“What are we doing, Eric?”

Chloe’s question snagged his attention as she’d hoped. He studied her face as she brought her champagne flute to her mouth and sipped. His bright blue eyes, focused solely on her, did wonderful things to her senses.

She could still feel the brush of his knuckles through her panties, hear the catch in her breath when he brought her to climax. She could still see the swell behind the fly of his trousers….

His finger began a slow trail up her spine. “What are we doing as in why are we standing here instead of mingling?”

She shook her head.

“What are we doing as in why didn’t we stay in your office where we could be writhing naked by now?”

“Would we be?” She considered him carefully, letting her tongue dip in the bubbles of the wine.

“Look at me like that again and we’ll be writhing here where we stand.”

Dear Reader,

What do you want to be when you grow up?

If you’ve read my bio at www.blazeauthors.com, you’ll see that I didn’t know I wanted to write until I was thirty. And the rest of my family?

My older daughter, twenty, manages a pizza parlor and intends to focus her studies on marine biology. My younger daughter, seventeen and a high-school senior, has decided business is the practical way to go…for now. My son, twenty-two, dabbles in music while putting in ten-hour days at a “real” job. And my husband, a degreed geologist, works as a dot.com graphics specialist.

Life is nothing if not one surprise after another. Interests change. Economics boom, then bust. Any number of reasons can precipitate a change in careers—including capricious whims. (Who, me?)

In No Strings Attached, Chloe Zuniga, vice president of gIRL-gEAR’s cosmetics and accessories divisions, is making good use of her degree in fashion design. Or so she thinks…until she makes a devil’s bargain with Eric Haydon.

Enjoy! And keep an eye out for the third book of the gIRL-gEAR miniseries in May, when I’ll tell you about Sydney Ford’s first time. And her second time, which was Bound to Happen.

Alison Kent

No Strings Attached
Alison Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Hollee, Megan and Casey.

You’re good kids. I think I’ll keep you.

And for my two career partners.

I can’t put into words what you mean to me.

I think I’ll keep you, too.

The gIRLS behind gIRL-gEAR

by Samantha Venus for Urban Attitude Magazine

Welcome back, dear reader, to the second installment in our series introducing you to the women behind the slogan “Urban Fashion for gIRLS who get it!” (And does anyone out there know exactly what it is we gIRLS are supposed to gET?)

Fashion would not be fashion without the finishing touches of cosmetics and accessories. The icing on the cake, so to speak. Which brings us to our gIRL of the month, Chloe Zuniga, veep of gRAFFITI gIRL and gADGET gIRL. Talk about icing! The woman knows makeup like nobody’s business. An absolute stunner!

Though I hear the firm’s recent publicity push is giving Ms. Zuniga a problem with her closet. (So many skeletons inside!) I’ll get the firsthand scoop at gIRL gEAR’s upcoming open house. And don’t think I won’t share every bit of the dirt!

Ms. Zuniga’s expertise will also be on display at the much-anticipated Wild Winter Woman Fashion Show, as well as at the first annual gIRL-gEAR competition, where she will be backstage before the program to advise the contestants. Be sure to visit www.girl-gear.com for the details.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

CHLOE ZUNIGA STEPPED inside the doorway to Haydon’s Half Time and flinched at the unholy blast of noise. What was it about team sports that turned a civilized gathering into a loutish milieu, complete with the roars, growls, honks and snorts of a teeming jungle habitat?

The primitive racket ricocheting off the sports bar’s walls had her longing for earplugs or cotton balls. Protective headgear, even. And she’d trade two gRAFFITI gEAR luxury spa packs for a can of air freshener right about now.

Fanning at a plume of cigar smoke with one hand, squinting into the gaudy neon glare, Chloe searched the raucous crowd for a pair of shoulders worthy of Tarzan.

If Eric Haydon wasn’t here, she was going to kill him.

The man had some nerve, refusing to return her phone calls, forcing her to resort to this ridiculous extreme. It was April, a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. So what if it was—as spelled out on the parking lot marquee—the Houston Astros Season Opener, and Haydon’s Half Time was Houston’s Richmond Drive’s hot spot.

She had better things to do with her time than dodge rabid fans, and certainly better places to put her feet than a floor littered with spent peanut shells and cork beer coasters and whatever that sticky stuff was gumming the soles of her shoes to the glossy concrete.

Uncouth. That’s what it was. Ill-mannered and crude. What was wrong with these people?

The fact that their enthusiastic word of mouth had put Haydon’s Half Time on the map, that their patronage provided Eric’s bread and butter, hardly gave them carte blanche to act like they were raised in a barn. Team sports. Ugh. Chloe gave an affected shudder and blew out a loud puff of breath.

The very idea of all that sweaty grabbing and pawing, that tackling and blocking and sliding into base! The silly pants, the silly nicknames, the silly sports drinks colored like kiddie crayons. What a ridiculous waste of spirit, not to mention entertainment dollars.

Men. Honestly. They could be such children, she thought, even as a feminine shriek of excitement cut through the din.

Okay. So the place was coed.

The women were one thing, standing by their men, rooting for his team or often their own alma mater. And, yes. There were women who did the team sports thing for no other reason than the love of the game. The women didn’t factor into Chloe’s aversion for athletic fanaticism.

The women didn’t stir memories of being sidelined for no other reason than being a girl, a girl who in a heartbeat would’ve traded her secret baseball card collection for the chance to strap on shin guards and play a game with the neighborhood boys.

The women didn’t bring back memories of petticoats and patent leather and the punishing discomfort of the cold metal bleachers where she’d sat primly at her father’s side—Daddy’s little girl, pink-cheeked and petite, come to watch her brothers compete on the field.

The women didn’t leave her heart hopelessly hollow, her body crazy-hungry for heat, as did the incredibly clueless males of the species who, in Chloe’s wide world of experience, preferred their women to remain on a pedestal, between the sheets, or three paces behind.

The entire concept of love and romance was going to hell in a handbasket.

“Hey, sexy lady. Wanna beer?” The slurred voice interrupted her thoughts.

Chloe sighed and looked to her left. Ex-jock. Muscles gone to fat. Gaze flicking to three grinning buddies at a nearby table. “I think I’ll pass,” she replied.

“Pass? On a beer? Then how ’bout I give you the best night of your life?”

Puh-leez. “Not interested.”

“Aww, c’mon, baby.” He leered his way down the front of her new football jersey. “If I could see you naked, I’d die a happy man.”

“Yeah, sugar. But if I saw you naked—” she reached out and poked his beer belly “—I’d probably die laughing. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Turning her back on the whoops and sympathetic groans, she headed in search of some breathing room away from the cluster of tables.

Men. All so predictable. At the first sight of breasts, they turned into boobs. Keeping an eye out for Eric, she moved away from the common room back toward the entryway, and searched the bar from that vantage point.

It was obvious that what the modern world needed was another Cary Grant. A real ladies’ man. A true romantic.

Chloe might be only twenty-six years old, but she’d spent years devouring the favorite movies of the mother she’d never known, the mother who’d died before her first birthday.

And Chloe was not too young, too jaded or too cynical to envy Ingrid Bergman those heated looks shared in Indiscreet, Deborah Kerr the courtship of An Affair to Remember, Grace Kelly that spectacular kiss in To Catch a Thief.

Chloe couldn’t help but wonder if her mother, too, had been compelled by those cinematic glimpses into human nature, intriguing snapshots of what love could be. If she had longed for that broader experience, that deeper well.

Was that why she’d so adored romance classics? Or had she simply been a film buff, watching for no other reason than the love of a good story? How Chloe wished she could ask. And listen.

And learn the truth of the relationship her mother had shared with her father, the man who’d enshrined her memory and held her up as an example of the type of woman Chloe would do well to emulate.

Maybe if she better understood what had made her parents’ marriage the heavenly match her father had avowed—a match of the type so often idealized on screen—she wouldn’t feel so driven to find a man who filled her own movie bill.

A man who knew how to make a woman feel as if no woman had existed before her, knew how to make her believe that if he didn’t have her now—right now, here, this moment—he wouldn’t be able to breathe. A man who shared her own intoxication in impatient, restless sex. Sex unplanned and uncontainable, in the moment, on the edge.

Sex Chloe knew about. Sex was easy. Sex was power. It was that crazy little thing called love that she wasn’t certain she’d ever recognize.

“Hey, sweet thing. What’s your name?”

Chloe turned to face her newest accoster. A squat muscle-bound man stood much too close, his frog-eyed gaze aimed straight at her chest.

“Ice Princess,” she said coldly.

The toad only laughed, then moved closer. “So, what do you do for a living? Besides play hard to get, that is.”

“I’m a female impersonator.” Before he could respond, she brushed by him, leaving the bar’s entryway and walking briskly toward the rest rooms.

Men. Duds and bores. Her patience with them had grown Calista Flockhart thin.

Was it so much to ask? To be utterly, completely understood by a man? Had her idea of relationship reality been warped by her movie fantasies as well as by those of her mother? Was it truly impossible to be so attuned to another person that one could finish a sentence the other began?

Because that was what Chloe wanted. That connection, that completion, that bond. That, and the sex.

