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Hot and Bothered
Serena Bell


Turning a certified disaster into a certifiable dish!Image consultant Haven Hoyt needs to take former pop superstar Mark Webster from boozing, brawling mess to presentable musician—capable of keeping his tacky boot out of his mouth. Mark has no interest in being molded, but once she's finished with him, he'll be a work of art.Haven has very simple rules for herself: be perfectly put together, don't crack under pressure and never sleep with your client! But under the scruff and the surly attitude, Mark is hot. Haven's careful image is unraveling with every look of lust and too-tempting touch. This talented musical hunk wants to pluck her strings. If she's not careful, she'll fall for her work of art…and break each of her rules in the process!







Turning a certified disaster into a certifiable dish!

Image consultant Haven Hoyt needs to take former pop superstar Mark Webster from boozing, brawling mess to presentable musician—capable of keeping his tacky boot out of his mouth. Mark has no interest in being molded, but once she’s finished with him, he’ll be a work of art.

Haven has very simple rules for herself: be perfectly put together, don’t crack under pressure and never sleep with your client! But under the scruff and the surly attitude, Mark is hot. Haven’s careful image is unraveling with every look of lust and too-tempting touch. This talented musical hunk wants to pluck her strings. If she’s not careful, she’ll fall for her work of art...and break each of her rules in the process!


“I don’t want him to touch you...”

He’d said it without thought, without realizing what those words would feel like said out loud. How they would affect him—or her.

Mark watched the heat leaving Haven’s face, her posture softening. She understood what he was trying to say to her: I don’t want anyone but me to touch you.

She was staring at him. Her eyes were big, her lower lip soft and full, begging to be kissed, something uncertain in her stance. A hesitation he’d only noticed a few times before, those exposed moments in the mirror when he knew—knew—she was feeling the same pull he was. So unlike the woman Haven Hoyt presented to the world. So unlike the woman he knew she desperately wanted him and everyone else to see.

He acted on impulse, taking her mouth the way he’d wanted to so badly at the jam session, the way he’d wanted it staring at her reflection all day Saturday, the way he’d wanted it the first time he’d sat across from her in Charme. And she opened to him, pressing against him, all heat and spark.


Dear Reader (#uead9df67-9e20-5c82-b160-fc184bf89a8d),

Ever since Haven Hoyt made her grand entrance midway through Still So Hot! rolling her hot-pink patent-leather suitcase behind her, I’ve known she needed her own book. So I was delighted when the petite image consultant with the big personality hired Still So Hot!’s dating coach, Elisa, to find her the perfect guy.

Haven’s idea of the perfect guy is someone just like her—polished, worldly and ready for prime-time viewing. But for some reason these guys never stick. Then Haven meets former pop star Mark Webster. On paper, Mark is all wrong for her—huffy, scruffy and a PR disaster waiting to happen. Plus, he’s her client—it’s Haven’s job to clean up Mark’s bad-boy image for an upcoming band reunion tour.

But Mark’s got other ideas. He wants to teach Haven how to get messy. And before long, things between Haven and Mark are exactly that, complete with the jealous ex-bandmate who will stop at nothing to take away the things that matter most to Mark.

Welcome to a world of image, glitz, love and heart, a world where outside appearances matter, but what’s inside matters more!

Love,

Serena


Hot and Bothered

Serena Bell






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


SERENA BELL writes stories about how sex messes with your head, why smart people do stupid things sometimes and how love can make it all better. She wrote her first steamy romance before she was old enough to understand what all the words meant and has been perfecting the art of hiding pages and screens from curious eyes ever since—a skill that’s particularly useful now that she’s a mother of two avid readers. When she’s not scribbling stories or getting her butt kicked at Scrabble by her kids, she’s practicing modern dance improv in the kitchen, swimming laps, needlepointing, hiking or reading on one of her large collection of electronic devices. Serena blogs regularly about writing and reading romance at serenabell.com (http://serenabell.com/) and wonkomance.com (http://www.wonkomance.com/). She also Tweets like a madwoman as @serenabellbooks (https://twitter.com/serenabellbooks). You can reach her at serena@serenabell.com.


I’ve learned it takes a village to write a book.

Huge thank-yous to my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim;

my editor, Dana Hopkins; the Mills & Boon Blaze team;

savvy readers Amber Belldene,

Samantha Hunter, Ruthie Knox, Amber Lin,

Mary Ann Rivers and Samantha Wayland; and

indispensable morale boosters Rachel Grant,

Lauren Layne, Ellen Price, Charlene Teglia,

Mr. “Personal Shopper” Bell, the not-so-little-

anymore MiniBells, my dad—who reads my books

and loves them!—and, always, my amazing mom.


Contents

Cover (#u554e6d41-d582-5bd7-b24a-6f27a67b3a4c)

Back Cover Text (#uf5bbdc73-7b9b-5a8f-b40b-7fb35f394fb5)

Introduction (#ua1dbae5e-1284-5b10-9a95-65e031e393b9)

Dear Reader

Title Page (#u3a2f936d-1da3-5732-8816-2e21a3534b98)

About the Author (#uc583c5c3-aae8-5f57-bc2c-9c284f6c3c2a)

Dedication (#ue2114249-0c1d-5e95-9f69-1a0138bd3fc6)

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

Epilogue

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


1 (#uead9df67-9e20-5c82-b160-fc184bf89a8d)

HAVEN HOYT SIPPED her water, smoothed her napkin over her lap and cast yet another glance toward the door of Charme, the see-and-be-seen Manhattan restaurant. Her newest client was late, but that didn’t surprise her. Mark Webster had a reputation for being all kinds of unpredictable. Compared to some of the reasons his name had been splashed in the press, late to lunch was a minor sin.

She surveyed the restaurant again to make sure she hadn’t missed him. She loved this place, with its half-circle booths like enormous club chairs and high ceilings baffled with great swoops of black and white. Light flooded the room through big front windows and from a million tiny halogens. She knew the restaurant’s owner and its interior designer. And the publicist who had made it a sensation was a friend of Haven’s—she made venues the way Haven made people.

Speaking of people Haven had made, Amanda Gile was dining with a well-known fashion writer two booths over, her adorable short haircut drawing attention to her high cheekbones and long neck. Haven smiled. A year ago, Amanda had opened a small boutique on Amsterdam. The New York fashion retail world had been ready to chew her up and spit her out, but Haven had transformed her into a celebutante—invited everywhere, fussed over, photographed. Haven had enjoyed every minute of the process—the shopping, the makeovers, the parties in the Hamptons where she’d draped her client over actors, producers, musicians and news makers. Amanda’s success had boosted Haven’s stock, too.

Mark Webster was going to be a lot more challenging than adorable, innocent Amanda Gile, but Haven had no doubt she could resuscitate his image. His pop group, Sliding Up, had taken high school girls by storm nine years ago, but now he was a has-been guitarist with a bad reputation. He boozed, he womanized, he brawled and he partied—and not in a slick, arm-around-an-it-girl way. He favored dark, sketchy clubs that he often managed to get himself tossed out of. And the sin that overrode all sins was that he put his foot in his mouth ninety percent of the time.

But as one of New York’s premier image rehabilitators, Haven knew better than anyone that bad publicity was still publicity, and a star’s light never went out.

The sound of a commotion at the door told Haven that Mark Webster had arrived. She’d done her homework, of course. She’d searched a million pictures of the guy online and couldn’t help her tingle of interest at the fascinating contrast between his clean-cut boy-band self and the disaster he appeared to have become. As a band member, he’d been golden and dimpled and damn cute. These days, his hair was too long to be sexy, his beard was a fungus trying to colonize his face, his eyes were often puffy and bloodshot, and he looked drunk in every photo.

Just like the guy who was leaning on the hostess stand now, an expression on his scruffy face that—on a less permanently pissed-off man—might have been pleading. But Mark looked sullen and faintly threatening. He was much bigger than Haven had guessed from the photos—tall, broad, built, undiminished by whatever hard living had taken the shine of youth off his features.

