Читать книгу More Naughty Than Nice - Julie Kistler - Страница 11

“WOO-HOO!” Stevie was so excited that she chugged water down too fast and spilled some on her Prada leather jacket. “I was good, wasn’t I?” she asked Anna. “I mean, I was on today. I had ’em cold. I cooked! I ruled!”

“You ruled,” Anna agreed. “There was a big crowd, and we sold a ton of books.”

“I was in a groove.” She swiveled in her chair, too hyped up to sit still. “At first that reporter guy kind of threw me, but then I took it as a challenge. Did you see how cute he was? I mean, awfully cute. Very, very cute. Men like him, all cool and superior and gorgeous and way too sure of themselves, they are exactly why we started this. And today, I was a tiger and he was a hyena and it felt good. Mr. Way Cute, and I reeled him in. By the end, he practically had a hook in his mouth.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Anna said dryly. “Better get a move on. He’s waiting in the coffee bar.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ll be there in a sec. I was enjoying the moment, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, hooked or not, he seemed kind of ticked off. I wouldn’t want to push him.” Frowning, Anna blotted the wet spot on Stevie’s jacket with a tissue. “I don’t know what burr he’s got under his saddle, but there’s something.”

Stevie leaned forward, more alert now. “You think he’s planning to trash me?”

Anna shrugged. “Dunno. It doesn’t really matter. Trash or flash, it’s still publicity. As long as he writes a column, that’s all I care. Or maybe if you get under his skin enough, he’ll come across with two or three columns. And then we get a slew of letters to the editor, pro and con, and the other papers will tune in to the controversy and they’ll run features and pictures, too.” She took Stevie by the hand and pulled her out of her chair, propelling her toward the door and her duty. “The shopping season is just getting started. If we play our cards right, there will be moms and daughters and sisters and cousins and friends, all dying to buy copies of Blissfully Single for each other. Believe me, we need the press. So get to work. Get under his skin.”

Stevie considered. “Under his skin… Would that be irritated or turned on?”

“I don’t know.” Anna smiled, holding open the door as Stevie reluctantly ducked through. “Whatever works. Seems like you made a pretty good start. So keep it up.”

“Hmm…”

As Anna lagged behind, looking for a lost press kit with some updated stats she wanted to give to the reporter, Stevie put her glasses back on and shook her head so her hair would fall into just the right tousled disarray. She threw back her shoulders and lengthened her stride.

She wasn’t afraid of one silly reporter. Not in the least. So why was her heart pounding like a runaway bongo drum as she swept into the bookstore’s coffee bar?

There he was, with his dark hair carelessly shoved off his forehead, gnawing on the end of a pen. As he sat there, unaware of her scrutiny, she tried to be clinical and objective. She noted that he was tall, fairly slim and very good-looking, even with that grumpy expression. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, open at the neck, with a tailored navy blazer and tan pants. Neat, well-organized, comfortable in his clothes. Nothing so scary about that, was there? Chewing her lip, she wished she could find something about him, some obvious flaw, so that she could dismiss him outright.

Damn him, anyway. At first glance, he looked perfect. Or maybe that was his flaw. Who wanted perfection?

As she strolled over, his green eyes took her measure one more time. She did her best to look careless and at ease as she slipped into the other seat at his small wooden table. For the first time in a long time, she was intensely aware that the curves of her breasts were right there on display, inches from his eyes, that her skirt was very short and tight and… And that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

Was she sweating everywhere all at once? Or did it just feel like it?

Hello, Owen Dasher. Hello, Nightmare City.

Oh, come on. He probably hadn’t read the book and didn’t have a clue about the stupid no-underwear thing. Sure he was getting a good gander at her cleavage, but so what? Lots of women wore low necklines. And he was much too close to look under her skirt.

No squirming, she told herself curtly. No panicking. And no squirming!

“Hello,” she began, meeting his cool gaze. With her skirt firmly in place, she pressed her legs together, leaned forward, and extended a hand. “You must be Owen Dasher.”