She paused near the door marked Jocks, shifted direction and entered the door marked Jills. Small, but spotless, she noted with approval, though she wasn’t the least bit surprised the room resembled a mini locker room in design.

Nodding at a tanned, short-haired woman washing her hands, Chloe proceeded to do the same at a second sink. What was she doing here? Tonight, in this bar? What did she hope to accomplish, really? There was no prince waiting out there, ready to fight for her honor, slay her dragons, no questions asked.

What had she been thinking, turning to a man when she had five girlfriends standing by, women who understood her and who she could call on day or night for comfort, career counseling and chocolate?

Men. Who needed ’em, anyway?

“Nice jersey,” a startlingly low voice said.

Chloe’s gaze jerked to the other woman’s, which seemed to be admiring more than the new Houston Texans logo. It was a sad state of affairs when a girl could no longer find refuge in the ladies’ room.

Muttering her thanks, Chloe returned to the bar, where a sudden loud burst of applause and an exuberant apelike, fist-driven echo of “Whup, whup, whup!” reiterated beautifully the reason she was here, and renewed her determination.

He might not be a prince riding to her rescue, but, for all his boisterous behavior and cocky top jock attitude, Eric Haydon often conveyed a hint—admittedly, the barest, the most infinitesimal, the tiniest microscopic hint—of suave sophistication, a sort of cultured finesse that kept her Cary Grant hopes up.

And that played nicely into her plans.

Abandoning what she could of the smoke and the noise, Chloe wove her way through the common room and up three short steps onto the glossy hardwood floor of the bar’s more intimate pub. The place was softly lit by glowing brass lanterns. The rich wood toppers of the red and green padded booths gave her cover to sneak up and blindside her quarry.

Fortunately for Eric and his well-being, Chloe knew she’d find him here. The black Ford Mustang GT she’d seen in the bar’s back lot was his; the personalized plates that read HALF TIME were hard to miss. It was a hotshot car, an extension of his male ego. A show-stopping, attention-grabbing, top-of-the-line boy toy that had accomplished its objective.

Her attention had been grabbed.

With proof of his whereabouts, and a firm resolve, she was not about to let him blow her off in person the way he’d blown off her phone calls. Just let him try and hide out in the kitchen, or ignore her while working behind the bar.

She would not be deterred from her mission. Like it or not, she needed a man.

And even if he was a living, breathing, sleeping, eating, twenty-four–seven sports nut, Eric Haydon was the man she wanted. She would deal with his obsessive nature. She’d done it before, while partnered with him for the month-long scavenger hunt designed by Chloe’s business partner, gIRL-gEAR editor Macy Webb, for her monthly gIRL gAMES column.

Reaching the far end of the pub, Chloe sidestepped the waitress wearing old-fashioned baseball flannels, and looked up in time to catch sight of her victim behind the bar. A brief glimpse only, as Eric moved quickly out of range.

A smile touched Chloe’s mouth, and it was hard to deny the rush of a schoolgirl thrill tumbling through her empty belly, hungry as she was for food and his company.

During the month they’d spent on the scavenger hunt, they’d shared dinners, drinks and dirty jokes, not to mention one incredibly intense deep-throated kiss. She’d been banking on that making them friends.

And friends didn’t let friends drive their careers into the ground.

Chloe took a deep breath and headed for the bar. Eric turned then, walking toward her as she approached. The gray jersey T-shirt he wore snugged tightly over his shoulders and pecs, hung loosely to his hips.

The man’s body was a piece of work, hard and fit and deserving of a calendar spread. Chloe boosted herself onto a padded red stool, propped her elbows on the shiny black bar and settled her chin into the cup of her palms.

He really was drool-worthy with those shoulders and that butt and the wide white smile that dimpled both of his cheeks. He’d cut his dark blond hair recently, so it was shorter than usual, barely long enough to need a brush. And then there were his blue eyes, and his…

…oh, so loud mouth!

Chloe grimaced as Eric shouted and whistled at whatever sports thing was going on across the room on the big screen TV. Macy had been right when she’d called him a Tarzan. Chloe could just see him, muscles bunching, swinging from a vine, beating on his chest, wearing nothing but a skimpy loincloth….

“Well, if it isn’t Chloe Zuniga, Miss Pretty in Pink in the flesh.” Eric slapped both palms on the bar, jarring Chloe’s elbows.

At his reference to her wardrobe’s usual color scheme, Chloe smiled sweetly while trying to recall her well-rehearsed, extremely witty opening.

Having forgotten everything now that she was here and he was so close and so incredibly—and annoyingly—cute, she held both arms out to the side and swiveled back and forth on the bar stool. “Not a speck of pink, visible or otherwise.”

Eric stepped onto the bar’s low storage ledge and leaned forward, peering as far as he could over the counter. Chloe helped him out by lifting a foot to show off her socks, her cross-trainers and her long denim shorts.

Looking impressed, Eric stepped down and then grinned. “I feel like it’s St. Patrick’s Day and I’m searching for any speck of green I can find.”

“Nope. Not on this girl. No green and no pink.” Chloe wanted to stomp a foot in frustration. He hadn’t said a word about her cross-trainers.

Or about her Texans jersey, which was the hottest thing going, according to the teenage salesclerk who’d watched, tongue lolling, while Chloe had shimmied the jersey down over the midthigh hem of her skirt when she’d tried it on in the middle of the store.

Eric studied her face closely, snapped his fingers. “Your eye shadow. Definitely pink.”

“Definitely not. This is gRAFFITI gIRL’s Mosh Pit Bruise.” She closed her eyes and ran a fingertip over the lighter color just beneath her brow. “And this is Strobe Light White.”

Eric frowned in earnest this time, as if seeing something that didn’t quite click. And then both brows lifted in disbelief as it hit him.

“Chloe. Don’t look now, but you’re wearing a football jersey. And I think I saw athletic shoes on your feet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were up to no good.”

Chloe pressed her lips together, waiting for him to put the two of her phone calls he’d avoided together with her laughably out of character ensemble. It didn’t take him long to do the math.

He backed a short step away, yanked the green towel printed with a red Haydon ‘H’ from his shoulder and wiped both of his hands. “The answer is no.”

She’d never thought this was going to be easy. She just hadn’t counted on coming up on a dead end so soon. “Now, sugar. How can you tell me no when you don’t even know the question?”

“I’ve got news for you, princess.” His head continued to shake from side to side. “You’re in enemy territory. You start trying to bust my chops and the uproar’s liable to bring down the roof on your head.”

Chloe did her best to look demure and damaged. “I’m crushed to know that’s what you think of me. Enemy indeed.”

His attempt to remain firm dissolved into a chuckle under his breath. “I spent a month as your scavenger hunt partner. Don’t think that poor pitiful me act is going to cut any of my mustard. Now, I have customers to see to.”

Just like that? He was blowing her off just like that? “Excuse me, but I am sitting at your bar and I have yet to see any service.”

The towel went back to Eric’s shoulder. His hands went to his hips. His expression went from bemused to businesslike. “What can I get you then?”

This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned, and she had only herself to blame. Had she really thought dressing like a car pool mom would fool Eric into thinking she was anyone other than who she was?

He’d spent a month in her company, and no pair of shoes or sports jersey would make him forget her tendency to be a bit aggressive at times, assertive at others—a personality blip that held top honors on her list of self-improvements to make.

Her potty mouth was another issue.

Right beneath her bad girl reputation.

Which she needed Eric to save.

She couldn’t afford not to play this his way. She pulled a glossy menu card from the stack pushed against the wall at the end of the bar. “What’s good here?”

He shoved a basket of peanuts in her direction, then a basket of pretzels. “Take a look at the menu. I have twenty-five beers on tap. Or one of the bartenders can mix up whatever tickles your fancy.”

She pretended to pout. “I think my feelings are hurt. We spent an inseparable month and you have to ask?”

“A hazard of the job. Jason,” Eric called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Chloe’s. “Bring the princess here a cosmopolitan.”

Eric knew it was too early in the afternoon for Chloe’s favorite party drink. But she wasn’t about to call him on it because she knew that’s what he was waiting for. For her to tell him he’d gotten it wrong, that he knew better, that he should use his head and stop acting like a brain-dead jock. But not one of those comebacks crossed her mind as a serious option.

Her days of busting his chops had to come to an end, or she would never get him to agree to her proactive, career-saving strategy. And since Eric played a major role in her plan, she took a small sip of the bright pink drink when it arrived, and smiled as a peace offering.

Eric had been standing back, watching her. And when she actually went to sip more of a drink he knew she didn’t want, he pulled the glass from her hand. “What are you up to, Chloe? The answer is still no, but I’m curious what you’re doing here.”

She picked up a pretzel, snapped it in half. Eric was cute when he was so…discombobulated. “I’m not sure I want to tell you. Not when you think such ugly things about me.”

“I knew it. You are up to something.” Eric whipped the towel over the bar, which was already clean as a whistle.

“Well, yes. I am female.”

“Exactly.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “Which means that whatever you’re up to, whatever you want, is going to benefit you and leave me out in the cold.”

