Читать книгу No Strings Attached - Alison Kent - Страница 11

HIS HAND AT THE SMALL of Chloe’s back, Eric guided his unexpected visitor across the bar’s common room, past the swinging doors leading to the kitchen and into a short hallway toward a door boldly marked: No Admittance Without Proper Authority or Play-Off Tickets.

The small of Chloe’s back was really small. The girl had a mouth on her, a big one, and an attitude to match. But boy, was she a curvy little thing. Made it hard to decide whether he wanted to date her or adopt her.

One thing he knew was that he wasn’t going to say yes to whatever cockamamie scheme she’d come here to pitch. If she didn’t want him for more than her own self-serving reasons, then screw her.

And screw him if he hadn’t learned not to let himself be used.

Chloe may have thought she’d come away from their scavenger-hunt month holding the upper hand, but he’d done his share of scouting, and he knew a thing or two about Chloe he doubted she knew about herself.

As tough as she seemed, she was appealingly vulnerable. He didn’t know why she protected herself with her big bad attitude, but if made her feel safer, he’d play along. At least until he learned more about what had brought her here.

Because Chloe Zuniga didn’t show up out of the blue looking like a cross between a Maxim cover model and a soccer mom without a damn good reason. A better one than needing an escort.

He reached for the doorknob, guided her forward, moved his hand from the small of her back to her shoulder. A surprisingly muscled shoulder, come to think of it, considering she hated physical activity.

His office decor reflected the rest of the bar, which meant Chloe would no doubt be just as uncomfortable in here as she had been out there. He’d give her an A, though, for effort, because she had made a big one. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her wear athletic shoes.

As he watched her take in the long wall covered with autographed photos, he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like having worked up a good sweat. He couldn’t even imagine, having never seen her with a single blond hair out of place, unless tousled on purpose for the sake of being sexy. He’d seen rational men turned into blubbering idiots by that bedroom hair and those big, violet-colored eyes.

Eric chuckled to himself. He loved tinted contacts. He loved the idea of mussing up her hair. He also loved the way she looked in play clothes. And the way she looked in his office.

He moved to lean back against the huge wooden desk he’d purchased at a rural school auction, crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He didn’t have a lot of time; Jason would be needing backup soon. But Eric had a feeling that whatever he was waiting for would be worth weathering a rebellion in the ranks.

“Bagwell, Biggio, Olajuwon, Lipinski, Campbell, Ryan, Lewis.” Chloe named off the past and present Houston sports figures, stopped when she reached the one frame set off from the others, and gave Eric the look most gave him with they came across the autographed shrine. “Anna Kournikova?”

Eric lifted a shoulder. “She plays tennis.”

Chloe’s only reply was a loud huff. She continued to tour his office, moving from the autographed photos to the matted and framed ticket stubs he’d collected since attending his first professional sporting event at the age of five.

He hadn’t framed every stub from every event. Most he’d randomly stapled to the wall, which made for wallpaper worth reading. But once in a very rare, memorable while, a frame was called for.

He watched Chloe lean in closer to read several of the stubs, watched her stand on tiptoe to read others. Watched her lips move as she mouthed the words. She smiled, she frowned, she sighed.

He wanted to ask which of the souvenirs generated which response, but he was too busy enjoying the way her calf muscles flexed when she lifted and stretched, the way the denim cupped her backside, the way the jersey molded her shoulders.

Either she’d pumped a lot of iron over the past couple of months or he’d really been blind as a bat the few times he’d had his hands on her before. Especially that time they’d danced at Lauren and Anton’s housewarming party…after he’d licked the salt from her skin, downed a shot of tequila and sucked the juice from the lime she’d held in her mouth.

God Bless America, but the woman could kiss.

Catching him in his intent study of her rear view, Chloe suddenly turned and flopped down on his office couch, which was some local designer’s interpretation of a cushy baseball dugout.

Middle fingers rubbing at her temples, Chloe closed her eyes and leaned back. “I really don’t know what I’m doing here.”