He ignored her hand, preferring to glance down at his notebook. Then he slapped a small tape recorder down on the table between them. “Right. I already know who you are.”

Ooooh. Nice voice. Husky, a shade gruff, yet with a certain note of sweetness. It made her feel all melty. Of course, she was already overly warm, so it wasn’t that big a leap. But the voice could almost make her forgive the fact that he didn’t want to take her hand. Almost.

She pulled herself away from dangerous thoughts and concentrated on How to Manipulate a Conversation 101.

“I certainly hope you know who I am,” she returned smoothly. “You were staring a hole in me all the time I was speaking. So, did you like what you saw?”

That got him to look up. Bad move. She found herself momentarily distracted by his eyes. Chilly, yes. But that particular deep shade of green was amazing, particularly accented by his thick, dark lashes. Like a cool dip in a forest glade.

Snap out of it, she ordered herself. Probably colored contacts. Didn’t she know herself how easy it was to change your eye color? He probably did it just to bamboozle impressionable interviewees like her.

When he responded, his tone was as cynical as his eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if this Blissfully Single stuff is a scam or a joke.”

Rule 1: If you don’t like the question you’re asked, respond with one of your own. “Are those the only two choices?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You listened to my speech,” she noted. “Or at least you stared at me during my speech. Did that provide any clues?”

“Not really.”

“Why? Not paying attention, were we?”

“Oh, I paid attention.”

“I thought so.” She was kind of enjoying this verbal thrust and parry. As long as she fenced with him, word for word, it kept her mind off her lack of lingerie, the tiny thread of perspiration sliding down between her breasts and the hypnotic look in his beautiful eyes.

He said, “I found out one thing. You’re very good at what you do.”

Then he edged his heavy wooden chair forward, far enough that if she kicked out her boot an inch or two, she’d get him right in the shin. Which might not be a bad idea. But he’d made his point. His physical presence was strong and intimidating, generating enough body heat to knock her whole chair over. She dug in. She wasn’t going anywhere. Although some cold water thrown on her head might’ve been nice. Better yet, cold water thrown on his head.

Instead, she simply said, “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His jaw clenched. He sounded frustrated when he shot back, “Take it any way you want. I meant that you’ve obviously practiced delivering your spiel, you make a slick presentation, you sell what you’ve got to sell and the morons who buy your book get what they deserve.”

Stevie lifted an eyebrow. “And you’ve decided they’re morons because you don’t like my message, you don’t like my fans or because you’re threatened by me?”

“None of the above.”

“Then what? What is your problem, Mr. Dasher?”

“Who said I had a problem?”

She was losing control of this interview, letting him ruffle her feathers. And she had no intention of letting that continue. She was supposed to be getting under his skin, not vice versa.

Rule 2: Be calm, but establish who’s boss. Draw a line in the sand. Keeping her voice cool and collected, she mused, “I think you should quit playing footsie with me, Mr. Dasher. This is supposed to be an interview, remember? So far you haven’t asked any real questions, have you?”

She bent nearer, giving him a steady gaze that she hoped disguised her real feelings. I am going to smoke you, Mr. Big Shot. You think you can confuse me with how hot you are? You think I don’t know you just called my readers morons? You are going down!

He stared back, enigmatic and annoying.

Rule 3: Put him on the defensive. She struck. “Are you having problems getting your questions together? Don’t be afraid. Why, you can ask me anything, and find out every little thing you ever wanted to know about the Blissfully Single life, or…” Tipping her head to one side, she offered a superior smile. “Let me guess. You’d rather talk about you, right? ’Cause, after all, you’re the guy here. You’re used to everything revolving around you. Poor little dear. This must be confusing, when you’re not the center of attention.”

But he didn’t take the bait. “I’ve got questions.”

“Fire when ready.” Get that revolver out of the holster, big boy.

Fast and snappy, he asked, “Where did you get the idea for the book? Bad marriage? Some guy dump you? No date for the prom?”