She fingered the stem of the glass she’d retrieved. “That’s not necessarily true. I seem to remember sharing a tequila kiss that warmed you up plenty.”

“We were both just this side of drunk—” he held his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart “—and you know it.”

“Just think what might have happened if we’d been rip-roaring.” A thought that had often crossed her mind.

Eric, obviously, didn’t share her curiosity. “Think what might’ve happened if we hadn’t been drinking at all.”

“You tell me.” And she truly wanted to know.

For all their mutual flirtation, there were times when she felt he was only humoring her. And, perversely, she wanted to explore that feeling further. She had no desire to be any man’s comic relief.

“Give me a break.” Eric was back to rearranging the bar, moving the pretzels this way, the peanuts the other. “I’m not your type and we both know it. At least we know it when we’re sober.”

She pushed the cosmopolitan away and thought about leaving. Surely she had no face left to lose. “Could you have Jason bring me a diet soda?”

Hands shoulder-width apart on the bar, Eric hung his head. “Ah, Chloe. Don’t do this to me.”

“Don’t do what, sugar?” She really did want to hear his reservations, his doubts, his reasons why joining forces was out of the question. She needed to know the dimensions of the wall she’d be butting her head against.

“Don’t pretend you want something from me that you can’t get from any other man.” His head came up sharply then, and he gestured beyond her, toward the common room and the pub. “In fact, I’ll prove it to you. Ask a favor of any man here and I’ll guarantee you a resounding yes.”

Chloe raised a brow. “As opposed to your no.”

“You got it.”

“Eric, sugar. I’ve been here twenty minutes and there hasn’t been another man who’s said a word to me.” White lies had their uses.

“Only because I’ve been monopolizing your time.”

“You’ve also been giving me your undivided attention and ignoring the other customers sitting at the bar. And neither one of us is the least bit tipsy.” As if to punctuate her statement, Jason arrived with her glass of ice and diet soda. Chloe thanked him and stared at Eric while she sipped.

All he could do was shake his head. “You know, Chloe, I enjoy you too much for my own good. And you know me too well for mine.”

“I suppose you can blame it on Macy. Her scavenger hunt ended up having repercussions I don’t think she ever imagined.”

“Yeah.” He lifted a hand in greeting as a patron took a seat farther down the bar. “I heard about Anton splitting from Lauren.”

“You mean Lauren splitting from Anton.”

“Go ahead. Believe your bogus female facts.” Eric turned back to face her, his expression cocky, smug, totally male. “I’ll stick to the real man’s telling of the story.”

Chloe looked at him for a long, intimidating minute. The noise of the bar continued to burst like balloons over their heads. Glasses clinked and televisions blared and the doors to the kitchen swung inward and out. She toyed with the straw in her diet soda, ran her finger around the rim of the glass, dunked a persistent ice cube each time it resurfaced.

She’d grown up the only female in a household of five males. Eric Haydon could do his best to stare her down, but there wasn’t a question in her mind that she would win the battle of wills. He’d admitted to his curiosity already. All she had to do was keep from revealing too much too soon.

She knew that about men. When they wanted something, wanted it badly enough and had to wait for a woman to decide whether or not they were worthy, men were putty in a female’s hands.

And because that idea was so entertaining, she drove the final nail into his coffin. She looked up, over his head, at the television mounted above the bar. “Who’s winning?”

“Huh?”

“The Astros’ game. Without looking. Who’s winning?”

Eric blinked, then blinked again, as if working to jar loose the subliminally recorded score. “Okay, I admit it. You’ve distracted me. Happy now?”

“I’d be happy with an unqualified admission of your curiosity about what I’m doing here and what I want.”

“I said I was curious.”

“You qualified it by saying the answer is no.”

“C’mon, princess. You can’t expect me to give you an unqualified yes. For all I know, your request involves torture or public humiliation.”

Chloe glanced beyond his shoulder toward two men at the bar. They were cheering on a third, who was working to down a draft beer without stopping to take a breath. The drink dribbled out both corners of his mouth and down his chin, soaking a line down the center of his T-shirt to the crotch of his jeans.

“I don’t think you need me to provide public humiliation.” Shuddering, she tipped her head toward the threesome as proof.

“What do I need you for, Chloe?”

Chloe pretended to consider Eric’s question while inwardly, her mind raced. She really hated the thought of having to turn on her helpless-female bullshit meter.

But over the years she’d honed her shtick to a true science. And this situation, more than any other one she’d been in, merited experimenting with her skills.

She continued to toy with her straw, but now she averted her gaze from Eric’s, keeping her lashes lowered, her pout humble and subdued.

“You’re probably right,” she cooed, and sighed. “I don’t have anything that you need. But you have something that would really help me out a lot.”

“A favor? That’s it? You need a favor?” Wearily, he rubbed a hand down his face. “I thought you were going to want me to jump through seven kinds of hoops or something.”

She wouldn’t yet rule out hoops or tricks. Not until she’d convinced him that he’d be doing this favor of his own free will. Maybe if she played her cards right, she’d even convince him the entire idea, from conception to completion, had been his own.

“Where should I start?”

He peeked at her from between spread fingers. “The beginning is always a good place.”

The beginning was one place to which she preferred not to return. Look at the trouble she was in now because of where she’d begun. “I’m not sure my, uh, situation has a beginning as much as a sudden realization by others that it exists.”

“English, Chloe. Plain English.”

“It’s about work and my reputation for savoring a good expletive.”

Eric let out a loud whoop. “I knew it was bound to happen. You’ve been called on the carpet for your potty mouth, haven’t you?”

“And that’s another thing,” she responded, rising to the debate. “Why is it a potty mouth for a woman and straight business vernacular for a man? Another totally unfair double standard.” It was one of her pet peeves.

Eric was scarcely able to keep a straight face. “I’d think it would be hard to be one of the guys when you work for a company called gIRL-gEAR.”

“It’s perfectly acceptable for me to be one of the guys when it’s a partners-only situation. When we have late night meetings or when we do our thing at Macy’s loft. Make that Lauren’s loft, since Macy is in the throes of cozy domestic bliss with Leo.” Chloe went back to toying with her straw, dunking her ice cube. “It’s when I…forget myself at the office that Sydney tends to get bent out of shape.”

“It’s hard to imagine Sydney Ford getting bent out of shape over anything.”

“She takes the business seriously. And that includes how each of the partners’ actions and reputations reflect back on gIRL-gEAR.”

“So, you’ve been busted.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Sounds like it was your manner of speaking.”

This was where she needed to tread carefully—and where she most needed his help. She held up her own thumb and index finger. “There’s a little bit more.”

“More?” Eric braced both forearms on the bar edge and leaned into her space, as if he couldn’t stand not knowing what other trouble she’d gotten herself into.

Funny how she wanted his interest on the one hand, but hated that he showed it on the other. She wished she was here for any other reason.

Now that the time had arrived, she hated that she’d had to come here at all. That she couldn’t get herself out of this ridiculous mess on her own.

She drew long and hard on her straw, swallowed and, before she could think twice, blurted out, “It’s my dating habits.”

“You mean, the men you go through like diet soda?” he asked, spinning her now empty glass on the bar. “The first sip satisfies, but then the ice melts and the fizz is gone?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not one hundred percent accurate.”

“What is accurate, Chloe? Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t find enough fingers and toes to count the number of men I’ve seen you with this year. And it’s only April.”

Was it really over twenty? She’d obviously lost count. “I like men. I like dating. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out immediate incompatibility.”

“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight.” Eric shook his head, signaled a time-out. “Every time you go out with a new guy, you give him a compatibility test? You don’t try for friendship first? Or for just plain fun?”

“Fun and friendship also require compatibility, sugar.”

All girls had their expectations and fantasies, didn’t they? So what if hers were nonnegotiable. She knew she’d heard at least one song about a woman bemoaning the absence of her own John Wayne.

Chloe’s preference just happened to be Cary Grant.

“And you and me?” Eric asked. “You think we’re compatible?”

They had fun together. She counted him as a friend. It was a start, wasn’t it? “We spent a month digging through one another’s baggage and I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Eric seemed momentarily at a loss for words. But his thought processes seemed equally stunned, judging from the sudden blank look on his face. But then he caught her off guard, retorting, “Didn’t we just determine that you’re here because you need a favor? Not because of any compatibility issue.”

“I do need a favor. I need an escort.” She stated it flat out, hoping the shock value would knock him off balance and into capitulation.

“You want me to take a poll? See which of my customers meet your criteria?” Eric cast a sweeping glance around the bar, then narrowed his gaze on her. “Or you want I should call in a favor from a buddy you haven’t met yet? Press one of the high-profile athletes I know into service?”

As if! “No. I want you.”

He frowned, backed a safe step away and crossed his arms. “What do you mean, you want me?”

She placed both hands, palm side up, on the bar. “I want you to be my escort.”

“So you can bust my chops all the way to next Tuesday?”

The first uncomfortable twinges of failure stung the backs of her eyes. “You’re jumping to unfounded conclusions, sugar.”

“Unfounded conclusions and unqualified no’s. Yep. I can see why that would make me the man you want.”

