Читать книгу More Naughty Than Nice - Julie Kistler - Страница 10

A few days before Thanksgiving, three years later

“STEVIE, DO YOU THINK we should ice down your nipples before you go out?”

Stevie Bliss, aka Stephanie Blanton, author of the fabulously successful new book, Blissfully Single, whipped around so fast she almost knocked her assistant over. “Anna, are you nuts?” she whispered. “Ice down my…? You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course I’m not kidding.” Anna fixed her with a stubborn stare. “Nipples happen to be big right now. Our focus group went off the charts when they saw video of J. Lo at the—”

“I’m not doing it,” Stevie interrupted. “Besides, I’m wearing a jacket. Nobody would see them, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Anna persisted. “We’ve gotten as much play as we’re going to get off the rest of our out-there elements. Maybe one more is just what we need for a new round of press. We’re coming up on the biggest shopping day of the year. We’ve got to keep you in the public eye.”

Stevie almost smacked her. Anna was her best friend, her confidante and her partner in this crazy plot to put them and Blissfully Single on the map, but sometimes she really went too far.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked, Anna, including the no underwear thing, which I personally think is ridiculous—”

“It killed on the surveys and you know it,” Anna returned. She began to tick items off on her fingers. “For our last element, we gave them a choice of tattoo, various piercings, magenta or blue hair, exposed midriff, exposed thong and even carrying a snake. Nothing scored like going commando.”

“I know, I know.”

“It makes you naughty, outrageous, but not too far over the line. And it gives us an advantage over most men, who are so distracted by what may be going on under there that they forget to feel threatened by the message.”

“I know, I know.”

Sounding just a tad testy, Anna said, “I don’t make this stuff up, Stevie. It’s all in the hard data.”

“And I have done everything so far that skewed right with that data,” Stevie explained patiently. “But the whole thing, the whole Stevie Bliss persona, it’s set now. Set. In stone. Or at least in leather.”

She took a deep breath, looking down at the slick black leather miniskirt and zip jacket, both scandalously expensive, the deeply plunging neckline on the silk camisole underneath, the knee-high boots with three-inch heels… She had never imagined herself strutting around in an outfit like this. And whether you called it a hottie or a ’ho, it certainly made an impact.

She’d tried hard to own this new brazen person she had become. Day in and day out, she continued to try. And she was doing pretty well, if she did say so herself. For the past month, ever since they’d launched this leg of the official media tour for Blissfully Single, she and Anna and their PR machine had been blitzing the East Coast markets. Everyone from Letterman to Liz Smith had bought into Stevie Bliss, champion of the single, sexy, independent woman, confident in her own sizzling womanhood.

And now they’d brought their act to Chicago for the holidays. They had a month of appearances and signings designed to saturate the Midwest from their base in the Windy City, where there was fabulous shopping and exactly the right demographic of shoppers.

Meanwhile, every piece of her persona, from the streaks in her hair to the shape of her “smart girl” glasses and the precise amount of cleavage she showed, had been carefully selected, based on hours of marketing research. She looked terrific. She didn’t need iced nipples to sell this package.

“But Stevie—”

She held up a hand. “Anna, give it up.”

The bookstore manager peeked around the corner into the office, cutting off further discussion. “Ms. Bliss? We have everything set up. Are you ready?”

Stevie raised her chin. “Absolutely,” she said, with the lazy drawl that was her trademark. Soft and sexy, with a hint of a growl, this was the voice that played best with her public.

From recent experience, Stevie knew she would be fine as long as she stuck with the program and played the role to the hilt, safe behind the disguise. Reminding herself—as some psychological consultant or other had recommended—that she was a cool jungle cat, she strode out behind the man from the bookstore, sliding carefully and yet easily into the chair next to the podium, perched at the front of her seat with her knees down so as not to show off anything she didn’t want to. Instead, she offered a polished smile and more than a hint of décolletage to the eager fans in the front row.

I’m a tiger, they’re hyenas, and I will eat them all alive.

Whoa. They were really crammed in here today, weren’t they? Anna would be pleased—every seat was filled, with more fans standing around the sides and in the back, all clutching hardcover copies of Blissfully Single. There were also two TV cameras shooting across the crowd from different sides, but it didn’t faze her. Stations frequently sent someone out to her appearances to get some footage for the evening news, maybe collect a sound bite or two. As constructed, the Stevie Bliss persona was telegenic, so getting on camera was the whole idea.

