Текст книги "Tough Enough"
Автор книги: M. Leighton
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M. LEIGHTON IS . . .
“FREAKIN’ HOT!”
—Nette’s Bookshelf
AND “SERIOUSLY SCANDALICIOUS.”
—Scandalicious Book Reviews
PRAISE FOR M. LEIGHTON’S BAD BOYS NOVELS
Down to You, Up to Me, AND Everything for Us
“Scorching hot . . . insanely intense . . . and it is shocking. Shocking!”
—The Bookish Babe
“I definitely did not see the twists coming.”
—The Book List Reviews
“Brilliant.”
—The Book Goddess
“Leighton never gives the reader a chance to catch their breath . . . Yes, there is sex, OMG tongue-hanging-out-of-mouth, scorching sex.”
—Literati Literature Lovers
“Well, I drank this one down in one huge gulp . . . and it was delicious . . . Seriously scandalicious.”
—Scandalicious Book Reviews
“Delicious . . . I stopped reading in order to grab a cold beer and cool off . . . The twists and turns on the plot line are brilliant.”
—Review Enthusiast
“OMG! It was freakin’ hot!”
—Nette’s Bookshelf
“Steamy, sexy, and super hot! M. Leighton completely and absolutely knocked [it] out of the park.”
—The Bookish Brunette
“Scorching hot . . . An emotional roller coaster.”
—Reading Angel
“I devoured it, and I’m pretty sure you will, too.”
—For Love and Books
“Prepare yourself to be blown away.”
—My Keeper Shelf
“I loved it . . . Bring on the Davenport boys.”
—Smexy Books
PRAISE FOR M. LEIGHTON’S WILD ONES NOVELS
There’s Wild, Then There’s You
“Engaging and charismatic.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Will leave readers enthralled by the intriguing and emotional infatuation Jet and Violet share. This story is hot enough to start a forest fire, yet will keep readers cool, calm, and collected as they attempt to decipher the characters’ complicated personalities . . . This one is swoon-worthy.”
—RT Book Reviews
Some Like It Wild
“Some Like It Wild left me feeling breathlessly happy . . . the exact same feeling I had when I read The Wild Ones. M. Leighton has done it again—she’s written the perfect, sexy love story!”
—New York Times bestselling author Courtney Cole
The Wild Ones
“This book is worth every second I spent reading it. Ms. Leighton is a phenomenal writer and I cannot give her enough praise.”
—Bookish Temptations
“Hands down one of the hottest books I’ve read all summer . . . Complete with love, secrets, dreams, and hidden pasts! The Wild Ones is romantic, sexy, and absolutely perfect! Drop everything and read this RIGHT NOW!”
—The Bookish Brunette
“I can honestly tell you that this is one of my top books of the year and easily one of my new all-time favorites. I couldn’t put the book down.”
—The Autumn Review
“You will laugh, swoon, and even shed a few tears. M. Leighton knows how to write an amazing story. Get your copy of The Wild Ones today. You will not regret it.”
—Between the Page Reviews
“This book was one of the best books I’ve read this year. It may sound like just a love triangle on the surface but inside there’s so much more going on.”
—The Book Vixen
“One of the best books I’ve read this year so far.”
—Sim Sational Books
Berkley Titles by M. Leighton
The Wild Ones Novels
THE WILD ONES
SOME LIKE IT WILD
THERE’S WILD, THEN THERE’S YOU
The Bad Boys Novels
DOWN TO YOU
UP TO ME
EVERYTHING FOR US
The Tall, Dark, and Dangerous Novels
STRONG ENOUGH
TOUGH ENOUGH
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2015 by M. Leighton.
Excerpt from Brave Enough by M. Leighton copyright © 2015 by M. Leighton.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18761-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Leighton, M.
Tough enough / M. Leighton.—Berkley trade paperback edition.
p. cm.– (“tall, dark, and dangerous” ; 2)
ISBN 978-0-425-27947-2 (softcover : acid-free paper)
1. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.E3588T68 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015025109
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / November 2015
Cover art: “Couple” by Deborah Kolb / ImageBrief.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Praise for M. Leighton
Berkley Titles by M. Leighton
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
Special Excerpt from Brave Enough
Gratias autem Deo qui post pugnam.
Thank God for life after the fight.
