she must be some dried-up crone who couldn’t get a guy in the first place. He checked her picture. No dried-up crone there. But, hey, digital touch-ups were amazing. So who knew?
Or maybe she was no more than another fast-buck artist, mouthing whatever phony baloney self-help platitudes she thought were most likely to net her some easy cash. The crude, rude flavor of the month, clad in leather, sporting no undies just to get some attention.
As he was mulling the question one more time, the real Stevie Bliss walked out. No, she sauntered out, all long legs and saucy attitude. He noted the streaked blond hair, cut kind of wispy and choppy on the ends where it brushed her shoulders, the striking blue eyes behind snappy little tortoiseshell glasses, the creamy, pale skin curving down into that daring camisole, the skirt that was barely long enough to cover her assets… Wow.
If this was a dried-up crone, he was Methuselah. And far from vulgar, she seemed to have found the place where sex met class and lived happily ever after.
Letting his gaze linger on her spectacular legs, he wondered whether those boots were made for walking. And on whom. He had to admit it. She was hot.
He could see she was impatient as the introduction limped on, as her eyes scanned the room, taking the measure of the crowd, checking for pockets of negativity she might have to combat later. Smart girl.
And then her electric gaze hit him. Pow. One glance from media creation Stevie Bliss and he was sautéed in his seat. Where in the hell did that come from?
At first he wondered if this smoky glance thing was some tactic she tried on all the men in her audience. But no, she seemed to be as thunderstruck as he was. And she was gazing directly at him, no one else.
He steeled himself against his own overheated reaction. Owen Dasher was no neophyte when it came to dazzling women, after all. He’d interviewed a heap of stars as they hit Chicago to promote their movies, and if Julia Roberts couldn’t reduce him to a pile of goo, there was no way he was going to melt after one glance from Stevie Bliss.
So they did a little visual tango, eye to eye, with him hanging on to a sense of journalistic detachment by his fingernails. She’s shallow and plastic and this is all a scam, he reminded himself. And he was pleased—no, relieved—when she broke first to talk to one of her handlers. She seemed rattled, and he enjoyed that, too.
Relaxing for the first time since their gazes intersected, he managed to collect himself, taking himself sternly to task for losing it like that. But, yeah, he could handle her. He’d just proved that. She’d looked away first, hadn’t she?
Then she sidled up to the podium to begin her speech, and he felt his palms start to sweat. Okay, so her long, lovely legs and those wicked boots were hidden behind the podium. That helped. But the rest of her, still on display, was a lot to deal with. A lot of warm, delicious woman. His fingers began to clench and unclench, and he realized he hadn’t taken a single note. Hell.
As she spoke, purring about sassy sisters who knew their personal value and took no prisoners, she was staring right at him, giving him the full benefit of this little performance. Although his brain couldn’t seem to process a word she was saying, he was actually starting to believe her.
“I love men,” she confided, in a naughty tone of voice that sent sparks of heat licking up from the bottom of his spine. He stretched his legs, pretending to be bored, adjusting his position. Still burning.
“People call me a man-hater,” she continued, lifting a dismissive hand in the air. “Isn’t that silly? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I love men. I mean, I love them.”
As she drew out the word “love” to make her implication clear, she was met by a flurry of giggles, and she turned her focus to the gaggle of teens in the front row, the ones doing the giggling. Which distracted her from keeping him pinned to his seat. Thank God.
“And why not? Men have been taking the cake and eating it, too, forever. Now it’s time for my cake.” Her smile widened, and she had a mischievous gleam in her eyes that left no doubt what she was really talking about. Sex. “Maybe with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”
Whipped cream? And a cherry on top? On top of what? Or whom? Owen groaned, slipping deeper into the fantasy.
And then Stevie licked her lip. That pretty pink little tongue flicked over her top lip, for only a second. He was a goner.
Oh, man. This was bad. Very bad.
As she moved away from whipped cream, talking instead about empowerment and freedom, about making good choices and having no fear, he could feel the crowd moving with her. He could feel himself moving with her. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Yes! Yes!” along with the rest of the converts.
Hell, he wanted to throw her on the floor and make love to her until she screamed, “Yes! Yes!”
Time to get a grip.
Reining himself in with fierce control, Owen glared at her. She was manipulating everyone in this room, and he was not going to be part of it.
Finally it was time for questions. He looked to the groups of dissenters he’d identified earlier. Surely they could bring her down a peg or two. Go to it, guys! Dent that sex kitten veneer.
“Miss Bliss,” a rather stodgy-looking woman called out, raising her hand, which was weighted down by a huge diamond and a thick wedding ring. Several other women rose behind her, and they lifted neatly printed signs into the air. Mom, Marriage and Apple Pie read one, while another went with Bliss is a Big Liar!
“I prefer Ms.,” Stevie Bliss responded quickly. “Or you can just call me Stevie. Would you prefer that?”
“No. Yes. I mean, no.” The lady with the question looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “I do not want to call you anything. Our group, the Righteous Moms Brigade, believes that marriage and motherhood should be respected and commended, not spit upon, as you seem to do, and we would like to say that your book is just hateful—”
“Don’t you just love what she said about marriage and motherhood?” Stevie cut in. “Isn’t that wonderful? Respected and commended. You are so right. Because if it weren’t for women like you, who are on the frontlines of the marriage wars, the rest of us, the ones who are totally unsuited for that life, might have to sub in. So let’s give the Righteous Moms a hand, shall we? We love you, Righteous Moms!”
As the other women present dutifully applauded, Stevie added, “I hope everyone will read chapter five of Blissfully Single, where I talk about how you decide what’s right for you. It’s not whether you choose to be married or single that counts. It’s about having the choice, about being smart and not being afraid to go it alone if that’s what really suits you.”
And with that, she dismissed the Righteous Moms from her radar and moved on. They were still sputtering over there, but she had pretty much stripped them of their weapons by agreeing with them. Besides, she was in charge of the questions, and she wouldn’t call on any more of them.
The next set of questions was less contentious, all about what makeup she used and what designer she was wearing, before three or four guys in a row asked if they could sign up for a month of her time. “A month, a week, whatever,” one of them offered breathlessly. He was young and didn’t seem very bright, with his backward baseball cap and goofy grin, but he certainly didn’t look like he was insane or anything. “Hey, Stevie, I’ll take an hour if that’s all
