Beauty Bites (3 page)

My cheeks burned. The cooler outside air seemed less a treat and more a necessity now—nothing to do with Mr. Flamingly Handsome Holiday. But of course I was lying to myself.

Didn’t matter. Uncomfortable was uncomfortable. I slipped outside. And stopped when my mandible hit the floor.

The terrace—it was too large and elegant to be a simple porch—was the size of my whole student apartment. Its black basalt surface was swept clean. An artful scattering of potted trees and graceful, discreet statuary merely enhanced the terrace’s stark elegance.

I crossed to the far side.

The edge was safeguarded by a heavily lacquered oak railing supported by worked iron spindles. I ran one hand along the rail’s silky smooth surface. This wasn’t conspicuous consumption supported by a maxed-out credit card. This was a sign of solid wealth. Advertising sizzle apparently paid better than I knew.

The cooler air, combined with the railing’s smooth feel, soothed me. Tensions I’d carried since even before the elevator incident drained out of my muscles. What a mess my life had become, that even that obnoxious incident seemed mostly an annoyance.

Leaning elbows on the railing, I looked out onto the Minneapolis-St. Paul night. Holiday’s penthouse was high enough that the view was rooftops and stars instead of the sides of buildings. Random fireworks burst in the air. Below me, streetlights blazed. The lamps were so distant they might have been stars.

What the heck was I doing here in Rich Man’s Canyon? Despite my runway looks, I was a hometown girl, raised in the small German-immigrant-settled city of Meiers Corners, Illinois. Ric Holiday’s rich penthouse and vast terrace made my tummy shimmy. If I hadn’t heard the desperation in Twyla’s voice, I’d have thought she’d reverted to another of her endless childhood pranks on me.

But she
had
been desperate, and I loved her like a sister. Besides, she invoked
You Owe Me A Favor
, calling due everything from when I’d borrowed her best suit for my med school interviews to covering for me the time I’d broken her Grandma Tafel’s reading glasses using them to magnify bugs. Although I put my foot down when Twyla added twenty years of interest. Favor interest, really. Everyone knows you have to call “Bank” or it doesn’t count.

Twyla was actually my second cousin, our grandmothers being sisters, although Meiers Corners was so insular I was related to half the population. If my father had been a native too, that percentage would have been higher.

But Twyla had a problem. Meiers Corners’s local economy was too local; the city was in danger of going bankrupt. The solution? Tourism. The single benefit of straitjacket insularity is that we’re steeped in local flavor. We have Quaint Local Shoppes coming out Ye Olde Sphincter.

So tourism seemed a natural fit, and was indeed working great, except for getting the word out. After all, tourism without tourists was, um…
M
.

Which was where Ric Holiday came in. Holiday Buzz International was the
Número Uno
ad shop for innovative campaigns. Holiday thought so outside the box that even circles were too square. Meiers Corners needed that desperately. We’re hard workers but tend to think right angles are the epitome of chic.

So Twyla, wearing her city admin hat, called Holiday. But he said no.

So the mayor called him. Holiday said no. Our chief of police called him. Holiday said no. The mayor’s secretary Heidi called, cracking her whip. Holiday said something unprintable that translated to no. Then our top lawyer and prime negotiator Julian Emerson called.

Holiday wouldn’t even speak to him.

Twyla said
enough
. Time to meet Holiday face to face, to find out what the sticking point was. Then she could apply either carrot (the mayor) or stick (Heidi) as necessary.

Time, Twyla said, to confront the lion in his den.

If she’d met lithe, tawny, forceful Ric Holiday in person, she couldn’t have gotten that any more right.

I fingered the expensive material of his suit coat. There was something untamed about him, sinewy strength barely civilized by suit and tie.

A bolt of lust sheared through me, so long and hard that I shuddered.

Which was of course when the French doors behind me opened.

“Here you are. Escaping the heat? I knew you were beautiful, but now I see you’re smart too.”