She wasn’t so sure any longer. Not this way. Not with this bitterness she’d never seen coming. She reached for her red leather mini knapsack and her wallet inside, intending to settle up for the cosmopolitan and the diet soda.

Men. Never again.

With a hand placed gently over hers, Eric stopped her from paying and from leaving. His expression had softened, as had his voice when he said, “C’mon. Let’s go talk in my office.”

2

HIS HAND AT THE SMALL of Chloe’s back, Eric guided his unexpected visitor across the bar’s common room, past the swinging doors leading to the kitchen and into a short hallway toward a door boldly marked: No Admittance Without Proper Authority or Play-Off Tickets.

The small of Chloe’s back was really small. The girl had a mouth on her, a big one, and an attitude to match. But boy, was she a curvy little thing. Made it hard to decide whether he wanted to date her or adopt her.

One thing he knew was that he wasn’t going to say yes to whatever cockamamie scheme she’d come here to pitch. If she didn’t want him for more than her own self-serving reasons, then screw her.

And screw him if he hadn’t learned not to let himself be used.

Chloe may have thought she’d come away from their scavenger-hunt month holding the upper hand, but he’d done his share of scouting, and he knew a thing or two about Chloe he doubted she knew about herself.

As tough as she seemed, she was appealingly vulnerable. He didn’t know why she protected herself with her big bad attitude, but if made her feel safer, he’d play along. At least until he learned more about what had brought her here.

Because Chloe Zuniga didn’t show up out of the blue looking like a cross between a Maxim cover model and a soccer mom without a damn good reason. A better one than needing an escort.

He reached for the doorknob, guided her forward, moved his hand from the small of her back to her shoulder. A surprisingly muscled shoulder, come to think of it, considering she hated physical activity.

His office decor reflected the rest of the bar, which meant Chloe would no doubt be just as uncomfortable in here as she had been out there. He’d give her an A, though, for effort, because she had made a big one. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her wear athletic shoes.

As he watched her take in the long wall covered with autographed photos, he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like having worked up a good sweat. He couldn’t even imagine, having never seen her with a single blond hair out of place, unless tousled on purpose for the sake of being sexy. He’d seen rational men turned into blubbering idiots by that bedroom hair and those big, violet-colored eyes.

Eric chuckled to himself. He loved tinted contacts. He loved the idea of mussing up her hair. He also loved the way she looked in play clothes. And the way she looked in his office.

He moved to lean back against the huge wooden desk he’d purchased at a rural school auction, crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He didn’t have a lot of time; Jason would be needing backup soon. But Eric had a feeling that whatever he was waiting for would be worth weathering a rebellion in the ranks.

“Bagwell, Biggio, Olajuwon, Lipinski, Campbell, Ryan, Lewis.” Chloe named off the past and present Houston sports figures, stopped when she reached the one frame set off from the others, and gave Eric the look most gave him with they came across the autographed shrine. “Anna Kournikova?”

Eric lifted a shoulder. “She plays tennis.”

Chloe’s only reply was a loud huff. She continued to tour his office, moving from the autographed photos to the matted and framed ticket stubs he’d collected since attending his first professional sporting event at the age of five.

He hadn’t framed every stub from every event. Most he’d randomly stapled to the wall, which made for wallpaper worth reading. But once in a very rare, memorable while, a frame was called for.

He watched Chloe lean in closer to read several of the stubs, watched her stand on tiptoe to read others. Watched her lips move as she mouthed the words. She smiled, she frowned, she sighed.

He wanted to ask which of the souvenirs generated which response, but he was too busy enjoying the way her calf muscles flexed when she lifted and stretched, the way the denim cupped her backside, the way the jersey molded her shoulders.

Either she’d pumped a lot of iron over the past couple of months or he’d really been blind as a bat the few times he’d had his hands on her before. Especially that time they’d danced at Lauren and Anton’s housewarming party…after he’d licked the salt from her skin, downed a shot of tequila and sucked the juice from the lime she’d held in her mouth.

God Bless America, but the woman could kiss.

Catching him in his intent study of her rear view, Chloe suddenly turned and flopped down on his office couch, which was some local designer’s interpretation of a cushy baseball dugout.

Middle fingers rubbing at her temples, Chloe closed her eyes and leaned back. “I really don’t know what I’m doing here.”

She’d mumbled the words, and he knew she’d said them more to herself than to him, but he wasn’t going to let her slide by that easily. “I think you’re here to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

She stopped rubbing, looked up suspiciously. “You already told me no.”

He had, but she hadn’t looked quite so down and defeated then as she did now. And he hadn’t felt quite so compelled to offer himself up as her savior. Maybe one of these days he’d come to his senses and rescue stray animals instead of stray women. But for now…

Hands braced hip level on the edge of his desk, he crossed his ankles and made the conscious and recognizably half-witted decision to invite her confidence. He’d worry about regrets later—when he was in over his head.

“You went to a lot of trouble to get my attention, princess. You must need me in ways I’ve only dreamed about.”

“More like in ways I’ve never dreamed about,” she said, not even rising to his bait.

Ouch! Slam! Cut to the bone! “So, tell Dr. Eric all about it before Jason drags me back out to the bar.”

Chloe took a deep breath, scooted forward to sit primly on the edge of the couch. Her face, when she looked up to meet his gaze, could not have shown less guile. “Here’s the thing. I love my career. I really do. I can’t think of anything that would make me as happy as I am at gIRL-gEAR. And I don’t want to lose it. I’ll do anything not to lose it.”

“Why would you worry? You’re a partner. It’s not like you’d be first in line to be laid off.”

“It’s not about layoffs or downsizing. Sydney knows what she’s doing. Our bottom line has never been so black.” Chloe tucked her hands beneath her thighs, rocked back and forth and finished her explanation in a rush. “This is about me, my mouth and…my habit of dating everyone who asks.”

“Oh, now. That hurt my feelings. I asked and you turned me down.” He gave her a quick wink designed to convince both of them he was teasing.

“I’m exaggerating, obviously. I don’t go out with everyone.” Her rocking slowed and she studied him intently with those big violet eyes.

Eric tightened his fingers over the edge of his desk. “Just everyone but me.”

“I didn’t go out with you because, well, I have my reasons…one of them being that you’re a lot of fun.” She paused, as if wondering how much to say, then softly admitted, “I didn’t want to screw that up.”

“Dating is supposed to be fun. Dating me would be a hell of a lot of fun,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended.

Chloe straightened her back, gave a regal lift of her chin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.” It was all he could think of to say, at bat, as he was, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth.

“But then what happens when we finish dating?” She waited for him to answer, and when he remained silent, she added, “I don’t want to screw up what we have as friends.”

What did they have as friends? And why did it feel like he’d been clothes-lined by her assumption that they’d be “finished dating”?

Even though he knew she was right, and he couldn’t see himself sharing a future with Chloe, he didn’t appreciate not being given a chance.

To do what, hotshot? Prove the princess as capable of dumping on you as any woman?

“Give me a clue here, Chloe. What sort of assistance, exactly, would you be needing from Eric’s Escort Service?” Maybe he could back his way into helping her out, because no matter how much he enjoyed her company, he wasn’t going to act the part of any escort.

Chloe got to her feet, paced to the opposite end of the couch, then back. She worked her hands as she talked. “Over the next few months, gIRL-gEAR is scheduled to be profiled in several national publications. Sydney has her eye on the big time. She’s courting designers. She’s talked about taking the company public.

“Which means we’re all living under a magnifying glass. We’ve been ordered to clean up our acts. And I specifically have been asked to dismantle the skeletons in my closet and give the room a thorough disinfecting.”

“Wow.” Eric nodded and absorbed and tried to fit his escort services into the lineup. “That’s heavy duty.”

“Which part? gIRL-gEAR going public?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or my skeletons?”

“If you have any skeletons, you’ve done a super job of keeping them under wraps. But then, that would make them mummies, wouldn’t it?” He waited for her to get it, then added, “Skeletons? Under wraps?”

“That’s not funny.”

“C’mon, Chloe. I can’t believe it’s all gloom and doom. You’ve been here, what?” He glanced at the basketball goal converted to a clock on the wall above her head. “Thirty minutes?”

“Yes. And?”

“So, you might’ve slipped one by me, but I don’t think I’ve heard so much as a dagnabbit come out of your mouth.”

“Trust me.” Her hands went deep into the pockets of her shorts, her gaze to the toes of her cross-trainers. “It’s only for the tight leash I have on my tongue.”

Eric leaned forward, catching the scent of sunshine in her hair. He smiled and whispered, “Just don’t let go. You’ll be fine.”

“So, you’ve solved one of my problems.” She held up two fingers. “There’s still my fast and furious reputation. And then there’s Poe.”

“Poe?”

“A buyer at work. Her name is Annabel Lee. And she’d sell her soul for my job.”

Eric needed more information to diffuse that particular bomb. But since Chloe’s reputation was one thing he knew about, he could ease at least that worry.

“You think you have a fast and furious reputation?” He shook his head. “In my dreams, maybe.”