On the sides, Stevie could see bookstore clerks trying to shove racks and shelves farther back to accommodate extra people. Such a big crowd. Butterflies flickered in her stomach, and she really had to clamp down. You’re a tiger, damn it!

The store manager was halfway through his introduction, playing to the closer camera as he told the assembled folks how lucky they were to get to see Stevie Bliss, author extraordinaire, up close and personal, how much her book had meant to so many, and on and on. Stevie tuned out, trying to judge the people in the crowd. Would they be receptive? Or would they throw tomatoes, with the TV cameras catching every splash?

The stony faces over on the left side—the ones near the baby carriage—looked like protesters for sure. Moms on parade, no doubt, who felt the need to fight for the sanctity of marriage. She’d seen their ilk before.

Ditto the group of men nearer the back, shuffling as they stood. Although most of her fans were female, she tended to get a good number of men, too, the kind who wanted to meet the daring woman who boasted short skirts and no panties, who made no bones about the fact that she slept with whoever she liked, had no interest in anything permanent, and would only stay with a man for one month, tops. For them, it was like an open invitation. Meet the hottie! Get her to give you a month!

It wasn’t going to happen—her scandalous reputation was all smoke and no fire—but she wasn’t going to tell them that.

For others, and these grumpy guys looked like they fell squarely into the “other” category, it was more of a war. A bit older, a lot more insecure as they looked ahead to hair implants and Viagra, they hated the idea that a woman would claim the upper hand when it came to sex. They showed up to boo on behalf of their beleaguered gender.

Stevie held her head high. Mentally, she had classified and discarded them. Hadn’t she had hours of training on how to deflect hard questions? She could handle a few measly hecklers. Besides, they provided good publicity, even if they did give her headaches. Tiger, tiger, she repeated under her breath, smiling brightly as she watched one of the TV guys shift for a different view. But when he moved to the side, her eyes were drawn to the man behind him, someone who had been hidden until now.

Hold on. Who was he? He didn’t fit the profile of either the wannabe wolf or the macho man. Chewing her lip, she ticked off the important details, trying to get a handle on Mr. Way Cute. Sitting by himself, dark hair, piercing gaze, very good-looking, cool and removed, carrying a small notebook flipped open to the first page….

Reporter, she decided. If there was such a thing as a really hot reporter who looked like George Clooney’s younger brother. Did reporters come like that? She’d been interviewed quite a few times, but never by anyone who looked like this one.

The mystery man paid no attention to the bookstore manager, who was still up at the podium, droning on through that endless introduction. Instead, he stared right through her. His gaze was frank, speculative, insolent, raking over her, judging her. He sat back in his chair, putting his pen aside. The challenge was palpable, crackling in the air between them. I don’t think you’re so special. You’re going to have to prove it, baby. Every word.

She swallowed. Okay, well, if he was going to be that way, she would just have to turn up her sex appeal another notch, past “ensnare” and right up to “torture.” She could do that. Right?

She looked at him. He looked at her. He narrowed that sharp gaze. And suddenly she felt a lot less like a tiger and a lot more like a hyena.

Breaking first, Stevie scooted to the side and sent a frantic glance Anna’s way, signaling that she needed help. Anna was excellent when it came to picking up on the “panic” vibe, and she rushed over, bending in. “What?” she whispered.

“Back row,” Stevie murmured. “Reporter. Who is he?”

“Oh.” Anna relaxed. “Owen Dasher, a columnist from the Chicago Chronicle. It’s the third-rated paper in town. But he’s a real up-and-comer.”

“I sense a certain…” She licked her lip. “Hostility.”

Anna spared him a quick glance. “I don’t think he looks hostile.”

“Very Cary Grant in Notorious. He needs Ingrid Bergman to sleep with Claude Rains as part of this spy thing, but then when she does, well, he thinks she’s a ’ho. Very hostile.”

Anna was steeled and ready to jump before Stevie got to the end of her thought. “What have I told you about the old movie thing? I know it’s a habit, but it’s not sexy. It makes you sound more like a geek on the trivia bowl team.”

They’d been through this a million times. Could she help it if she had once been a geek on the high school trivia bowl team? And she adored old movies. The flickering black-and-white images on the classic film channels had everything the real world did not.

Still, she knew Anna was right. Old movies might fit Stephanie Blanton, but not Stevie Bliss. And a hefty percentage of their target demographic hadn’t seen anything made before Titanic.

