WHEN LAKOTA ARRIVED at Fiona’s World War II-era high-rise apartment across from The Grove shopping center, Linc answered the door.
He was dressed in lounge gear: surf shorts, a Rob Machado T-shirt, his sandy hair sticking up as if he’d been tearing at it.
No greeting. Just a cautious, sweeping glance. They hadn’t seen each other since The Cool Cat, and he’d spent the night at his place, shutting her out.
And she knew why. Because of his movie audition and what she’d said to him about being jealous. About keeping him behind in his career.
Linc retreated into the apartment while the aroma of Lobster Bisque filled the air. Fiona’s voice accompanied the scent. “Hey, Lakota.”
“Hi.” She took a look around before going to the cooking alcove. The spin doctor didn’t really have much furniture on hand. It was almost like she hadn’t bothered to move all the way in. Boxes were stowed under a rickety metal dining table. A futon, beanbag and lawn chair were the only places to sit.
The sight made Lakota a little sad for Fiona, but she wasn’t sure exactly why.
When she saw the kitchen, she was struck by the same pity. No oven warmers to add a homey touch, not even a toaster or blender.
Fiona was holding a pair of prongs over a pot of boiling water, steam lending her cheeks a pink-tinged warmth. And she needed it, because the rest of her was downright maudlin, her black hair tied at the nape of her neck, her shorts and top basic and ordinary.
Where had her flair gone?
“You a cook?” Lakota asked to break the ice.
In response, Fiona leaned over, opened the freezer. Packages of single-portion frozen gourmet dinners slumped over each other.
Again, a twinge of sympathy attacked Lakota.
But who was she to feel sorry for someone else? She’d spent a sleepless night, calling Linc’s number, not calling it, bothering Sean instead.
Fiona removed a packet of goopy beige matter from the hot water. “You already caught up with Sean?”
“I did.” Not that she was happy about her publicist quitting his job today, but he’d told her to stick with Fiona. He sounded so confident in his associate’s abilities that Lakota decided that giving her a chance wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“Then you’re up to speed,” said Fiona. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll be out there to talk turkey in a sec.”
Maybe that’s why the PR rep looked so glum, because she had to handle both Linc and Lakota now. But Lakota was surprised Fiona didn’t seem more stressed out by the prospect. Didn’t she realize Sean had left all of them behind?
Not that Lakota understood his motivations, she thought, as she wandered to where Linc had plopped onto the futon. Her ex-publicist didn’t want to talk about his reasons for quitting; he’d just wanted to reassure her that she’d be well taken care of with Fiona.
Should she sit next to Linc, pretending she hadn’t let her ambition get the best of her last night?
Lakota lowered herself to the beanbag, offering a smile to him. “How are you?”
Fiona banged around in the kitchen, bowls clattering together, spoons chirping, providing a background for Linc’s frown.
“I miss you,” he said.
“Linc.” Why’d he have to be so sincere? So open? “How can you say that after what I did?”
“You didn’t mean it.”
Didn’t she? Last night, Conrad Dohenny had seemed like her ticket out of soaps. This morning, she knew she’d been persuaded by champagne, knew that the box-office giant had been full of hot air.
And that Linc was the real thing. “I thought I’d done some maturing after we broke up, you know. But the old Lakota, the one who threw things and had temper tantrums, came back full force last night. She was just more subtle about it.”
He held out his arm, and she came to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Ah, there. This was where she was meant to be.
“Maybe I’m just a sucker,” he said, “but I love you too much to let you go. It took me one bout with insomnia to think it over, and the bed felt awful empty without you in it.”
She wrapped her arms around him, sighed, holding him tightly. He enveloped her in his strong arms, and she knew she’d never been so safe in all her life.
He’d never leave her behind.
“That’s what I want to see,” said Fiona, balancing bowls of soup and setting them on a scratched glass coffee table with an unrolled Sunday L.A. Times lying on the surface.
She collapsed in the lawn chair, shoulders curled forward instead of thrown back. “I called you both over for a serious talk. Today’s a slow news day, so that’s why you haven’t seen The Cool Cat video on the air.”