PROLOGUE
Katie
Five years ago
Something is prodding me to wake up. Like an insistent finger poking my shoulder and someone whispering, “Wake up, wake up, wake up.”
But I don’t want to. I only want to hide. Hide from the light, hide from the world, hide from reality. I turn deeper into unconsciousness, but there’s no rest for me there.
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
A dull pain begins to spread down my left side and sounds that were a distant backdrop only moments before come closer, closer, closer. One by one, I can make them out.
Sirens.
Metallic clattering.
Strange voices.
Screaming. Awful screaming.
It sounds so familiar, that scream. That voice, although I can’t figure out why. The answer is fuzzy, like the face that swirls behind my eyes.
Distorted. Mocking. Cruel.
The face belongs to Calvin.
Panic swells within me, forcing me toward wakefulness. I don’t want to go, don’t want to wake. I claw and scratch. I dig in with my heels, with my hands, but nothing can stop my ascent.
Agony rushes in. It steals my breath and sweeps over me like flames, licking at my skin, turning the air to napalm.
More screaming, only this time I recognize the voice. I know it. I’ve listened to it my whole life.
It’s mine.
And then I remember.
Just before the blackness welcomes me back.
• • •
I rouse again, despite a gut instinct that tells me not to.
I wake to harsh voices, shouted commands and muffled road noise.
The face is still there, still there behind my eyes. Taunting me, haunting me. Smug and satisfied.
Horrific pain radiates from the left side of my body. It sears its way across my nerves, gaining strength, gaining momentum until I can’t fight the blackness.
So I don’t.
• • •
My eyelids flutter open. I see white metal above me, the dark head of a man beside me. I’m lying on my back. He’s sitting to my right. I don’t know who he is or what he’s doing. I don’t even know where I am. All I know is that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. I know it. I can feel it, like frantic fingers picking at my consciousness, picking away the scab. Tearing away the blindfold. Luring me into awareness.
But I can’t go back yet. Not yet. So I turn away. I retreat into the nothingness.
• • •
Seconds, minutes, hours pass. Time has no real meaning. It’s only a series of disjointed sights, sounds and feelings. Fear. Dread. Pain.
Excruciating pain.
And aloneness, even though I know I’m not alone; I’m far from alone.
I hear dozens of different voices now. Sounds, too. Beeps. Thumps. Scrambling. And I can smell. Something awful, putrid even, mixed with the chemical scent of a hospital.
I can’t focus on it, though. The pain is what overwhelms it all. It’s nearly unbearable, like my left side is trying to secede from the rest of my body. Nerves tearing away from skin, muscle ripping away from tendon. Flesh falling away from bone.
So I run.
I run into the deepest part of my mind, the part that refuses to participate with the outside world. I hide there until the pain stops.
Only it never stops. It never stops stalking me from the shadows.
ONE
Katie
“You’re not the least bit excited to be putting makeup on the Kiefer Rogan?”
Mona and I slow our walk as we approach my office. I use the term office loosely since mine is really just four thin walls that house a makeup chair, a bank of lighted mirrors and a wraparound counter. Two of the four walls are covered with shelves that hold the supplies of my trade—a wide array of everything from pancake makeup to prosthetic noses. It’s not fancy, but it feels as much like home as any place does.
I turn my eyes to Mona’s cornflower blue ones. She is the only person who might even come close to being called my best friend. “Am I excited to be putting makeup on Kiefer Rogan?” I repeat. Am I oddly nervous? Yes. Am I extremely uneasy? Yes. But am I excited? “Not even a little bit,” I reply sincerely.
Her full lips fall into a disbelieving O. “Wow! I can’t even imagine not getting excited over a guy like him.”
“He’s just a guy,” I declare with a shrug. I wish I felt as casual as the gesture indicates. Kiefer Rogan is just a guy, but guys like him spell trouble. For that reason alone, I can’t really be as nonchalant as I pretend to be. There’s no point in dwelling on it, though, so I try to redirect her. “Besides, why should you care anyway? You’ve got a boyfriend.”
She grins, which makes her look even more innocent than her platinum hair and eyes that are too big for her face. Physically, Mona is the perfect split between a Barbie Doll and a Precious Moments figurine, all with a touch of clueless porn star thrown in for good measure. She can work her assets like nobody’s business, but she does it in such a way that doesn’t make her detestable. That alone is quite a feat. She’s very genuine, too, which is one of the things I like most about her. That and the fact that we are polar opposites in practically every way.
