No strings attached (13 page)

“They are good, aren’t they.” Poe tapped a manicured nail against one portrait set against a white background, her head and shoulders limned with a vague shadow.

Her face was heavily powdered, her hair coiffed geisha style. Her mouth was set in a perfect moue. But it was her eyes that told the tale, glinting with a mischievous fire that hinted at even more naughtiness than did the imprint of a woman’s lips on her cheek.

“This is actually my favorite. Even more so than the nudes, which I have to say are about as good as the female body gets.”

She stated it matter-of-factly, with absolutely no
pretense, but still Chloe laughed. “And you don’t have a single shy bone, do you?”

A strange smile came over Poe’s mouth. “Actually, I’m very shy. And I know that I overcompensate and come across as having a huge ego. Not many people can reconcile what I know must seem like a multiple personality disorder.”

Chloe lifted a brow. “You do have your moments. But you still haven’t answered my question. If you don’t model, why the portraits? I can’t imagine you not being able to find work.”

“The dilemma of being too distinctive. My look has only limited appeal. I do get work, but I turn down even more. I don’t want to be the token Asian chick.” She slapped a palm on the open portfolio. “I want to be hired because my face is the only face that will work.”

Chloe crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t that a classic case of cutting off your nose to spite your face?”

“I suppose it is. But it all comes down to what I want.”

“What do you want, besides my job?”

Poe closed the portfolio, leaned to slide it back into the kneehole of her desk. She quickly straightened her paperwork and logged out of the computer network. Chloe just stood and waited, knowing the other woman’s stall tactic was as much about strategy as anything. Strategy she understood.

Once Poe had gathered her purse and circled the desk, she said, “Let’s walk back to your office.”

“Sure,” Chloe answered, and headed that way.

“This is going to come totally out of the blue,” Poe said, shutting off her office light once Chloe had left
the room, “but what I’ve wanted more than anything for as long as I can remember is to be a forensic anthropologist.”

Chloe stopped in the middle of the hallway. When Poe walked past, Chloe shook off her surprise and continued on to her office. “Next time you’re going to blow me away, can you broadcast a warning?”

“That’s the reaction I get every time. I haven’t yet decided if I’m insulted or charmed.” She turned into Chloe’s office without a backward glance.

“That reaction shouldn’t surprise you. A forensic anthropologist is about as far removed from a fashion buyer as it is from the moon.” Chloe returned to her desk, but remained standing with her chair at her back.

“It gets better. I wanted to specialize in reconstruction, to be a forensic sculptor. In taking a skull, or what pieces were available, and rebuilding the face.”

That obsession with faces again. The picture of Poe was taking shape. “What stopped you?”

Poe stood with her arms crossed, the thin strap of her purse hanging on her shoulder, that slender finger tapping against her sleeve. “Life, money. Family. Twists and turns and obligations.”

“You still have time.”

“I know. And that’s what the modeling work is for. Using my face and my body to get what I want. Which makes me a first-class whore.”

“What’re you talking about? It makes you savvy and resourceful. And, yeah.” Chloe picked up her pen and twisted the barrel. “I’m starting to see why cosmetics and accessories would ring your bell.”

“Exactly. Why not indulge my fascination?” Poe gestured expansively. “Modeling pays for the credit
hours I’m taking. gIRL-gEAR pays the bills. Your job would make paying the bills a lot more fun.”

“You know I’m not going to lie down and let you have it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Chloe concurred. “And I could go to Sydney with what you’ve told me and ask her to find a place for you in marketing. Or even in customer service and sales.”

“You could, but you won’t.” Poe moved to the center of the room and stood between the two visitor’s chairs, a hand on the back of each. Her eyes flashed, but with respect rather than defiance. “You’re too much like me, Chloe. You want to be the one to fight your battles. You don’t want to be rescued. You have too much pride. And that makes us worthy opponents.”

Chloe thought of being rescued, thought of fighting her own battles, thought of Eric and wondered what he’d make of her having this long overdue conversation with her nemesis…who wasn’t such a fire-breathing dragon, after all.

“Opponents make for lousy co-workers. Besides, I wouldn’t be very loyal to the company I helped found if I let my position fall into your hands, knowing you think of your time at gIRL-gEAR as a temporary career layover.”

One of Poe’s angled brows lifted. “Do you plan to stay with gIRL-gEAR forever?”

“I can’t answer that. But I can say I’ll give the company one hundred ten percent while I’m here.”

“As would I. In fact, I’ll go for one hundred twenty. I would never shortchange any position I’d busted my ass to achieve. Why would you think that I would?”