A tiny smile crooked the corner of her mouth. “There you go. Dreaming again.”

No way was he touching that comment. Ten-foot pole or twenty. “You date a lot. It’s not a big deal. If you slept around, I’d know it.”

“What do you mean, you’d know it?”

Here he needed to tread carefully. He might not be held to the same standards as a man of the cloth, but neither did he spill his guts lightly. “We run in the same circles, Chloe. And I own a bar. Trust me. I hear as many confessions as a priest. Your reputation is safe with me.”

The second the words left his mouth, he knew he’d stepped into a big pile of dog doo. Chloe got a look in her eye that could only be called a wicked gleam.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

He stumbled over ten or twelve words before he finally shut his big mouth. This was what he got for trying to be a nice guy. At least he knew enough to stop with the shovel before he buried himself completely.

“I have three functions coming up over the next couple of months,” Chloe was saying. “Official business functions. I can’t get out of any of them and I’ll be representing gIRL-gEAR while I’m there.”

“So go already.” He knew where this was headed, knew he’d been smart to establish his just-say-no terms up front. Making like Chloe’s arm candy was not his idea of self-respect. “I’m sure you can find a date. Or better yet, avoid the reputation hassle and go alone.”

She shook her head. “This girl does not fly solo.”

“Why not?”

“My reputation, duh.”

Try as he might, Eric could not make sense of her logic. “I hope you’re kidding, because I think it’s your reputation that’s gotten you into this mess, am I right?”

“You’re not a girl. I don’t expect you to understand. I can’t go alone. I have to have a date. And I would be ever so appreciative if you could help me out here.”

He ignored the eyelashes she batted. “And by help you out, you mean…”

She nodded.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Chloe. I’m not sure I want to be one of your statistics.”

“You wouldn’t be. This is strictly business. Totally up front. If I show up with the same date all three times, the industry gossips won’t have a tongue-wagging leg to stand on.”

Threads of common sense were unraveling all over the floor. “Sure they will. It’ll just be a different leg. My leg. And I don’t really care to be the object of anyone’s wagging tongue.”

Then again…

“Don’t you get it?” She wrapped delicate fingers around his forearm. “That’s the point. Sydney can hardly object if the reason for the gossip is all good. You’d be putting a positive spin on my situation. Party girl interrupted.”

“First you want an escort. Now you want a spin doctor. I know it’s hard to believe, but even I can’t be all things to all women.”

The imprint of her touch remained on his arm long after he’d pushed away from his desk. He’d hoped he could walk away; why had he never learned how to walk away? But he didn’t get very far because Chloe was in his face, one hundred twenty pounds of enthusiasm.

“Think about it, Eric. Three dates. That’s all it is.” She counted them off on her fingers—one, two, three. “Three nights spent in my company, schmoozing with the media. With designers. Supermodels.”

She’d called him Eric. Not sugar. “Supermodels?”

“I’d do the same for you.”

Oh she would, would she? “Supermodels, huh? I tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

He had to give her credit; she didn’t turn him down immediately the way he had before hearing the dirty details of her idea. She had an open mind.

A desperate open mind?

Willing to go to any lengths to save her career?

Hmm. He could see himself playing the devil to her Faust.

“What? What’s the deal?”

“You get your three dates.” He did the finger thing—one, two, three. “And I get my three—”

“No.” She shook her head so forcefully that wisps of her blond hair caught on her lips, leaving her decidedly disheveled.

Eric liked the look. “What kind of double standard is this? I’m not allowed to say no, but you can turn me down flat without hearing me out?”

“I don’t want to hear you out. Not if it’s going to be about sex.”

He hung his head and did his best to look puppy-dog pitiful instead of guilty as hell. “After all that talk about friends being there for each other? You’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Chloe.”

“You’re saying your deal-making efforts aren’t intended to get me into bed?”

He looked up in time to catch the imperial lift of her brow. “What? And ruin this beautiful friendship?”

He wasn’t about to admit what the picture of her tousled hair was doing for his imagination. Just get her out of her shoes and shorts and, yeah, he could see Chloe Zuniga in his bed, wearing nothing but her socks and that jersey hanging over her thighs and curvy bare ass.

“Okay.” Her chin went up. She shook back her hair. “What three nonsexual things do you want in exchange for your escort services?”

“We’re going to do this, then?”

“Well, it depends on what you want.”

Nope. He wasn’t going anywhere near that one, either; there wasn’t a long enough pole. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

“So, you don’t even know what you want? This is just an open-ended deal? I’m expected to be at your beck and call while you get off on stringing me along?” At each question asked, her voice had risen. Her final query was nothing if not a screech.

“I suppose we can set a time limit.”

“Damn straight we’re going to set a time limit. I’d be a thousand kinds of a fool to leave myself open to the warped workings of your imagination.”

Ah. Now this was the Chloe he knew and…hmm. Definitely didn’t love. Admittedly had the hots for. “Okay, then. What? A month? Six weeks?”

She’d pulled a mini diary from her mini knapsack. “The Wild Winter Woman fashion show is my third event, and it’s in the middle of May, so let’s wrap up this deal by Memorial Day.”

He thought of everything he had on his calendar between now and then. A huge grin started at the edge of his mouth and spread until he thought his face would split.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” Chloe groused, hoisting her small leather backpack onto one shoulder.

“Just thinking how I’ve always wanted a genie to grant me three wishes. And here you are.”

SETTLED IN THE SADDLE of her exercise bike, Chloe wished her legs were longer so she could give herself a good swift kick in the pants.

Instead, she pedaled harder, faster, her legs pumping like pistons, and all the spent energy getting her abso-friggin’-lutely nowhere. She released the bike’s handlebar just long enough to swipe a towel over her forehead.

Her sweatband had long since passed the point of saturation, but she wasn’t about to stop spinning to switch it for a dry one. Not when she had an unstoppable rhythm going and hours of frustration to burn.

The television mounted in the corner of the spare bedroom she’d converted into her own personal exercise-slash-torture chamber was running a tape of Shakespeare in Love. But even Will’s desperately romantic pursuit of Viola was not enough to distract Chloe from yesterday’s fiasco.

Damn that cocky Eric Haydon, sweet-talking her into doing exactly what he’d wanted. Granting him three wishes. And how stupid of her to agree. No, not stupid. Just desperate enough to act like she didn’t have an ounce of common sense…or much of a memory for details.

He was wrong.

Yesterday afternoon, once she’d gotten out of Haydon’s and arrived home, she’d headed straight for her diary. And Eric was wrong. Sixteen. Not twenty.

She’d gone out with sixteen different men so far this year. Eight of them had been one-nighters, not deserving of the time of day much less any more than her cell phone number. Caller ID was a girl’s best friend.

Puffing through the aggravation of realizing she needed a new strategy for finding that elusive happily ever after, she tried to sort out the entire dating process—or at least her personal lack of dating success.

She was not unreasonably selective, yet she didn’t go out with just anyone who asked. Somehow, though, she had gained a reputation for doing just that. Which guaranteed she was asked out a lot.

By everyone, it seemed, but Cary Grant.

Her dating rules were flexible, her only demand that a man treat her like a woman. Too many took that to mean trying to get into her pants. Others assumed she wanted to be coddled and pampered and saved from herself.

She never went into a date with her rules spelled out on a cue card. But men asked, and she answered, and then all hell would break loose, depending on the man and what conclusions he’d drawn about women.

It was always one extreme or the other. The virgin or the slut. The whore or the lady.

What had happened to the middle ground?

Her looks were one problem, her vocabulary another, but she was who she was. Her upbringing had defined her; the pedestal on which she’d been forced to sit had towered miles above reality.

So she’d countered her father’s insistence that she rise above the rabble by getting down and getting dirty. To her sheltered and rebellious young mind that had meant a coarse vocabulary, a take-no-prisoners personality, an unapologetic enjoyment of life’s earthier delights, as well as the power afforded by passion.

Perhaps not the most straightforward approach to life or to love, but a method that had served its purpose. She’d learned that being good wasn’t going to get her anything she wanted. She’d also learned that what most men gave her she wanted to give back.

At the crook of her finger, they came running, bringing flowers and chocolates and baubles, and declarations of love so profusely poetic she wanted to barf. She had attention, affection, the things of female fantasy…and all of it was bogus as hell.

No man had ever taken the time or made the effort to learn that she read Tom Clancy for fun. That she’d take lemon over chocolate any day of the week. That she grew her own tomatoes in whiskey barrels kept on the patio, but killed every flower she planted.

Men. Ruled by their dicks. Every one of them.

What she wanted was chivalry.

Was the word really that anachronistic? The concept that out-of-date? And what about respect? Not only for her person, but for her ideas and opinions.

She was blond. She was built. She was not about to apologize for her love of makeup. She had a brain. She was not a bimbo. She liked men. She was not an easy score.

Why was that so hard to understand? she wondered, and pedaled even harder, faster, closing her eyes and pushing beyond the burn. She doubted her reputation or her mouth truly crossed Sydney’s line in the sand.

But Chloe loved gIRL-gEAR, her vice-presidential perks and position, the cyclical industry of fashion and her partners, the five women who’d been her best friends since their days in Austin at University of Texas.