Mona is tall and fair and beautiful with a sweet, outgoing personality. I am none of those things, which is probably why we get along so well.
“White’s great, but he doesn’t look like that.” White Bristow, Mona’s boyfriend, is the executive producer of the show. He’s fairly good looking, but nothing like the man I’m about to meet, Kiefer Rogan. White’s as much of a player as Kiefer is alleged to be, but Mona loves him enough to overlook it. No matter what else he’s doing (or who else he’s doing), he always comes back to Mona. I guess maybe he loves her in his own way and that seems to be enough for her. “God, I wish he did, though.”
“Looks aren’t everything,” I remind her softly.
Her expression falls into one of regret and sadness. She reaches out and smoothes the hair that I always keep swept over my left shoulder. It can always be found draped around my neck to hide my scars. She’s one of the few people who know what lies beneath the swath of hair. And how sensitive I am about it. “No, looks aren’t everything, but if they were, you’d still be one of the most wanted.”
I smile. That’s Mona—always seeing the best in me, whether it’s accurate or not. “That’s sweet, but you and I both know that’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is. Look at you, Katie. All this thick, wavy auburn hair, those big dark blue eyes and you’re so tiny! I’d give anything to be petite like you.”
“Mona, you’re like a living, breathing Barbie Doll. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to change a thing, not even your Amazonian height,” I tease. She’s not the least bit insecure about her five-eleven frame. In fact, she’d be the first to tell you that it’s her unusual stature, replete with legs that go for miles, that helped her get the attention of White. And White is the person responsible for bringing her into the Hollywood world.
I stop in front of my “office” door and turn to face her. Mona leans up against the jamb, her eyes going all dreamy. “I wonder if Rogan likes tall women,” she muses.
Back to Kiefer Rogan, I think with a deflated sigh. I won’t be able to avoid him much longer, so why do we have to talk about him now?
My bitterness surfaces. A guy like him—beautiful, wealthy, had the world in the palm of his hand—showed me just how destructive men like these could be, and he left me with scars to prove it. Scars that won’t ever let me forget it.
In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, I let that bitterness flow, secretly hoping it’ll stop her from bringing the conversation back to him. “From what I’ve read in the tabloids, he likes anything with boobs. But I think he’s into the divas mostly, which would count you out. Thank God!” I, for one, am glad that Mona isn’t conceited about her looks or her position here at the studio. She’s utterly guileless, happily clueless and I like her just the way she is—diva not included.
“I could be a diva,” she says, straightening, her expression turning enthusiastic. “I could totally be a diva. If it meant having those flirty green eyes and that drop-dead gorgeous smile turned on me, I’d be whatever he wanted me to be.”
Her little-girl giggle belies her words. She could never be a diva. “You don’t have a diva bone in your body. Besides, why would you want a guy like that? He dates the most horrible women and he goes through them like water. I mean, look at Victoria,” I say, lowering my voice as I scan the hall left and right to ensure we aren’t being overheard. “What kind of decent person would date her? She’s awful!” I go on cynically, finding some strange comfort in pigeonholing him, calling a spade a spade. Hoping that maybe if I build up my armor against him, I won’t be swayed by his pretty face. “I bet he’s a conceited jerk who only cares about what his arm candy looks like.”
“Guys who look like him can be annnything they want, as long as they stay hot.”
“Well, he’s all yours, then. I don’t have room for cocky, obnoxious, self-involved sleazeballs in my life.” I glance at my watch. Six fifteen a.m. Mr. Rogan should be here by six thirty, but I won’t be holding my breath. “I bet he doesn’t even show up on time. Jerk!”
Mona sighs, tilting her head, a faraway look in her eyes. “I’d wait all day for a guy like that. He makes my special places shiver.”
“Well, you and your special places are welcome to him. I don’t see what the big deal is,” I reply, turning into my office. “He’s not even that good-looking.”
I take two steps through the door and come to an abrupt halt. There, settled in my makeup chair with one ankle resting on his other knee, looking highly amused and as though he’s been here for a while, is none other than Kiefer Rogan.
More gorgeous than words.
A rising star.
My first client of the day.
And the guy I just insulted.