“I don’t own a tie. Or a jacket. I’m meeting someone here, okay? She’s over there.” His voice was loud enough for Haven to hear now, his jaw thrust forward, his eyes narrow. He wore torn jeans, a gray T-shirt and a leather bomber jacket that looked as if it had been through a thresher. He was a sharp contrast to the polished perfection of Charme and its diners, a collection of people confident about where they belonged in New York City and life.

She felt a little pang of sympathy for him, even if she knew he’d brought this on himself. In her email to him, she’d noted that dress was business casual. And yet... Somehow she knew he would have felt even more out of place if he’d dressed the part. The clothes he was wearing were a shield. Against the restaurant, against what was being demanded of him, against what she was about to put him through.

Mark’s rough baritone cut clear through the murmur of cultured lunchtime conversation. “It’s not like I’m trying to come in here without a shirt or shoes.”

Diners were turning to look now, pausing in their midday negotiations and machinations to watch the entertainment.

The hostess responded quietly, probably asking Mark to leave, or warning him that she’d get the manager. She was just a kid, nineteen or twenty at most, and she looked panicky.

“Where does it say I can’t wear whatever the hell I want?”

Haven could see the hostess’s agitation. She pushed her seat back, moving slowly without drawing attention to herself. She wanted to cut this off before he got physical or threatening, before he got himself kicked out. She knew bar brawls were among his specialties, and though she’d never read about him hurting or even yelling at a woman, she didn’t want this to be his test case.

Nearly tripping where the wide gray floor gave way to the carpeted entryway, she caught herself and stepped behind Mark with her dignity intact. “He’s with me.”

Mark and the hostess both turned to look at Haven. The hostess’s eyes were hostile, Mark’s dark and dangerous.

“We’ve met,” Haven told the hostess. “I was here a week ago Friday, too. You seated me.”

“Yes,” said the hostess. “I remember you. Nevertheless, we ask that our patrons observe our—”

“I missed Ryan when I was here Friday. Is he in today? I’d love to say hi to him.”

Ryan Freehey was Charme’s owner, and everything about the hostess’s stance shifted from aggressive to submissive at the mention of his name. “He’s not in today, but I’d be happy to tell him you were here and asking for him.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. Tell him Haven Hoyt says hi.”

Haven turned to Mark. Why hadn’t she insisted on meeting him in her office? Well, she’d have to make the best of it. She stuck out her hand. “Haven Hoyt.”

His eyes narrowed.

She guessed if you were Mark Webster, dressed in beatup clothes and girded for battle, she might not be a sight for sore eyes, but she was pretty damn proud of today’s outfit—high-waisted wrap skirt with skinny belt, cute cropped sweater, print blouse and beige espadrille-style shoes stacked so high she felt downright precarious. Her hair was piled up on her head, and she’d checked her makeup before she left the office. She looked good.

Plus she’d just saved his butt.

So why was he staring at her as though she was a bug on his dinner plate?

She dropped her hand, because he obviously wasn’t going to shake it.

“Wait,” said the hostess. “You’re—” Her gaze journeyed over Mark, assessing him. Her sour expression summed up how far Mark had fallen from his prettier days, but the hostess gamely said, “I love ‘Twice As Nice’!”

“You weren’t even born when—”

Haven intervened swiftly. “It’s a great song, isn’t it?” she gushed. “A huge hit!”

She used his arm to swivel him away from the hostess stand and led the way to their table.

Haven was conscious, as she walked, of his eyes fixed on her back, boring into her. Her heart beat fast with nerves from the near confrontation.

She didn’t bother to wait for him to pull out her chair for her—she knew that wasn’t going to happen. She sat, and he dropped into his chair with a masculine nonchalance that made her breath catch. He shrugged the mangled bomber jacket off his shoulders and let it drop down the back of his chair. His fitted gray T-shirt revealed sculpted biceps and well-defined pecs. He’d apparently been working out, between bouts of hiding in dingy bars and getting himself photographed staggering drunk. She could do a lot with a body like that.

In the purely professional sense, that was.

She’d been at this restaurant Friday night with a very nice, painfully boring hedge-fund manager. All of her recent blind dates had been as stimulating as a trip to the grocery store. Haven had to admit that, as messy as Mark was making this lunch, it was a hell of a lot more interesting than any of those dates. He was a lot better looking, too. Gruff, badly dressed, in need of a shave, but he still had presence. Another point in his favor.

He pulled out his phone and studied it as if it was going to save him. From her?

From himself, she suspected. Because whatever had brought him to Charme today, he really didn’t want to be here.

Might as well get it out on the table. “You’re not meeting me of your own volition, right?”

“No.” He had nice eyes, gray-blue under slashes of brow, a mobile mouth and amazing bones. She’d have to make sure he got some sleep and quit—or at least cut back on—the partying.

“You want to tell me why you came?”

“They have some look-alike they say they’ll use instead of me for the tour if I don’t clean up my act. And apparently you are the official act cleaner upper.”

She smiled at that. “I am the official act cleaner upper.”

“You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

He wasn’t the first client to have said that to her, but he was the first to have said it with such belligerence. Most were apologetic. On the other hand, most hadn’t been photographed nude with five women at once or been kicked out of several newsworthy A-list parties.

“So you’re thrilled to be here.”

“Here in the specific sense of Charme—” he pronounced it “charm” with no hint of French “—or in the larger sense of in your hands?”

She wouldn’t mind having him in her hands in the nonprofessional sense. Yikes, had she actually thought that? He was so not her type, great body or not. “I meant in my hands, but clearly you’re not thrilled to be here, either.”

“That depends entirely on who’s picking up the tab.”

Oh, she did have her work cut out for her.

Haven had debated whether or not to take Mark on, knowing he was going to be a royal pain. She’d consulted some of her colleagues, who’d also been split on the question. Some thought it would be the perfect opportunity for another high-profile coup to cement Haven’s recent successes—her elevation of Amanda Gile and of party-girl Celine Carr. Others warned her that it was one thing to rehab the image of a rising star with some impulse issues and quite another to try to bring back a man who’d been a celebrity zombie for close to a decade.

What had finally convinced her to accept Mark as a client was the networking potential. She’d been trying to build a relationship with the band’s manager for years. If she could make Mark look good, there’d be other opportunities in the future.

If she couldn’t—well, there was no point in thinking about that. She hadn’t gotten this far by doubting herself.

“Lunch is on me,” she said mildly. It was like working with puppies. If you were calm and firm, and they didn’t sense your agitation, you’d be fine.

The waiter who approached their table managed not to react to her client’s garb. “Can I start you with a drink?”

“Do you have a beer list?”

The waiter rattled off the beers and Mark chose one. She ordered a glass of sparkling water with lemon.

“Do you need a few more minutes?”

“Yes—” she began, because Mark hadn’t even picked up his menu, but he interrupted her.

“Any kind of steak will be fine.”

“We have a very nice beef tender—”

“That’s fine.”

She ordered seafood pasta.

Mark’s posture was as angry as the rest of him, head down, shoulders hunched, protecting himself from the world. They could start there—but not today. Today she’d just talk to him. Loosen him up a little, if that was even possible. “So, the tour’s this fall?” It was March now—not a lot of time, but enough. She’d changed Amanda Gile’s life in six months.

“Yeah.” It was barely a word, just a notch above a grunt.

“Will there be an album?”

“We’ll release cuts from the tour itself as singles for download. If there’s enough good material, we’ll make an album.” He rolled his eyes to indicate what he thought the likelihood of that was.

“And everyone’s on board?”

He averted his gaze. “Not Pete.”

Pete Sovereign was the other guitar player. The one Mark had punched in the face ten years ago, leading to the band’s breakup. There’d been something about a woman, a groupie, they’d both slept with. The groupie had had unkind things to say about Mark afterward to the press. Haven couldn’t help being reminded of her own romantic past, even though the situations were different and hers hadn’t been public. Maybe that was where the unexpected twinges of empathy for Mark had come from. She probably needed to shut that down. A few similarities didn’t make them bosom buddies.

