Hot and Bothered (11 page)

Screw the creepers, right?

Jesse asked, “Those pics are Twitter bound, you just watch.”

“Oh, you'll get some good publicity when Rochelle pastes photos all over her social media later.” He'd talked to her about sending any messages while she was actually at this location, and she'd agreed to hold back until she got home.

But that was then.

“Nice to hear that she's good for some marketing.” Jesse's stare bolted into Gideon. “Has she been good for anything else?”

“Not talking about that, Jesse.”

“Hey, I watched that conversation you two had by the door. She's down to fuck, quick-draw. Or haven't you noticed?”

Noticing wasn't the point. Gideon hadn't missed what she'd said about getting the sex over with so they could relax around each other. Shit, like she'd been relaxed
during
it. Like he was even remotely relaxed now.

Especially since one question kept running through his mind:
Had
Rochelle just wanted to get some screwing out of the way with him? The idea made him bristle.

Aria the waitress had made quick work out of fetching a tray of filled shot glasses along with a few bottles of tequila. Everyone at the table reached for the goodies and toasted each other, tossing down the drinks. Afterward, Rochelle waved her free hand, sucking in her breath.

She clearly wasn't used to the stuff.

Yup, long night ahead.

He noticed that the other waitresses were circulating the room with trays of shots, pointing to Rochelle's table while talking to the customers, all of who acknowledged their patron in thanks.

Waving back, Rochelle poured herself another shot from the bottle. She let loose an enthusiastic
whoo
along with Jonsey, who'd refilled, too, then leaned her hand on the table, already losing her balance, just before she linked arms with him and drank.

“Dammit,” Gideon said.

“Lightweight.” Jesse grunted. “She probably sips Champagne, and this is too exotic for her. A little bit of the worm always breaks the real ladies down, makes 'em
not
ladies.” His face remained unreadable. “Hell, and who needs a lady with regrets after she's had tequila and all the trouble that comes with it?”

Gideon ignored Jesse's hard attitude when it came to women. His friend had seen a lot of action overseas, things that made him hard about life in general. Gideon had seen death, too, but he'd learned to shove it away. Jesse wore it on his sleeve.

“Can you get some food to them as fast as humanly possible?” Gideon asked. “She's gonna need it.”

“I didn't know part of your job was coddling.”

“That's not what I'm doing. I'm facilitating.” And making sure he didn't go home with a real mess on his hands.

Jesse nodded, then smoothly stalked toward the kitchen. Gideon exhaled and made his own way to the table, seeking a place where he could be nearly invisible yet all too visible for anyone who might approach Rochelle. He even gave scary looks to anyone who just wanted to stop by to say thank you for the free round, and they got the message.

Harry was nearby, too, and when Rochelle saw that Gideon had joined them, she got a mischievous smile on her face and walked over. Her side ponytail, her curve-hugging dress, the sway in her stride . . . all of it chomped at Gideon's groin step by step.

“You're ticked off,” she said, jaunty as hell.

He kept surveying the room. “And you're upset about today. That's why you're on overload.”

“Are you telling me not to celebrate our escape from a creeper?”

“Take it any way you want.”

“Oh, you're such a Jiminy Cricket.” She laughed. “I might even start calling you that, but you've got nicknames I like much better, quick-draw.”

At the table, Tucker was watching Rochelle with suspicion in his gaze that Gideon didn't like. But when Tucker saw that Gideon noticed, he took another shot of tequila and went back to staring at Mary Agnes, who was still giving that lap dance.

Now Gideon sent Rochelle a look. “Unless you're thinking of telling your cousins about your extracurricular activities, you might want to mingle with your party.”

Clumsily, she raised her empty glass to him. “You're so right. Also . . . I need more tequila. I've never had it straight, but it's the good stuff, and I
like
it.”

She wiggled her fingers in goodbye at him, but Gideon remained unruffled. He prayed that Tucker or Buzz would have the good sense to see that she needed to slow it down with the booze and that she was at warp speed because of the creeper attack. Maybe she'd listen to her cousins, because all Gideon seemed to do with his comments was provoke her.

But when didn't he do that?

Luckily, Tucker stopped her from pouring herself another shot, urging her to a sit in her chair and watch Trixie and Delilah, who were flirting and dancing for Buzz and Jonsey. And Rochelle did do that for about two seconds before she grabbed her phone and took a selfie, smiling with unrestrained joy. She started laughing to herself and tapping away on the screen like she was sending the pic.