Hell, she even had a soft spot for Poe, though the other woman’s ambition irritated Chloe more than a broken underwire on a brand-new bra. Poe needed the air released from her inflated self-opinion. She might have five years on Chloe, but Chloe had the heart Ms. Annabel Lee was missing.

The ringing of the phone in her bedroom slowed Chloe’s cathartic pace, but she didn’t stop pedaling until the machine picked up and she heard Eric Haydon’s voice.

“Yo, Chloe. About that first wish.”

Chloe sat up straight on the bike and listened to the recording being broadcast from across the hall.

“Be at Haydon’s. Saturday morning. Nine on the nose. Oh, and the outfit you had on yesterday? Wear it.”

The line went dead, then came the dial tone, followed closely by Chloe’s disbelief. That was it? Orders he assumed she’d follow left on an answering machine?

And what was up with the dress code? He knew she wouldn’t wear those clothes again on a dare. She certainly wouldn’t wear them because he’d told her to. Or would she? After all, she’d been stupid enough to grant him three wishes.

She’d had enough exercise, and her fill of that bossy Eric Haydon. Hopping from the bike, she headed for the shower, flinging pink Lycra and spandex all over the bathroom. Once the hot water started melting her balled up muscles, she was better able to think.

Other than removing sex from the equation, she and Eric had set no boundaries for this granting-of-three-wishes business. She supposed it was a fair enough trade-off.

Eric knew he’d be accompanying her to gIRL-gEAR business affairs. She knew she’d be doing anything Eric wanted her to do…except crawl naked into his bed. Chloe sighed.

How terribly disappointing.

3

HAVING ARRIVED at Haydon’s only minutes before Chloe, Eric leaned against the back end of his car, legs crossed at the ankle, arms crossed over his chest, and watched her pull her lime-green VW Beetle into the parking lot.

If he was a betting man, he wouldn’t take better than fifty-fifty odds that she’d worn the outfit he’d wanted her to wear. Still, she was here. And that was saying something.

He continued to watch as she jerked her sunglasses from her face, the keys from the ignition. With a look between a frown and a glare, she climbed from the car, her eyes never breaking contact with his.

“Well, blow my mind. A woman who can follow orders.” He grinned. He winked. Because seeing her in play clothes had just become the highlight of his day. “I think I’m in love.”

“I see your mouth is making promises you don’t have the backbone to keep,” she said, tucking both her shades and her car keys into her knapsack and slinging it over one shoulder.

“Not promises as much as observations,” he said, ignoring her dig. He pushed himself erect and headed for the passenger door, then added a dig of his own. “Unless you want me to see what I can do about paying up.”

Chloe, of course, ignored him. He’d opened the car door and now stood with both wrists draped over the frame. Chloe waited, one hand wrapped around her knapsack’s shoulder strap, the other at her hip, feet unmoving and eyes cutting from Eric’s to the Mustang and back again.

“I take it that you want me to get in?”

“You got it.”

“Do you mind telling me where we’re going? Or what we’re going to do? And, most of all, why you wanted me to wear this ridiculous getup yet again?”

Ah, yes. The Chloe he still didn’t love…but was starting to appreciate way too much. “How ’bout you get in the car and trust that all will be revealed in good time?”

“In your good time, you mean,” she groused, but she did slide down into the car’s bucket seat.

Eric closed the door behind her and skirted the rear of the car, slapping his hand on the trunk on his way to the driver’s side. Talk about your bad mood. He couldn’t believe Chloe could really be that worried about her position at gIRL-gEAR, worried enough to bite his head off when he was the one she’d come to for help.

She’d been one of the original girls. To his mind that made Chloe irreplaceable, the same way Ted Williams would always be a Boston Red Sox, Michael Jordan a Chicago Bull, Joe Namath a New York Jet. No. There was something else going on here. But Eric wasn’t going to ask her yet.

He slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door and turned over the two hundred sixty horses beneath the Mustang’s hood. He shoved the five speed into reverse and whipped the car around, squealing his tires out of the parking lot and onto westbound Richmond Drive.

Chloe slid him a sideways glance. “Is the length of the skid mark a guy lays in direct proportion to his opinion of himself?”

“Nope.” Eric grinned. He wouldn’t be able to afford retreads if that were the case. “That’s just me giving the horses their head. Gotta put the sweethearts through their paces.”

“Humph. Typical man. Your car gets treated better than your date.”

Eric downshifted for the traffic light a half block ahead. “How do you figure?”

“‘Give the horses their head.’ ‘Put the sweethearts through their paces,”’ Chloe mimicked, digging for her sunglasses. The sun was at their backs, but glared off the approaching cars’ glass. “Your date doesn’t even get a straight answer when she asks where you’re taking her.”

Women. Couldn’t even give a guy a chance to spring a surprise. Had to be all distrusting and suspicious…though, in this case, suspicion was not unwarranted, Eric had to admit. “Trust me, princess. I know how to treat a date. And if we were dating, I’d be more than happy to show you what you’ve been missing.”

“I know exactly what I’ve been missing,” she mumbled. And he swore he heard her add, “Cary Grant.”

Eric frowned. The girl needed help. “Tell me something, Chloe. If you can’t find a man you’d like to keep company with, why don’t you quit dating instead of setting yourself up for disappointment?”

She was quiet for a long minute, staring straight ahead through the windshield. He was about to give up and turn the conversation to the weather when she finally said, “I don’t set myself up for disappointment. I mean, it’s not like I go into a date hoping the evening will crash and burn.” She gave a careless shrug. “It just happens.”

No one crashed and burned every single time. No matter what Chloe said, it just didn’t happen. “How open is your mind then? Because I gotta say, you’re not exactly little Mary Sunshine.”

“How would you know?” she snarled. “We’re not dating, remember?”

“We don’t have to be dating for me to see that you have a hell of a negative attitude.”

Chloe closed the front pouch of her knapsack; the jerk of the zipper sounded like she’d ripped a jagged hole in the air. “You can let me out anytime. I can get myself back to my car, thank you very much.”

Eric hated to do it. He really did, but he whipped the car in a U-turn and headed back to Haydon’s. He wanted her company, the company she usually offered, or had offered before she’d hit this personal downhill slide.

She was smart and she was funny. Her sharp tongue could slice a man into shreds. Her eyes could throw daggers at any part of him left standing. Her mouth could grind the fallen pieces into the ground.

But, oh, could she kiss and make it all better.

Which told Eric that part of what drove her was passion, and passion was one mother of a two-edged sword.

What he wanted from Chloe was to see the shine of the blade without feeling the sting of the razor. He had trouble enough with his own morning shave.

He shot up into the sports bar’s parking lot, coming to an amazingly gentle stop.

Chloe reached for the door handle. Eric stopped her with nothing more than an exaggerated clearing of his throat.

“You have something to say?”

“Just a reminder of our deal. And turnabout being fair play and all. You don’t grant my first wish, I don’t feel I have to attend your first function.” He frowned, paused for effect and added, “When was that, anyway?”

“Tomorrow. gIRL-gEAR is hosting an open house.”

“Tomorrow? Well, I’m not sure I’m going to be available. You hardly gave me any notice.”

“That’s because I’ve almost decided not to go,” she said softly, slumping down into the seat, closing her eyes and letting her head hit the window.

Uh-oh. “Did you tell Sydney you were bailing?”

“I haven’t bailed yet. I’ve just been wondering if any of this effort is going to make any difference.”

Not if you don’t change your attitude, he wanted to say, but instead he offered, “I still don’t get why you think you have to go to all this trouble.”

She shook her head, waved him off with the flutter of one hand. “Forget it. I’m just in a lousy mood. Chalk it up to a crappy Friday.”

“Another bad date last night?”

“No, actually. Last night was great. I stayed home, no one but myself for company, and watched old videos. Six hours of my favorite love stories and you’d think I’d be in a better mood, wouldn’t you?”

“If you like love stories. I’d be in a coma.”

“I suppose you spent all night watching a ball game or a fight or whatever sport is in season.” She made the accusation, then pulled off her sunglasses.

Eric had trouble keeping a straight face. “Actually, no. I had a date.”

She opened one eye, slid him a glance, opened the other eye and turned her head enough to look at him straight on. “Do tell.”

“What’s to tell? It was a date.”

“Dinner? A movie? Back to the bedroom?”

This time Eric shifted in his seat and did his best to face her. “That’s your idea of a date?”

“Not mine, no. But that’s what I’m usually offered.”

No wonder she went through men like he went through running shoes, if that was the height of her dating expectations. “And you’re going out with losers, why?”

She studied him for a minute, frowning slightly, her eyes that amazingly cool shade of sunset purple. Her lashes were long; he only noticed because of the way she blinked like that, so lazy and slow.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen her face in the buff, and wondered what she’d look like with her skin scrubbed clean. If she’d look as innocent as she did in his imagination. The same imagination that was making hard work of the lower half of his body.

She wore her makeup well, considering she used more than a lot of women. And he wasn’t sure he’d noticed until now how perfect she looked in the colors. Soft and feminine…like the bunches of wildflowers that had popped up all over the field at Stratton Park, where they were headed.