The two men hadn’t spoken since the incident—or so Google had informed her.

She doubted she’d pry any more info about that out of him today. And it probably didn’t matter much. She had her marching orders. Take one hostile, scruffy, washed-up musician and produce a creditable version of the pretty, dimple-faced boy he’d been.

At least Amanda Gile had cut and styled her hair regularly and worn fashionable clothes.

A thought occurred to her. “Who’s getting Pete on board?”

For the first time, she saw an emotion cross his face that might not have been pure anger, though she wasn’t sure what it was.

“Oh, God, they’re making you do it,” Haven guessed.

He nodded. “Those were the terms. Work with you and kiss Pete Sovereign’s ass.” Their eyes locked and she could see the emotion, for a split second, clearly.

Pain.

She didn’t know exactly what had gone down between him and Pete all those years ago, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been pretty.

She had her work cut out for her, but he did, too. Grovel to Pete Sovereign. Remake himself.

The compassion she’d felt when she’d first seen him in his raggedy clothes, haggling with the hostess, came back in a wave. Which was weird, because she rarely mourned people’s “old selves,” rarely had qualms about rehabbing their images. She believed in image. Image was its own armor, and donning it could make you ready for anything. Even so, people could be resistant. Sometimes they had ideas about wanting to be themselves or not wanting to be fake. In those cases, Haven reassured them that the right image wouldn’t be like that. It would feel as though they were showing their best selves to the world. Let me show you how to wear the real you on the outside.

She didn’t expect that argument to fly with Mark. He was too smart, too cynical. Too sure his best self was already showing.

“Can I ask you something? Given how much you obviously don’t want to work with me or apologize to Pete Sovereign, why are you doing the tour? What are you hoping to get out of it?”

The look he gave her could have lasered through glass, sheared it off clean. “Do we have to analyze it? I’m here, right? What if I just tell you I need to do this?”

“That’s fine,” she said, and watched his shoulders sink with relief.

It would be helpful to know who he was, what he was about, but strictly speaking, no, she didn’t have to know his motivations to do her job. She just had to get him cleaned up, keep him cleaned up and present him to the public eye at events where journalists would make a stink about his new, clean-cut self and the boozing, womanizing wreck he’d renounced.

She’d keep it simple, do her job and deliver a shiny new version of Mark Webster to his manager, as promised. Which meant she couldn’t waste time on sympathy or curiosity or any other extraneous emotions. She was an artist, Mark Webster was her medium and she had work to do.

* * *

MARK’S STEAK WAS AWESOME, no two ways about it. It was worth the awkwardness of this whole stupid scene, worth eating in this sterile black-and-gray room with the other stiff-backed diners, worth getting waylaid by the teenaged hostess and her judgmental eyes, worth being head-shrunk by Haven Hoyt. Mark could almost slice the tenderloin with the side of his fork and the flavor was amazing. He loved it when meat tasted like meat, not frou-frou ingredients.

Concentrating on the food also made it easier to keep his gaze off Haven’s breasts, which otherwise were... They were the eighth wonder of the world. He was surprised the other diners weren’t magnetically drawn right out of their seats to stare. Every time he lifted his eyes from his steak, he had to focus like a madman on her face and not on her curves. He didn’t know what she was wearing—the bottom part was like a burlap sack with a riding crop tied around the waist, and the top part was a 1970s-style button-down shirt under an absurdly short sweater—but whatever she’d engineered underneath her clothes should be part of the building plan for the next generation of bridges. He could practically feel her against his palms. His hands curved involuntarily.

It would probably be a bad idea to proposition her, but that was what he really wanted to do. He wanted to do that a hell of a lot more than he wanted to have a conversation with her about whitewashing his bad self.

She was asking him another question. “Do you have a look in mind you want to achieve? Besides ‘pop star’?’”

Pop star had never been a look he aspired to. It had been a look he’d stumbled into, that he’d worn like too-tight clothing. And it sucked to think it was now something he had to work to attain. He shook his head.

“Particular people you want to see? Places you want to go?”

“I’m just not that guy.”

She nodded, like that made sense to her. Well, that was something.

He already saw the people he wanted to see—the guys he played blues with in the crappy little club in the Village, and the ones he shot hoops with at the gym near his apartment in Queens. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Haven Hoyt’s people to see and places to go were in a whole different league than his.

“I’m going to set up a bunch of appointments for you—hair, nails, skin.” She touched her hair and stroked the hot pink slickness of her own nails as she spoke, and his body heated. He had to look away. “For clothing, I’ll bring in a personal shopper—we can keep it simple at a department store.”

He hadn’t shopped anywhere other than his local secondhand store in nearly a decade. The whole idea made his skin crawl. He still remembered the way it had felt to be fussed over and groomed like a baby monkey when he was in the band. He didn’t miss that, not for a second.

He itched to get away from her scrutiny and her plans as intensely as he’d wanted to touch her earlier. His primitive brain screamed, Run away.

“Can’t I just promise I’ll get a haircut and buy some new clothes?”

A half smile appeared on Haven’s glossy lips as she tugged a bite of pasta off her fork. She shook her head.

“I hate this.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he liked Haven, and something about her loosened his lips. She wasn’t a ballbuster, and she didn’t come off fake. She had a way of looking at him that, yeah, maybe bordered on pity, but it was better than the other brands of female attention he usually got—scorn or leftover band worship from self-destructive women who wanted to flush their self-esteem down the toilet with him.

“I’ll try to make it hurt as little as possible.”

She said it without sexual emphasis, but it still made the blood rush out of his brain. He bet she would. If he swept the utensils and plates off the white cloth, the table would make the perfect surface on which she could make it hurt, or not, as she pleased. He’d take it either way.

Only he wouldn’t. Because women like Haven Hoyt didn’t sleep with men like him. He could tell by looking at her that, despite the softness of those curves, she had a thick, hard shell. He’d bounce right off if he tried to get through. But knowing that didn’t stop him from craving Haven and her sleek black hair and riveting mouth. The steak had become tasteless and chewy, and he hastily redirected his thoughts. No point in missing the prize he could have to fantasize about the one he couldn’t.

“I’ll get you a schedule as soon as I can. It’ll have the makeover stuff on it and then a whole bunch of events you and I will appear at.”

He set his fork down at the side of the plate. “Events.”

“Parties, concerts, clubs—we’re going to take you out on the town so you can get photographed and written about. Otherwise, your new image isn’t going to do you any good.”

He tried not to let it show on his face how much he dreaded “events.” How much he loathed the people and the publicity, the fakery, the exposure. “It’s not going to do me any good.”

She tilted her head to one side. “It could do you a hell of a lot of good. If you want to do this tour.” Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

He couldn’t turn away, and it probably wouldn’t have helped, anyway. She’d see. He couldn’t decide if he liked that, or if it terrified him.

“So—I’ll ask you again. Why are you doing it?”

He still didn’t want to answer the question, but he knew she’d keep asking him until he spilled. She was that kind of woman.

“I said no when they asked me, at first,” he admitted.

Two of his former bandmates and his old manager had come looking for him after he hadn’t returned their calls, showing up at Village Blues one evening to corner him.

You look like hell, man.

He’d run out of disposable razors a few days earlier, along with milk and cereal. That meant no shaving, and it also meant breakfast had been Bloody Marys in the neighborhood bar. Nothing new on either front.

Thanks, guys.

They’d bought him several drinks and then explained the situation. His bandmates needed money. They wanted to do a reunion tour. They were sure he needed money, too, how about it? Jimmy Jeffers, the manager, would make it happen.

He’d told them no. In much stronger language, a burst of fiery self-righteousness that had felt better than sex.

They’d backed off, right out of the club. He’d thought it had been the persuasive power of his refusal, but probably they’d already decided they could replace him. His assholery had only reinforced their intention to do so.

“You know the band’s history?” he asked Haven.