Drunk tweeting and giving away their location? Not on his watch.

As a matter of safety, he stepped forward, gently taking hold of the phone and relieving her of it. She was just opening her mouth to protest when their waitress brought a big bowl of chips, salsa, and guacamole, which Rochelle went for immediately.

Tucker looked back at Gideon, raising his eyebrows. Gideon only gave a slight nod to the Burton boy.

Disaster, controlled.

For now.

When Rochelle began moving in time to an Usher song, Gideon feared she might hop on stage and really show everyone how damned free and liberated she was.

As free as Cherry had been.

That got his mind to rolling. Thanks to what he'd read in that book so far, he wondered once again just how much of Rochelle was in that novel. Was she actually as uninhibited as the Cherry she'd written about? How much of herself had she projected onto the starlet?

He thought on that very seriously as he watched her sitting there like she was two seconds away from bursting out of her skin, letting every ladylike inch of her transform into the Rochelle he'd been with earlier, in the bathroom, tearing at his clothes and giving him head.

The Rochelle he still wanted with every brutal bang of his wayward body.

Tequila sucks
.

That's all Rochelle could think of as Tucker guided her into the mansion, through the foyer, then up the stairs. She was tipsy, but she didn't think she was
that
drunk. It was just that she'd never had straight tequila outside of a margarita until tonight at the Pink Ladies, and she wasn't used to the powerful kick of the unadulterated drink.

Good thing she'd eaten while partying, although she'd skipped the carne asada, going for all the tortillas she could stuff in her face instead, along with more chips than all the boys had eaten together. Then there'd been those awesome cheese quesadillas, plus churros for desert, along with another shot of tequila when Tucker hadn't been nannying her.

She squirmed away from his arm as they continued up the stairs.

“I can do it,” she said.

She heard Buzz's voice behind them. “Twenty dollars says she takes a diver before she gets to the top.”

“Hey!” she said. Buzz had found her highly amusing all night. Jonsey, too.

The kid spoke up. “Girl, I don't think you realized before now what straight tequila does to a body. It ain't water.”

Oh, really? But if she'd already known that, why had she drunk so much? Oh, like that was even a proper question, because she damned well knew: She'd gotten cocky, as some people did when
they
drank, too. Mostly, though, she'd been upset, because when she'd marched into the neon den of the Pink Ladies, she'd still been running away from the sight of that cherry juice coming at her.

And, whether she would admit it or not, she'd also been running away from her renewed embarrassment with Gideon.

When Tucker eased her away from his supporting arm, giving in to her wishes to walk on her own, her knees wobbled.

Behind her, she heard Gideon mutter. “Jesus H.”

She held up a finger to him, but didn't quite make it all the way around to face him. Tucker steadied her.

“I can
do
this,” she said.

Tucker sighed. “Guys, how about I just get her settled for the night? She doesn't need an audience.”

Rochelle didn't know what made her do what she did next—uh, maybe the booze?—but she did it anyway.

“Quick-draw,” she slurred to Tucker, grasping at his shirt as if this were of the utmost importance. “Cowboy bodyguard and I have biz-ness to discuss.”

Everyone went silent. She thought she heard Gideon shifting uncomfortably, although that could've been her imagination. Maybe she even wanted him to be doing that.

She made an impatient sound at everyone's nonreactions. “Yeesh, I only need to make plans with my employee, thank you very much. We've got to talk about that media inner-view in the morning I didn't know about.”

If she had, she wouldn't have gone out boozing. As it was, they had left the Pink Ladies at ten o'clock, when Suzanne had texted about the new interview. Rochelle would be lucky to get four hours of sleep before she had to shower.

As Tucker brought her up the remaining stairs to her room, she heard Gideon's boots on the steps in back of them, following.
Good little boy
, she thought. Perversely, she loved having him on a leash, even if she was paying him to be that way.

When they got to her room, she thumped onto her bed, lying back against the pillows that the maid who came with the rental had fluffed. The room didn't spin, and she was eternally grateful.

Tucker stroked his chin as he looked her over, with Gideon right by his side.

“What a happy wreck,” her cousin said.