Frustration and exhaustion battled in both sides of Chloe’s brain. “Maybe because I haven’t gotten to know you.”

Poe tapped her index fingers against the headrests of the chairs. “Should we call a truce? You accept that I’m not going anywhere and I accept that you’re not going to let me get away with anything?”

“Those are rather broad terms, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, but now we know better where the other stands. We’re not flying blind. Maybe we can even collaborate.” Poe’s mouth twisted with ironic humor. “Down the road, of course.”

“No,” Chloe said as inspiration struck. “Not down the road. Now.”

“Now as in this moment?”

Chloe picked up the letter and handed it to Poe. “Here’s your chance to put your money where your mouth is.”

Setting her purse in one of the chairs, Poe dropped into the seat of the other and began to read.

Dear gRAFFITI gIRL, I need your advice, please. All of my life I’ve known that I’m ugly. I see my reflection when I pass a mirror, though I try my best not to look. I used to think it didn’t matter to my parents what I looked like. I used to think they loved me anyway. But now they’re getting divorced and are arguing over who I’m going to live with. Neither one of them wants to take me. I know that if I looked better, I wouldn’t be so embarrassing to have around. If you could tell me which products I could use and which of your colors would make my face appear less disgusting, I would be ever so grateful.

Poe slumped back in the chair, hung her arms over the sides and let the letter fall to the floor. “You have to answer this, don’t you? Where do you even start?”

“I was thinking of starting with the parents.”

“Can I come along? My hands haven’t been registered as deadly weapons, but we can lie and say that they have.”

Chloe leaned back in her own chair and studied the woman who sat on the other side of her desk, wondering if Annabel Lee might actually prove to be a more formidable friend than she’d ever been a foe.

D
INNER COULD NOT HAVE
gone any better, Eric decided, congratulating himself on the evening he’d put together as he settled next to Chloe in the theater seat. They’d eaten at Biraporetti’s earlier, before the usual Friday night rush hit the combination Italian grill and Irish bar.

The tiny white Christmas lights wrapped around the tree branch jutting out from one of the restaurant’s walls had flickered in Chloe’s eyes while they’d waited for a table at the bar. The television screens behind the bar had flickered as well.

Eric had been able to watch the baseball game over her shoulder while they’d sat drinking the bar’s special champagne cocktail called a Sicilian Swirl, made with peach juice and a shot of Chianti. Like he’d said. The night, so far, from the time he’d picked her up at her apartment until a few minutes ago, when he’d led her by the hand into the theater, was cookin’.

Chloe had dressed in her usual color tonight, though this time the pink was part of a pink-black-and-white camouflage pattern that gave a bad-ass attitude to her short-skirted halter dress. The fun part was that she wore knee-high boots that matched. A cocky little chick from head to toe.

Or so she appeared to be. Eric knew differently, and took more than a little credit for the fact that her hard
outer shell was beginning to crack. Her side of the phone call, when he’d called to ask her out, had been proof enough of that fact. He was also beginning to better understand this deal she’d been willing to make. Her three nights for his three wishes.

She was into some serious reflection about her job with gIRL-gEAR and had wanted to see herself through the eyes of an outsider, check out the view from someone who had no stake in the company.

He had a feeling that what was going on with Chloe was more than keeping to Sydney’s straight and narrow. He just couldn’t yet put his finger on what it was. Though he’d come close a couple of weeks ago with his hand up Chloe’s dress.

When he’d arrived at the open house, Chloe’d been hiding out in her office, which even
he
knew wouldn’t sit well with the boss. But she’d seemed too caught up in whatever she’d been thinking to care. And then she’d blasted out of nowhere with all that crap about using sex to control a man.

That would be a cold day in hell. In fact, if anyone had been doing any controlling, he’d certainly set Chloe straight that afternoon. She didn’t have to know he’d damn near come in his boxers just watching her face. One more breathy shudder and he would’ve unzipped and plunged deep.

No. She wasn’t the tough cookie she’d been trying—for as long as he’d known her—to convince everyone, including herself, she was.

The Cary Grant film retrospective started at seven, and the River Oaks Theater being right down the block from the restaurant, they’d been able to relax and enjoy one another’s company during dinner, the way a couple should relax and enjoy when out on a date.

And this was a date.

In fact, if not for their three-for-three deal, he wouldn’t have put off seeing her again for so long. But he’d had to wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself so as not to waste one of his wishes. And if he hadn’t happened to glance through a copy of the
Houston Press
left open on the bar at Haydon’s, he’d have totally missed out on this one.