She nodded. Her hair was up in some kind of fancy twist thing. He wondered how many hairpins it took to keep it there, how much hair spray. She was so flawlessly put together, the kind of woman he didn’t waste his time pursuing. Different worlds, different values. But Haven wasn’t looking through him. She was looking at him with sharp, knowing, memorizing regard.

“What that history doesn’t say is that I never should have been in Sliding Up in the first place. I’m not pop-star material, and anyone could have seen that by looking at me. I was going to school at Berklee, playing blues and rock and roots, and I let myself get snowed by a producer, which is what happens to a lot of musicians. Labels go after young guys in crappy circumstances who can’t say no. I should have had the balls to refuse, because I had other options.”

“So why did you eventually say yes to the reunion?”

“My dad had a stroke. A few weeks ago.”

Her face softened. She’d been pretty before, but now looking at him as though she cared—

It pissed him off that he still had this weakness in him. He hadn’t learned that women could do this at will—listen raptly, make you think you were the only man in the world. He hardened his heart and plowed on.

“He’s got months of physical rehabilitation ahead of him and a nurse taking care of him in his house. The bills are a bitch and his crappy insurance barely makes a dent. I’m his only kid. My mom’s dead. I told him I’d take care of it.”

“That was kind. You’re a good son.”

He waved it off. “I’m not, really. He and I hadn’t spoken for years. He raked me over the coals for being a screwup and—I lost my appetite for getting reamed out every time I had a conversation with him. But when this happened, I realized he’s not going to be around forever. I want a chance to have a father-son relationship with him. And it’s the right thing to do.”

Her eyes softened a little more, and he tried not to like it.

“So you agreed to do the tour.”

“Jimmy didn’t tell you all this?”

She shook her head.

“Did he tell you they were holding a replacement over my head? Someone who looks like me, plays the guitar, can lip sync a hell of a lot better than I can and doesn’t need you to dress him in the morning?”

She bit her lip, another partial smile. “I don’t think you need me to dress you.”

She stopped right there, perfectly innocent, but his dirty brain knew exactly what it wanted to say back.

Nah. I’d rather have you undress me.

The thought got a grip on his dick. Nice work, schmo. Make this even worse on yourself.

“So, they can replace you. That must be weird.” She leaned across the table. Keep your eyes on her face. And it was no hardship. Her nose was long and elegant with a slight upturn at the very tip. Her eyes were greenish, her skin pale and creamy. He wanted to taste it. His tongue tingled.

He needed another beer as soon as humanly possible, but the waiter was nowhere in sight.

He’d lost the thread of their conversation. “What’d you say?”

“I said it must be weird to feel like you’re replaceable.”

Now she sounded like a shrink again.

The truth was, it pissed him off how easily they could drop another man into his slot. Which was stupid because he’d known that pop groups like Sliding Up were just pretty illusions that presented the music some producer dreamed up. And there was nothing—nothing—about the job that he wanted, except the money.

Or so he told himself. But if he didn’t want the job, why was he so pissed? He hated to think he still had the same old craving for fame and fortune that had gotten him in trouble in the first place. The desire to have an arena full of people telling him with their applause and their screaming that his music was worth something...when he knew all too well it wasn’t.

“Whatever,” he said, because she was too much—too pretty, too sympathetic, too easy to talk to. Because he had this feeling that she wouldn’t want to stop with messing with his hair, his clothes, his nightlife. She’d want to open him up and make him over from the inside out. And there was no way she was getting in there. “It’s fine. I need the money, I’ll do the tour, I’ll live with their stipulations.”

He would let the exquisite Haven Hoyt put her hands all over him (metaphorically) and turn him—but only the external him—into some version of himself he wouldn’t recognize.

She was still looking at him as if she could see right through him. He wondered what the hell she saw.

Maybe the truth. How much it sucked that he needed the tour, sucked that the only way to help his dad was to sell himself out—again.

Or maybe she saw what he saw most of the time when he looked inside.

Failure.


2 (#uead9df67-9e20-5c82-b160-fc184bf89a8d)

“NO MORE HEDGE-FUND MANAGERS.”

Haven leaned over Elisa Henderson’s broad desk and smacked its surface for emphasis. She had to find a blank space between all the photos Elisa kept of the couples she’d match-made over the years. Brides in white, husbands and wives romping across tropical beaches on their honeymoons and even a few couples mooning over swaddled-up newborns and fat-cheeked infants. Haven had plenty of satisfied clients, but even she had to admit that you couldn’t beat Elisa’s job for visible results.

Her dating coach frowned at her. “You’ve already said no more lawyers, no more surgeons and no one who’s involved in any way in film. You stipulated up front you wanted a successful, independent, professional man who dresses well. That right there makes the field pretty narrow. You can’t keep eliminating whole categories of men. Next you’ll be saying no chest hair.”

The thought had crossed Haven’s mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She did like things smooth, metaphorically and literally.

She had a quick flash of Mark Webster’s decidedly un-smooth face. Probably only because she’d spent so much time staring at it, trying to picture how it would look clean shaven. The last time he’d been photographed without stubble, he’d been considerably younger.

“Haven.”

“Sorry, just thinking about work.”

“Can we agree? No more eliminating whole categories of men?”

“No one in finance,” Haven amended.

“That’s even worse. That’s half the professional, well-dressed men in the city.”

“And no musicians,” Haven said, thinking of Mark again. He was not going to be an easy project. He hated the idea of the tour. Money was forcing his hand, and that never made for a good situation.

“I’d already eliminated musicians. They don’t tend to be well dressed, at least not according to your vision of what well dressed entails.”

For Haven, that involved a suit, or at least pressed slacks and a dress shirt hanging on broad shoulders. An expensive leather belt around a narrow waist. It was possible she was salivating slightly at the thought. She’d been sex deprived too long for her own good.

Haven had hired Elisa after Elisa had pulled a surprise two-match victory out of a tricky dating–boot camp weekend. Both Haven and Elisa had briefly looked like fools as their shared client, Celine Carr, tromped all over a Caribbean island sucking face with a paparazzo, while her two handlers chased after her and failed to catch up. But just when it had seemed that nothing good could come out of the weekend, Elisa had realized that Celine and her paparazzo, Steve Flynn, were head over heels for each other, and she’d managed to make a splash of it on national television. On top of that, she’d found true love herself with a former friend-turned-lover on the trip.

Haven had been so impressed that she’d signed up for Elisa’s Love Match package, which included both advice and actual matches. Elisa didn’t always make matches. Sometimes she just poked and prodded from behind the scenes. But Haven felt as though she’d exhausted enough possibilities on the island of Manhattan that she’d better seek new blood. She wanted access to Elisa’s top secret, intensely coveted, expensive database.

Elisa tucked her auburn hair behind her ears. “I think you might need to adjust your criteria.”

“What’s wrong with my criteria?”

“You say you want all these things—educated, polished, well dressed, well spoken, a good earner—but then you go out with the guys I pick and say they’re leaving you cold. What if you opened up the field a little? Tried someone a little different?” Elisa tapped a few keys and brushed the trackpad, then turned the laptop around so Haven could see. “Check this guy out. Teaches rock climbing, former Navy.” Elisa ticked off his claims to fame. “Does have a fondness for wool socks and hiking boots, so as you might imagine he’s kinda outdoorsy—”

“Stop.” Haven held up her hand and noticed that she’d somehow chipped one Screaming Pink fingernail. She had the color in her drawer at work—she’d patch it when she got back to the office. “Outdoorsy? Seriously? Look. At. Me.”

Elisa did as Haven asked, an appraisal as coldly clinical as a doctor’s exam. Not at all the way Mark’s gaze had felt yesterday. His scrutiny had melted over her skin like warm butter. She thought of saying something about that, but she suspected Elisa would take altogether too much glee in it. She might even cite it as proof that Haven was barking up the wrong dating tree. But Haven wasn’t. She knew what mattered, and for better or for worse, image was a big part of it. It was what she’d made her career on. It was who she was. And she needed a guy who could appreciate its importance.