She’d mumbled the words, and he knew she’d said them more to herself than to him, but he wasn’t going to let her slide by that easily. “I think you’re here to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

She stopped rubbing, looked up suspiciously. “You already told me no.”

He had, but she hadn’t looked quite so down and defeated then as she did now. And he hadn’t felt quite so compelled to offer himself up as her savior. Maybe one of these days he’d come to his senses and rescue stray animals instead of stray women. But for now…

Hands braced hip level on the edge of his desk, he crossed his ankles and made the conscious and recognizably half-witted decision to invite her confidence. He’d worry about regrets later—when he was in over his head.

“You went to a lot of trouble to get my attention, princess. You must need me in ways I’ve only dreamed about.”

“More like in ways I’ve never dreamed about,” she said, not even rising to his bait.

Ouch! Slam! Cut to the bone! “So, tell Dr. Eric all about it before Jason drags me back out to the bar.”

Chloe took a deep breath, scooted forward to sit primly on the edge of the couch. Her face, when she looked up to meet his gaze, could not have shown less guile. “Here’s the thing. I love my career. I really do. I can’t think of anything that would make me as happy as I am at gIRL-gEAR. And I don’t want to lose it. I’ll do anything not to lose it.”

“Why would you worry? You’re a partner. It’s not like you’d be first in line to be laid off.”

“It’s not about layoffs or downsizing. Sydney knows what she’s doing. Our bottom line has never been so black.” Chloe tucked her hands beneath her thighs, rocked back and forth and finished her explanation in a rush. “This is about me, my mouth and…my habit of dating everyone who asks.”

“Oh, now. That hurt my feelings. I asked and you turned me down.” He gave her a quick wink designed to convince both of them he was teasing.

“I’m exaggerating, obviously. I don’t go out with everyone.” Her rocking slowed and she studied him intently with those big violet eyes.

Eric tightened his fingers over the edge of his desk. “Just everyone but me.”

“I didn’t go out with you because, well, I have my reasons…one of them being that you’re a lot of fun.” She paused, as if wondering how much to say, then softly admitted, “I didn’t want to screw that up.”

“Dating is supposed to be fun. Dating me would be a hell of a lot of fun,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended.

Chloe straightened her back, gave a regal lift of her chin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.” It was all he could think of to say, at bat, as he was, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth.

“But then what happens when we finish dating?” She waited for him to answer, and when he remained silent, she added, “I don’t want to screw up what we have as friends.”

What did they have as friends? And why did it feel like he’d been clothes-lined by her assumption that they’d be “finished dating”?

Even though he knew she was right, and he couldn’t see himself sharing a future with Chloe, he didn’t appreciate not being given a chance.

To do what, hotshot? Prove the princess as capable of dumping on you as any woman?

“Give me a clue here, Chloe. What sort of assistance, exactly, would you be needing from Eric’s Escort Service?” Maybe he could back his way into helping her out, because no matter how much he enjoyed her company, he wasn’t going to act the part of any escort.

Chloe got to her feet, paced to the opposite end of the couch, then back. She worked her hands as she talked. “Over the next few months, gIRL-gEAR is scheduled to be profiled in several national publications. Sydney has her eye on the big time. She’s courting designers. She’s talked about taking the company public.

“Which means we’re all living under a magnifying glass. We’ve been ordered to clean up our acts. And I specifically have been asked to dismantle the skeletons in my closet and give the room a thorough disinfecting.”

“Wow.” Eric nodded and absorbed and tried to fit his escort services into the lineup. “That’s heavy duty.”

“Which part? gIRL-gEAR going public?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or my skeletons?”

“If you have any skeletons, you’ve done a super job of keeping them under wraps. But then, that would make them mummies, wouldn’t it?” He waited for her to get it, then added, “Skeletons? Under wraps?”

“That’s not funny.”

“C’mon, Chloe. I can’t believe it’s all gloom and doom. You’ve been here, what?” He glanced at the basketball goal converted to a clock on the wall above her head. “Thirty minutes?”