“I hope we don’t,” said Linc, his voice vibrating through Lakota’s body.
She held him closer, wondering if Fiona would bring up that Conrad Dohenny kiss picture. It had cost her a pretty penny to buy the thing, but during his last call, Sean said Fiona had possession of it now.
True to the rumor, the publicist produced the photo from under the newspaper, holding it out to Linc and Lakota. The bisque went untouched as they peered at Conrad and his invasive tongue.
After a moment, Linc tossed it away. Lakota watched it arc through the air and jet to a graceful landing on the shag carpet.
Fiona ignored Linc’s cavalier gesture. “Lakota, do you want the tape released?”
Though the memory of Linc defending her somewhat appealed, she didn’t want to come off as a helpless weakling who stood in corners while men rescued her. That didn’t mesh with the action heroine prime-time plans. “No.”
“How about the picture?”
Linc’s arms stiffened, and she knew it was because he was reliving Conrad’s tongue in her mouth. She wished she could forget his stale-alcohol taste, the wet, sloppy, drunken celebrity spit.
When Lakota didn’t say anything, Fiona continued. “PR wise, it would give you exposure. But is it the kind of reputation you want?”
Conrad’s New Whore! She could see the headlines, could imagine the interviews on the tabloid TV shows, could almost digest the offers: Playboy, Penthouse, maybe a cheesy reality television hostessing job.
And Linc. What would the publicity do to him? It would make him seem stomped-on, cast-off.
For Lakota, the picture lost its colors right before her eyes.
“There’s a lot more to you than kissing Conrad,” said Fiona. “And I’m not really sounding as ambitious as a real PR rep, am I?” She laughed, but without mirth.
“Thank you,” said Lakota. “But I’d rather keep a little dignity. What I have of it.”
Linc blew out a breath. “Thank God.”
“I’m never letting you down again,” said Lakota, pressing her cheek against a chest made for her.
“Excellent.” Fiona clapped her hands together, minus the enthusiasm.
Where had the tiger gone?
“So,” the publicist continued, “Sean and I talked about several ways to market the two of you. Fairytale couple. Linc and his own photographs, showing the deep, sensitive artist he is. If that Roger Reiking movie happens, we’ll need to step up the pub.”
“It’ll happen,” said Lakota, sending a worshipful gaze up at him.
He kissed her forehead, smiled against her skin. “And Lakota?”
“We could explore avenues for her love of vintage items.” Fiona poked at her bisque with a spoon. “A show on the Travel Network, for instance, where she can spotlight different antique malls across the country. Or maybe you could mix that with adventurous trips, to project that image, I mean. Sean couldn’t make it here tonight, but we’ll brainstorm with him later. We just wanted to ask you both about the picture and video before we acted.”
What was she talking about? “Fiona, I don’t think Sean’s going to want anything to do with this.”
The other woman gave Lakota a confused glance. “He’d better.”
“Why? He quit so he doesn’t have to deal with other people’s baggage anymore. At least, that’s what he told me an hour ago.”
Fiona just sat there with her mouth open. Linc, however, spoke for her.
“Kota, you must’ve misunderstood him.”
“No, he was clear.”
Fiona darted up from her lawn chair, started pacing. “I can’t believe this,” she said to no one in particular. “I knew he was pissed at Louis, but… What exactly did he say?”
So he hadn’t told Fiona. Weird. “Um, maybe you two had better talk. Don’t you think?”
Linc nodded sagely. “Fi, when you told me you and McIntyre were almost finished…personally… Does this have anything to do with that?”
“I don’t know.” She stopped fidgeting, and some of the liveliness flushed back into her cheeks. “He can’t do this. Not when he’s so damned good.”
“I guess I owe you a kiss for that bet,” said Lakota to Linc. “She chased my publicist away from his work, she’s such a heartbreaker.”
Linc leaned his mouth toward her ear. “Later.”
Oh, yeah, there’d be a “later.” She’d make sure “later” made up for all her shortcomings.
Louder, Linc said, “Call him, Fi.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened, and her hands flew in front of her chest, barring the suggestion. “He won’t want to talk with me.”