“Like seeks like,” Haven told Elisa.

She could picture him. At least six feet. Dark hair, close-cropped but not so short she couldn’t run her fingers through it. Dark eyes. Tailored clothes. Athletic. Professional—maybe a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Or, she wasn’t that picky—he could be a small business owner, too. Just—successful. Refined. At ease with social events and people.

“Okay, I admit, you’re not terribly outdoorsy. But I don’t think like always seeks like. Look at me and Brett.”

“But you are alike. Education, background, socioeconomics, level of polish.”

Haven hadn’t worried about any of that in her last serious relationship. Poet Porter Weir had worn consignment-shop artist’s garb to go with his longish hair and his intense, life is nasty, brutish and short gaze.

Haven had met him at a poetry reading she’d attended when her mother and sisters were visiting New York.

Haven had somehow been born into the wrong household of brilliant, passionate, neo-hippy women. As a child, Haven had loved her family but never quite felt as though she fit in with their crafty projects and eco-adventures and thinky ideas. She was like a Limited Edition Fashion Barbie among handcrafted fabric dolls made by a fair-trade cooperative in Lima, Peru.

On this particular New York trip, she had done her best to make her family feel comfortable—taking them to out-of-the-way galleries, artists’ studios and literary events. She’d felt like a fish out of water, much as she had as a child, when her mother had introduced her sisters and then added, with a wry twist to her mouth, “And this is my princess, Haven.” Maybe in some families, “princess” would have been a compliment, but Haven had known from the time she was very little that in her case it wasn’t. She was decidedly outside the freewheeling, new-age family her mother had dreamed of.

At the poetry reading, Porter Weir had walked past all her sisters in their fun, colorful peasant clothing, their soft, flowing hair and natural faces. He’d made straight for her, in her of-the-moment New York fashion and her pinned-up hair and perfect makeup. He asked her what she thought of his poetry, how it made her feel. And it had been such a long time since anyone had asked her how anything made her feel that she’d found herself answering.

He’d wanted her. And in the early days of the relationship he had made her feel not only beautiful, but also smart, interesting and creative. Still, she could never shake the fear that if he looked too closely, he’d discover that she was far more princess than poetess.

And that was more or less what had transpired. He’d dug deep and been deeply disappointed.

Haven had never told Elisa what had happened between her and Porter. She’d mentioned him, of course, because he was her most recent serious relationship. But she’d said only that they’d been too different.

“The point is,” Haven concluded, “I don’t do outdoorsy.”

Elisa nodded, admitting defeat, then hit a button on her computer and made the former Navy guy disappear. “It was just a thought.”

“Next.” Haven had to get back to her own work soon, but Elisa’s office always felt like a refuge. If Haven had had time for therapy, she would have wanted it to feel like this. Cozy and friendly and with a splash of humor.

Elisa laughed. “Okay. Try this.” She displayed another man on the screen. “He’s the vice-president of marketing for a well-known jewelry maker. Think expensive Christmas gifts.”

Haven was already a beat ahead of Elisa, hoping for diamond studs. “Wardrobe?”

“He’s wearing a rumpled jacket in this picture.”

Haven leaned in. Dark hair, dark eyes. The jacket was indeed rumpled, but that was only one small strike against him. Maybe it had been raining the day the photo was taken.

“He likes to ‘dine out,’ ‘socialize with friends,’ and ‘go to the movies.’”

“Why haven’t you shown me this guy before?” Haven demanded.

“Honestly? Because this profile bores me to tears.”

“Maybe he’s just not that good at—”

Elisa scrunched up her face, and they both started laughing.

“Right,” said Haven. “He’s in marketing. He should be able to write a profile of himself that makes him sound worth meeting. But honestly? I’m in PR and I could never write those profiles. If I made them too cute, I always felt like I was fake, and if I made them honest, they sounded boring.”

“That’s why you have me to do it for you,” Elisa said. “So it’s up to you. Do you want to give this guy a chance?”

“He sounds perfect.”

“Okay, let’s go for it. I’ll set something up for this weekend. And I’ll gently suggest that he wear something a little more—pressed—than what he’s got on in this photo.”

“That sort of spoils it, if you have to tell him, right?”

“Well,” said Elisa with a mischievous grin, “if it gets him laid, maybe he’ll learn from it.”

“Who said anything about anyone getting laid?”

Elisa looked up from the laptop screen. “How long, exactly, are you planning for your current dry spell to last?”

“Why break something two years in the making?” Haven winced.

“As someone who has recently broken a two-plus-year dry spell, I have to recommend it. The breaking, not the spell.”

“Do you think it was the breaking that was so good? Or the man you broke it with?”

“Probably the man.” Elisa smiled dreamily.

Haven wondered if being happily matched was a boon or a liability for a dating coach. On one hand, if Elisa could do so well for herself, it said something for her emotional intelligence. On the other, Haven suspected most single women would be more likely to confide in a dating coach who didn’t seem quite so smugly settled.

Elisa snapped out of her reverie. “The point is, you don’t have to find the perfect man to break the losing streak.”

“Sex is a lot of work. If I’m going to do it, it’d better be good.”

Elisa narrowed her eyes. “Sex is a lot of work? Are you doing it right?”

“Pumice stones and moisturizers and Brazilians and lingerie shopping and the good sheets and candles and—”

“It’s not an Olympic event, Hav,” Elisa interrupted. “You’re allowed to just do it. Like on the living room couch, drunk, and with the full complement of God-given body hair.”

Haven knew from personal experience that while guys might claim not to need things groomed and romantic and perfect, over time they would come to crave the fantasy version. Once the early, oblivious bliss wore off, Elisa would find that out, too.

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Haven said.

Elisa crossed her arms. “Are we talking about ‘right’? Or are we talking about ‘looking good’?’”

“When it comes to men, there’s no difference.”

Elisa gave her a hard look. “I’m a dating coach. There’s a difference.”

“I’m an image consultant. There’s not.”

Elisa laughed. “Agree to disagree.” She shut the laptop and came around the desk as Haven stood. “You’re a hoot, girl.”

Elisa put her arm around Haven, and Haven rested her head on Elisa’s shoulder, glad Elisa thought it was funny. But she hadn’t been joking. When it came to men, image was everything.

* * *

MARK STEPPED INTO Mad Mo’s and was assaulted by screens and vintage neon signs, piped music and raised voices. Even years of having his ears blown out on a stage and in blues clubs hadn’t made him immune to the overstimulation. He had to pause in the doorway to get his bearings.

Mad Mo’s had been around since the 1940s, and it was the antithesis of the place where he’d had lunch with Haven yesterday. At Charme, everything was calculated and calculating, from the color scheme to the people who chose to put themselves on display there. Here—well, it had all happened through year after year of accidents. Someone had once given Mo a neon beer sign and then he had become a known collector of them. The art on the walls was a mélange of photos of Mo’s family, crayon pictures kids had drawn and postcards from every corner of the world. And the food was— It was just food, the fries spilling over the top of the burgers, pickle wedges stuffed wherever they’d fit. Haven Hoyt would have a heart attack if she saw this scene. She’d want to call up whichever of her friends was responsible for giving restaurants image makeovers and have them here before close of business.

Earlier that day Haven had sent him a color-coded spreadsheet that laid out his fate at a series of fund-raisers, openings, soirees and cocktail parties. Nothing in her schedule—not even the two-hour appointment at the high-end barber or the afternoon of shopping at the department store—had struck as much fear in his heart as the text Jimmy had sent him a couple of hours ago, telling Mark to meet him and Pete Sovereign at Mo’s.

Mark had called Haven for help and together they’d worded an apology. She was sorry she couldn’t accompany him to Mo’s but she had to attend an event. She told him she had faith in him; he should just deliver the apology and get out, fast.

While he’d needed the help in getting the words right, he was grateful she wasn’t with him. It would have felt too much like having a babysitter. Better to face up to Pete and do his best.

