Curve Effect (A BBW Box Set of Contemporary, Science Fiction and Paranormal Romances) (43 page)

“I’d just forgotten.” Bryce shrugged away the comfort Erato offered and scratched at her wrist. The dove charm fluttered in response. “About this.”

“And you should continue forgetting about it,” Erato said, her voice a soft chide. “You’ve a dinner date to get ready for and less than thirty-nine minutes to do it in.”

Bryce shook her head, then wiped away a lone tear. “I just thought that, maybe Monday…maybe he would still…”

“Monday, you’re on your own, dear.” Erato cupped Bryce’s elbow, the touch gentle but unyielding. “Tonight, I’m getting you ready.”

Erato steered Bryce toward the bathroom, the water to the shower turning on before the door was even opened. “You’ve got ten minutes for your shower, no more, and don’t worry about getting your hair wet.”

Bryce moved into the bathroom, her senses numbed. Twice now, Walt had taken the bracelet away, once in his bathroom and once at the loft. Both times, she’d felt like he’d been looking at her—seeing her exactly as she was and finding her beautiful anyway. Now, with Erato on the other side of the door, telling her to speed it up, Bryce’s doubts came flooding back in.

Erato pounded on the door. “Okay, that’s enough. Grab a towel because I’m coming in!”

Bryce pulled a towel from the rod and wrapped it around her a second before Erato swept across the bathroom’s threshold.

“Leave you alone for a few minutes and your head starts filling with stupid thoughts!”

There was a genuine look of disapproval on the muse’s face and Bryce dropped her gaze.
Stupid for thinking it had been just her and Walt in the loft creating their own magic?

“Bryce Schoene, enough!” Erato herded Bryce in front of the mirror, gathered up the honey-blonde hair that fell halfway down her back and ran a brush through it. On the first swipe, the hair was dry and smooth.

“Open your hand,” the muse commanded.

Bryce held her left hand up and opened it.

“No, not that one, the other.”

Feeling something thick in her fist, Bryce unclenched her right hand to find a dozen hairpins. Erato took two pins and Bryce could feel the woman twisting and looping the hair, but when she looked in the mirror, she could see little more than a blur of soft gold light.

“I can’t see it,” she said, and twisted her head to the side.

“You’ll see it when I want you to.”

“But—”

“Fifteen minutes and we still have makeup and clothes to do,” Erato warned.

Bryce started to think there was something quite wrong with the attention Erato was giving her. The thought was interrupted by a pinch at her thigh and the poke of a hairpin against her scalp.

“Ow!” Bryce jerked and then looked down at the blur her legs had become. But what she couldn’t see, she could still feel and she didn’t like what she was feeling. “Not a garter, nope. Naked, okay, a garter belt, no!”

Erato ignored the complaint, her laugh a soft purr as she pushed past Bryce and sat between the countertop’s two sinks. The muse forced her to keep still as she applied a smooth foundation to Bryce’s face. Motionless and blocked by Erato’s wide shoulders, she couldn’t see anything in the mirror. She gave a resigned sigh. Makeup brushes started flashing in and out of the woman’s hands. Finally, Erato finished and leaned back against the mirror with a satisfied smile.

She pointed down at Bryce’s feet. “Shoes.”

Bryce followed the direction of Erato’s hand, seeing a glob of gray but knowing from the sudden imbalance that the muse had stuck her in a pair of high-heeled pumps.

“Bag.” Erato thrust another gray blur at her.

“I don’t like this—not being able to see. I could be dressed like a clown, for all I know.”

“What kind of selfish muse are you?” Erato asked.

Seeing Erato’s sly expression, Bryce waggled a finger under the goddess’s nose. “How does my not being able to see have an effect on Walt’s inspiration? What are you hiding?”

“Temps! They have to have everything explained to them and then they’re gone two days later.” Throwing up her hands, Erato moved so she wasn’t blocking the mirror.

Even her face was fuzzy, and Bryce felt the same nausea the toga had invoked rise up.

“Oh, it’s not like the toga at all,” Erato snapped. Grabbing Bryce by the shoulders, she tilted her head and studied her handiwork. “You feel vulnerable, yes?”

“Yes.” Bryce bit the word out.

“And it shows.” She smiled, the expression filled with an almost motherly indulgence. “That contradiction—the independent Bryce, the vulnerable Brycie—he loves it and it’ll make a wonderful painting.”