Linc whipped out his cell phone. “Kota, what’s his number?”
She flashed out her own device, pressed speed dial, handed it to Fiona.
“No,” the woman said. Boy, did she look horrified.
“It’s ringing,” said Lakota.
Fiona frowned, fluttered her hands—yeah, fluttered—and finally grabbed the phone, retreating down the hallway. A door closed, and Lakota cuddled up to Linc again.
“It’s time for me to pay up,” she said, voice sultry and very Rita Wilde-ish.
“I think the bet’s a draw,” he said, adjusting her so her mouth was near his, her heart pulsing against his chest. “They’re both losers until they work this out.”
“We’re not. I’m going to take you higher than the clouds, and never let you down.”
Linc laughed, rubbed his lips against hers. His words were soft kisses, hinting, promising. “Wasn’t that from Script 1024? Rita and Colt Rettinger’s first kiss?”
Lakota felt herself blushing. “So sue me if I’m a little tongue-tied. I can’t think when you’re around.”
“Then don’t think.”
His mouth met hers, warm, inviting, all-encompassing. Her senses whirled with the musky scent of his skin, the soap he used every morning, the scratch and burn of emerging whiskers, the sound of them tasting each other.
Minutes must have passed, all of them filled with nothing but dizziness and contentment, a nap on a sandy beach under the sun with waves singing her to sleep. The next thing she knew, Fiona was back in the room, setting Lakota’s phone next to the uneaten soup. The woman couldn’t keep the longing from her eyes, her posture.
Lakota and Linc still touched each other, smiling at Fiona.
“I guess you’ve proven me wrong,” said the PR woman.
“Finally?” asked Linc, fondness carrying his voice.
“Finally.” She’d dropped her facade and, in its place, stood a revealed woman, stripped of protection. “You two show me that maybe things can work.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them, exposing a place so vulnerable, even Lakota gasped.
“He’s coming over,” said Fiona, a quiver in her tone. “To my place.”
WHEN FIONA had gotten the news about Sean quitting, she finally understood the definition of loneliness. Of hurt.
After their time in the office today, she’d expected to see him tomorrow, and the day after that. But she wouldn’t anymore. The realization left her flailing for an emotional handle. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she was in love with the guy.
In love.
Oh, God. What if he turned out to be another Ted? What if he used her up and tossed her away after he’d gotten tired of her? How would she cope?
Could she?
The strange thing was, it’d actually wound her more to never see Sean again, wouldn’t it? Yet maybe being with him was worth all the pain, all the numbness of being rejected.
What if…?
Fiona almost didn’t dare wonder, but couldn’t stop herself.
What if Sean really did love her, too?
As she waited for him to knock at 11:00 p.m. on the Sunday night before the bet expired, Fiona tried not to bite her lip in a fit of nerves. She’d ruin the makeup she’d put on because she wanted to impress him. She’d even taken a yellow dress out from the back of her closet, something she hadn’t worn since…Well, since she’d believed in soap-bubble dreams.
When she’d last been in love.
Yup, this was actually her. Fiona Cruz. Totally out of control.
Totally on the line.
When the knock came, it startled her, even if she’d been expecting it. She walked to the door, and every barefooted step seemed like a tour through a dream—surreal, unmanageable.
She opened the door to find Sean, worse for the wear, his white shirt uneven because he’d lined up the buttons incorrectly and slipped them through the wrong holes. His dark-blond hair kicked up in places, stubborn as the man himself, his green eyes sharp and broken as discarded glass littering a gutted-out street. Even his outlaw-careless smile had lost its edge.
She’d never been so damned glad to see anyone.
“You quit, did you?” she asked, holding on to the door frame for support. They hadn’t talked about this over the phone. It’d been hard enough to invite him over.
Because Fiona never allowed men in.
He was busy scanning her, the hunger in his gaze almost scratching at her. “I didn’t want to distract you with my drama. I… Is that what this is about?”
Definitely not.
She flew at him, taking a fistful of shirt in hand, pulling him toward her until they were kissing, almost swallowing each other up in their desperate good-to-see-you-again.