And so he was here. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, trudging toward what felt like his doom. Love you, Dad. Doing this for you.

He lifted his gaze and found Jimmy in the crowd, beanpole tall and narrow faced. His former manager waved him toward the wide bar that formed a U on one side of the restaurant. Pete was leaning on the bar, his blond bangs hanging in his eyes, as insufferably cocky-looking as he’d been the last time Mark had seen him. Mark was a poor judge of male beauty, but he’d never gotten Pete’s appeal to women. He looked—to Mark—like an overgrown kid. Countless promoters and image consultants had championed Pete’s boyishness back in the day, claiming he was popular precisely because teenaged girls didn’t really want men. They weren’t ready for them yet. Body and facial hair still secretly scared them. They wanted the illusion of innocence. Hence the appeal of the barely-past-boyhood pop group.

Mark crossed to the bar and Jimmy clapped him on the shoulder, as if they were friends. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Years ago, Mark had believed that Jimmy liked him. Jimmy was a straight shooter, and Mark had been, too. In an industry that was full of hot air, that was a rare commodity. This last week, though, had made it clear how little Jimmy thought of the man Mark had become—and how unnecessary he considered him to the tour.

It would be humbling, if there were anything in him left to be humbled.

Behind Jimmy, Pete shifted but didn’t step forward to greet him. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Mark. And as much as Mark hated him, he couldn’t blame him.

Moment of truth. He had to lower himself enough to apologize to the piece of dung leaning on the shiny teak bar. Otherwise, all the image rehabbing in the world wasn’t going to make this tour happen.

Pete’s arrogant half smile made Mark think of Lyn. Her beauty, her passion and her promises, the romantic ones and the professional ones. Pete had taken away not just those promises, but something deeper, something Mark had never been able to get back.

The noise in Mad Mo’s formed a cushion around Mark, making everything feel faintly unreal. It still seemed possible to turn and leave, without consequences. His father and the medical bills were far away.

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. Pete’s smile grew bigger and more smug, the smile of a man who knew his opponent was between a rock and a hard place. Mark wondered how much of this Pete had orchestrated. Did he even give a shit whether or not Mark apologized? Did he just want to see Mark squirm? Had sending Mark to Haven been Pete’s idea? He could imagine Pete howling with laughter at the notion of Mark undergoing an image rehab.

Jimmy gestured loosely toward Pete. “So, um—”

Mark’s mouth refused to open. It was wrong, just dead wrong, that he should be the one apologizing.

Pete Sovereign boosted himself off the bar, giving Mark the full force of his superior grin and thrusting his hand out. “Nice of you to come all this way to beg.”

For a moment, Mark could feel the world stretch and shift—déjà vu. He could feel the moments that had just passed and the moments that were creeping up on them. He remembered how Pete’s nose had given way to his knuckles ten years ago, and he imagined—no lived—with unapologetic clarity, the way Pete’s cheekbone would crack under the force of the even more heartfelt blow Mark was about to deliver.

What stopped him from throwing the punch, oddly enough, was not thinking of his father. It was thinking of Haven Hoyt and the way she’d looked at him in Charme, her eyebrows slightly drawn together as if she were trying to figure him out. As if he were worth figuring out. And even when he’d called her about this meeting, Haven had not said anything about watching his temper or not getting in a fight. She had, in fact, told him he would be capable of handling it maturely.

He heard himself sigh, and he saw Pete’s eyes widen. He leaned as close to Pete Sovereign as he could bear to, steeling himself against the guy’s cologne, and said, “It will be a long, cold wait in hell for you if you think that’s going to happen, douche bag.”

Then he turned and walked out of Mad Mo’s, the din fading behind him as the door swung shut and the cacophony of Manhattan’s streets filled his ears.


3 (#uead9df67-9e20-5c82-b160-fc184bf89a8d)

“WHAT THE HELL were you thinking?”

There was something so incongruous about seeing Haven Hoyt in Queens, standing in the foyer of his apartment building, that it took him a moment to realize she was yelling at him. The hangover wasn’t helping.

“Are you the most self-destructive human being on Earth?”

He almost answered her before he registered that her questions were rhetorical. “Did you come all the way out here to ask me that? Couldn’t you have called?”

It was Saturday morning. Last night, Mark had walked as fast as his legs could carry him away from Mad Mo’s and drowned his sorrows in shots of tequila at Over the Border. Countless shots of tequila. He’d gotten kicked out for harassing the bartender when she refused to serve him one more.

Haven crossed her arms. “I thought this bore discussing in person. Plus, I was so irritated with you that I needed to haul myself out here to burn off steam. Why do you live in Queens?”

“Because there’s not enough room on the island of Manhattan for me and all my self-destructiveness.”

A smile flirted with Haven’s impeccably made-up face and vanished just as quickly. “Seriously, Mark, are you off your rocker?”

“Nope. I am totally sane. Pete Sovereign is, in fact, the biggest douche bag on Earth.”

“Douchier than you? Because you’re looking pretty douchey right about now. Throwing away a reunion tour and hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of dollars. Screwing yourself and me out of a job.”

Righteous fury made her even more beautiful. She kept tossing that glossy black hair, which she was wearing down today. It was perfectly straight and it looked like satin. Haven Hoyt was possibly made of satin from head to toe. Right now, he wanted to rub his entire greedy self all over her.

He caught himself mindlessly staring and attempted to corral some brain cells. “I take it you heard from Jimmy.” Of course. Jimmy would have been on the phone to dismiss Haven almost before Mark’s back had disappeared through the door. They’d have been glad to wash their hands of him, glad to have their low opinion of him confirmed.

“Jimmy called me this morning to, effectively, fire me,” she said.

He hadn’t wanted Haven to share the low opinion of him, though. That brought a mild sense of regret into his pounding head and foggy brain.

She teetered in strappy shoes with impossibly high, skinny heels. Not the right shoes for storming out to Queens in a temper. It was a good trek to his Sunnyside studio from the 7 line. This woman had impressive ankle strength and toe endurance.

Jesus, there was nothing sexy about either of those things. This was the twenty-first century, and naked feet were no longer the frontier. And yet, weirdly, he was turned on. Probably he would find her elbow sexy, or her toenail clippings, or—

He cast the closest thing he had to prayer skyward. If there were a remote possibility that he’d ever get to sleep with her, he wanted her to wear those shoes in bed.

“Haven, honestly? You should be glad to wash your hands of me.”

She glared at him. “Can you let me be the judge of what I should be glad about? I wanted this job. I’ve been trying to show Jimmy what I can do for years. I need referrals from him.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry. But I can’t work with Pete Sovereign.”

Even before the words were all the way out of his mouth, in the sober, hungover, head-splittingly bright light of day, he remembered that he had very few choices. And he didn’t like the pitying way Haven was looking at him, head tilted to one side. As if he was too pathetic to be believed.

“What happened between you and that guy?”

There was no way he was going to tell her. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

She sighed. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll just take your word that it was a big enough deal that you can let your dad rot because you’re too proud to issue some meaningless apology.”

He closed his eyes.

He could hear her breathing. Fast. Maybe the walk from the 40th Street station, maybe anger. With his eyes closed, he could imagine that was what her breathing would sound like if he got her worked up. If he licked around the rim of her ear, along the line of her neck, and down the curve of a breast.

Now he was breathing fast.

“You’re going to have to find a way to work with Pete Sovereign.”

His eyes flew open. Apparently, she was steel under all that satin. He could see it in her shoulders, in the hardness of her eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

“Too bad. I want this gig, and you’re the gig. I begged Jimmy to give you one more chance. I begged on your behalf. You owe me this.” Her eyes were challenging, her hands on her hips now.

“No. No way. I didn’t ask you for anything and I don’t owe you anything. I don’t even know you.” Even if I have undressed you in my mind several times since the first time I laid eyes on you.

“This isn’t negotiable.”

“There’s no negotiation, Haven.”

“There’s me, standing here and telling you, you have to do this. Also, there’s your dad. You said he needs a lot of physical therapy.”