“Do I look like a woman scorned?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“No.” She leaned in even closer, so that they were knee to knee, eye to eye. And if he wanted to stare right down the front of her camisole, well, that view was available. But he didn’t. His eyes stayed on hers. Darn him. She’d been sure she could distract him with some cleavage. Charging ahead, she finished, “I’m perfectly happy in my relationships. Plural. Always have been.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.”

“Left at the altar?”

“No. How about you?”

He grinned, and it was so swift and genuine, she couldn’t breathe for just a second. He’s enjoying this, too. He’s as turned on as I am!

“No and no,” he said. “So if you’ve never done it, what do you have against marriage?”

“If you’ve never done it, why are you defending it?”

“I’m supposed to ask the questions, and you’re supposed to answer. Which you didn’t.” His voice dropped lower as he repeated, “What do you have against marriage?”

Luckily, she had a series of set responses to that particular question—it was the first one everyone always asked—so she could pull another easy answer out of a mental file without thinking about his smile, his even white teeth, his perfectly formed lips….

I want you to kiss me with those lips. Now. Often. Starting with now.

On automatic pilot, she murmured, “Marriage is a lovely institution. But I don’t want to live in an institution.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he breathed, and his hand slid onto her knee.

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” she whispered. Stevie fixed her gaze on his adorable mouth, not even hearing his words.

Who cared? She was stoked up. She was on fire. His fingers crept an inch or two higher, tickling and warming her skin at the same time. The sensation—so small, so inconsequential—was incredible. God, that felt good.

She slipped to the front of her seat, rubbing one boot along his calf. He leaned in, lining up for the kiss she knew was coming. But it didn’t. He just sat there, waiting, as the air between them crackled with possibilities.

Feeling very naughty, she licked her bottom lip, watching his eyes as they followed her tongue. Secure in her hot-to-trot persona, she whispered, “So are you going to kiss me or not, Mr. Dasher?”

“Why would I do that, Ms. Bliss?” he asked, in the same soft, dangerous tone she was using.

She kept her boot on his leg. “Why wouldn’t you? You know you want to.”

“I do?”

“Oh, yeah. You do.”

“I don’t kiss women I barely know.”

“So get to know me.” Fast. And then kiss me.

As he gazed at her with a definite spark of mischief and heat, she knew she had him right where she wanted him. She was so proud of herself for acting sexy and reckless—right out of the Blissfully Single playbook—until she suddenly realized she was making a huge mistake. Playing at reckless was fine. Really being reckless was terrible.

As besotted as she was, she still recognized they needed a power shift here. Quickly. Or she’d be in the storage closet making mad, passionate love with Mr. Way Cute before she knew it. She had never done anything that crazy and irresponsible in her entire life, with or without a storage closet and Mr. Way Cute. No matter what she pretended to be, she was not the right sort of person for this full-on assault.

Sliding her foot back to her own side of the table, she decided to say something crude enough to knock him off his game. “If you’re trying to play it coy, you don’t need to. Anyone who’s read my book knows it’s not that hard to get into my pants.”

“But, Stevie, anyone who’s read your book knows you don’t wear any.”

He’d read the book. He knew.

Panic and excitement trilled deep inside her. His soft breath ruffled her hair as he tilted in near her ear. Down below, his hand flirted under the edge of her leather skirt. Oh, man. He’d read the book. He knew!

That was so unfair. She was wet, she was burning up, she wanted him. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers, letting him go wherever he wanted. “Oh…”

“Ahem.” Someone loudly cleared her throat. Someone standing right next to them.

Stevie opened her eyes. It was Anna, grinning from ear to ear. Anna scraped another wooden chair on the floor, pulling herself up at their table with a great deal of commotion, as Stevie scrambled to get away from Owen and his wandering fingers. She almost tipped her chair over backward but she was out of his reach.

“Looks like you two are getting along great,” Anna declared, slapping a folder down on the table near Owen’s whirring tape recorder.

Lord, lord. If the nasty little seduction scene hadn’t been bad enough in person, he had it on tape. He could rewind and listen whenever he wanted! Are you going to kiss me or not, Mr. Dasher? Anyone who’s read my book knows it’s not that hard to get into my pants.