TWO
Rogan
I sit in the makeup chair listening to the conversation happening out in the hall. I don’t feel guilty. I’m not trying to eavesdrop. They brought that shit to my door. Literally. So of course I’m going to listen.
I’m curious to see what the two women who are talking look like. One is obviously very complimentary, while the other is anything but. I’m more used to flattery than dismissiveness, so I’m already working on a mental picture of the skeptic. I mean, yeah, I have an ass-ton of flaws, but I was lucky enough to be born with a decent face and a strong body, a combination that never leaves me without plenty of female attention. I’m not arrogant about it. It is what it is. I don’t try to be handsome. I guess I just am. I mean, hell, I make a living getting punched in the face. Well, not anymore really. There aren’t many who are good enough to land one on me these days. That’s the beauty of rising to the top in the mixed martial arts arena.
I’m surprised when the two women walk through the door into the room where I’ve been waiting. I’m even more surprised by the way they look. One is a tall, blond goddess, the kind of woman I love to spend my nights with. The other is shorter and darker, but no less appealing. In fact, something about her immediately snags my attention. Holds it pretty damn tight, too.
She’s staring at me with wide, midnight eyes, her deliciously lush mouth hanging open in shock. A long, thick rope of reddish hair is swept over one shoulder in a sexy wave and she’s wearing a prim little dress that’s the color of an apricot. What’s inside that dress is just as appealing as the rest of her—two plump, more-than-a-handful tits pressing rhythmically against that soft cotton. They make my palm tingle to touch them, to see if they’re as firm as they look.
When I make my way back to her face, I realize quickly enough that she was the one running me down. She doesn’t have to say a word. It’s all right there in her expression. The blonde looks dazzled. This one just looks . . . shocked.
Of course, me being the healthy guy that I am, she’s the one I want.
The one who doesn’t want me.
THREE
Katie
Even though Mona is still pressed flat against my back where she nearly ran me over because I stopped so quickly, I can’t seem to budge. All I can do is stare, open-mouthed and embarrassed.
“Mornin’, ladies,” Kiefer Rogan drawls, dropping his ankle from his knee and crossing two thick arms over his impressive chest. He looks like a man who has not a care in the world.
And why should he? Look at him! I think.
Sweet Mary! His pictures don’t do him justice. I knew he was a handsome guy. I mean, I’m not blind or dead. I’ve seen the tabloids. I’ve seen the news. But I had no idea just how handsome he would be. He’s stunning. Simply stunning. Practically perfect in every rugged, manly way.
His short hair is dirty blond and his brows are just a few shades darker. They hover in a dramatic slant over amazingly bright green eyes. They nearly glow in the tanned sea of skin that’s stretched tightly across his angular face. His mouth is chiseled perfection, and his jaw and chin might as well be carved from a chunk of granite. He’s not so perfect that he’s pretty, though. No, he has flaws. Well, at least one that I can see. It’s his nose. There’s a slight crook at the bridge. Obviously it’s been broken a few times, but it does nothing to detract from his looks. Not. One. Thing.
“Mr. Rogan,” I finally manage to mutter. “You’re early.”
“Just Rogan,” he instructs in a sandpaper voice. “I may not be that good-looking, but at least I’m a prompt selfish asshole.”
Ohgod ohgod ohgod! He heard me!
I can hear Mona’s soft whisper in my ear. “Shit!”
For far too long, that’s the only sound in the room aside from the pounding of my heart and the crackling of the fire that I’m certain has engulfed my face. Or is that just my imagination?
“I didn’t call you an asshole,” I defend weakly.
“You might as well have.”
“But I didn’t,” I maintain, starting to feel a bit prickly, like a cornered animal.
“Touché,” he says with an acknowledging nod. As I watch, one side of his mouth pulls up into a grin that’s so sexy, for a split second I worry about Mona’s panties bursting into flames and burning us all alive in this tiny little square of an office.
I don’t know how to respond, so I say nothing. I just stand here, sinking in the quicksand of his stare as the silence stretches between us like thick, stringy taffy. Unfortunately, that gives me too much time to notice how his smile makes my stomach feel shaky and how the sparkle in his jade eyes makes my skin feel warm. None of this helps my composure.
Mona recovers first. I hear her clear her throat just before she steps around me. “Hi! I’m Mona. Mona Clark,” she says in her friendly way.