His hands were planted in her hair, angling her head, positioning her so his mouth could devour. Her arms hooked upward, clinging, fingers abrading his hunched-over back.
They swayed together, stealing each other’s air, pressing, urging, seeking.
Fiona’s heart was near to bursting with happiness, the culmination of all that wanting and waiting.
As they back-stepped into her apartment, he kicked the door closed, then slowed down the pace, sliding a thumb under her chin, petting her neck, stretching the kiss into one long marathon of moaning desire.
Fiona hadn’t kissed like this since she was a teenager, exploring, half-afraid of what might come next. That same innocence captured her now, and a laugh bubbled in her chest because she was so thankful for the return of it.
Oh, it was good to relax, to be held up by his strong arms, to know he wouldn’t let her fall just because her knees were turning to orange marmalade. There was no need to wrestle him, to let her body tell him that she had just as much power—if not more—than he did.
No, this was different, like nothing she’d ever felt before. Lazy, sweeping pulses of the lips, a sipping sweetness that allowed her time to open her eyes halfway, to spy on him through her lashes, to stroke along with every slow glide of his mouth, to sample the mint of the gum he’d probably been chewing before knocking on her door.
Cocky bastard.
He’d maneuvered her through the living room, past the skeletons of her furniture and her old life, toward the bedroom. She let him guide her farther, willing to go wherever he’d take her.
“You never gave me an explanation—” she gasped as he tenderly kissed her earlobe “—Sean.”
He paused, long enough for her to hear their blood echoing in each other’s veins. “Sean. I like the way it sounds when you say it.”
They stopped in a slant of moonlight coming through her window; it reclined on her bed, the centerpiece of yet another room she needed to lend some life to.
“Why did you leave today and not even tell me?” she asked, smoothing her knuckles over a cheekbone. This time, she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t feeling anything.
He smiled, and Fiona framed his face with her hands. A work of imperfect art.
“I realized,” he said, “that I was sticking around for the wrong reasons. Life is too short to spend it pleasing people like Louis, living the lives of others when I didn’t have one myself. And I left because you wanted the job more than I did.”
“Oh, Sean.”
Should she say it? The L-word? He’d just admitted that he’d made a sacrifice because of her. The words built up in a ball of anxiety yet, still, Fiona hesitated.
He stepped forward, and the moonlight highlighted her lipstick on his cheek.
Marked territory. Hers.
This time, she left the brand alone.
“I love you,” she said.
She never been so vulnerable in all her life.
A pent-up breath shuddered out of her, as she added, “I love you so much that it might be the end of me.”
She laughed at the exaggeration, knowing it was true, anyway.
“Stop that.” He traced a finger under her jawline, drawing her gaze to his.
Every splinter of color in his green eyes revealed a different path into the future. A future with him.
“I love you, too, Fiona. I have for a while.”
Thank God. “I’m scared.” There, she’d finally said that, too. Her shoulders relaxed, the weight lifted off of them. “I’m so afraid of what might happen, because…”
“What?” he asked gently.
She smiled, tilting her head at him to control the weariness. But then, tired of holding it in, she let it go with a tiny, sad laugh. “I was engaged once.”
He squeezed her bare shoulder, stopping the imminent flow of tears. “A disappointment from the past.”
“Right.” Now he was using his fingertips to lull her, dragging them over her collarbone. She moved with drowsy, sexy caresses. So much better, so much… “He fell in love with my best friend, and they went on to have a baby, a nice house, a cozy marriage. I couldn’t have given that to him, you know? I’ve lived with that knowledge for years, proving myself right, I guess.”
His fingers eased behind her neck, kneading the tightened muscles, causing jagged bolts of warmth to steal through her.
“It’s so much easier to disappoint yourself rather than having someone else do it for you,” she said.
“You don’t ever need to worry about that again.”
He stole his fingers under one of her dress straps. His touch heated onto the patch of skin that had so recently been covered. It made her suck in a gust of air.
She recovered, shrugging so that the strap tumbled down one shoulder. “We did things a little backward, didn’t we? First comes sex, then comes love… I’m not sure what comes after that.”
“Marriage?” The word came out thick, heavy.
