Читать книгу Kiss & Makeup - Alison Kent - Страница 10

THE ELEVATOR RIDE UP DROVE her mad.

She and Quentin both stood against the back of the car, side by side, hands curled over the railing at their hips, not touching, not speaking, simply letting the ascent heighten the tension that sang in the air.

She stared at their reflections mirrored on the stainless-steel doors. Her skirt appeared the size of a bandage, her legs the length of fence posts. The colorful mask with which she’d taken exquisite care looked like a neon bar sign. Her pigtails like commas of corn on the cob.

Oh, yeah. She was definitely this man’s type. Mr. Sophistication? Meet Clueless in Manhattan. She wanted to slam her palm against the panel of buttons and stop this joke of a journey.

Stop it, put the car in reverse, back her way into the lobby and out into the street. She wanted to start over. To meet Quentin Marks on a level playing field. Not on one where she felt like a rube.

But then it was too late. The doors slid open with a whisper. He gestured for her to precede him, and she did, turning toward the double glass doors that separated the airy room that was their destination from the hallway.

He walked far enough behind that she couldn’t see him without turning, that she couldn’t touch him without reaching out. Close enough that she could feel that he was there, hovering without threatening, looming without alarming, beguiling and tempting and hot.

At the entrance Quentin reached for the handle and pulled open the door. Shandi stepped through, dropped her lollipop into a wastebasket. The room was empty, the only light that of several reading lamps left burning low.

The sky outside glowed with the hues of the sunset, and the walls of windows had begun to reflect the room, the atmosphere one of the kind of intimacy found only after dark. She stopped as Quentin joined her and as the door eased shut.

“This,” she said with a sweep of one hand, “is the library. The sofas and armchairs I mentioned, along with everything from classics to erotica to popular fiction.” Breathing deeply of the room’s bound leather and wood, deeply of the subtle scent of the man behind her, Shandi moved farther into the room. “Pick your poison.”

He walked ahead of her, stopping to study the space and giving her a full rear view of his body. So far she’d seen him sitting down at the bar and in the lobby. She’d had a full-frontal view, too, when he’d come toward her in Erotique’s back room. But, oh, did she like seeing him from here.

His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his backside taut beneath the expensive fabric of his dress pants. His hair was the mane she’d described it as. Leonine as it hung there in waves of gold and tawny-brown resting on the tops of his shoulder blades. It was thick and beautiful, and he wore it as few men could.

And then he turned and met her gaze. His brows came down. A wickedly sexy V. “I’ll pick the chair. You pick the story.”

She laced her hands at her back, hooked one foot behind the other, canted her head to the side and rocked back and forth, playing up the part she’d created. “Where do you want me to sit?”

“In my lap, of course,” he said and reached out, pulled her hand from behind her and led her across the room to the far corner. The chair he chose was built for two, not quite the size of a love seat but definitely not meant for a single. He turned and dropped into it, tugging her down.

She sat sideways in his lap, her back against the plush arm that was wider than her body. Her feet she settled on the cushion on Quentin’s far side, where there would’ve been plenty of room for her to sit if he’d let her.

He hadn’t. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Instead he draped one arm over her bare thighs, one behind her on the arm of the chair. He was so close. Right there. Inches away. It was hard to breathe, to think, to believe she was sitting in the lap of a man with this one’s fame, fortune and reputation.

With this one’s trail of broken hearts…because she was sure they must be legion.

“So what story do you want to hear?” he asked softly, his fingers toying with the end of one of her pigtails. He gestured toward the stack of books on the side table. “Beck Desmond? Harlan Coben? Charles Dickens? Anaïs Nin?”

Shandi shook her head. There was only one story she wanted. “Quentin Marks. I want to know everything. From his humble roots to his rise to stardom. And all the juicy bits in between.”

His mouth crooked. A dimple appeared at the edge of his beard stubble. “That story will put you right to sleep. I was hoping to keep you awake. At least for a little while.”

She had no intention of falling asleep now any more than she had of staying asleep on Christmas morning. Not with this gift she’d been given, this man who’d come out of nowhere and into her life when she’d least expected anyone to arrive.

She looked away from his gaze that left her breathless—oh, but his scotch-and-water eyes were compelling—to where she held her fingers twined together against what there was of her skirt. That didn’t help much with distracting her since his arm lay across her thighs.

Thankfully it wasn’t his skin but the fine fabric of his dress shirt she felt there. Otherwise she was quite sure she wouldn’t have been able to speak. “I doubt anything you could tell me would put me to sleep.”

“Trust me. I’m as boring as it gets.”

“I don’t believe it. I’ve read enough about you in People and Vanity Fair to know how fascinating you are.” When he gave a soft snort, she smiled, cast him a quick glance and laughingly added, “Hey, it’s better than reading what all the tabloids have to say.”

He used his arm across her thighs to pull her closer. “Too bad all of the music-loving public doesn’t share your restraint. Or your taste in publications.”