Chloe might’ve complained that dinner and a movie and back to the bedroom was a lousy idea of a good time, but Eric planned to make sure he proved two out of the three could make for a hell of an evening given the right company.

And that he was the right company.

Glancing beside him at Chloe’s dimly lit face, her closed eyes, he rode a powerful wave of emotion that had nothing to do with lust.

The bedroom part they’d get to, but not tonight. That was the only absolute he’d set for himself. He wanted to get Chloe naked in a bad way. How could he not, after he’d had his hands all over her, and she’d had her mouth on him? But tonight it was not going to happen. Not even if she begged.

Tonight was all for Chloe. Not for gIRL-gEAR. Not for her career. Not for her potty mouth or her problems with Poe. Tonight was for the woman she was, the woman who needed to be reminded of everything she had to offer a man besides her knock-out body.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

Eric laughed.

He’d forgotten he’d told her not to look at the theater marquee or the notice of times and listings or the movie posters hanging in the lobby. He’d kept his hand over her eyes, in fact, part of the time.

It was possible that she’d heard the ads and knew exactly what she was about to see. But if that was the case she was doing a bang-up job of hiding her excitement. Unless, of course, she wasn’t excited.

Eric frowned.

Chloe’s lashes fluttered and swept up, her gaze wide and expectant. Eric relaxed his frown. “Sorry. Guess I was kind of enjoying having you dependent on me. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

She moved her head back as if to pull him into focus. “Having me dependent on you gives you the warm fuzzies? I would think clinging females would give you a major pain in the ass.”

He grinned and winked. “All females do that, some time or another.”

“Careful, buddy. Your mother is female. Show a little respect.”

Impossible, considering he’d never known his mother. But that was a subject best avoided. “Are you going to share that popcorn or do I have to get my own?”

She slapped his hand away when he reached toward her lap. “You said you didn’t want any popcorn. That’s why you bought the Milk Duds.”

Yeah, but that was before the bucket of popcorn had been sitting where it was sitting. “I changed my mind. I’ll share if you’ll share.”

“Humph,” she muttered, then shushed him as the lights went down and the curtain rose.

When the original preview trailer for
The Philadelphia Story
began to play on the screen and Chloe got her first glimpse of Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant, she seemed to forget all about Eric’s wandering hand.

She didn’t even appear to be breathing. She didn’t move a single muscle, even the ones it took to blink. And Eric would have noticed had she batted an eye. His gaze was focused on her face and not on the black-and-white action of the trailer. And then she smiled. A killer smile that hit him where it hurt.

She was beautiful. A fact that he’d realized for as long as he’d known her, but for some reason had never fully appreciated until the past few weeks in her company. Even now, with only the flickering film for light, he could see what he’d been missing.

It was her vulnerability that was doing him in. The soft edge to her hard insistence on continually busting his chops—and those of anyone who crossed her. She tried so hard to be tough. And she was tough. He’d seen her play volleyball. He’d seen her stand up to Poe.

But he also saw what he imagined her girlfriends saw—the traits that drew their loyalty and affection, and solidified the friendships that had endured not only the years, but the stresses and hardships of working together and building the business of gIRL-gEAR.

Those were the traits that brought him back even after it seemed she’d whacked him off at the knees. She had a lot going for her. But she had just as much going against her. And he couldn’t help but think that her attitude about men was going to be what eventually ruined their friendship or their chance at anything more.

He needed to have fun with a woman, and Chloe never failed to show him a good time. He needed great sex, which he knew their eventual coming together would bring. What he didn’t need was to fall for a
woman struggling with “issues.” He’d promised himself at the first of the year no more damsels in distress.

A soft noise brought his attention back to the movie.
An Affair to Remember,
he thought the marquee had said this one was. Apparently a classic, though he wasn’t much into these old productions. Even the ones that had been made in color…or was this one colorized? Hard to tell, the print was so grainy.

He turned to ask Chloe, figuring she would know, finding that she’d grown perfectly still at his side, her hand hovering over the bucket of popcorn in her lap, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared straight ahead.

And then he heard it again, a cross between a sniffle and a sob, so tiny, nearly imperceptible. Had he not seen the hitch in her chest he might not have realized she was the one who was crying.

Chloe crying. What the hell was there to cry about? Oh, he wasn’t up to dealing with this. Nope. He wasn’t. But he did shift in the old-fashioned seat and lean toward her, slipping his arm around her shoulder.

He didn’t even have a chance to pull her close because she was moving his way on her own, tucking her shoulder up into his armpit, her head into the crook of his neck.

