Hot and Bothered (5 page)

“Because you adore me.” Cherry batted her eyelashes at him.

When he reluctantly smiled at her, power rushed her. Cherry's father wasn't the only man she'd wrapped around her little finger over the years, and she didn't stop to think about the damage she did whenever she left one of her admirers behind.

She began to slip off the bar stool. Places to go, Elvis to see. But the businessman who'd bought her a drink grumbled about how ungrateful she was after receiving the booze.

She solved that by sliding the sloe gin fizz down the bar, returning it to him with a cheery Cherry smile. “Return to sender,” she said.

He was too stunned to respond.

“Let's split,” she said to Tommy, not for the first or last time, pulling at his hand.

They didn't get far from the bar before he said, “Cherry, I didn't tell you everything. Elvis and his friends aren't the only ones in that room.”

“You mean they have other girls in there? Like . . . hookers?”

“No.”

“Then random chicks they found by the pool or something? Are they having a big party? That's fine with me.”

“There's a girl, all right, but not just any girl.”

Cherry halted in her tracks. Men and women wearing evening dresses and suits veered around them, and Tommy made to pull her out of the way.

But Cherry didn't move for anyone.

“Is she in there?” she asked.

Tommy nodded. “She's been hanging out with the boys, along with Elvis.”

Cherry seethed. “Does she ever leave him alone?”

“I don't think it's a matter of him wanting to be left alone. We're talking about . . .”

“Ann-Margret.” She'd said it a little too loudly, and the people around her stared. Luckily, Cherry enjoyed the attention. Even so, she lowered her voice. “Always Ann-Margret.”

Tommy finally succeeded in guiding her to the side, near a roulette wheel where people cheered as their numbers were hit.

“There'll be other opportunities to further your career besides this,” Tommy said. “Better ways. And some opportunities in general might even be right in front of you, and you might not even know it. All you've got to do is look, Cherry.”

But she didn't look at Tommy deeply enough to see what he meant. She was busy thinking that her friend was right—there had to be a way besides meeting Elvis to get more screen time before the movie ended. Who wanted to be a mere flash on the silver screen, an extra who just walked past the big stars and would never be remembered after that?

Besides, Cherry was never one to dwell on opportunities already missed when there were a thousand more ahead of her . . .

She smiled up at Tommy. “I know where the crew is staying, including a cameraman. Are you up for Plan B, my buddy, my pal?”

She saw something fade in Tommy's blue gaze, but she split before she thought too much about it.

Tommy followed, just as he would for the next few years.

The day couldn't have gone better.

Rochelle flopped into a chair by the edge of the mansion's lighted pool, its water seemingly running off the ledge and into the dusky desert valley below, and huffed out an exhausted but happy breath.

No creeper at any of the signings today, just her publishing house's PR rep, plus the big, enthusiastic grassroots crowds that indie bookstores drew. Her hand was cramped, her cheeks tired from smiling, but those were good kinds of tired that she'd never expected to experience back when she was a girl, scribbling away in her journals.

Best life ever.

And when she heard the sound of boots in back of her on the stone tile, she nearly turned around to share that smile with her bodyguard.

But it wasn't Gideon who was on duty. Instead, Harry, with his reddish hair and beefy muscles, stood near the sliding glass door. He'd been with her and Gideon at the signing, a two-for-one deal just in case the creeper wanted to cause drama, and since Gideon was scheduled for long breaks each day, he was on one now.

Under the patio lights, Harry nodded at her and she at him. She told herself that the pit in her stomach had nothing to do with missing the sexual zing she experienced whenever Gideon was around.

She'd felt him close to her all day as he'd lingered nearby, while she'd greeted people, chatted about their favorite movie stars and about whom they thought she should write about next. But no matter how much she tried to concentrate on her job, awareness had tickled her skin.

Thank God that by the end of the week, after she'd finished her interviews and more signings, she'd hopefully be done with Gideon. Done with having to fight off this lame attraction that was only muddling her head when she should be thinking about how to tie all her research for her next book together.

She also had personal stuff to consider, though, and she glanced at her phone, watching the time. Dad was supposed to call tonight, in five minutes, actually, and as always she felt like a little girl waiting for him to come home. But when her phone dinged with a text, she deflated—as always.

Late for connection at airport. Reschedule?

Rochelle knew the routine, and she typed what she never failed to type.

Sure. Good luck tonight.

She heard the door slide open, then Suzanne's giddy voice. “Margaritaville! You ready for some tequila, rest, and relaxation, hon?”

Rochelle, who was all too used to her dad's rescheduling, tried to get past her disappointment, even though it felt like yet again she was staring out the window and watching for a father who never came home.

Instead, she peered at her manager balancing a tray that held a pitcher plus red-tinted glasses trimmed with salt and limes. “You know I'm ready. I'm just glad I put ‘barmaid' in your job description.”

“What else are managers for?”