“Yes. And?”

“So, you might’ve slipped one by me, but I don’t think I’ve heard so much as a dagnabbit come out of your mouth.”

“Trust me.” Her hands went deep into the pockets of her shorts, her gaze to the toes of her cross-trainers. “It’s only for the tight leash I have on my tongue.”

Eric leaned forward, catching the scent of sunshine in her hair. He smiled and whispered, “Just don’t let go. You’ll be fine.”

“So, you’ve solved one of my problems.” She held up two fingers. “There’s still my fast and furious reputation. And then there’s Poe.”

“Poe?”

“A buyer at work. Her name is Annabel Lee. And she’d sell her soul for my job.”

Eric needed more information to diffuse that particular bomb. But since Chloe’s reputation was one thing he knew about, he could ease at least that worry.

“You think you have a fast and furious reputation?” He shook his head. “In my dreams, maybe.”

A tiny smile crooked the corner of her mouth. “There you go. Dreaming again.”

No way was he touching that comment. Ten-foot pole or twenty. “You date a lot. It’s not a big deal. If you slept around, I’d know it.”

“What do you mean, you’d know it?”

Here he needed to tread carefully. He might not be held to the same standards as a man of the cloth, but neither did he spill his guts lightly. “We run in the same circles, Chloe. And I own a bar. Trust me. I hear as many confessions as a priest. Your reputation is safe with me.”

The second the words left his mouth, he knew he’d stepped into a big pile of dog doo. Chloe got a look in her eye that could only be called a wicked gleam.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

He stumbled over ten or twelve words before he finally shut his big mouth. This was what he got for trying to be a nice guy. At least he knew enough to stop with the shovel before he buried himself completely.

“I have three functions coming up over the next couple of months,” Chloe was saying. “Official business functions. I can’t get out of any of them and I’ll be representing gIRL-gEAR while I’m there.”

“So go already.” He knew where this was headed, knew he’d been smart to establish his just-say-no terms up front. Making like Chloe’s arm candy was not his idea of self-respect. “I’m sure you can find a date. Or better yet, avoid the reputation hassle and go alone.”

She shook her head. “This girl does not fly solo.”

“Why not?”

“My reputation, duh.”

Try as he might, Eric could not make sense of her logic. “I hope you’re kidding, because I think it’s your reputation that’s gotten you into this mess, am I right?”

“You’re not a girl. I don’t expect you to understand. I can’t go alone. I have to have a date. And I would be ever so appreciative if you could help me out here.”

He ignored the eyelashes she batted. “And by help you out, you mean…”

She nodded.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Chloe. I’m not sure I want to be one of your statistics.”

“You wouldn’t be. This is strictly business. Totally up front. If I show up with the same date all three times, the industry gossips won’t have a tongue-wagging leg to stand on.”

Threads of common sense were unraveling all over the floor. “Sure they will. It’ll just be a different leg. My leg. And I don’t really care to be the object of anyone’s wagging tongue.”

Then again…

“Don’t you get it?” She wrapped delicate fingers around his forearm. “That’s the point. Sydney can hardly object if the reason for the gossip is all good. You’d be putting a positive spin on my situation. Party girl interrupted.”

“First you want an escort. Now you want a spin doctor. I know it’s hard to believe, but even I can’t be all things to all women.”

The imprint of her touch remained on his arm long after he’d pushed away from his desk. He’d hoped he could walk away; why had he never learned how to walk away? But he didn’t get very far because Chloe was in his face, one hundred twenty pounds of enthusiasm.

“Think about it, Eric. Three dates. That’s all it is.” She counted them off on her fingers—one, two, three. “Three nights spent in my company, schmoozing with the media. With designers. Supermodels.”

She’d called him Eric. Not sugar. “Supermodels?”

“I’d do the same for you.”

Oh she would, would she? “Supermodels, huh? I tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

He had to give her credit; she didn’t turn him down immediately the way he had before hearing the dirty details of her idea. She had an open mind.

