Hot and Bothered Page 8

  Haven Hoyt. Sex—or what passed for it—with a client. In her office. With her admin in earshot. Who’d want her to rehab an image after that?

  No one.

  She tossed the paper towel, the evidence of their madness, into the trash and dug in her desk, praying for a Wet-Nap. She needed time to think.

  Damage control. She was the queen of damage control, right? The queen of image.

  There was nothing to fear here. She’d rescued far more sensitive situations from far grubbier human foibles.

  She could do this. She could put it back together again.

  But not if she looked at Mark. If she let herself see the tenderness on his face full-on, she’d never be able to clean this up.

  “First,” she said. “This never happened.”

  “Haven—”

  “This. Never. Happened. You have to promise me.”

  If he couldn’t promise, she’d move to the next level. Bribery.

  Blackmail came after that, but she’d never had to go there before and she didn’t want to start. Her fingers were crossed that he’d be reasonable and she could keep things aboveboard. She prided herself on her ethics, one of the things that differentiated her from some of her sharky competitors. She could clean up a mess without crossing those lines.

  “Who would I tell?”

  “Pete Sovereign. Jimmy Jeffers. Some buddy you like to brag to. You can’t tell anyone.”

  He turned his head away and wiped his fingers on the paper towel. His face was dark now, his expression grim and his mouth twisted.

  Her stomach knotted. Why did this feel like grief? She’d extinguished a light in his eyes she’d only caught a few glimpses of. A playfulness, a hopefulness she’d seen in flashes in the barbershop and again in the personal shopper’s suite. The night in the blues club. Monday afternoon, working with Gavin.

  Surely, though, she wasn’t his type any more than he was hers. He needed some woman who would find nothing more entertaining than the dark, close atmosphere of a blues club, someone who understood his music and could talk to him about things she didn’t understand—notes and keys and rhythm, art and emotion, soul and depth—a woman like her mother or her sisters.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “It wouldn’t make any sense if I did, anyway.”

  That was for goddamned sure. She couldn’t explain the sexual heat she’d felt when he’d stood up for her against Pete or the rush of longing when he’d said I don’t want him to touch you.

  Insane, fierce need that had taken over the second he’d touched her. She’d gone to a place beyond herself, where all sense and sanity had been drowned by want.

  “But I also don’t see what was so bad about it,” he said.

  “It was wrong. You’re my client. And if it got out, it could destroy my career. Image consulting is dog-eat-dog.”

  He looked down. “And I’m bad for your image.”

  “Letting a client do—that—against my office door with my admin outside, yes, that would be bad for my image.”

  He shook his head. “That? That’s what we just did? That? Something so dirty and weird you don’t even have a name for it?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Jesus, Haven.”

  “Well?”

  She wasn’t sure why she was goading him. Maybe there was a tiny part of her that wanted him to fight back, to tell her that what had happened was more than she was admitting. Not only that, but something else, something he had a name for even if she didn’t.

  But he didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I’m not going to say anything to anyone. And if you don’t want it to happen again, it won’t.”

  What if...

  What if I do want it to happen again?

  It can’t, said the voice of reason.

  “If it happens again...” She said it as much for her own benefit as for his, because she didn’t trust herself any more, not after that. “If it happens again, I’ll have to drop you as a client.”

  “No,” he said. “No. God knows, I’d walk away from this whole train wreck if I could, but I can’t. I got new hospital bills this morning. I thought I had everything, but then I got $19,000 more, Hav. Can you believe it? Which means I need your help. So if those are the terms, I get it.”

  He stuck out his hand.

  For a moment she didn’t understand what he wanted from her. Then she realized he was waiting for her to shake on it. They were making a deal. No more of that, the act with no name that was more than it seemed. All business from this point forward.

  She took his hand and shook.

  7

  ELISA TUCKED HERSELF into the corner of Haven’s couch and sipped her red wine. “So,” she said. “Tell me about Greg Stoneham.”

  “He’s great,” said Haven.

  Elisa narrowed her eyes. Haven held up for a moment under her scrutiny, then wilted and sighed. She’d been looking forward to this girls’ night, but also dreading it. Since Wednesday evening she’d been able to think of nothing but Mark’s mouth on hers and his hand in her panties. If there was anyone on Earth capable of reading her mind, it was Elisa.

  “Let me guess. He seems like a great guy, but there’s no spark.”

  Haven bowed her head, guilty as charged. “Am I that predictable?”

  “You’re pretty predictable.”

  “I told him I’d go out with him again.”

  “That was open-minded of you.”

  “You told me I wasn’t allowed to reject them after one date if I couldn’t explain why they weren’t right. You said I had to give the chemistry at least a small window to develop.”

  “Right. Right, I did. Which was very sensible of me. So, when are you guys going out again?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “Could you try to sound at least a little bit excited about it?”

  “No,” said Haven sadly. She might have been able to maintain a shred of optimism if Mark hadn’t turned her inside out. But now there was no more lying to herself. For the first time, she knew what it felt like to want someone so much that her whole body conspired against her better judgment. No matter how many chances she gave Greg Stoneham, he would always be an only-on-paper man.