“It won’t be like it was with your dad,” she said, taking his hands and tugging him toward the bed. She wanted him so badly she was about to combust.
“I’m willing to take that leap of faith,” he said. “As long as I’ve got you jumping with me.”
She turned around, tacitly asking him to undo her dress. He did, the zipper groaning down in its descent, the night air shivering her skin as the folds of material parted, opened.
As she stepped out of the clothing, Sean took off his shirt, his pants.
No underwear for him though.
He moved toward her, hitched his thumbs over the elastic of her comfy briefs. Tugging, he let the air breathe over her, then pulled them all the way off.
She braced herself on one of his shoulders—something she’d be free to do from now on if she needed it—while she stepped out of the undies.
Then, in a slow journey, he ran his hands over her body, memorizing the shape of her arms, her plump breasts, her rib cage, the swerve of her waist, her belly. She saw herself through his eyes: a woman’s woman, with extra curves here and there, with voluptuous promises to offer the right man.
She saw everything now.
And, as he looked into her eyes, she knew he saw, too.
A glance at the clock by her bed revealed that it was 11:59. One minute before the bet was supposed to end.
Oddly enough, she didn’t really mind losing this time.
Fiona kissed her prize again, flowing into him, taking him back with her until they could crawl onto the bed. Her body fit perfectly beneath his, ready to be orchestrated, played by his hands. His mouth.
He teased her breasts to hard peaks with his fingers, licking her nipple, blowing on it until she thought she’d cry out from the sharp sensation. Drowning in pleasure, she skimmed her toes over his calf, between his legs, up, up, until she reached his inner thighs, then down.
Nice, this leisurely exploration of each other. She took her time learning every thatch of fine hair on his chest, sifting through it with her distended nipples until the wisp of skin on skin made her wiggle her hips, slipping over his rigid penis with the slickness of her growing excitement.
She’d grown swollen with wanting him, blood pounding between her legs, making her ache, stiffen, search him out.
He used his fingers to work her further along, his thumb circling her clit, awakening a rhythm in her hips that corresponded to every stroke. When he nestled two fingers inside her, slipping in and out with fluid thrusts, she grabbed at his arms, needing to be anchored before she took off.
He pushed her until she thought she would shatter. But she held on, moaning, louder, louder, until she hung halfway off the bed, her hair brushing the carpet, her torso arched, her sex rocking against his hand.
“Fiona,” he growled, as if she was getting away.
With one tug of his arms, she was back on the bed, beads of sweat dripping down her skin as she sat upright. She positioned herself against the pillows, one leg still off the bed.
While she panted, he left her for a second.
“Get back here,” she said, laughing, ecstatic. So giddy and full of electricity. “I’m not done with you.”
He prowled back to her, a predator. “One last layer of protection, Fi, and you’re mine.”
Rubber. She felt it covering his hard-on as he coasted along her inner thigh, as she spread herself open for him and thrust her hips up to take him inside.
They strained together, sweat mingling, muscles laboring. With smooth strokes, he pounded into her, and she gyrated her hips, wanting more. Getting more.
The cadence of their lovemaking increased, with him ramming forward. She accepted every drive, every bolt of collecting heat that was gathering in her core, flaming upward, tearing through her belly, her limbs.
Everywhere.
He consumed her, covering her, lending her breath as he kissed her to climax. Lightning, swift as the bite of a night creature, flashed into her body, her brain, illuminating her from the inside out.
Ripping her apart. Zinging her back together again.
Washing her in perspiration as a fall of soft contentment pattered her back to reality. One final rumble of thunder roared through her body as she bucked against him.
He hadn’t spent himself yet, and she reached between his legs from the back, finding a place she knew would give him release.
Laboring, groaning, releasing, he shuddered from the same storm, collapsing against her.
This time, when it was over, they lingered, holding each other.
That lipstick was still on his cheek. “You’ve got something,” she said, flicking a finger over the mark.
At first, he didn’t seem to get it. Then a smile beamed over his face.
“It’s there to stay,” he said. “Branded.”
She snuggled into him and, for the first time since…well, never…she fell asleep in a man’s arms, in her own bed.
Dreaming of paradise.