“I don't know—making sure I don't get wasted out of my gourd before another big promo day tomorrow?”

Suzanne set the tray on the Italian-tiled table and handed Rochelle a chilled glass. The evening breeze, warmer tonight than last night, pushed against her brown, gray-streaked hair, but thanks to a lot of Paul Mitchell, not a strand moved. “You aren't put out with me because I suggested an impromptu interview in the morning at the Rough and Tumble, are you? But I had to, Shelly! I was so inspired by that Cherry Chastain painting in the saloon, and the thought of showing it off . . . Well, I couldn't pass it up.”

“No, I'm not put out, and Cherry would thank you a million times over for the exposure.” Rochelle made herself grin and raised her glass. “And I thank you, too. You and the PR team are the doyennes of promo.”

“I do my best, hon. And I apologize for giving you such a time about writing this Cherry book. I just wasn't sure—”

“It would sell as well as the others after the debut. I know. You have house and car payments, after all.”

“Big ones.” Suzanne toasted back.

She'd maintained that Cherry wasn't any kind of star, and she'd lobbied for a Grace Kelly book. But Rochelle was more interested in Cherry's nitty-gritty, in the slightly mysterious woman who ruled over the Rough & Tumble in that painting.

Rochelle sipped the strawberry-with-a-kick drink, and Suzanne threw hers back like a sailor on shore leave. A sailor who'd probably have some major brain freeze in a second.

Right on schedule, Suzanne shivered and shook her head. Then she poured herself another.

“Good to see you're feeling better,” Rochelle said.

“Wish I could say the same for you.” Suzanne took a seat and put down her glass. “I've never seen you so tired or so . . . something.”

Oh, oh. Suzanne had been with her for a few years now, and they knew each other too well for Rochelle to fool her. Still, she tried to worm her way out of any confessions about her dad or how Gideon had kept her up last night.

“I just can't stop thinking about the creeper,” she said instead. “I've been amped up all day, on alert for Superfan to show up.”

“That's why we have protection.” Suzanne took another drink then said, “I'd like to think that whoever it is either got out their frustrations on that poster yesterday or they saw our tall, scowling sentinels on duty at the signings and decided it wasn't worth their effort to make any more of a fuss. Perhaps they also got enough satisfaction out of seeing mention of the poster incident online, even though we did our best to keep it out of the media.”

A couple of publishing and reader sites had gotten wind of the Cherry-is-an-angel-you-bitch incident, maybe because some bookstore or mall employees had seen Superfan's message first.

“I hope you're right about losing the creeper,” Rochelle said, nursing her cocktail. She had no game anyway when it came to drinking. One sip and she was already buzzing.

Suzanne tapped her finger against her head. “Don't you know yet that I'm right about many things? And that includes . . .” She leaned toward Rochelle and lowered her voice. “The reason you're in a funk, my dear.”

Great. Suzanne hadn't bought the creeper excuse, and she'd only turned down the volume on her voice because she didn't want Harry to overhear their girl talk. Well, Suzanne wasn't a moron. Who
wouldn't
have noticed the thick-as-fog attraction between Rochelle and Gideon or even the post Dad-didn't-call-again blues? Wasn't she too old to sing those?

She focused on Gideon, telling herself that he was only a latent breath of memory, a could-have-been-so-much-better curiosity. She still couldn't resist him, and she'd spent all of last night deep in fantasy, imagining him slipping under her sheets, bare, his skin sliding over hers as she sucked in a breath and whispered, “You're not supposed to be here.” Then him shutting her up with a crushing kiss as he recklessly lifted her nightgown and spread her legs with his hand, opening her to him . . .

Phew
.

With her clit beating, she straightened in her seat at the flood of rousing images. She was already damp.

Then again, that's how she'd felt
that
night, before everything had gone wrong.

Suzanne was watching her, lifting a plucked eyebrow. Behind her, Rochelle could see Harry scanning the landscape, looking as if he wasn't paying any attention to their conversation.

Even so, she gave Suzanne a slashing
ix-nay on the atter-chay
gesture as the other woman sighed and leaned back in her chair. The lilt of the flowing pool water and the hum of the still desert night air took over while Rochelle enjoyed the view of the valley and the Vegas Strip in the distance, which was lighting up at the coming darkness.

It wasn't long afterward that she heard a slamming sound—a door in the mansion—and Harry stirred.

“Ah,” Rochelle said. “Trouble has arrived.” It had to be her cousins. They'd been at her final signing of the day but were supposed to come by here afterward, moving in to the mansion for the rest of the week, working during the day, kicking back here at night to enjoy the pool and the good life.

Colin “Buzz” Burton, the first to enter through the sliding glass door, was dressed in his straw cowboy hat, a long-sleeved plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, jeans, and shit-kicker boots. The oldest, he was what the girls used to call a “long, tall drink of water.” He had dark hair and laugh lines that rayed out from his blue eyes, making him always look like he was smiling at something or another. He'd genuinely smiled a lot more before Uncle Dennis had died and Buzz had taken over the cutting-horse operation.