“I've got this.” That was Gideon. And, my oh my, was he scrumptious in that black shirt and pants or what? A dark defender. Her hero . . .

Tucker was giving Gideon a stare that Rochelle would've said was curious. Hadn't Gideon clued her into that earlier, though? He'd warned her about the boys noticing her attention to him.

Oopsie.

Gideon seemed uncomfortable under Tucker's scrutiny and left her bedside. “I'll see if she has some aspirin to go along with a glass of water.”

“Top drawer!” Rochelle shouted. When she noticed Tucker staring at
her
now, she gave him a friendly, innocent smile.

“Rochelle . . .” he said, and it sounded like he was about to have a serious talk with her.

But she didn't want to hear him warning her off of the town Lothario, so she misdirected him. That's what authors did in books when they wanted people to think something they didn't
want
them to think.

“
Shh
,” she said. “Stop yelling at me for drinking too much, Tuck.”

“I'm not yelling.”

Don't ask me about Gideon
, she thought. But if Tucker went there, she'd just ask
him
about how he'd kept visually caressing that Mary Agnes dancer at the Pink Ladies. He'd nearly been eating the girl right up with his gaze as she'd gone from lap dance to lap dance. What was up with that?

He sighed, pushing back the thick, dark hair that curled at his neck, and it seemed he was just about to brave forward with a question when Gideon returned, handing her a glass of water.

“Drink,” he said.

Rochelle shrugged at Tucker.
Laters with the questions
.

Thwarted, Tucker glanced once more at Gideon before he left the room.

“Door!” she said when he failed to close it.

He backtracked, reluctantly doing her bidding.

She energetically drank the water, realizing only now that she was thirsty. Damn, it was good. Then Gideon handed her the aspirin, and she popped the pills into her mouth, chasing them down with the liquid.

“Ahhhh.”

Gideon took the glass from her as she leaned back like a ragdoll. He jerked his chin at her Jimmy Choos.

“You going to sleep with those on?”

I don't know, stud. Would the sight of me in them and nothing else get your motor running if you crawled in here with me?

Even tipsy, she didn't dare. “I'll take 'em off in a sec.”

Patiently, he bent to her feet, unstrapping her Choos. Hah—her
Choos
. Funny. That joke just never got old for her.

He was done in a flash. God, he could've been sexier about it, going slower with the de-Chooing. But maybe it'd been his intention to be unsexy.

“Suzanne's sure not gonna be happy with you,” he said.

“Not my fault she made another last-minute appointment. Someone dropped outta the segment slot for the local mornin' show.” She pursed her lips. Then, with all the focus a tipsy girl could have, she rested her hand against her forehead. “Oy, if they ask about the creeper, I'm gonna throw up tequila on 'em. It'll pro-lly still be in my system.”

He started to guide her feet into prime sleeping position on the bed and pulled up the sheets.

“Hey,” she said, motioning to her dress. “This ain't a nightie. It's an Oscar de la Renta.”

“I don't care whose Renta it is; I'm not undressing you, Shel.”

Her heart felt bruised. Or maybe it wasn't her heart, just her punctured libido . . . which had somehow made its way into her chest.

“Plus,” she said, kicking at the sheets, “I gotta brush my teeth, wash my face, all that.”

“You should've thought of that before you formed an intense relationship with Patrón tonight.”

“I know, right? How dumb.” She thumped her head. “Silly and dumb.”

And upset and liberated. Bad combination.

“Hey, now.” He took the water glass from her. “Let me get you more water so you're not completely dehydrated. You'll thank me in the morning.”

He was probably used to women thanking him for more than that in the morning. And she was never going to be one of those women, was she?

Reckless, she heard herself totally ignoring the reason she'd insisted he come in here, and she blurted, “Why so many, Gideon?”

He halted his steps, gripping the glass. Man, he looked so good, with those muscles and that chest and everything else she remembered kissing and touching today. Everything that had firm bumps and smooth ridges . . .

“What I mean,” she said, “is why have you had so many women?”

“Do we really have to talk about this?”

“Indulge me.”

“I think you've had enough indulging.”

She gave him her best gamine eyes, even if thirty-five was way too old to be that way.

But it worked every time. Damn, she was almost as good as Cherry had been, for better or worse.

Gideon sighed. “I don't know why I like women the way I do. Why do birds fly? Why is the sky blue?”