“Tons,” Mark admitted. “Every day.”

“And the nurse.” She said it matter-of-factly, with the same sympathy that always undid him.

He couldn’t speak. He just nodded.

“Mark. It doesn’t have to be the world’s most heartfelt apology. It just has to be an apology. This time I’ll be there when you deliver it.”

She’d moved from steel to supplication, and he could already tell it would destroy his resolve—that, and the implacable reality of his father’s debt. Mark was crumbling inside, and there were no inner reserves with which to shore himself up. Haven’s compassion had started his undoing, somehow, on Thursday. It was always the urge to let down your guard that killed you in the end.

“I don’t want you there when I deliver it.” As good as surrender.

“Well, tough luck,” she said. “After last night’s fiasco, I promised Jimmy I’d stick close to you for anything that might attract public attention until the tour.”

Stick. Close. To. You. His pulse kicked up. “You agreed to follow me around for six months?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You really want this gig. You begged Jimmy Jeffers. You came all the way out here and—” He wasn’t sure what to call what she’d done to him. Bossed. Pleaded. Unleashed something he wished she’d left pent up.

She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes.” She scuffed the toe of her shoe lightly along the floor, and his eye followed the line of her leg. Today’s skirt was more standard issue, black and midthigh length. Nice, lean, strong thighs he’d like wrapped around his waist.

“I like a good challenge, and you want to do this because you love your dad. And maybe because you’ve done nothing for the last ten years but play wedding gigs and make cameo appearances for screaming groupies. I can’t imagine you find that very satisfying.”

You forgot something, he wanted to say, with the same fervor that urged him to put his hands in her hair. I want to do it because you’re going to follow me around for the next six months. And even though I shouldn’t want that, even though it’s suicidally stupid for me to want that, even though you will never mean those looks you give me, I do. I want that.

“No,” he said instead, because she was right. “It’s not very satisfying.”

“So let me help you apologize to Pete Sovereign, okay?”

He understood defeat well. It was his friend. “Okay.”

“And let me help you clean up your act, okay?”

“Okay.”

She eyed him suspiciously. Smart woman. His motives were about as impure as it was possible for them to be. They were dirty and male and all about the dark secrets her body was keeping from him, the ones he wanted to unfurl, one sweet mystery at a time.

“Why are you suddenly so agreeable?”

You.

“Free haircut,” he said, and she laughed, a real, open, musical laugh, and his heart pounded almost out of his chest.

* * *

HUNKS OF MARK WEBSTER’S hair were hitting the floor, and Haven wasn’t feeling as satisfied by that as she’d expected to.

They were in Caruso’s, a high-end barbershop where Haven liked to take straight male clients. The chairs were covered in black leather, the rest of the furniture espresso and ebony. The sage-green walls displayed vintage photos of female movie stars, classy and sexy at the same time. These were the women Haven had modeled herself after when she’d realized that, as much as she admired them, she didn’t want to be like her mother or her sisters.

Actually, she hated the way Mark’s hair looked on the wide-plank wood floor, the softness of the pieces curled around nothing. The shorn look he had now revealed a pretty-boy quality he’d been hiding from the world for a long time. She wanted it to go back into hiding, because clean-cut Mark was doing something to her insides she didn’t like at all.

The barber, Derek, had shaved Mark first. She’d watched the straight razor scrape over his skin. The blade moved like a caress, highlighting the strength of his jaw, his high cheekbones. Crazy-deep dimples flashed now when he smiled at her in the mirror, just often enough to keep her attention. She was standing there waiting for him to smile at her again. That couldn’t be good, right?

“My hair hasn’t been this short in, like, a decade. I didn’t cut it for almost two years after the breakup.”

Now the look he shot her in the mirror was more the usual Mark. Hard jaw, angry eyes. A little easier to take. She caught her breath, which made her realize she’d lost it, somewhere along the line.

“What made you cut it after two years?”

Just a flick of the smile, one corner. “I decided it was probably time to get laid again.”

His eyes held hers. Too long. She looked away. She was uncomfortably hot in the pale blue suit jacket, but if she took it off, he’d see the sweat stains under her arms.

Her panties were damp, too, and she couldn’t blame that on overdressing for the superheated barbershop.

“Did it work?”

Wait, why had she said that? She was flirting with him, prolonging the conversation. But she shouldn’t. He was her client. He was—

Mark Webster, C.D. Certified Disaster.

He laughed, a rough, lovely sound, like something rusty from disuse. “Yup. The haircut worked the way it was supposed to. All the parts worked, too.”

She didn’t want to ask any more questions. Talking to Mark Webster about sex, with his eyes so big, long-lashed and luminous, his teeth so starkly white, was a bad idea. Removing all that hair should have made him more vulnerable, but she was the one rocked back on her heels.

She cast about for another topic. “I made an appointment for Pete to come see me next Tuesday morning in my office at ten.”

He looked down at his lap, and she was sorry she’d gone there. Bad enough she was making him grovel without making him think about it today.

“It’s not going to be so bad,” she said. “Wham, bam—”

Whoops, that sounded like sex again, and the one-sided quirk of his mouth told her he hadn’t missed that.

“I’ll do most of the talking. You just deliver the line.”

“I regret any lasting damage my temper has caused you,” Mark intoned.

She was proud of the non-apology she’d crafted for him.

He frowned. “I don’t think he’s going to let me get away with it.”

“Trust me.”

Their eyes met in the mirror again, and he gave a short, hard laugh. “If I didn’t trust you, do you think I’d let this guy put a straight razor on my throat? And cut my hair off? I feel like—Samson, right? Don’t you sap my strength or something?”

He didn’t look sapped. He looked...potent. She had to turn away from the mirror because his gaze kept catching hers and not letting go properly.

Mark Webster had a reputation in the media for saying and doing the wrong things, but he seemed to know the right way to get under Haven’s skin. She was having a difficult time remembering why she shouldn’t exchange smiles, meaningful glances and double entendres with him.

Right. Right.

Mark Webster was her client, and her job was not to land them both in the press as a seedy example of how to become his next castoff. He was a serial womanizer. By definition, that meant he was not interested in anything serious with her. And her job was to clean him up, not let herself be dragged into the mud.

“What do you think?” Derek asked her, warming some kind of expensive styling product between his palms and smoothing it through Mark’s hair, which was now short enough to be “not long,” but still had a lot of wave. He had really great hair, thick and coppery brown with streaks of lighter and darker colors. Women paid fortunes for hair like that.

She was not secretly envying Derek for being allowed to run his fingers through Mark’s hair. Not at all.

Oh, she was such a liar.

“It looks great,” she said.

That, at least, was the truth.

“What do you think of the new, improved Mark Webster?”

It didn’t matter how she answered, because she couldn’t not meet the ferocity of his unblinking challenge in the mirror. So he knew. He knew he looked good, and he knew he was having an effect on her.

Derek very politely did not roll his eyes at them.

She wrenched her gaze away, but she couldn’t stop herself from putting her fingers to her wrist to feel the way her pulse raced under the hot skin there, and when she looked up again, Mark’s eyes were on her.

* * *

JUDY, HAVEN’S FAVORITE personal shopper, kept touching Mark.

She brushed her fingertips briskly over his collarbone, tapped them thoughtfully on his muscled shoulders. “Hmm. Too tight through here. You’re nice and broad.”

He was nice and broad. Haven’s fingers tingled sympathetically as Judy’s moved. Haven wanted to check out exactly where that seam fell on those excellent shoulders, but she sat on her hands instead, lest they start dancing through the air with vicarious excitement.

They were in the large fitting area in the personal shoppers’ suite, and Mark stood on a carpeted platform facing a three-way mirror. Today had included altogether too many mirrors, and she wished she didn’t have to see Mark’s reflection or her own flushed face anymore. He kept looking above the button of the suit jacket that restrained her breasts and meeting her glances with his intense gray-blue stare.

Her own clothes felt limp with heat and damp. Strands of her hair had come loose from her updo and now clung to her forehead and cheeks.