Or had been headed until Chloe got a bad-mood burr up her butt.

It probably wasn’t fair of him to hijack her this way, but she’d agreed to the terms of the deal and he was looking forward to seeing her sweat. It would do her good to get rid of those built-up stress toxins.

It would do him good as well to see her get all huffy and insulted at having to play ball. He needed the reminder that they would never get along as a couple. She stirred his blood wildly, but dinner and a movie and back to the bedroom was not his idea of a good time.

He loved it when a woman understood his passion for getting out and getting physical. The ones who shared his idea of having fun were the ones he enjoyed most in bed. They didn’t worry about wrinkles and tangles and makeup running in the sun and the heat.

And they brought that same energy and stamina, not to mention their strong warrior-woman thighs, to bed. He wondered about Chloe’s stamina. He wondered about her thighs.

Finally, he snapped to the fact that she still had her gaze trained fully his way. “Well?”

“I’m not intentionally going out with losers. You can take my word on that.”

“I thought all women had some kind of—” Eric waved one hand “—hormonal radar thing going. To lessen the chance of winding up with a jerk.”

“Do all men have one? Or, if they do, does the one they have work one hundred percent of the time?”

Eric ran cupped fingers back and forth over the curve of the steering wheel. “I guess that’s the better question, isn’t it? My gaydar never fails me. I’m not as lucky with my laydar.”

Shifting into a more comfortable, the-better-to-see-you-with position, she repeated, “Laydar?”

“Sure,” he said, and grinned. “The wiggly little stick that tells me if I’m going to get laid.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “That is about the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.”

“C’mon, princess,” he said with a wink. “Don’t tell me you don’t wish you had one.”

She answered with a careless shrug. “I don’t need one. I can get laid anytime I want.”

“Now who’s being sexist?”

“I’m being a realist. You want me to lie about it? Deny that men find me sexy? Well, I won’t.” A self-deprecating smile lifted both corners of her mouth. “I’ll also admit that I can be an unadulterated bitch. But that hasn’t yet stopped a guy from begging to show me heaven.”

“And that would be right about the time you tell him to go to hell?”

“For all the good it does.” She gave a quick shake of her head, scooping flyaway hair behind her ear, before adding, “I so don’t get it. I mean, I understand the concept of coming back for more. But it’s not like I’m giving out candy here. I can’t decide if their egos are that resilient or if they have some sort of rejection fetish.”

Eric considered her dilemma, considered, too, the shell of her ear and the tiny little Spock-like point now exposed. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Kick me, beat me, make me beg? Yeah. It can happen with some guys.”

“But never with you.” The tone of her comeback asked the question she’d stated as fact.

Time to get a few things straight. “Chloe. I never say never because life offers too few sure things. But I can say this. You will never know what I do or do not enjoy in bed until you’re there to find out firsthand. Then, trust me. I won’t hesitate to show you what I like, where and how.”

And then he bit his tongue before inviting her to take a trip into his fantasy. Because his imagination had taken on epic proportions, and all she needed to know he could teach her with a quick zip of his fly.

For the next few moments she remained unmoving and silent, the only sound in the car the muffled noise of the engine and that of Chloe’s breathing, ragged and more than a little bit out of control.

Eric could only imagine the matching pulse beating in her wrist, her chest, the base of her throat. He could only imagine because he had no intention of looking away from her eyes. He could see her considering the possibilities. How would they fit together? Would he like her best on the bottom or on the top? Would he prefer she take control or surrender? Would he get his first? Would he even be able to make her come?

He smiled at that, not because he was a miraculous, all-powerful lover, but because he was surprised how many women had given up on orgasms. And how many men weren’t man enough to take the time and figure out what a woman needed.

They weren’t all built on the same assembly line, which meant where one woman needed a tweak, another needed a nudge and still another needed a nice little squeeze. All a man had to do was ask. Then figure out how to coax her to answer. Women were such amazing beings.

Finally, Chloe cleared her throat. “Well, Eric. Sugar. I’m not sure I know what to say. I would love to know what you’re like in bed, but since I’ll never be there to find out firsthand, I guess I’ll die an unfulfilled woman.”

She was so damn good at busting his chops. Why did she have to be so damn good?

He didn’t know another woman who’d ever been able to get his hopes up when he wasn’t even looking, only to crush him into line chalk by the time he got up to speed.

“Remember what I said. Never say never.”

She waved a hand in front of her face. “It’s getting rather stuffy in here. Think you could turn on the AC?”

Eric tossed his head back and laughed, adjusting the flow of refrigerated air. “I would’ve turned it on a long time ago if I’d known you’d be sticking around to need it. But you were so gung ho to get back to your car.”

“I know. I was.”

“But you’re not now? What’s with the change of heart?”

She turned her head, returned her sunglasses to her face. But not before a hint of grudging respect flashed in her eyes. “Nothing but that little ol’ promise I made to grant you three wishes. A deal is a deal.”

Eric rubbed his hands together. “My own personal genie in a bottle.”

“Just keep that rub-a-dub-dub business to yourself,” she said, slicing him with a sharp sideways glance.

“So, we’re ready to hit the road here again?”

She sighed. “I suppose I don’t have much choice.”

“What’re you talking about? You have all kinds of choices.” But he put the car into gear anyway, exited Haydon’s parking lot and headed again for Stratton Field.

“Sure. Like choosing between saving my job or giving it up to Poe without a fight.”

Poe. Eric’s first problem to tackle. Or to let Chloe talk herself into tackling. Women liked to talk. All those lips movin’ and jaws flappin’ seemed to jar loose whatever it was keeping their brains from calling the right play.

Give ’em a willing ear, and most of the time they worked things out just fine on their own. He didn’t claim to understand how it worked. He just knew that it did.

“I guess first thing you need to decide is if the job’s worth fighting for.” He downshifted as they rolled up to a traffic light and stopped.

“You have got to be kidding me.” She shifted in her seat, fighting with the seat belt in order to face him. “I am gIRL-gEAR. This is my career. My future. I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life.”

There it was again, that passion. He wondered how aware she was of her nature, and how it must be killing her to rein it in, to bite her tongue when her tongue had so much to say.

And it was more than her mouth. Even the way she wore her makeup fit her personality. That and the way she culled her dates, a sort of aggressive search-and-destroy for…what? he wondered. What was it that drove her?

“Then I guess that answers my question. Though I do think that part about you being gIRL-gEAR is a bit over the top.”

“That coming from Mr. Sports Bar?”

Eric paused to consider the comparison. “Not the same at all. Eric Haydon. Haydon’s Half Time. Chloe Zuniga. gIRL-gEAR. Nope. Totally different arena.”

Chloe snorted. “You can’t even carry on a conversation that isn’t littered with—” she gestured dismissively “—your sports expressions.”

Eric had never really thought about it, but he supposed Chloe was right. He did think in the lingo. But athletics and competition had been so much a part of his life that he didn’t remember a day going by without it. Sorta like he didn’t remember a day going by without food or sleep.

“Besides,” she continued, “even if I am over the top about gIRL-gEAR, it’s a reflection of me. I’m fairly over the top about a lot of things. I don’t think that’s much of a secret. Between my profanity issues,” she said, sketching air apostrophes with her fingers, “and my problems with Poe, I’m a walking talking cry for intervention. Or so Sydney thinks. Having intervened.”

Eric chuckled and signaled his lane change. “So, how long has she been with gIRL-gEAR? This Poe of yours.”

“She’s not mine and she’s been there a little over a year. She started as Sydney’s assistant, but now she works as a buyer. When the position became available, she flexed her claws and got what she wanted. I don’t think she liked working directly under a younger boss,” Chloe said, and redirected the air-conditioning vent. “This way she has more autonomy.”

Eric adjusted the temperature of the refrigerated air. “How old is she?”

“Thirty, I think. And way more suited for a corporate environment. Not conventional, just…I don’t know. gIRL-gEAR seems too funky an atmosphere. I can picture her in Leo Redding’s law office. Though Macy’s only slightly more tolerant of her than I am.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure I can put it into words. You almost have to work with her, see her in action. She’s got this whole Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon thing going. Very composed, serene even. But you know behind those eyes she’s just waiting to go all martial arts on your ass. She…simmers, if that makes any sense.”

Checking the traffic in his rearview mirror, Eric couldn’t help but grin. “Simmers, huh? Takes one to know one, maybe?”

“I do not simmer.” Chloe pulled herself up straight in the seat. “I boil.”

“Right over the top.” Eric made a diving motion with his hand.

“Exactly.”

She seemed so proud of her fiery nature, he hated to bring up the obvious. “So, you don’t think your tendency toward, oh, I don’t know, aggressive behavior has anything to do with your dating problems?”

“Why would it? It’s not like I’m running them down with my car or—” she smiled to herself “—drop-kicking them over the goalpost.”

“Whoa. Be still my heart.” He pressed his palm to his chest and beat his fingers in a thumping tattoo.

“Don’t get too excited. I don’t plan to make a habit of it. Even for you.”