“So you were born that way.”

“Some men are. We don't all need a driving psychological reason to fuck a lot.”

His rough words made her gut go warm.

“I understand,” she said softly. “I haven't 'xactly been a wallflower, either.”

He looked at her for a long time, as if he wanted to ask her to say more. But how could she tell him that
she'd
had the driving need to screw
him
out of her memories? That she had only wanted to convince herself that she wouldn't ever again be the mess she'd been with him, and that she could please men, make them come back for more as long as she wanted them?

He finally started walking to the bathroom, and when he got there, she heard the water running. When he returned, he set the full glass on the linen-covered nightstand near her bed.

“That should do it, then,” he said softly, turning to go, maintaining that distance between them and creating even more.

Leaving her to sit there with the light on, aching for him until sleep finally overtook her, Oscar de la Renta and all.

***

Gideon felt like he'd dodged a bullet last night.

What had Rochelle been doing, asking him about how many women he'd banged? Talking about that kind of bullshit was only going to put them back where they'd started, and the fact that she'd even asked the question made him nervous, because if she didn't care, why would she be interested?

And why was
he
so damned interested in how many men she'd been with?

He'd almost asked her to tell him more about it, and if he'd taken that one little step over their ever-crumbling line, that would've been it.

It would've been way too personal.

Frankly, it was bad enough that he'd wanted to slowly peel that dress from her, easing it off her shoulders, then over her chest, exposing her skin inch by inch until she was just as bare to him as she'd been yesterday morning . . .

Thoughts like that hectored him as he rolled out of bed before the crack of dawn, took a long, cold shower, got ready, and made sure he was up and around before his client. He even had time enough to start the espresso machine—yeah, they called
this
shit coffee—and sit in the near dark at the kitchen's island counter looking through the sliding glass door where the sky was feathered with a hint of the coming sunrise. The infinity pool spilled over its edge, seemingly into the winking lights of the Strip beyond.

He felt like a tourist in la-la-land, a fixture in the kind of house that he'd never belong in, with a woman he had no business thinking about.

When he heard the shuffle of bare feet on the marble floor, he set down his dainty-fied coffee and turned to find Rochelle. She was wearing a slim patterned dress that slid over her curves like molten bronze, with a red belt cinching her waist and her hair in another side ponytail. She even had on some . . .

Sunglasses?

“The day's not even started,” he said, biting back a smile. “I don't think the sun's glare is gonna be a factor for you right now.”

She headed straight for the fridge. “Everything's too bright, even the dark. I'm glad you don't have the lights on.”

Opening the door, she grabbed a Sunny Delight, went to a cupboard for a glass, and then poured herself a dose. She drank it down with unladylike gulps and then let go a grand
ahh
. “So good,” she said. “You almost ready to go? The limo should be here soon.”

She was doing pretty good, considering the condition she'd been in not too long ago. Maybe she was one of those people who got drunk fast, only to have it wear off quick.

“I'm all set,” he said. “Harry's gonna meet us there.”

He watched as she went for a loaf of that artisanal bread from an exclusive bakery that delivered. She opened the packaging, tearing into it without any fanfare. She offered him some, but he waved it off.

She went back into the fridge, plucking out a package of lunchmeat, then dove into the bologna and devoured it without any mustard or bread. “This tastes
so
awesome.”

He'd never seen a woman pig out like this. Her hunger was even kind of sexy—unbridled and real. He liked that she didn't care that he saw every bit of it, too.

When she was done, she cleaned up after herself, and it was only then that she seemed the least bit self-aware, even quiet.

He knew what was coming.

“About last night . . .” she said.

“What about it? You had too much to drink, and here we are.” He hoped that would do it.

Nope.

“I was a mealy-mouthed dork,” she said, “and I might've said a few things that were . . . inappropriate.”

Inappropriate?
She had some strange ideas about the definition. Yesterday had been
full
of inappropriate.

Not that he'd been complaining.

She went on. “I shouldn't be asking you about your personal life . . .”

The sound of boot steps on the stairway made Rochelle clamp her mouth shut, and when Buzz appeared, that was the end of that.

Thank God for a full house.

Her cousin rubbed his short, dark hair. Obviously, with his worked-in jeans and Western shirt, he was ready to go back to the ranch for the day to check in with the foreman.