  Elisa frowned. “Haven?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Haven hadn’t known Elisa very long, but their friendship had developed quickly in the wake of their shared experience in the Caribbean. Since then, they’d started hanging out on the occasional evening, drinking red wine and eating dark chocolate. Haven loved Elisa’s no-nonsense attitude, but she did fear her friend’s ability to see straight to the truth.

  Haven sighed. “I’m getting the Cheetos.”

  Sometimes, if things were particularly bad for one of them, they supplemented the wine-and-chocolate menu with more serious junk food.

  “Uh-oh,” said Elisa.

  Haven brought the bag back to the couch, along with a stack of paper towels, and fortified herself with one of the Cheetos. She had to eat them one at a time and wipe her fingertips in between because she hated the buildup of orange cheese under her nails. “If I tell you this, you can’t tell anyone.”

  “I signed a confidentiality agreement,” said Elisa. “That’s more than you get with most friends.”

  Haven smiled. “True.”

  “Spill.” Elisa tipped a handful of Cheetos into her mouth, then brushed her palm against her jeans. That right there was the difference between them. The day Haven wiped orange cheese powder on any article of her clothing would be the day hell froze over.

  “I have this client—”

  “A male client?” Elisa’s eyes had lit up.

  Haven nodded. “You sound gleeful.�
��

  “Because the way you said ‘I have this client’ is so different from the way you said, ‘He’s great’ when I asked you about Greg. You said ‘He’s great’ like you were talking about a new kitchen tool that helps you open jars more easily. You said, ‘I have this client’ like you’d just discovered sex.”

  Haven bit her lip.

  “You just discovered sex!”

  “No. I mean, it didn’t go that far—”

  “How far did it go?”

  Haven gave up all attempts at dignity, fell back against the couch cushions and moaned.

  “Use your words,” Elisa teased.

  So Haven went back to square one and explained about Mark Webster, the circumstances of the reunion tour, the barbershop, the department store, the meeting with Pete, Pete’s proposition.

  “And then...” She trailed off, remembering how frustrated she’d been with Mark for losing control of the situation, of the image she was trying so hard to craft for him—and then she’d done exactly the same thing, only with even worse potential consequences.

  “And then?” prompted Elisa.

  “He— I...” All Haven could do was blush furiously. The recollection of Mark’s assault on her senses was as fresh as it had been two days ago.

  “Oh, my,” said Elisa. “I never thought I’d see the day. Remind me again why this is a problem?”

  Haven reached into her handbag, pulled out a copy of Celeb! and laid it on the table in front of Elisa. Bennie had given her the magazine shortly after Mark left her office the other day, and it had sealed Haven’s conviction that she had to be very, very careful about herself around Mark Webster. For both their sakes.

  Elisa smoothed the page down. There, in color, were photographs of Haven and Mark in the barbershop, in the department store and walking up the street, laughing. Haven didn’t remember what they had been talking about, and it had surprised her to see how happy they both looked. And it had made her incredibly nervous because Haven didn’t remember ever seeing a photograph of herself looking that happy. Worse, she and Mark didn’t look at all like an image consultant and her disreputable client. They looked like a couple.

  “Oh, my God, he’s hot,” Elisa said.

  Haven’s nonchalance failed her, and she collapsed over her own lap and buried her face in her hands. “Yes, yes, he is.”

  Elisa read the text that appeared alongside the photos. “‘We spotted hottie guitarist Mark Webster out and about with one of New York’s most desirable image consultants, Haven Hoyt. The two were having a grand old time giving Mark a makeover that included a trim and shave at posh Caruso’s barbershop and a new wardrobe, courtesy of Saks Fifth Avenue.’”

  “Not courtesy,” said Haven glumly. “I wish.”

  “This doesn’t seem so bad. ‘One of New York’s most desirable!’ You go, girl.”

  “Read the rest.”

  “‘Webster could use some image rehab. His pop band broke up nearly a decade ago after Webster brawled with bandmate Pete Sovereign, and Webster has a DUI and a sex-video scandal under his belt (no pun intended). But is Hoyt the best woman to remake this bad boy? She had to be bailed out recently by Rendezvous Dating’s Elisa Henderson when a Caribbean dating–boot camp weekend with Celine Carr went awry. Can these two screwups get it right this time?’”

  “Okay,” Elisa said. “That’s maybe not quite as good. But not catastrophic.”

  “My job is to make other people look good,” Haven said. “If I can’t manage my own image, where am I? Last year, Karen Folger went from being the toast of the town to not being able to get a client for love or money after she slept with Rich Demillieu, and he wasn’t even technically her client. I can’t afford to do something that self-destructive. And we are obviously being watched incredibly closely.”

  “But not forever, right? You guys can pull off this tour. You can both have your successes. And then, when it’s over, you can have each other in every flavor of the Kama Sutra.”

  “I don’t know if that’s what I want.” Then Haven corrected herself. “I know that’s not what I want. He’s a mess, Lise. So not my type. I’d just be using him for sex, but it would never work in real life. I need—”

  “You think you need,” Elisa interjected.