My best friend strikes out across the room toward Rogan. As I watch her, I’m a little deflated. I could never measure up to a woman like Mona. And I don’t just mean her California looks, surgically enhanced figure and her loose-hipped swagger, the one she’s using right now. No, it’s something more than that. It’s her outgoing personality, too. Mona’s just the whole package.
And I am not.
I can see her from the side when she stops and sticks out her hand for Rogan to take. She smiles and I think to myself that there aren’t many men who can resist Mona, least of all men like this one. But when I swing my gaze back to his face, I’m more than a little surprised (and even more disconcerted) to find that he’s not looking at Mona—Mona the beautiful, Mona the charming, Mona who’s standing right in front of him offering her hand. No, Kiefer Rogan is still looking at me.
Instantly, my tongue goes dry, dry like a damp cotton ball that’s been left out under a hot sun all day. Only this hot sun is a hot man with a curious gaze.
With my breath coming in odd little bursts, I’m forced to admit that I’m feeling a little starstruck, which is totally unlike me. Yes, Rogan is probably the most attractive person I’ve ever seen, but that shouldn’t matter. It’s no longer in my DNA to care about things like that. About men at all. I’m the classic “once bitten, twice shy.” Things like this don’t happen to me.
Ever.
Or at least not anymore.
I frown, confused by his attention. My confusion seems only to make him smile bigger, though. I want to look away. I really do, but I can’t. I feel like a fly trapped on flypaper, glued to this spot by his penetrating stare. Stuck until he decides to let me go.
Just a heartbeat before his disregard of Mona would be considered rude, Kiefer Rogan finally shifts his focus to my friend and takes her hand, grinning up at her. “So, Mona, are you the one who’s supposed to cover up all my imperfections?”
“No, that’s Katie. And don’t get me wrong, I love her and she’s one of the best artists in the biz, but I don’t think God Himself could improve anything on you,” she gushes with her most winsome, wholesome smile. I can tell she’s about ten seconds from stripping and throwing herself in his lap, but I doubt he can see it. She’s all calm confidence and cool beauty.
God, she’s good!
I envy my friend’s ability to be flirty and natural and unflustered in situations like these, whether she feels it or not. I used to be that way—poised and outgoing—but that girl, that version of Kathryn Rydale, got burned up in a fire a long time ago.
“I appreciate that, Mona,” he replies in a surprisingly genuine manner, “but I think the hi-def cameras might disagree. Apparently, scars are a bad thing.”
I cringe a little on the inside, even though I know it doesn’t show on the outside. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s how to hide. Emotions, insecurity, myself—hiding is the one defense mechanism that I’ve mastered.
“Why? Scars make a man . . . a man,” Mona assures him with a cute wink. That’s something else I could never pull off—cute. It would look clumsy and ridiculous on me. I don’t know what I can pull off, but I have a feeling it would be more in the neighborhood of awkward or weird.
“Oh, I’m a man, all right. All man,” he teases, shifting his eyes back to me. The instant they connect with mine, I’m unable to move or speak.
Again with the flypaper thing, I think in exasperation.
I want to avert my eyes, to hide from scrutiny like I’ve done for so long, but I can’t. It’s like I literally can’t look away. Even though it makes me distinctly uncomfortable in my own skin, I can’t look away. Maybe that’s because it also makes me feel breathless and warm and nervous and . . . fluttery.
In some way, the bizarre apprehension I’ve carried all morning makes perfect sense now. My gut told me he would be trouble. I just never expected him to be this kind of trouble. No one affects me this way anymore. No one. It’s been safer for me that no one has. And I liked it that way. Because this isn’t safe.
I work to hide my unhappiness with this situation. After all this time, why am I reacting to Kiefer Rogan? Of all people, why him? Is it his looks? His attention? The position of the moon or a random twist of fate? And why did I know, deep down, that he was going to be a problem? I don’t know the answers. What I do know is that my life is much less complicated when men aren’t a part of it. And Rogan is not just any man. He’s danger on two legs. And danger is something I don’t need. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.
“I don’t doubt that one bit,” Mona murmurs, drawing me back to reality and the conversation going on around me.
“So does that mean you’re Katie?” he asks me, blatantly ignoring Mona, who is still clutching his hand, practically drooling all over it. “Are you the beautiful artist I’ll be spending my mornings with?”