“Okay, okay. Nix on the movies. Back to the reporter.” She ventured a glance his direction. Cary Grant? Ha! Okay, so he had the dark hair, a penetrating gaze, a classic jawline, even a certain elegance in the way he held himself. But he was no Cary Grant. She was sure of that. Quickly skipping back to Anna, she asked, “What do you think he wants?”

“A column, obviously,” Anna said impatiently. “Maybe if you really make an impression, he’ll do more than one. I told you about him. The Tribune and the Sun-Times dissed us, but the Chronicle sent him. I looked up some of his columns, just to check him out. He’s good. Seems to champion causes a lot, although he does some satirical stuff, too. Not exactly who I’d pick to write about you, but he has a following. He may have an agenda, I don’t know. And I don’t really care.” She smiled. “I have no doubt you can turn him around.”

“Right.” Owen Dasher of the Chronicle, huh? She frowned.

“Don’t frown. And quit chewing off your lipstick. Smile,” Anna ordered. “Look happy and in charge.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Stevie? Uh, Ms. Bliss?”

She glanced over at the bookstore manager, who was speaking in a stage whisper and beckoning with one hand. “Yes?”

“I’m done with my… I mean, you’re on. Now.”

“Oh.” Damn it, anyway. All caught up in the irritating man in the back row, she’d missed her cue. And now she felt flustered and off balance. You’re a tiger and they’re hyenas, she reminded herself quickly as she swept up to the podium, facing down her audience. She focused on a smiling young woman in the front row, exactly the right age and attitude to be receptive.

But it was that damn man in the back row she was thinking about. She was going to have to be at the top of her game to sell her message with him staring at her.

You’re Stevie Bliss, she told herself. You can do it.

Deliberately, she swung her head around, she found him in the crowd, and she began to speak right to him.

“Definitely single,” she purred. “And totally satisfied. Let me tell you all about it.”

OWEN DASHER felt himself fall neatly into the palm of her hot little hand.

And how exactly had she done that? He’d come prepared to be unimpressed. Bored, cynical, a little annoyed his editor had made him do this, he’d sat there as the crowd filled in, making a quick first draft of the column he intended to write.

Yet another attempt to hijack women’s brains and send them to Never Never Land, he scribbled into his notebook. Stevie Bliss—who is as fake as her Power-puff name—takes up where the Spice Girls and Ally McBeal thankfully left off….

He smiled. An excellent turn of phrase. That one just might make the final cut and end up in his column.

He might’ve thought he was being unfair, but he couldn’t miss the fact that there were other people here who didn’t care for her, either, what with the guy standing behind him who kept muttering, “Crazy broad,” and the ladies clustered around the baby carriage on the other side, all prim and proper in their disapproval. Good. He was looking forward to some fireworks.

And then she was late. As the bookstore got fuller and fuller, Owen grew more annoyed. It didn’t help that he didn’t want to be there in the first place, pretending he cared about the Blissfully Single crowd. He’d read the book. He knew how slick, shallow and maybe even dangerous her message was.

All that stuff about women who refused to get married and used men as sex objects struck him as pretty ridiculous. He’d had plenty of one-nighters in his twenty-nine years on the planet, and he’d learned from hard experience that being involved with someone purely for the sex always turned out ugly. He didn’t think there had to be love involved, necessarily, but he didn’t think you should be sleeping with someone if you couldn’t bear to wake up with them, either. Okay, so he was opinionated. He was a columnist. It came with the territory.

As he’d waited, he’d mused on why she came up with this stuff. What had made Stevie Bliss so cynical about love and relationships?

His first thought was that she must be some dried-up crone who couldn’t get a guy in the first place. He checked her picture. No dried-up crone there. But, hey, digital touch-ups were amazing. So who knew?

Or maybe she was no more than another fast-buck artist, mouthing whatever phony baloney self-help platitudes she thought were most likely to net her some easy cash. The crude, rude flavor of the month, clad in leather, sporting no undies just to get some attention.

As he was mulling the question one more time, the real Stevie Bliss walked out. No, she sauntered out, all long legs and saucy attitude. He noted the streaked blond hair, cut kind of wispy and choppy on the ends where it brushed her shoulders, the striking blue eyes behind snappy little tortoiseshell glasses, the creamy, pale skin curving down into that daring camisole, the skirt that was barely long enough to cover her assets… Wow.

If this was a dried-up crone, he was Methuselah. And far from vulgar, she seemed to have found the place where sex met class and lived happily ever after.

Letting his gaze linger on her spectacular legs, he wondered whether those boots were made for walking. And on whom. He had to admit it. She was hot.

