her eyes. His were hard to read in this light, but that didn’t lessen the impact of his gaze, or the heat simmering in the air around them.
She wasn’t sure if she should take back the offer, if she’d been too forward in making it. If he had wanted nothing from her. Or had just wanted an acknowledgment that the kiss had been way out of line.
That wasn’t how she’d read him, but she was so out of practice with men—
“A man in your dressing room. That’s not against the rules?”
“I don’t know,” she said, sliding from her stool, unable to stop herself from giving in to this very big wrong that had her nape tingling, other places doing the same. “You’re the first one I’ve ever invited to join me.”
4
CALEB COULDN’T BELIEVE his good fortune. First, that the bartender had told him to take his time with the coffee. Second, that Candy Cane had so easily fallen prey to his charms.
Especially when he had so few.
If what he did have qualified as charming at all.
Not many people thought so.
As she’d gestured in the direction of her dressing room and turned for him to follow, he’d watched the subtle exchange that had passed between the redheaded siren and the bartender.
The man who’d served Caleb the coffee he’d so desperately needed hadn’t seemed insulted or injured that she’d invited him back for a drink. Neither had he gone into protective, big-brother, hurt-her-and-I’ll-kick-your-ass mode.
So far, so good.
Having witnessed the conversation the two had shared earlier, Caleb assumed the bartender and Candy were good friends. Not that he’d heard any of what they’d said, but he had noticed the casual nature of their exchange and the comfortable intimacy between them.
All that was to say…either the man behind the bar with the ski-bum look knew Candy could take care of herself, or knew Caleb was the one heading into trouble. Judging by the sway of her hips as she walked through the club and his body’s primal reaction, Caleb heading into trouble was true either way.
He told himself to look up, to look away, over her shoulders, above her head, down at the floor. But her hips had been in his lap at the same time her tongue had been in his mouth, and that was all he could think about. That, and wanting more.
Or so it was until he reminded himself of why he was here, why he’d wanted the coffee in the first place. The recognition he’d needed to be sober enough to place. Yes, he was getting out of the biz, but he couldn’t give up his curiosity any more than he could cut off a leg. If he figured her out and found her story worth telling, well…he’d cross the bridge of what to do when he got to it.
She led him through the bar, across the stage and to a door down the hallway behind the wings.
There was no name, no star, nothing to indicate where they were. It could just as easily have been a broom closet for the lack of signage. But she opened the door, and like a beast in rut, he followed her in.
“Like I said,” she reminded him as she flipped on the lights. “A mess.”
It didn’t look any worse than his place, he mused, walking inside as she shut the door behind him. The floor was covered with the same red carpeting as the rest of the club. The walls were painted off-white with a pink tinge—or else the semigloss was reflecting the floor.
A closet with a six-foot rod took up the wall opposite one with six feet worth of mirrors. The accordion doors were open, showing red tops and bottoms on and off hangers, dresses draped over the pole, other items of clothing puddled on the floor and covering dozens of shoes flung here and there.
He turned toward the mirror, and she pushed in behind him, closing the doors as if to hide her shame. He wondered if her house was in the same disarray, and how she could look so put together when she dressed in a danger zone.
“I promise, I’m much neater than this in the rest of my life. For some reason when I’m here, I tend to let down my hair—as it were,” she tacked on, nodding to a shelf of wigs he hadn’t yet noticed.
“You didn’t fool me for a minute,” he told her, reaching for the strawberry strands where they caressed her bare shoulder. He allowed his fingers to linger on her skin, her soft skin that in this light was obviously freckled, leaving them there, tempting himself. Testing himself.
She was warm, smooth, and he couldn’t help but think about the rest of her that was still covered, wondering how soft she’d be elsewhere, thinking, too, about her mouth and the touch of her tongue to his, wanting that again, wanting her taste, wanting another jolt of that unexpected heat.
It took her several seconds to move, and his gut tightened while he waited. He watched her face as it broadcast the push-pull conflict driving her, push winning out in the end and demanding distance and space between them—though pull sizzled in the air that had grown sharp with expectation.
She opened one of the lockerlike cabinets stacked next to the closet doors. “I have a bottle,” she said, showing him the Drambuie and the single glass tumbler she had. “But I only have one glass.”
He took it from her hand, took the bottle, too, uncapped it and poured. He drank, then offered the glass to her. “So we share.”
She took it and sipped without hesitation. He closed up the bottle and set it on the vanity next to a pair of narrow-framed eyeglasses. A contact-lens case and a bottle of solution sat nearby, as did a brush with several strands of short dark hair caught in the bristles.
Caleb smiled, and turned back to the mysterious faux-redhead, thinking how much he’d like to see her in nothing but her freckles and her real hair. He swallowed hard, fighting the rush of blood through his veins, and asked, “What do singles do around here for fun?”
“Leave?” she suggested, and laughed softly, looking into the tumbler and avoiding looking at him. “The only place to get a drink besides Club Crimson is Manny’s, but it’s more a local watering hole. There’s Fish and Cow Chips—”
“Seafood and steak?” he asked, cutting her off with a grimace at that mental image.
She held the glass close to her chest as she finally met his gaze. “Yes, it’s very poorly named. Though the food is amazing.”
“No theater with dinner?”
“Nope,” she said, handing him their shared drink. “And if you want a movie, well, you drive down the mountain into Golden, or you get a satellite dish and be happy that you’re only six months behind the pop-culture curve.”
He wondered what she’d think if she knew he swung the bell for that curve. He leaned back against the edge of the vanity, swirled the herb-flavored liqueur in the glass, enjoyed the waft of aroma. Enjoyed even more being in close quarters with this woman he very much wanted to figure out.
“What do you do when you’re not Candy?”
She gave him a teasing smile. “I’m always Candy.”
“Then what does Candy do when she’s not onstage?”