Stevie grabbed for the thing, but Owen was faster. He had it turned off and stuck in his pocket before her hand hit the table.

“Just in case you needed any of the more recent figures on who’s buying Blissfully Single or how well it’s selling, I have that all for you,” Anna announced, ignoring any of the subtext churning at the table. “We’re very hot right now. In bookstores, I mean.”

Hot. In bookstores. Uh-huh. Just like her. What had she been thinking, letting things get so out of hand? Hand. Bad choice of words. Why did everything remind her? His hand, her skirt. Her bad, bad judgment. Why couldn’t she get her mind to move past their lewd and lascivious behavior?

Momentary lapse. Over. Move on, she ordered herself.

“Do you have any stats yet on how many marriages you’ve broken up?” Owen interjected in a perfectly charming tone that belied his words and annoyed her to no end.

“Broken marriages?” she echoed, stung by how easily he could switch gears. “Me personally? Or the book?”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “The book, of course. I was wondering if anyone who was already married had decided to throw it over and join the Blissfully Single movement.”

“Don’t you think a marriage that can be broken up over a book deserves to fail?” Stevie returned, with more than a hint of acid. “Or do you think all marriages should stay glued together, no matter how terrible?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think. And what do you think, Stevie?”

He regarded her as if she were a rather dull exhibit at the zoo, mildly interesting, but nothing to write home about.

Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. “You know what I think. You read the book.”

“The book strikes me as superficial and not all that well thought-out.”

“And once again, you don’t have a question, just a sermon.” Stevie stood up, ready to spit nails at him.

Superficial and not all that well thought-out. He had a lot of nerve coming to her signing, staring at her, witnessing her fans and their devotion, pawing her, teasing her with kisses that didn’t happen and then, after all that, calling her book superficial. If she’d had a copy of Blissfully Single handy, she would’ve clobbered him with it.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Bliss?” he asked, feigning surprise, which only made her madder. He knew very well what reaction he was going to get. He was goading her into it. And she hated the idea that he could do that. She was supposed to be in control here, damn it.

“What exactly do you have against the ideas in Blissfully Single?” she demanded. “Are you that threatened by the notion that women can control their own lives?”

“You’re getting off track.”

“You pushed me there,” she shot back.

“I don’t think anyone pushes you anywhere,” he said with what looked to her like a small sneer.

She came up with a sneer of her own. “That bothers you, does it?”

“Not in the least.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Just for the record, I am not threatened by you, your book or the idea that women can control their own lives,” he said evenly. “But I happen to be a big believer in truth, honesty, integrity. All those old-fashioned things that seem to have eluded you as you created this Stevie Bliss myth.”

He was practically accusing her of being a fraud. And the best she could come up with was the most immature kind of “nyah, nyah” argument. Attempting to damp down her anger, losing the battle, she snapped, “I think we’re done here, don’t you, Mr. Dasher?”

“Stevie, can I speak to you, alone, for a second?” Anna broke in, plucking at her sleeve. “You wouldn’t mind if we took a time-out, would you, Mr. Dasher?”

“Call me Owen,” he said, once again doing a charm school routine for Anna. “No, I don’t mind. Take your time.”

Forcing a smile, Anna dragged Stevie over to the corner, about ten feet away. “Are you nuts?” she hissed. “You were yelling at the man. He is a reporter. We don’t yell at reporters, okay?”

“He’s a jerk. Accusing me of being a fake. And of breaking up marriages. Ha!” Turning herself firmly away from any position where she might have to see Owen Dasher, Stevie ground one spiked heel into the parquet floor. “First he’s got his hand on my leg, like total sexual harassment…”

Anna lifted an eyebrow.

“Okay, so it wasn’t sexual harassment,” she admitted. She was a fair person. She could allow that much. “I let it happen. I encouraged it to happen. But I still think it’s wrong that one minute he’s all touchy-feely on my thigh and the next he’s saying the book is shallow and a home-wrecker. That’s pretty nervy, don’t you think?”