She was cold, that was it. Her bare arm was dimpled with goose bumps. He rubbed his palm up and down her skin. She was cold and probably premenstrual, what with the crying coming from nowhere.

And the sappy movie wasn’t helping, not that he’d paid much attention to what was going on between Cary Grant and the actress. But now it looked like someone had died, and there was an old lace shawl that meant something to Grant’s character.

Eric brought his lips close to Chloe’s head and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

She looked up, her expression one of confusion, her eyes wide and wet and intoxicating in the inconsistent lighting thrown by the film.

“For what?” Her question was mouthed more than spoken.

“I should’ve picked out something more upbeat.” He nodded toward the screen, lowered his whisper another notch. “But I knew you liked this stuff. I thought it would be fun. I didn’t think it would make you sad.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” She reached over and laid a hand on his cheek, her soft touch at odds with her name-calling. She leaned even closer and whispered, “I’m not sad. I love this movie. It’s so romantic.”

Romantic he didn’t know about, since he hadn’t been paying much attention to the story unfolding on-screen. But even now what was happening with the film was nothing compared to what was happening here, with Chloe’s breath heating the skin just below his ear. Where even now she seemed to be nuzzling with her nose.

A soft nuzzling. A gentle brush of her cool skin to his warmer, rougher cheek. He really should’ve shaved. But the bristle of his beard didn’t seem to be a problem. Chloe hadn’t backed away. And when he shivered at a touch from the tip of her tongue, she cuddled even closer.

“You’re missing the movie,” he muttered, and she responded, “I don’t care,” tearing him up as she said it. He wanted her to stay right where she was. He wanted her to climb into his lap. He wanted her to turn her attention back to the screen and leave him alone with his honorable intentions.

He pulled back to look into her eyes, to see if she’d stopped crying, if she was using his cheek to hide her tears or just as a toy for her tongue. And if he hadn’t been sitting against the wall, with a dozen legs between his seat and the aisle, he would’ve popped up and out for a soda he didn’t need.

What he saw cracked open with frightening ease his vow to avoid all damsels in distress. It bashed his resolve to leave her at her front door at the end of the night. Ripped apart his determination to pay attention to the rest of the film so they could talk about what they’d seen later, over drinks.

As it was, he couldn’t pull his gaze away from her face. And when she raised her head, her eyes questioning, her lips trembling and seeking, he lowered his mouth to hers.

It was the first time they’d kissed, and he knew he’d remember it forever because she tasted like salt and warm buttered popcorn.

They’d once shared a kiss meant for show while under the influence of an audience and too much tequila. But this wasn’t that kiss. This kiss was real, possessing more true intimacy than the sexual encounters they’d shared.

Her lips were soft and tentatively searching, as if she wasn’t sure he’d want to accept the sweet offer of her mouth. As if she was afraid he’d turn her away. He’d never known a woman so contradictory, so confounding, or a woman he wanted to kiss more.

He settled his mouth over hers and answered her unspoken question. The kiss was nothing more than a brush of contact, a moment of simplicity and innocence. But it stabbed Eric in the gut with its sharp
insistence that simplicity and innocence weren’t what they appeared to be.

Chloe had never been innocent. He knew virtually nothing about her past, but he tasted her strong desire to be wanted, her deep, piercing need for acceptance. And he knew. As her tongue touched his lips and moved into his mouth, he knew.

It didn’t matter that she claimed to know men, that she professed to have experience in relationships, that she said she knew all about romance. Eric knew better. He knew the truth. Her mouth told him.

With the gentle, rubbing press of her lips to his and the tender caress of her tongue, her mouth told him.

She was simply looking to be loved.

T
HE BALLROOM
at the Renaissance Hotel looked like it had been pulled straight from the Web pages of www.girl-gear.com for the following night’s gIRL-gEAR gIRL competition.

The hotel’s event organizers had worked with the partners to decorate in the company’s color scheme of lime-green and orange, hot-pink and bright yellow.

Two tablecloths in contrasting colors draped every table. Centerpieces had been designed with bright green foliage and a cluster of hothouse blooms in orange, yellow and pink.

Confetti in the shape of a tiny
g
littered the floor, the tables, even the chairs. Chloe knew she’d be shaking bits of it from the black feather boa fringing the knee-length hemline of her dress for the entire life of the garment.

Sitting at a huge circular table for twelve, she flipped through the program introducing the finalists vying for the title of gIRL-gEAR gIRL. Marketing had
done a super job putting together the souvenir brochure for the evening’s event.