I spun to behold the owner of that deep voice. He’d changed into another suit, this one a charcoal gray that contrasted sharply with his azure eyes. In even those few moments I’d forgotten how handsome he was—so gorgeous he made my eyes hurt, my only excuse for blurting, “Did you know that seeing a good-looking person of the opposite sex makes the brain release dopamine which triggers pupil dilation?”

I slammed my stupid dopamine-dilated eyes shut. This was my
opponent
. I tugged his coat tighter, thought constricting thoughts, opened my eyes and tried again. “If I were smart, I wouldn’t have gotten my blouse torn.”

He glided closer. “The smartest move of all. Not your fault and yet effective, since you’re here to ask a favor. Visual aids are always useful in negotiations.” His eyes, sparkling with sensual intent, dipped to where his coat covered my cleavage. A smile, full of promise, curved his lips.

That wicked smile was a pilot light to the broiler of my body, igniting every cell,
whoosh
. I flushed hot, shivered with it.

But my brain wasn’t all that charmed. “Visual aids? Implying I should use sex to negotiate? That was beneath you.”

His smile pursed. “The bra isn’t a Temptress Siren Special? Retail $199. A thirty-six D unless I miss my guess, but a bit too small for you.” His eyebrows rose. “It’s not yours, is it?”

“I find it disturbing that you observed all that in a glance.” I’d thought his gaze had been on my face in the lobby.

“Good peripheral vision.” He quirked a grin. Devastatingly handsome morphed to boyishly attractive, actually even more devastating.

I squashed a groan. “Then what were you suggesting with the ‘visual aids’ crack?”

“My dear Synnove, I wasn’t suggesting anything. Merely observing.” He handed me a champagne flute. “Housekeeping is bringing you another blouse.”

I clamped the coat with one hand to accept the cut crystal with the other.

“And in observing, I find myself curious.” He sipped his champagne. “A beautiful woman from out of state attends my third annual Christmas-in-July house party, bearing a gift no less, but not because she wants something? I’m not sure I quite believe that.”

I sipped champagne too, ended up with my lips in my esophagus. The stuff was dry. “You invited me.” The words rasped like sandpaper. I coughed and tried again. “Do you always invite strangers to your house party?” Better.

“I’m in advertising. Even the people I know are strangers. But in this case, my admin handled the invites.”

Which reminded me that, though we were strangers, he’d named me on sight. I again opened my mouth to ask how the hell he knew, when he hit me with those startlingly blue eyes and drilled both question and oxygen from me.

He wedged his own question into the gap. “Why go to so much trouble to see me?”

It took a few quick breaths to pump up air for an incautious answer. “You’re a hard man to see.”
Hard
. I clutched my champagne and dredged my brain up from the gutter of my hormones. “You’re something of an enigma, Mr. Holiday. We want to negotiate, so we want to get to know you better.”

“We? I’m disappointed. I was so hoping this was about
you
.” Lean fingers slid under my chin, raising my face.

Our eyes collided. His sparkled with intelligence and confidence and a sexuality so blistering I couldn’t breathe. My body flooded with begging-for-sex estrogen. “M…me?”

“Yes. Your partners have sent the perfect leverage. The perfect female.” His voice deepened, husky. “You.”

“I’m…I’m not…” I cleared my throat.

He bent closer until his mouth hovered over mine. “You’re not perfect?” His breath heated my lips.

Desire arrowed straight through me, sudden and splashing and hot.

I jerked back, hitting railing. “Not female.”

“No?” Lips quirking, he straightened, giving me some space. “My mistake.”

I covered one hot cheek with a hand. “I mean… Of course I’m female. But I’m not generally this…” I waved the hand at my short skirt and high heels, “…feminine.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “And I’m definitely not here in that capacity.”

His gaze held an amused twinkle. “The clothes are a bit at odds with your trimmed nails.” He caught my hand and held it in his. His thumb caressed the back of my hand.

The friction of his feather light stroking paralyzed me. But deep within me fires roused, as if I’d been asleep all my life and was waking at his touch. Heavens, was this what Sleeping Beauty felt at the Prince’s kiss? The fairy tales I’d been reading Teddy seemed anything but innocent now.