There’s a silk thread in the gravel of his voice now. It soothes and it entices. It invites and it promises.
No wonder the world fell in love with him. He’s flat-out hazardous! That smile, that friendly nature, that wickedly handsome face . . . It’s a potent combination. It’s even working on me! And, as damaged as I am, I didn’t think any masculine wiles would be able to penetrate the thick scars I’ve developed. But, then again, I never expected to meet someone like Kiefer Rogan either.
“Yes, I’m Katie,” I mumble when I finally find my voice.
Rogan unfolds his big body from the makeup chair. I catch and hold my breath, stunned into immobility for the second (or is it the third?) time in a few short minutes.
He’s got to be over six feet; six feet of solid muscle and graceful lines. Wide shoulders, narrow waist, thick arms and legs, and it’s all encased in denim and cotton that hugs him like a lover.
In a slow walk that practically screams SEX, he makes his way across the room to me, not stopping until I have to look up at him from my diminutive five feet, three inches. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Katie. I look forward to changing your mind about me.”
I’m spellbound. As much as I don’t want to be, I am. Not only is he gorgeous, which is bad enough, it’s clear that he’s charming, too. Good God, what a combination.
Up close, he’s even more heart-stopping. I can see that, unlike his hair, his lashes are nearly black and sinfully long, framing his eyes and turning plain green into dazzling emerald. I can also see that there’s a tiny scar marring the smooth line of his upper lip. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingertip over it. I find myself inordinately fascinated by it.
I drink him in, albeit reluctantly. Kiefer Rogan is like champagne—undeniably delicious, deceptively light, and too easy to get drunk on. To lose your mind with. To make a mistake with.
That mouth quirks into a half-grin and my gaze flies back up to his. His expression is amused. Confident. Sizzling.
Not taking his eyes off mine, Rogan reaches for my hand, curling his warm, rough fingers around mine. He lifts and shakes my hand, each pump a leisurely, measured movement, like he’s thinking of things other than the polite, innocuous gesture. It gives me a little chill to imagine what those things might be.
When I reply to his determination to change my mind about him, I’m proud that it’s in a calm that belies my inner flux. “That’s not necessary. We don’t have to like each other. I’m just here to pretty you up for the cameras each day.”
“Oh, I already like you,” he claims in a low voice. Before I can respond, he continues. “But Mona here doesn’t think I need much prettying. Do you disagree?” His eyes twinkle with mischief, and I can only imagine what a less scarred and backward woman might be feeling right now. Dazzled, flattered, lustful. All of the above?
“It’s my job to make everyone prettier,” I reply mildly. I know better than to stir up that hornets’ nest. I’m used to stroking egos and protecting pride. I work with some of the world’s vainest actresses. Diplomacy is practically a job requirement in my field.
One corner of his mouth curls into that irresistible, lopsided grin again. This time, he’s so close that I can see a dimple appear in his lean cheek. “Then consider me your willing canvas. Do your worst.”
I would take a deep breath, but my lungs feel like they can’t expand anymore, like they’re already near bursting. “Then have a seat and we’ll get to work,” I suggest breathily, hoping he’ll take the hint. At this point, I’d say just about anything to get some space from his disconcerting proximity. If I’m to spend the next six weeks in his face, touching him and getting him ready for his part as Drago in the cable series Wicked Games, then I need for day one to begin with as much professionalism as possible. And at this rate, that’s looking less and less likely to happen. I mean, I started off by insulting the guy within earshot. Not an easy opening from which to recover.
After a few seconds of staring at me with that bone-melting gaze of his and then giving me a full-blown smile, Rogan finally turns to head back to his chair. I carefully and quietly let out the breath I was holding.
“Captivating the crowd already, I see,” a cool and cultured voice says from behind me. I turn to find Victoria Musser, actress, beauty, and witch extraordinaire, standing in the doorway behind me. She looks perfectly rumpled, as though she fell out of bed looking amazing and dragged herself in here to hypnotize all the cameras, with or without makeup.
Having worked for Cinematic Studios for two years, I’ve been assigned to her before, and I despised every minute of it. I was thrilled when Kelly, our key makeup artist, assigned someone else to fix her up.
Before anyone can comment, Victoria is sweeping me into a hug. Her arms feel like scrawny, steel traps.
