what he thought of her mattered just as much as having him want her. “Okay. I admit it. I’m obviously a hopeless slut.”
“Sluts are good.”
She groaned with frustration, then lay back beside Evan. “Good when I’m the slut in question. Just not when it’s April.”
“Shandi, this conversation is putting me to sleep.”
She ignored him. “You know I’m going to have to rag on April for not telling me the truth.”
“What?” Evan perked up. “She told you we were having sex?”
Good. The reaction she’d wanted. “No, but she let me think so. Heck, you let me think so. I mean, I don’t get it, but if her not sleeping with you makes her a better catch—”
“It’s not about her being a better catch.” He sighed. “It’s just that by the time we realized we were more than friends, we were such good friends we didn’t want to ruin it by sleeping together. Not until we were sure it was more.”
“It is more, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s more.” This time his sigh was pure poetry.
And hers pure envy. She wanted that same more. She really, truly wanted that very same more. “So this guy at the hotel. Quentin. I shouldn’t sleep with him then.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re interested in more than his banana.”
QUENTIN MARKS STOOD STARING out the window of his sixteenth-floor suite. He had a meeting at nine. He needed to be in bed. Check that. He needed to be asleep.
Except, being in bed made him think of being there for sex and being there with Shandi Fossey.
He had never met a woman with legs like those of Erotique’s bartender. And that was saying a lot considering the legs he’d seen in his lifetime.
A man didn’t get to be a Grammy-winning record producer without being subjected to a hell of a lot of exposure—perpetrated by women—and more than a few men—wanting his attention, looking to gain an industry in. Using him. Willing to do anything, give him anything, promise him the sexual moon if he would simply listen to their demo, make an introduction, reveal the secrets to success he was a greedy bastard for keeping to himself.
Yeah. He was a bastard all right. A bastard because he looked out for himself, he mused, stepping from the corner room’s window to the balcony overlooking Madison Avenue and pulling open the French doors. The night air was muggy, the lights muted, the noise level low enough that he had no trouble hearing his thoughts.
He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad considering lately his thoughts were all about getting back to Austin. And until he took care of business here, made his deals, got what he wanted, he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go home.
Home.
He sighed, drained the rest of the brandy that room service had delivered, compliments of management. Quentin had to admit the rumors were true. Hush was the place to stay—even if he’d originally planned to stay elsewhere.
It was the hotel’s name that had drawn him. It had drawn his assistant’s attention, as well; she’d been the one to show him its promotional material. Later she’d shown him the write-up in the New Yorker profiling the Devon hotel empire and this newest venture that was run—quite successfully—by the daughter, Piper, whose wild-child reputation was one those in the business knew well.
He’d flipped through both the brochure and the magazine, curious, not as interested in the amenities as much as the privacy said amenities obviously entailed. He wanted his visit to the city to be a quiet one. He wanted to get in, get his business done and get out without a lot of fanfare. He was winding down that part of his life, the one that kept him in the limelight.
He’d reserved the hotel’s basement conference center for two separate meetings tomorrow—uh, make that today—as well as more later in the week. In the past he’d never had reason to be as involved with the industry’s money men as he was now.
But now he had to be. Now was all about his own studio. The Marks label: Markin’ It Up. Finally setting himself up in Austin and going home to stay. Making that dream happen was why he was here. Getting the backing he needed wasn’t going to be the problem. Deciding who he wanted behind him was.
Right now, however, the thought forefront in his mind wasn’t about financing but about sex. As strange as it sounded, as strange as it felt, his studio plans had kept him too busy these last months to do more than mentally indulge.
Now he wanted more. Now he wanted Shandi. A woman he shouldn’t have wanted at all. They hadn’t talked much in the way of specifics; no real getting-to-know-you conversation had found its way into their back-and-forth.
But what she had told him was enough to have made him want to push back from the bar and do his drinking elsewhere. In a quiet corner. At a dark table. Away from her smile and her big blue eyes. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed there with her and drunk her up, too.
She was majoring in cosmetics and marketing, headed for a career—she hoped, the marketing was a fall-back plan— in the theater, in film, in music videos. Wherever she could find work as a makeup artist in the entertainment industry. The marketing was a fall-back plan.
His industry.
An industry that crushed dreams daily.
He’d been lucky to live his. Others weren’t so lucky. Most weren’t so.
She was a clichéd breath of fresh air when he was used to inhaling lungfuls of jaded cynicism.
Hell, these days he didn’t even like listening to himself think, what with the way his own thoughts were so polluted. He didn’t blame Shandi for not sticking around for more conversation beyond the flirting they’d done. He knew he’d been nowhere near as entertaining as her animated responses had made him out to be.
Then again, he wasn’t blind, deaf or dumb to where her attention tended to drift when she’d thought him not looking, when she’d feigned interest in the other bar patrons.
That interest was what was keeping him up, keeping him awake, keeping him from listening to his years of experience and the common sense that came with it.
He was hard-bitten; she was exuberantly optimistic. He was turning his back on the bright lights of the big city she so openly embraced.
He was weary of witnessing the implosion of dreams. She wore hope with the same authority, the same familiar comfort with which she wore her uniform of tuxedo pants and shirt.
And all he could think about was getting her out of the one without damaging the other.
2
Attention: EVERYONE!
The cocktail napkins are NOT to be used to clean up spills or for handkerchiefs, makeup cloths or whatever picnics you have going on in the bar’s back room.
BRING