A desperate open mind?

Willing to go to any lengths to save her career?

Hmm. He could see himself playing the devil to her Faust.

“What? What’s the deal?”

“You get your three dates.” He did the finger thing—one, two, three. “And I get my three—”

“No.” She shook her head so forcefully that wisps of her blond hair caught on her lips, leaving her decidedly disheveled.

Eric liked the look. “What kind of double standard is this? I’m not allowed to say no, but you can turn me down flat without hearing me out?”

“I don’t want to hear you out. Not if it’s going to be about sex.”

He hung his head and did his best to look puppy-dog pitiful instead of guilty as hell. “After all that talk about friends being there for each other? You’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Chloe.”

“You’re saying your deal-making efforts aren’t intended to get me into bed?”

He looked up in time to catch the imperial lift of her brow. “What? And ruin this beautiful friendship?”

He wasn’t about to admit what the picture of her tousled hair was doing for his imagination. Just get her out of her shoes and shorts and, yeah, he could see Chloe Zuniga in his bed, wearing nothing but her socks and that jersey hanging over her thighs and curvy bare ass.

“Okay.” Her chin went up. She shook back her hair. “What three nonsexual things do you want in exchange for your escort services?”

“We’re going to do this, then?”

“Well, it depends on what you want.”

Nope. He wasn’t going anywhere near that one, either; there wasn’t a long enough pole. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

“So, you don’t even know what you want? This is just an open-ended deal? I’m expected to be at your beck and call while you get off on stringing me along?” At each question asked, her voice had risen. Her final query was nothing if not a screech.

“I suppose we can set a time limit.”

“Damn straight we’re going to set a time limit. I’d be a thousand kinds of a fool to leave myself open to the warped workings of your imagination.”

Ah. Now this was the Chloe he knew and…hmm. Definitely didn’t love. Admittedly had the hots for. “Okay, then. What? A month? Six weeks?”

She’d pulled a mini diary from her mini knapsack. “The Wild Winter Woman fashion show is my third event, and it’s in the middle of May, so let’s wrap up this deal by Memorial Day.”

He thought of everything he had on his calendar between now and then. A huge grin started at the edge of his mouth and spread until he thought his face would split.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” Chloe groused, hoisting her small leather backpack onto one shoulder.

“Just thinking how I’ve always wanted a genie to grant me three wishes. And here you are.”

SETTLED IN THE SADDLE of her exercise bike, Chloe wished her legs were longer so she could give herself a good swift kick in the pants.

Instead, she pedaled harder, faster, her legs pumping like pistons, and all the spent energy getting her abso-friggin’-lutely nowhere. She released the bike’s handlebar just long enough to swipe a towel over her forehead.

Her sweatband had long since passed the point of saturation, but she wasn’t about to stop spinning to switch it for a dry one. Not when she had an unstoppable rhythm going and hours of frustration to burn.

The television mounted in the corner of the spare bedroom she’d converted into her own personal exercise-slash-torture chamber was running a tape of Shakespeare in Love. But even Will’s desperately romantic pursuit of Viola was not enough to distract Chloe from yesterday’s fiasco.

Damn that cocky Eric Haydon, sweet-talking her into doing exactly what he’d wanted. Granting him three wishes. And how stupid of her to agree. No, not stupid. Just desperate enough to act like she didn’t have an ounce of common sense…or much of a memory for details.

He was wrong.

Yesterday afternoon, once she’d gotten out of Haydon’s and arrived home, she’d headed straight for her diary. And Eric was wrong. Sixteen. Not twenty.

She’d gone out with sixteen different men so far this year. Eight of them had been one-nighters, not deserving of the time of day much less any more than her cell phone number. Caller ID was a girl’s best friend.

Puffing through the aggravation of realizing she needed a new strategy for finding that elusive happily ever after, she tried to sort out the entire dating process—or at least her personal lack of dating success.