“I think you can handle him.” Anna pressed her lips together in a frown. “Stevie, you’ve had a thousand guys come on to you, and another thousand tell you your book was all wet, but you shot every one of them down without a problem. Why can’t you do that this time?”

“He’s different,” she bit out. “He plays one way and then the other. He tried to seduce me just to distract me long enough to get a zinger in. The old bait and switch.”

“Oh, my. A baiter and switcher. Call the cops,” Anna responded, rolling her eyes.

“He’s getting to me,” she argued. “And not in a good way!”

“Calm down, okay? He’s just trying to mess with your head.” Anna continued in a soothing tone, “I told you, it doesn’t matter. Whatever he writes, it’s publicity, and it’s for the good. You know the two big rules of media interaction—accessibility and quotability. Have you hit the target on either of those?”

She had certainly been accessible, given the fingers under her skirt, although she knew very well that was not the kind of accessibility Anna meant. And she was handing out quotes on the order of, “Oh, yeah?” Swallowing around a dry throat, Stevie allowed, “I am not hitting the target, no.”

“So you’re going to go back over there and give the sassy, quotable answers you want to give no matter what he asks, and then he’ll write whatever he wants to write and we will go on from there. All right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I suppose.”

Except Owen Dasher didn’t wait for them to come back. He’d picked up his notes and his pen and whatever else he had hiding on his annoying body, and he came tromping over to interrupt their conversation.

“Sorry,” he offered, acting all rushed and distracted. “My column’s going to run on Wednesday this week, because of Thanksgiving, so I have an early deadline and I need to get out of here. Anyway, I think I have enough to put this one to bed….”

At which point Stevie began to choke and Anna had to pinch her arm hard to make her stop.

“Are you okay over there?” he asked solicitously.

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” He smiled. It was a humdinger of a smile, all toothy and wonderful and bright, and it made her want to strangle him. “Well, anyway, I’m okay with what I’ve got for Wednesday’s column.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a few more quotes?” Anna asked anxiously. “We want to make your column as complete as it can be and for you to cover the whole range of ideas represented in Stevie’s book. We don’t want you to go away unsatisfied.”

Stevie choked again.

“I’m satisfied,” he said calmly, giving her and her obvious discomfort an amused glance. “But I’m thinking it might be fun to explore the Blissfully Single phenomenon in more depth. See it in action, so to speak.”

“In action. Uh-huh,” Stevie echoed, her mind filling with images of him and her and the kind of “action” the two of them could get into. Fighting. Kissing. Touching.

It was horrifying. Maybe strangling was too good for him.

“I’m thinking of the, uh, proposition you made before, Stevie.”

“When was that?” she asked, not remembering anything remotely resembling a proposition except telling him it wasn’t that hard to get into her pants. Was that a proposition? Or just temporary insanity?

“What are we talking about?” Anna interrupted briskly. “More interviews? Or maybe you’d like to observe the Blissfully Single lifestyle on its feet?”

“On its feet, off its feet, whatever.” He smiled. She decided she hated him. “But nothing new planned for me. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your schedule.”

Right. He just wanted to disrupt everything, including her mental health.

He continued, “I think what would work best for me would be to follow Stevie around, on a typical day, maybe some time next week. If we’re lucky, maybe we can stretch this into two or three columns. What do you say?”

“I think that is possibly the wor—”

“She’d love to,” Anna cut in. “Fabulous idea.”

“Anna!”

“It’s great, Owen. Just give me a call and I’ll set you up with her schedule for the next week or so. Anything you want, you have access.”

And then the traitorous Anna stepped in front of Stevie, slipped him a business card, told him what hotel they were at, gave him her cell phone number and ushered him away, before Stevie could get in there and object.

More interviews with this guy? Following her around on a typical day? Breathing on her, touching her, pretending he was moving in for a kiss and then not?

“Not bloody likely,” she said under her breath.

No way in hell she was getting anywhere near Owen Dasher ever again.