He could see she was impatient as the introduction limped on, as her eyes scanned the room, taking the measure of the crowd, checking for pockets of negativity she might have to combat later. Smart girl.

And then her electric gaze hit him. Pow. One glance from media creation Stevie Bliss and he was sautéed in his seat. Where in the hell did that come from?

At first he wondered if this smoky glance thing was some tactic she tried on all the men in her audience. But no, she seemed to be as thunderstruck as he was. And she was gazing directly at him, no one else.

He steeled himself against his own overheated reaction. Owen Dasher was no neophyte when it came to dazzling women, after all. He’d interviewed a heap of stars as they hit Chicago to promote their movies, and if Julia Roberts couldn’t reduce him to a pile of goo, there was no way he was going to melt after one glance from Stevie Bliss.

So they did a little visual tango, eye to eye, with him hanging on to a sense of journalistic detachment by his fingernails. She’s shallow and plastic and this is all a scam, he reminded himself. And he was pleased—no, relieved—when she broke first to talk to one of her handlers. She seemed rattled, and he enjoyed that, too.

Relaxing for the first time since their gazes intersected, he managed to collect himself, taking himself sternly to task for losing it like that. But, yeah, he could handle her. He’d just proved that. She’d looked away first, hadn’t she?

Then she sidled up to the podium to begin her speech, and he felt his palms start to sweat. Okay, so her long, lovely legs and those wicked boots were hidden behind the podium. That helped. But the rest of her, still on display, was a lot to deal with. A lot of warm, delicious woman. His fingers began to clench and unclench, and he realized he hadn’t taken a single note. Hell.

As she spoke, purring about sassy sisters who knew their personal value and took no prisoners, she was staring right at him, giving him the full benefit of this little performance. Although his brain couldn’t seem to process a word she was saying, he was actually starting to believe her.

“I love men,” she confided, in a naughty tone of voice that sent sparks of heat licking up from the bottom of his spine. He stretched his legs, pretending to be bored, adjusting his position. Still burning.

“People call me a man-hater,” she continued, lifting a dismissive hand in the air. “Isn’t that silly? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I love men. I mean, I love them.”

As she drew out the word “love” to make her implication clear, she was met by a flurry of giggles, and she turned her focus to the gaggle of teens in the front row, the ones doing the giggling. Which distracted her from keeping him pinned to his seat. Thank God.

“And why not? Men have been taking the cake and eating it, too, forever. Now it’s time for my cake.” Her smile widened, and she had a mischievous gleam in her eyes that left no doubt what she was really talking about. Sex. “Maybe with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

Whipped cream? And a cherry on top? On top of what? Or whom? Owen groaned, slipping deeper into the fantasy.

And then Stevie licked her lip. That pretty pink little tongue flicked over her top lip, for only a second. He was a goner.

Oh, man. This was bad. Very bad.

As she moved away from whipped cream, talking instead about empowerment and freedom, about making good choices and having no fear, he could feel the crowd moving with her. He could feel himself moving with her. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Yes! Yes!” along with the rest of the converts.

Hell, he wanted to throw her on the floor and make love to her until she screamed, “Yes! Yes!”

Time to get a grip.

Reining himself in with fierce control, Owen glared at her. She was manipulating everyone in this room, and he was not going to be part of it.

Finally it was time for questions. He looked to the groups of dissenters he’d identified earlier. Surely they could bring her down a peg or two. Go to it, guys! Dent that sex kitten veneer.

“Miss Bliss,” a rather stodgy-looking woman called out, raising her hand, which was weighted down by a huge diamond and a thick wedding ring. Several other women rose behind her, and they lifted neatly printed signs into the air. Mom, Marriage and Apple Pie read one, while another went with Bliss is a Big Liar!

“I prefer Ms.,” Stevie Bliss responded quickly. “Or you can just call me Stevie. Would you prefer that?”

“No. Yes. I mean, no.” The lady with the question looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “I do not want to call you anything. Our group, the Righteous Moms Brigade, believes that marriage and motherhood should be respected and commended, not spit upon, as you seem to do, and we would like to say that your book is just hateful—”

“Don’t you just love what she said about marriage and motherhood?” Stevie cut in. “Isn’t that wonderful? Respected and commended. You are so right. Because if it weren’t for women like you, who are on the frontlines of the marriage wars, the rest of us, the ones who are totally unsuited for that life, might have to sub in. So let’s give the Righteous Moms a hand, shall we? We love you, Righteous Moms!”