  “I know I need a guy who can live in my world. And this would always be a weird power thing. I’d be forever telling him what to wear and what to say and how to be so I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable out in public with him. It wouldn’t be fair to him and it wouldn’t be fun for me. You’ve seen couples like that.”

  “I have,” Elisa admitted. “And you’ve got a point. That’s an ugly dynamic.”

  “I think too highly of him to put him in that predicament.”

  “I’ve got two warring halves in my brain,” Elisa began. “One wants to say, ‘Haven, that kind of attraction doesn’t come along every day,’ and the other wants to say, ‘You’re dead right.’ Because if I heard another client say what you just said to me, about how you know from day one you’d be trying to remake him—I don’t know, I just don’t like Pygmalion scenarios, you know? I always hated My Fair Lady—I never thought there was anything remotely romantic about it. Even Cinderella makes me uncomfortable. I think people should take each other as they are, and if they can’t—well, as much as I hate to say it, you’re right, it probably isn’t meant to be.”

  Haven felt a faint whisper of disappointment. Had there been a part of her hoping that Elisa would talk her into Mark? That was just silly, right? Everything, all logic, screamed that he was wrong for her.

  Even if he wouldn’t hate having to dress to live in her world, he wasn’t the kind of guy who could ever be happy there. Mark needed to be with someone like him, whose work was about emotion and meaning. He needed a woman who had unplumbed depths.

  In reality, it wouldn’t take long for the hot sex to burn itself out. What had happened in her office was a fluke. Life wasn’t like that, all hot and messy—it couldn’t be. Her life couldn’t be. And once Mark realized that the inner Haven didn’t hold an infinite wellspring of passion, it would be all disappointment for both of them.

  She’d been right to hit the brakes and shake on the deal. She needed to be incredibly disciplined about sticking with her decision.

  “So, then, the trick is just...how do I not have sex with him on my desk?”

  “Did you have sex with him on your desk?” Elisa demanded.

  “No,” said Haven. “Not exactly.”

  Elisa crossed her arms and waited, but Haven held firm. Rehashing what had happened would only make it harder to hold onto her resolve.

  Elisa thought for a moment. “Even though you pay me to, I don’t have all the answers. But it seems like you should start by canceling the date with Mr. Seems Like a Good Guy. It’s just going to make you bored and twitchy. Beg off that one, and we’ll go back to the database. You need an effective distraction.”

  Haven sighed. “A distraction sounds good.”

  But she knew it was going to take one hell of a distraction to get her mind off what Mark Webster had to offer. And even more self-control not to indulge it and make her life—and his—even more of a mess.

  * * *

  HAVEN GAVE MARK a narrow-eyed look that both pissed him off and turned him on. That took some skill.

  “Where are your new clothes?” she asked.

  They’d met in the shoe department of Nordstrom. He was wearing jeans that, admittedly, had seen better days, another gray T-shirt and a zip-up hoodie. No way he was giving up that hoodie—it was the only thing he’d felt normal in since Haven ran off with his jacket. Which reminded him...

  “You have my bomber jacket.”

  “It’s at my place,” she said.

  “I want it back.”

  “You don’t need it. At least
, not until after the tour.”

  “I don’t feel like myself without it.”

  “Can I help you?”

  That was the shoe saleswoman, distracting Haven from Mark’s sartorial sins—she hadn’t even had time to comment that he’d failed to shave the last two days. Before long, they were on a whirlwind tour of the world of men’s shoes, and Mark was tucked into one of the leather benches with a stranger’s hands on his feet.

  As the saleswoman whipped out her shoe horn and wedged him into another pair, Mark’s heel began to hurt. There were four pairs in the yes pile, and—he guessed—twenty discards, stacked precariously high in shoeboxes. Haven kept coming up with new kinds of shoes he needed. He’d never known there was so much subtlety to men’s shoes, or that there were so many official names—longwings, toe-cap Oxfords, monk straps, penny loafers. He’d only ever referred to running shoes, dress shoes and casual shoes.

  “I’m straight,” he murmured to Haven when a pair of gray desert boots joined the to-buy stack.

  “I have no doubt about that.”

  Their eyes met, and she looked away quickly but not before he saw that she, too, was thinking about what had happened between them the other day. Good. If he had to be awake nights, suffering the horniness of the damned, she wasn’t going to get off any easier—no pun intended, even if it did send a quick visual through his dirty mind.

  Haven’s hair was up, tightly restrained in a way that made him desperately wish to free it from its bonds, to see it lying long and thick over her shoulders. He wanted to lift it and kiss her neck, then lean closer and nip into her flesh, flicking his tongue against her skin.

  The saleswoman had disappeared, looking for a size twelve and a half. Haven had remarked, without a hint of irony, that he had big feet. Then he’d watched a faint blush come up in her cheeks and known that the double entendre hadn’t been lost on her.

  “We still need to get you running shoes.”

  “I have running shoes.”

  “Circa 1999?”