Haven Hoyt was not feeling very put together at the moment.

Judy tugged on the shirt to check the fit over Mark’s pecs, brushing the cotton-silk blend across his chest as if there were a speck of dust she needed to remove. “Tough to fit you for a shirt when you’re so big through here. That’s a good thing.” Judy looked up at Mark through her eyelashes.

Haven had never really thought about it before today, but Judy was attractive, for an older woman. She had platinum-blond hair and strong bones, and she looked great in her silver tunic, indigo jeggings and knee-high black boots. She seemed to be having fun.

Of course she was having fun, because she had her hands on Mark’s chest. Haven had noticed his size the other day at lunch, but there was something about this particular blue dress shirt that emphasized his strength and bulk. Maybe it was just Haven’s fond feelings for dress shirts, but more likely it was Mark. Judy kept messing with the buttons, as if making adjustments, but Haven was pretty sure her motives were baser.

Still, if Mark needed his buttons checked, Haven would be willing to help out. In fact, she might be willing to go to the mud pit with Judy for the privilege. And Haven didn’t do muddy, any more than she did outdoorsy or sleep-in-a-big-T-shirt or just have a few people over and I’m sorry I didn’t have time to clean the house.

Judy shamelessly ran her hand over Mark’s butt—was that really necessary?—to emphasize the clean fit of the charcoal-gray dress pants. That butt was a mighty fine specimen, Haven mused, giving up on not having an opinion. It was firm and high and tight and round and she bet he knew how to use it to great advantage as leverage for—

“Nice line in front, too.” All three of them stared at Mark’s crotch in the mirror. Whatever Mark was packing under there was evident even under the “nice line” of expensive dress slacks. She briefly wondered whether it was arousing to have them both staring at his endowment like that. It would be pretty embarrassing to get an erection right now. Wouldn’t it?

She raised her gaze from the front of his pants and found herself staring into Mark’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she watched her own face turn the same flaming pink as her nail polish. Heat swept through her, tightening her nipples and pooling between her legs. Mark’s dimples deepened, even though his mouth didn’t quite break into a full smile.

She wasn’t going to make it. She was going to die of frustrated desire before the shopping session was over.

As much as she wanted to deny it, her body had decided this was foreplay.

She’d never been attracted to a client before. Never. She’d done image makeovers on male clients, and she’d sat in Judy’s upholstered seat while Judy ran her hands over different sets of equally impressive shoulders, pecs and abs. Mark Webster should not have been any different, should not have been turning Haven’s excellent brain to mush.

“I’m going to get some water,” she said, and for that, she got a full-on Mark grin. It was a startling, marvelous thing, bright and white and all the way into his eyes, and she ran the hell out of that dressing area.

For the rest of the fitting, she stood at the far edge of the room, out of his sight in the mirror. He went through plain white T-shirts, a new, unscuffed leather bomber and several blazers and jackets. He tried on baseball jerseys and printed T’s, fine-gauge sweaters and casual button-down shirts, ties, a pair of suspenders, new gym clothes.

He looked good in all of them. He looked as though they’d been made for him, as though he’d been sculpted to fill them perfectly.

Haven was fatigued from the effort of watching as Judy checked the fit of a raglan sleeve over Mark’s substantial biceps, knelt at his feet to make sure the trousers broke over expensive Italian leather shoes the way she wanted them to and—this was the final insult—ruffled his hair as she placed a fedora in a ridiculously sexy tilt over one gray-blue eye.

Haven’s only hope was that Saturday night with Jewelry Marketing Guy would turn out better than the last six or eight dates. Maybe Jewelry Marketing Guy would be so smart, so thoughtful, so interesting, so brimming with pheromones that she would want to sleep with him on the first date. Then she wouldn’t need to imagine stripping Mark out of his formfitting new wardrobe, thrusting her fingers into his thick, scrumptious hair and pressing her mouth—actually, her whole freaking naked body—against his.

“Do I have to wear this stuff all the time?” Mark turned to ask her the question. Sullenly.

It was probably a good thing that he was still a pain in the ass. A hot, trouble-making, pain in the ass.

“Not when you’re locked in your own apartment.”

He sighed. “I hate you.”

His eyes told her he didn’t.

“I’ll wear this home,” he told Judy. He was in a gorgeous fine-knit striped V-neck sweater and butt-snugging jeans. Haven wanted to beg him not to wear those clothes out of the store. To have mercy.

He went to the men’s room while Haven paid for his things. She’d bill the whole lot back to Jimmy, and Jimmy would take it out of Mark’s tour earnings. God forbid Mark screw up again, because Haven had no idea who’d foot the bill if he torpedoed his chance to be part of the tour.

Judy handed Haven Mark’s shopping bags, plus an unmarked plastic bag. “The clothes he wore in here,” Judy said. “Unless you want me to just throw them in the trash right now. Or burn them.”

Haven took the bags. She felt a peculiar tenderness for the ratty jeans and the tortured jacket, and on top of that she had a totally perverted desire to pull out the T-shirt and see if she could detect Mark’s scent in it. Not the expensive hair-care products and fabric sizing from today, but the real Mark smell of coconut, leather and clean male sweat.

“Nah,” she told Judy. “I’ll give it to Goodwill.”

“They might not want it. That jacket—”

“I know,” Haven said fervently.

While she waited for Mark, she tucked the plastic bag of his clothes into one of the shopping bags, where it couldn’t tempt her.


4 (#uead9df67-9e20-5c82-b160-fc184bf89a8d)

HAVEN DIDN’T HAVE a thing for celebrities. She liked to think that was a good trait in an image consultant, because she didn’t freeze up or go all fangirl around them. She didn’t fetishize fame or worship actors or read about British royalty with stars in her eyes. They were people just like anyone else, who had to do their jobs plus manage all of that expectation and public scrutiny.

Just people.

And, Haven would also have said about herself, Haven had believed about herself, that she didn’t have a thing for musicians. As a teenager, she’d never screamed or launched herself onto a stage or pulled off her top because some hot musician had thrust his pelvis in her direction.

However, she was reconsidering her position, watching Mark Webster play the guitar at Village Blues.

She’d tried to get Elisa to come out with her, but Elisa had muttered something smug about a night in with her boyfriend who’d been on the road too much. So here Haven was, sitting by herself at a little table in a dark club that was lit by a meandering string of white Christmas lights. She was sipping a glass of decent red wine and trying hard not to make eye contact with the motley assortment of men who made pre-makeover Mark look like a fashion plate.

Now she was glad she was here by herself, because she wanted to be able to ogle him without a perceptive female friend catching her at it. She didn’t want to share the experience with anyone else, or process it out loud—she just wanted to watch him do what he was doing.

There was, of course, something inherently sexy about the guitar, about all that strumming and stroking, about the grip he had around its neck, sliding up and down while his other fingers worked in well-coordinated harmony. You couldn’t help thinking about other things. Especially when the guitarist in question was Mark, with the jaw and the cheekbones, with the biceps that bunched and forearms that corded as his fingers clutched string to wood. He wore a form-hugging old T-shirt and ripped-up jeans—they’d bought them pre-ripped during the shopping spree, a compromise between his desire for well-worn and comfy, and her need for him to look like he hadn’t dug his clothes from a Dumpster.

So, yeah, she was thinking about other things, but that was before he’d begun his solo.

She didn’t know the tune, and she didn’t know much about blues, but she knew passion. And the look on Mark’s face, the rush of synchronized motion that came from his big, beautiful hands, the way his whole body contracted and arched, rocked and swayed—that was passion. He could coax the guitar to make sounds she didn’t even know how to describe, crisp dots, sharp clenches, long wails of music. She bet he could make it say anything he wanted it to. She bet he could make it deliver a whole Shakespearean monologue.

Her mom and her sisters would love this guy, and she was sure he’d love them. Mark was a guy who lived big, lived out loud. Her mom gave whole workshops on this kind of thing—the authentic life, the artist’s life.




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