this tour. It’s a mutually beneficial deal. And to return to your earlier point, if it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t try anything.”

  She couldn’t. Even if she was dying to strike a bargain with Pete to save the tour and get him off their backs, she couldn’t. Now that she’d heard Mark’s story, there was no way she could put him t
hrough that again. All he would see was Pete triumphing. Pete getting the girl. Pete looking like the winner in the media.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t. Anything but that. It would be a media fiasco that would jeopardize the tour.”

  He crossed his arms, scrunched his brow. “Why do you care so much, huh? What does it matter to you whether this tour happens or not?”

  “I told Jimmy Jeffers I’d get Mark Webster ready to tour. If there’s no tour, there’s no job.”

  But that wasn’t the truth anymore. In reality, what she cared about now was how Mark looked when he talked about his father, his wonder at being given a second chance at father–son bonding. She cared about the abandon on Mark’s face when he played music, his thoughtfulness when he taught guitar. And—

  His intensity when he looked at her.

  “—thing I don’t understand is why Mark cares so much,” Pete was saying. “He never gave a shit about the band. It was always beneath him. He was a musician.”

  “He’s got his reasons,” she said. “And so do you. So, yeah, think about it. And do what’s best for you and for your career. Okay?”

  He made a disgusted face and turned from her to stare at the window.

  She got up, threw away her trash and headed for the door.

  What a mess. Pete still hadn’t agreed to do the tour, and now he’d talked himself into a fund-raiser all three of them would have to attend on Saturday, along with a good portion of New York’s music journalists.

  Danger. Ragged edges. Pianos suspended overhead from wires. Dominoes cued to fall.

  And most of all, the look on Mark’s face when he found out she’d met with Pete behind his back.

  * * *

  MARK WAS TRYING desperately not to be a douche. He was attempting to give his undivided attention to the very tall, very thin, very charming woman next to him, rather than craning his neck to see if Haven had arrived at the Noteworthy fund-raiser—and who she was with.

  He was supposed to be escorting, and be seen with, pop sensation Cindy Sheldon. Except, of course, he wanted to see Haven.

  “This is lovely,” said Cindy, in her smooth, gorgeous alto.

  “It is,” he said, because she was a nice woman, well-meaning, and the alternative was to tell her what he was really thinking. He hated these things. Hated them. It was even worse tonight because he was expected to “say a few words.” His stage fright had overshadowed his excitement about helping with such a great cause. It was like a hand around his throat right now.

  The event was black-and-white themed—“with a splash of color,” according to the invitation. The dress code made it practically impossible to pick anyone out of the crowd, let alone a petite woman in what he—with a throb of anticipation—knew would be a teeny-tiny black dress.

  The ballroom was decked out in elaborate, expensive, black-and-white decorations—potted trees wrapped in silver and hung with black-and-white baubles, garlands of black-and-white fabric draped everywhere. The band played a lively tune and lines had formed at the open bar.

  This was his own personal hell, reminding him of why he hated to perform at weddings. He felt awkward and self-conscious, like a boy playing dress-up. His tux strained across his shoulders, even though it was the size he always rented. Too much lifting, maybe—to take his mind off his sexual frustration, he’d been hitting the gym harder than usual.

  Surreptitiously, he scanned the room for Haven again. He didn’t want to hurt Cindy’s feelings but he had to know where Haven was.

  “Ooh!” cried Cindy. Hors d’oeuvres on a silver platter had materialized in front of them, courtesy of a smiling waitress, and he took a small mushroom puff while Cindy loaded up her napkin-covered palm. Not his kind of food, really. Too schmoofy. He bit into the puff (were you supposed to eat it all in one bite or not? He couldn’t remember, if he’d ever known). Bits of flaky crust floated down and landed all over his tux jacket, like a really bad case of dandruff. He tried to brush it off and left a little grease smear. Great.

  He spotted Haven then. How could he have doubted that he’d find her? He’d know her anywhere, an impression of her size and shape, and the energy contained in her compact body as identifiable and unique as a fingerprint. She was, as he’d predicted, wearing a little black dress, but his imagination had been inadequate. The dress bared her back, a smooth expanse of skin he wanted to rest his palm against. When she turned, desire stabbed him in the chest. The dress had skinny little straps and a deep scoop neckline that skimmed along breasts he’d felt against his lips and tongue—that he could still feel against his lips and tongue. His fingers flexed slightly at the thought as he relived the sensation of her body clenching around him. Jesus. She should not have worn that dress. Not if she was serious about what she’d said to him about taking a hiatus. What about this was discreet?