She was not unreasonably selective, yet she didn’t go out with just anyone who asked. Somehow, though, she had gained a reputation for doing just that. Which guaranteed she was asked out a lot.

By everyone, it seemed, but Cary Grant.

Her dating rules were flexible, her only demand that a man treat her like a woman. Too many took that to mean trying to get into her pants. Others assumed she wanted to be coddled and pampered and saved from herself.

She never went into a date with her rules spelled out on a cue card. But men asked, and she answered, and then all hell would break loose, depending on the man and what conclusions he’d drawn about women.

It was always one extreme or the other. The virgin or the slut. The whore or the lady.

What had happened to the middle ground?

Her looks were one problem, her vocabulary another, but she was who she was. Her upbringing had defined her; the pedestal on which she’d been forced to sit had towered miles above reality.

So she’d countered her father’s insistence that she rise above the rabble by getting down and getting dirty. To her sheltered and rebellious young mind that had meant a coarse vocabulary, a take-no-prisoners personality, an unapologetic enjoyment of life’s earthier delights, as well as the power afforded by passion.

Perhaps not the most straightforward approach to life or to love, but a method that had served its purpose. She’d learned that being good wasn’t going to get her anything she wanted. She’d also learned that what most men gave her she wanted to give back.

At the crook of her finger, they came running, bringing flowers and chocolates and baubles, and declarations of love so profusely poetic she wanted to barf. She had attention, affection, the things of female fantasy…and all of it was bogus as hell.

No man had ever taken the time or made the effort to learn that she read Tom Clancy for fun. That she’d take lemon over chocolate any day of the week. That she grew her own tomatoes in whiskey barrels kept on the patio, but killed every flower she planted.

Men. Ruled by their dicks. Every one of them.

What she wanted was chivalry.

Was the word really that anachronistic? The concept that out-of-date? And what about respect? Not only for her person, but for her ideas and opinions.

She was blond. She was built. She was not about to apologize for her love of makeup. She had a brain. She was not a bimbo. She liked men. She was not an easy score.

Why was that so hard to understand? she wondered, and pedaled even harder, faster, closing her eyes and pushing beyond the burn. She doubted her reputation or her mouth truly crossed Sydney’s line in the sand.

But Chloe loved gIRL-gEAR, her vice-presidential perks and position, the cyclical industry of fashion and her partners, the five women who’d been her best friends since their days in Austin at University of Texas.

Hell, she even had a soft spot for Poe, though the other woman’s ambition irritated Chloe more than a broken underwire on a brand-new bra. Poe needed the air released from her inflated self-opinion. She might have five years on Chloe, but Chloe had the heart Ms. Annabel Lee was missing.

The ringing of the phone in her bedroom slowed Chloe’s cathartic pace, but she didn’t stop pedaling until the machine picked up and she heard Eric Haydon’s voice.

“Yo, Chloe. About that first wish.”

Chloe sat up straight on the bike and listened to the recording being broadcast from across the hall.

“Be at Haydon’s. Saturday morning. Nine on the nose. Oh, and the outfit you had on yesterday? Wear it.”

The line went dead, then came the dial tone, followed closely by Chloe’s disbelief. That was it? Orders he assumed she’d follow left on an answering machine?

And what was up with the dress code? He knew she wouldn’t wear those clothes again on a dare. She certainly wouldn’t wear them because he’d told her to. Or would she? After all, she’d been stupid enough to grant him three wishes.

She’d had enough exercise, and her fill of that bossy Eric Haydon. Hopping from the bike, she headed for the shower, flinging pink Lycra and spandex all over the bathroom. Once the hot water started melting her balled up muscles, she was better able to think.

Other than removing sex from the equation, she and Eric had set no boundaries for this granting-of-three-wishes business. She supposed it was a fair enough trade-off.

Eric knew he’d be accompanying her to gIRL-gEAR business affairs. She knew she’d be doing anything Eric wanted her to do…except crawl naked into his bed. Chloe sighed.

How terribly disappointing.