“You have competent hands. Strong but refined.” His thumb continued to stroke. “Are you a musician? Ah, no. A physician.”

He was pretty damned smart. Or he’d lied and his admin had vetted me. Which, come to think, was much more likely than his knowing the truth by touching my hand.

His thumb moved down, caressing my wrist. My paralysis dissolved into trembling.

A discreet knock at the French doors saved me from crumbling into a pile of Synnove-shaped dust.

Bonus, I got to see Holiday walk again. Mmm-hmm.

He spoke briefly with someone at the door and returned with a scrap of red cloth in his hand. “My apologies. This was all that could be found. Apparently the nearby stores are closed. I’ll hold your champagne and the coat.”

He exchanged the cloth for my glass and turned discreetly away. When I shook out the scrap it proved to be a cropped cami too small to cover one breast, much less all of me.

On the plus side it had a darling little teddy bear appliqué.

I snorted mentally in disgust. I was a doctor, wanting desperately to be taken seriously in spite of my looks. Yet here I was, contemplating donning spandex because some primordial feminine mote in me thought it was cute. Life will play its little jokes. “You expect me to wear this?”

Over his shoulder, he gave me yet another version of his smile, a self-deprecating quirk, before turning again. “I don’t expect you to wear anything. Pardon the double-entendre. But remember, you’re here to ask a favor of me. It might be easier for you if you’re clothed.”

“I’m not sure this counts as clothing.” I considered the charming yet far too small camisole. Holiday was right, this sexy little scrap might be our best bet to get him to agree to take us on as a client.

But despite Twyla’s costume high jinks, I don’t like using my looks to get my way. Life is unfair enough. I stuffed the top into a pocket. “The coat works for now. Look, Meiers Corners needs a creative ad firm. We need
you
.”

“Me.” He shook his head slowly. The back of his yellow head gleamed silver in the moonlight. “That’s what your associate said. The delightful Twyla Tafel.”

He turned, clasping both his glass and mine—in one big hand.

I swallowed a sudden flood of saliva.

His ever-changing smile was now regretful. “I’m sorry you made this trip for nothing, Synnove.” Again that Scandinavian lilt made my tummy shimmer. “I have to say no.”

“That’s what you said to Twyla. But
why
?”

His smile tilted. “You’re direct, aren’t you? I’m not. I prefer to say no and leave it at that.”

“I prefer to know the full story. Why?”

“Persistent too.” His smile subtly altered, as if, for the first time, his real interest had been engaged. “All right, then. Your charming executive Ms. Tafel is not simply asking me to create an ad campaign for your fair city. She’s determined that I visit in person.”

“There’s a reason for that.” I extended both hands in a gesture of appeal.

I’d forgotten the coat. I had to scramble to grab it before it did the inevitable before-sex towel-drop.

He raised an eyebrow. My cheeks heated. I half-shrugged and bobbed my head, a nonverbal
I didn’t do that on purpose
.

His eyebrow lowered and he handed me my champagne flute, nodding as if he’d understood.

Whoa. Twyla and her significant other did the silent communication thing, but I never had. It was scary and disturbing and frankly a bit exhilarating.

I took a slug of champagne, regretting it immediately when my eyes started watering. Sec means dry; it’s also the sound of your epiglottis being sucked down your windpipe. I rasped, “Meiers Corners is not your usual Chicago bedroom community.” Another, more careful sip helped clear my throat. “We’re a small city with our own unique flavor.” I thought of our stick-straight streets, broom swept sidewalks, ruthlessly weeded gardens. “Beyond unique. Mr. Holiday, you need to visit, get a feel for us, to get the campaign right.”

“Call me Ric, please. I’m sure your city is delightful. But it’s too far away.”

“I drove it in seven hours. It’s a day trip, two at most. You don’t have time for a couple days?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. His gaze slid down my body, heating as it went, caressing the length of my legs. A twinkle in his eyes turned it from ogling into appreciation. “Would you drive with me? Just the two of us?”