  Of course she was serious. Haven Hoyt was serious about everything.

  For reasons known only to God, that set off a series of flashbulb images for him. The way she’d kissed him in her office, the way she’d felt against his tongue, coming in the dressing room, the way she’d looked on all fours on her bed, his cock disappearing between her red lips, her ass tipped up to find his hand.

  The tux pants were not going to cut him any slack if he didn’t shut down this trip down memory lane ASAP.

  Cindy moaned with hors d’oeuvres–induced ecstasy, but he barely registered it, other than to be grateful she was distracted by food so he could stare at Haven. Haven had told him, via text, that she’d warned Cindy he wasn’t interested in anything other than friendship and some see-and-be-seen dating.

  Staking your claim? he’d texted back.

  Trying to simplify your life a little.

  Keeping his hands off Haven, exercising “discretion,” had been killing him, absolutely destroying him. The two of them had to be in close proximity frequently because they were working together to prepare Mark for tonight’s speech and for the exclusive interview that Haven had decided to grant Suellen Marvel at High Note. Most of the time they worked in Haven’s office. The office itself, and the fact that she always kept the door open, were like taunts to Mark. Remember what you did against this door, less than a week ago? You’re not doing it right now.

  Haven had not prohibited Mark from bringing up or discussing sex, so he did it as frequently as he thought he could get away with. Which was pretty much all the time. That meant he couldn’t get it off his mind, either. While he was trying to make her lose control, while he was indulging his fantasy that he would say just the right thing to convince her that she needed to go shut that door right now, he was also making himself rock hard and totally frustrated.

  Once he’d lowered his voice to a whisper, leaned in, and said, “I was just thinking about the way you looked spread out for me on your bed.”

  She’d rolled her eyes, but the fierce blush that rose in her cheeks gave her away. “We’re not doing this, Mark.”

  She’d probably said that to him a hundred times since the night and morning they’d spent at her place. One of his only sources of consolation was that she sounded less and less sure each time she said it.

  She was not very good at hiding how she felt, which was the only thing that made this period of celibacy bearable. That and sexting.

  Okay, it wasn’t exactly sexting. It was texting that slipped over the line into flirting and then, just once or twice, over the line into something that didn’t quite entirely count as celibacy. Those texts required him to perform marvelous feats of coordination, during which he used his right hand for the purpose for which God had so deftly crafted it, and his left hand to keep the conversation going.

  Haven had apparently not been able to stop herself from engaging with him via text. She’d said one or two things in texts that he couldn’t imagine her saying in real life, things about body
parts of his that she particularly liked, and where she would like him to put them, preferably as soon as possible. Afterward, after she sent him a lot of nonsense characters to indicate the heights to which sexting had taken her, she also denied that it counted as sex and exhorted him, once again, to be discreet. (Exact words: “Don’t you dare lose your phone.”)

  But what she hadn’t said was where this was all going, and that was the part that was killing him.

  And speaking of killing him, a man had just materialized at Haven’s side. A tall, dark, handsome man who looked completely at ease in their posh surroundings. The bastard was laughing and taking Haven’s arm and making small talk and—Goddammit—feeding Haven an hors d’oeuvre.

  Mark went hot with jealousy at the sight of that man’s fingers in Haven’s mouth. Jealousy and totally inappropriate lust, because he’d been in Haven’s mouth in every way it was possible to be there, and if that guy didn’t keep his hands to himself, in about thirty seconds Mark would cross the room, wrench her out of the man’s grasp and kiss the hell out of her in front of everyone.

  Ironically, Cindy chose that moment to feed him, her slim fingers lingering a tiny bit too long on his lips and tongue. He chewed and swallowed and said, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Cindy.”

  “Haven told me we’re just having fun. But no point in not having all the fun we can, right?”

  “Look,” he said. “I really appreciate your helping me out with this. But I’m actually not even in the market for fun right now.”

  Which was crazy. When hadn’t he been in the market for fun? And why was he refusing an offer like this out of loyalty to a woman who had put him on a hiatus of an indeterminate duration and, when he thought of it, an indeterminate nature, too?

  “Mark,” said a female voice at his elbow. He jumped, but it wasn’t Haven. It was Becca Steele, who did PR for Noteworthy. “They’re ready for you on stage.”

  He thought he was going to throw up.

  “You’ll be great,” said Cindy, smiling.

  He followed Becca into the wings and waited his turn. By the time he got out on stage, people had sat at the dinner tables, and servers were bringing around salads. His stomach coiled at the sight of food, and then twice as hard at the sight of all those faces staring up at him.