good it did. Especially once he got a good look at her hair worn in pigtails. And at her face.
Her skin was made up to appear as translucent as pale porcelain yet soft and warm instead of fragile. Her lips and cheeks were tinted pink, a shade he only saw when she tilted her head and smiled and the light picked up the shimmer.
But, oh god, her eyes. He’d seen stage makeup. He’d seen exotic costuming. Hell, working in music videos, he’d seen it all—or so he’d thought, because he didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes like Shandi’s at any time in his life.
And it wasn’t just the way she’d used the cobalt- and violet-blues, the greens that seemed to reflect every hue between teal and jade. It was the way she’d used her face as a canvas. From her brows to her temples to her cheekbones.
The end result of the application of makeup resembled a colorfully jeweled Mardi Gras mask, complete with hints of ruby and gold. Except there was no mask. It was all done with the tools of her trade.
But the biggest impact, the one striking him like a blow in the chest, came from her expression. The look in her eyes. The way she was looking at him.
He couldn’t help it. He slid deeper into his seat, sat on his spine, spread his legs and groaned.
“I just know there’s an audience waiting out there for my voice, for the way I make every song my own…excuse me?” Mrs. Cyprus looked up as Shandi stepped between Quentin’s knees. “This is a private conversation.”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Shandi sidled closer, fluffing her skirt before sitting down in his lap, her weight on his thigh as her free hand went around his neck. “My bedtime story can wait until you grown-ups are done.”
Quentin chuckled as Shandi crossed her legs. He brought one hand down behind her to hold her hip in place and draped his other arm over her knees. Now that he had her where he wanted her, he was not about to let her go.
He cleared his throat lightly, trying not to grin. “Mrs. Cyprus has been sharing her fascinating experiences in musical theater.”
“Ooh, can I stay and listen?” Shandi asked. “I know it’s late, but I promise to go to bed the minute you tell me to if I can hear one story. Please?”
“Just one then,” he said, his hand slipping to the hem of her skirt and finding the lacy edge of her panties exposed. “As long as Mrs. Cyprus doesn’t mind. She was telling me how she’s performed everything from Annie to Elvis.”
“Ooh.” Shandi squealed as she waved her lollipop. “I love Annie. Can you sing it for me? That song about tomorrow?”
When Mrs. Cyprus looked from Shandi and met Quentin’s gaze, he simply shrugged and tried to appear chagrined—not an easy task with his body tight enough to snap. She got to her feet, smoothed down her slacks and the halter vest that exposed even more than her plunging neckline last night.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she said to Quentin. “But not half as sorry as I am to have wasted mine. Had I known you preferred girls to women…”
She left the sentence unfinished and then left the lobby, heading into the bar. Quentin watched Shandi watch the other woman go, finally finding enough of his voice to ask, “Do you think she recognized you?”
“Are you kidding?” Shandi huffed, gestured with the candy. “To recognize me she would have had to actually look at me when she ordered her drinks. Trust me. She’s only had eyes for Armand. And, well, for you. But then, don’t we all?”
And at that she turned her gaze on him.
God, but he hoped she was ready for what she was asking from him. Ready for what he wanted from her. He wasn’t twenty years old and he was no longer in the habit of sleeping with every woman who asked.
Sex, when he engaged, was now about a need deeper than the physical. Not every woman got that. But then he intuitively knew that Shandi Fossey was not every woman.
He left his hand where it was at the hem of her skirt. “Are we going to be late for the movie?”
“I was thinking about that.” She popped the sucker in her mouth, popped it out, shifted a bit so that his hand contacted skin as well as lace. “I’m not sure I want to wear this to the theater.”
Meaning she’d dressed for him and not their date? “You want to change first?”
She shook her head, threaded her fingers into his hair. “There’s not enough time before the movie starts.”
He tightened his hold on her knees. “Dinner then? Drinks?”
She considered him closely while loosening the band holding his hair. It took him several endless moments while he fought down an erection to realize they were still sitting in the hotel lobby, that around them people came and went, that not a soul seemed to notice—or care—how intimately they sat embraced.
Shandi seemed perfectly comfortable, and he strangely enough didn’t feel one bit ill at ease. Whether it was the ambience of the hotel or their connection, he couldn’t say.
As long as she stayed right where she was, it really didn’t matter. He just didn’t want her to move.
“We could do dinner or drinks, sure,” she finally said. “Or we could go to the library.”
She wanted to go to the library? “Is it even open this late?”
She laughed. “Oh, not the public library. The one upstairs.”
The Hush library. Admittedly more interesting. “You’re serious then.”
“About?”
Her fingers massaged the base of his skull, and it was all he could do not to close his eyes and let her have at him right here and now. “About a bedtime story.”
“Well, we don’t have to be in a bed.”
There was no other place he wanted to be. And he started to say so.
But Shandi stopped him by whispering close to his ear, “There are enough sofas and chairs in the library to make you forget you ever needed a bed for anything.”
4
THE ELEVATOR RIDE UP DROVE her mad.
She and Quentin both stood against the back of the car, side by side, hands curled over the railing at their hips, not touching, not speaking, simply letting the ascent heighten the tension that sang in the air.
She stared at their reflections mirrored on the stainless-steel doors. Her skirt appeared the size of a bandage, her legs the length of fence posts. The colorful mask with which she’d taken exquisite care looked like a neon bar sign. Her pigtails like commas of corn on the cob.
Oh, yeah. She was definitely this man’s type. Mr. Sophistication? Meet Clueless in Manhattan. She wanted to slam her palm against the panel of buttons and stop this joke of a journey.
Stop it, put the car in reverse, back her way into the lobby and out into the street. She