He held up two packs of beer to Rochelle. “Here you go—the best the Speedee Mart had to offer.”

Jonsey, the youngest and the only fair-haired cousin in the bunch, came out behind him holding more beer. “I wanted to go to Lee's Liquor, where the selection kicks this beer's ass, but no-o-o. Even that's too high end for Buzz.”

Rochelle said, “I already had plenty here.”

“But I like what I like, Shel,” Buzz said, putting down his drinks on the table.

He kissed her cheek and shook Suzanne's hand. Jonsey did the same for Rochelle but then swooped over to Suzanne and dashingly grazed her knuckles with his lips. He was dressed like Buzz, and that was no surprise, since Jonsey had stayed on the ranch to train horses. It wasn't actually a choice, though—a few years ago, he'd been a scrapper, never a boy to resist a good fight. One fight—over a woman—had even landed him in jail. But Buzz had set him straight, keeping him busy on the ranch, making him as respectable as Jonsey would allow.

Cousin number three sauntered outside, distancing himself from the others as usual. Tucker was holding a paper bag, and from what Rochelle could tell, the bottle was open. Had he been drinking from it?

He gave Rochelle a lopsided smile, and she noticed that Bodyguard Harry was silently looking Tucker over in a major way, from his biker boots to his thrashed jeans to the grungy T-shirt and shaggy dark hair. If Rochelle hadn't known that her cousin had scored on the sale of a smartphone app for tattoo artists last year, she would've suspected that he was a Rough & Tumble regular—when he wasn't biking across the country.

Tucker came over to ruffle Rochelle's hair, and she actually let him.

“Where's Gideon?” he asked, glancing at Harry.

Gideon, Gideon, Gideon. Why couldn't she get away from him even when he wasn't around?

Rochelle thanked God for the falling darkness that hopefully covered her burning ears. “He's taking a break. Harry's relieving him.”

Tucker continued staring at Harry and likewise. “Damn, Buzz, you weren't kidding about getting her some bodyguards. Mack truck ones, too.”

Unfazed, Harry turned his attention forward. Tucker grinned at the guard's nonreaction.

Buzz sat in the chair next to Rochelle and gave her a light punch to the shoulder. “So how's it goin' with your knights in shining armor?”

“Great.” Basically.

“I knew Gideon would be all over this when he heard about the creeper.”

Yeah
, she thought.
If only you knew what he'd been all over before now
.

Wow, why was she one walking double entendre radar unit lately? More important, why was her body thudding at the very thought of Gideon being all over her again?

While Jonsey wandered over to the cabana to take a look at the beds and amenities inside, Tucker sat at the table opening his beer. Suzanne perked up at all the male company, motioning toward the plethora of booze.

“Either you boys are stocking up for the week,” she said, “or you plan to spend the night passed out on the concrete.”

“Actually,” Buzz said, “I'm gonna make good use of that elevator tonight to get to my room. Imagine that—an elevator in Shel's house.”

Jonsey chuckled from over by the cabana. “You'd think we were hillbillies or something, Buzz. Didn't Uncle Dale ever have an elevator in his SoCal place?”

He looked at Rochelle for confirmation. He was asking about her dad's house, after all.

“None that I can recall,” she said. “Then again, Dad never overspends or gets more than he needs in a house or cars or whatever.”

Tucker pointed at her. “Except if it's overspending on you.”

She shrugged. Dad really was good about expressing affection—with his money. But that'd always been better than the missed phone calls she got nowadays, she supposed.

Buzz still wasn't over it. “An elevator. You know you've reached the heights when you've got one of those.”

Suzanne finished drinking and said, “Why the surprise, boys? Rochelle is a best-selling author with her books going back to print over and over as well as staying in the top of the digital sales lists, and it wouldn't do for her to rent a shack. Especially with the subjects she writes about.”

Buzz ribbed Rochelle. “So you're only keeping up impressions, huh?”

“I,” Rochelle said, “and my pocketbook.”

Suzanne continued. “Would you expect Jackie Collins to sleep in a tract house?”

Rochelle laughed. So she was lucky that she'd hit on some subjects that people just happened to want to read. And she had a dad who had set up a trust fund with investments that had drawn ridiculous dividends over the years.

Elevators it was.

Jonsey came back, opened his beer, and then toasted the table with it. “Here's to Rochelle, whose hospitality is unmatched.”

“And unconditional,” said Tucker. “It'd have to be to put up with this crowd.”

This time Rochelle nudged him, but then they all raised their glasses.

It was only when Buzz made his contribution that she nearly dropped her cocktail.

“And here's to Gideon, who really came through for us.”

As they all drank to that, Rochelle gulped down her drink, because if the boys knew just how much Gideon had taken care of her once upon a time, there'd be no toasts.