“You enjoy being a tease?”

“I am not a tease.”

He wanted to tell her to prove it. Instead, he said, “If you give the guys you date what they want to hear, then a lot of them are going to think you’ll give them anything they want.”

“All because I’m making the effort to be polite? To show interest, even if it’s bogus?”

“Oh, so now you’re a tease and a fake. A guy won’t know if he’s coming or going.”

“Sure he will.” Chloe paused, then added, “If he’s going, it’s yellow. If he’s coming, it’s white.”

Eric choked on a snort of laughter. “That is the sort of gutter mouth comment that’s going to get your ass fired.”

“Because I’m female. But if we were two guys talking, I could get away with referring to any bodily function I wanted to. And I wouldn’t have to worry about losing my job.”

“First of all, no guy I know is going to tell that joke.”

“Maybe not that one, but ones equally offensive.”

Eric continued to shake his head. “Not on the job, if he doesn’t want to find himself facing a sexual harassment suit.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have more class than to tell that joke at work. I usually have more class than to tell it at all.” Her tone was a cross between apologetic and defensive.

More than a little aggravated himself, Eric muttered, “Glad to know hanging out with me doesn’t require any class.”

She banged her head back against the seat. “Hanging out with you means I can relax. I don’t have to censor everything I say. But I do have an understanding of what is and is not acceptable in the workplace.”

“Just not what’s acceptable on a date.”

“No, actually. I think I am well versed in dating etiquette.”

“That’s right. This isn’t a date. You and me, here and now.”

“Duh. No. It’s blackmail.”

Eric took a deep breath and focused on the road ahead. He was so close to saying something he knew he’d regret. He had no business letting her get to him. She was right. This wasn’t a date. It was a deal. And getting mad wouldn’t do anyone any good, anyway.

“So, tomorrow? Is that going to be a date?” he asked, jumping from the frying pan into the fire. “I mean, I want to be sure I don’t get out of line. That I treat you like a date, if that’s what it is. Or that I treat you like one of the guys and swap smut jokes if it’s not.”

For several moments Chloe seemed more interested in the road flying by beneath the Mustang’s wheels than anything Eric had to say. A part of him wanted to take it back. A more perverse part was glad for every word he’d said, even though her hands remained locked around the strap of her knapsack and her feet pressed primly together on the passenger-side floorboard. Her posture was straight and her voice was soft when she spoke.

“I know what you’re doing. Don’t think I don’t. You’re trying to make me behave the way you think I should behave. I get so sick of conventions. Who decided girls had to wear the ruffles and sit on the sidelines? I tell you,” she added, this time her voice barely above a whisper, “I’m sick to death of sitting on the sidelines.”

Eric didn’t know if she was speaking literally or making another sports analogy. He wanted to find out, to explore where Chloe came from, because he was curious to find out how she balanced her bad-girl body and her baby-doll face with her mouth that belonged in the gutter.

“Well, this should be right up your alley, then. No one does any sideline sitting when Haydon’s Half Time Hammers meet Big Boy’s Bad Boys for the city’s unofficial coed sports bar volleyball championship.”

“YOU WANT ME TO PLAY volleyball? In a pit filled with dirt?”

“It’s a court, not a pit. It’s sand, not dirt. And it’s clean.”

Having plopped down on the grass outside a court squared off with a permanent barrier of hard black rubber, Eric unlaced his high-tops. “C’mon, Chloe. Get rid of your shoes and socks. It’s too hard to maneuver with all that bulk.”

Oh, she knew what it took to maneuver. She knew exactly. And she couldn’t believe that of all things athletic Eric might choose for his wish, he’d conned her into playing volleyball. Volleyball! Screw her career. She should’ve stayed in bed.

She’d left her knapsack in the Mustang, realizing Eric’s little wish for a sporting adventure did not include a locker room or a shower. But taking off her shoes and socks and exposing the pedicure she’d had refreshed first thing this morning to the abuse of gritty sand? She did not recall this being any part of any deal.

Volleyball. She could only shake her head.

Still, she couldn’t deny that, on the drive from Haydon’s, Eric had given her a lot to think about. She wasn’t ready to cut him loose as a source of good conversation—or as the escort she needed. Besides, she was not completely unfamiliar with the concept of payback being hell.

As other players began to arrive and teams checked in with the league officials stationed across the court beneath a striped awning, Chloe crossed her ankles and sank to the ground. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you own a tux.”

His fingers fumbled with the lace he was loosening and he came close to ending up with a big messy knot. “I hope you’re not expecting me to come up with a tux by tomorrow. You’ll be escorting yourself if that’s the case.”

Chloe wiggled the toes of her first bare foot, reached for shoe number two. “Oh, no, sugar. The tux is for the Wild Winter Woman fashion show.”

His hands stilled halfway through pulling off his second shoe. He finally looked up with one eye narrowed. “The one with the supermodels?”

Men. Eyes rolling, Chloe nodded.

“Would that be your function number two or three?” Eric asked, his narrowed gaze roaming down to Chloe’s naked foot and smooth bare calf.

She finished stripping off her second shoe, then set about tucking both socks inside, flexing her toes, her feet, stretching the muscles of both inner and outer thighs and her calves, realizing halfway through her warmup that Eric appeared to have been struck dumb.

She moved on to working the kinks from her torso, not totally for her own benefit, either. “Number three. Two is our first gIRL-gEAR gIRL awards ceremony and should merely require a nice suit. I’m just giving you fair warning here. Sort of like you did me when you ordered me to show up at Haydon’s this morning.”

Eric had the good grace to glance up from her legs and look guilty. “I wasn’t sure you’d show if I told you where we were going.”

“And you were right to worry.” Chloe handed Eric her shoes when he held out a hand. Then she got to her feet and brushed the loose grass from her backside. She wiggled her toes in the freshly mowed lawn, deciding gRAFFITI gIRL’s Bubbling Parfait was a perfect color and that her toes felt as good as they looked.

“Damn, Chloe.” Still sitting, Eric stared at Chloe’s legs. “Where’d you get those calf muscles?”

Chloe looked down, turning her legs this way and that while wondering what he’d think if he saw all the exercise equipment in her spare bedroom. “These little ol’ things? Why, I was born with them, sugar.”

“Well, if they work as good as they look, I might just have to revise my opinion of girls like you.”

Her hands went to her hips. Her chin went up and she waited for an explanation. “Girls like me?”

“Yeah, you know.” He grabbed up all four shoes and stood. “Powder puffs. Cotton candy. Marshmallows.”

Marshmallows? “You think I’m a marshmallow?”

“Not after seeing those legs.”

“You’ve seen me in shorts before. And I know you’ve seen me in skirts.”

“Yeah, but never from ground zero. Puts things into an entirely new perspective.”

“Well, then. This should really rock your world.” And tugging her jersey free from her shorts, she grabbed the hem and jerked the shirt over her head and off.

Eric obviously didn’t know where to look. For the longest time, he kept his gaze locked with Chloe’s until, at the tentative uncertainty she saw in his eyes, her heart softened and she gave a quick grin and granted him permission to ogle.

His gaze took in her full-coverage sports bra before moving down to her bare belly. The waistband of her shorts rode right below her navel and exposed the toned abdominals even Chloe recognized as music video material.

Eric let loose a long low whistle. “Woman, where have you been all my life?”

“Right here, sugar. Under your nose.”

“If you’d been under my nose, I would’ve caught your scent.” He shook his head, eyes wide with admiring disbelief. “Where you’ve been is under too many clothes.”

“Think so, huh?” Chloe moved two small steps forward, keeping hands tucked in the rear pockets of her shorts and her shoulders back. “Would you like it if I got rid of more?”

Eric tossed the shoes—one, two, three, four—into the back seat of the Mustang through the convertible top he’d lowered when he’d parked.

“I’d like it if you’d get rid of everything,” he said, and then he approached, stopping only when his bare toes brushed the tips of hers. He shoved his own hands down into his back pockets, mirroring her stance and, in the process, giving his shoulders an exceptional breadth.

Except at this near intimate proximity, Chloe was not as caught by Eric’s shoulders or stance as she was by his eyes. They were the blue of Paul Newman and of poetry, yet flowery compliments had never come easy and too often seemed like a big waste of words.

Besides, what Eric’s eyes made her feel was beyond her ability to describe. The beat of her heart echoed in her ears, drowning out the words wanting to be said. Even a backhanded compliment might get her into too much trouble. But they’d been standing still here so long now that she had to say something.

And so she did. “Are your eyes really that blue, or do you wear contacts?”

For a moment Eric didn’t have an answer, then he tossed back his head and roared. “Oh, princess. And here I was hoping that this time you weren’t yanking my chain, that we were getting serious.”

“Such a nice way to tell me to put up or shut up.”

He looped an elbow around her neck and turned her toward the volleyball court. “That’s because I’m such a nice guy.”

Chloe could hardly disagree. Especially when she knew that any other guy would have insisted she do one or the other.

Warmed by the weight of Eric’s arm, warmed further by the bright April sun, she shivered, reluctantly forced to admit that Eric wasn’t any other guy.

And that scared her half to death.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.