As the other women present dutifully applauded, Stevie added, “I hope everyone will read chapter five of Blissfully Single, where I talk about how you decide what’s right for you. It’s not whether you choose to be married or single that counts. It’s about having the choice, about being smart and not being afraid to go it alone if that’s what really suits you.”

And with that, she dismissed the Righteous Moms from her radar and moved on. They were still sputtering over there, but she had pretty much stripped them of their weapons by agreeing with them. Besides, she was in charge of the questions, and she wouldn’t call on any more of them.

The next set of questions was less contentious, all about what makeup she used and what designer she was wearing, before three or four guys in a row asked if they could sign up for a month of her time. “A month, a week, whatever,” one of them offered breathlessly. He was young and didn’t seem very bright, with his backward baseball cap and goofy grin, but he certainly didn’t look like he was insane or anything. “Hey, Stevie, I’ll take an hour if that’s all ya got. Ten minutes. Whatever.”

He couldn’t believe it when Stevie Bliss actually grinned back at the kid. “Aren’t you adorable?” she declared. “I’m in the market, too. My December calendar has plenty of spots. So you just get in line, and bring ID, please, so we can make sure you’re old enough, and then I will definitely put you on my list of contenders.”

Owen rolled his eyes at the level of bull being shoveled here. Who in his right mind would sign up to march in Stevie Bliss’s never-ending parade of boy toys?

Finally, a cranky gent from the back of the room pushed forward far enough to get to talk. He had a buzz cut, a Chicago Bears jacket and a sour look on his face, all of which tended to suggest he wasn’t a Bliss fan. Yet Stevie actually called on him.

“Yes? You, sir.”

“My name is Joe Ramsey, and I’m the president of the Swingin’ He-Men, Chicago chapter.”

“How lovely for you, I’m sure,” she said sweetly.

“Well, thanks.” He swaggered a little, building up steam as he unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “So, anyway, we want to know who you think you are, emasculating the male half of the society with your wanting to take our place as the predators and the hunters and all.” He glanced up expectantly. “Well?”

“Mr. He-Man, you hunt and predate all you want.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t mind a bit.”

“But what about you getting in the way and telling women they get to dump us whenever they feel like it? That they shouldn’t do our laundry or make our food or any of the other stuff women are supposed to do. That’s just wrong!”

“I agree with you, Joe. Women being forced to do your laundry or make your food, that’s just wrong. Isn’t it nice we can agree on something?” She smiled and turned away from him before he sorted out exactly what she’d said to him, as she pretended to catch sight of the clock. “Oh, dear,” she said regretfully. “I’m afraid our time is up. Thank you so much, everyone, for coming out to see me today. I’ll be happy to sign your books if you’d like to line up.”

Which they did, like lambs to the slaughter. There was even a traitor from the Swingin’ He-Men who came tramping into the line with his book under his arm, blushing and looking sheepish.

Owen was grudgingly impressed. Two protesters turned back without a hint of a dustup. No fistfights, not even a raised voice. Too bad.

“Mr. Dasher?” It was the handler, the one he’d seen chatting with Stevie before her talk. Where Stevie wore leather and displayed all the right skin on her long, lithe frame, this short, somewhat stout lady was buttoned into a nondescript brown wool suit with a plain white blouse. Big-boned and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense expression, she looked more like a Righteous Mom than someone who’d be riding the Blissfully Single train.

“I’m Owen Dasher,” he said. “You are…?”

“Anna, Stevie’s assistant.” She fixed him with a level gaze. “Sorry about the delay. There’s such a long line for autographs, and she may be a while. So if you wanted to—”

“Leave?” he asked with a shade of annoyance. Stevie Bliss got him all whipped into a frenzy by sending him lascivious glances and licking her lips and talking about whipped cream, and now she was going to leave him hanging? “What, is she afraid of this interview? You can tell her not to worry. I don’t bite.”

In a testier tone, she said, “You heard her speak. Do you really think she’s afraid of an interview? I think she’s looking forward to meeting you, as a matter of fact. She just wondered if you might prefer to go get a latte at the coffee bar while you wait.”

“Oh.” He stuck his notebook in the pocket of his coat, made a move to leave and then stayed where he was. Where was the coffee bar, anyway? And why would anyone think he was a latte kind of guy? Should he be insulted? “Look, that’s fine. Whatever. I’ll be at the coffee bar.”

“Mr. Dasher?”

He glanced back, noting that Anna looked more smug now than awkward. “Yes?”

“I thought you might want to know. Stevie…” Her words trailed off as she laughed out loud. “You should be prepared. She does bite.”