Bryce felt her stomach settle as Erato offered the explanation.

“Trust me?” the muse asked.

Bryce shook her head.
No.

“Ha…but you’re going anyway, right.”

A nod.
Yes.

“Good!” Erato’s hand swept down toward the knot of fabric nestled in Bryce’s shallow cleavage. “Now, about that towel…”

*****

Returning to Walt’s apartment, Bryce opened the door without knocking. She didn’t have time to look around the room before a cold, feminine voice assaulted her.

“Must be more than just a casual acquaintance to enter unannounced.”

The woman sat on the couch, looking like some Nancy Reagan clone but without the red dress. Recognizing Artemesia Diaz from pictures in the society pages, Bryce flinched before she pasted a welcoming smile on her face. When Artemesia’s expression only grew more sour, Bryce’s gaze and smile flicked to Walt.

He looked tense and livid, and she realized he hadn’t been angry yesterday, just hurt. He was angry now, furious even. He nodded at the front door.

“I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

As polite and soft spoken as his words were, he wasn’t asking her to leave—he was telling her.
Okay,
it wasn’t like she wanted to hang around with Mama Diaz anyway. Turning toward the door, she felt the lash of Artemesia’s displeasure and froze.

“So you’ve taken to dating livestock. Are you trying to make some point about ‘Chelle?”

Bryce spun slowly on her heels, taking a calming breath as she went. She didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to draw a lungful of air and tell the little tweaker that the fawning acolytes in her circle might take her attitude, but Artemesia could kiss Bryce’s double-wide ass.

And why not tell her exactly that?
she thought. But then she saw Walt’s face. He looked like he had just been sucker punched in the stomach, his guts spilling out even though the hand delivering the blow belonged to a slip of a woman who probably weighed in at around a hundred and five.

Shaking the stunned look from his face, he shot Artemesia a dark glare and then pivoted. He moved to Bryce, his arm out as he walked. “I’m so sorry, Brycie—”

“A trailer park name if I ever heard one—”

“Enough, Mother.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The quiet venom coating his voice was enough to shut her up. Reaching Bryce, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder before turning to pierce Artemesia with his sharp stare. “We’re going to dinner. You’re not welcome here. If you’re here when I get back, I’ll move again.”

He was trembling, his fingertips biting into Bryce’s shoulders for a few seconds before he seemed to realize it and relaxed them. “And I don’t want to see you at all until you’ve found some adequate way to apologize to Bryce.”

“What in the hell has gotten into you?”

Hearing the surprise in Artemesia’s voice, Bryce remembered Erato’s warning—you’ve never been one of the girls the Perfect Mr. Diaz let mommy chase away.

Was he offering more than the usual fight in the face of Artemesia’s disapproval?

Stretching up on tiptoe, Bryce kissed his cheek, grinning at Artemesia’s disgusted “Tsk”.

“I’ll be waiting by the Suburban,” Bryce whispered, letting her lips glide over his ear.

Gently, he stopped her. “No, we’ll go together…okay?”

She nodded, relieved that the anger clouding his eyes disappeared the instant he looked at her.

“Your father has been spoiling you,” Artemesia spat out.

“No, Mother,” Walt said, taking his keys from the hook, “he’s been spoiling you.”

He opened the door for Bryce, never once breaking contact with her as they left the apartment and walked to his SUV.

“Wow!” Bryce said as she slid into the Suburban and hooked her seatbelt. “I’ve read about her, but—wow!”

Walt still held her door open and he studied her with a curious gaze. “How long have you known?”

“At the loft.” A little caution had crept in to taint his curious expression and she crafted her explanation with care. “You told me on the patio that your name was really ‘Galtero’. But I didn’t really put it together until I saw your signature on the painting. The initials ‘DIIG’—‘Galtero Diaz, Junior’.”

That they were the same initials marking her body in two places made her bring her hand to her chest and his artist’s mark.

She didn’t want to poke, but the passing caution he had shown worried her. “Why?”

Moving back so that he could shut her door, he gave a little shrug. “We can talk at the restaurant, if you still want,” he answered. “Dwelling on Mother and her behavior while I’m driving…well, that has to be an instant recipe for road rage.”

Walt shut her door and she fidgeted in her seat, wishing he wanted to talk now. That he hated stick mommy, or at least had some deep issues with the woman, went a long way toward explaining any genuine attraction he felt towards Bryce. Or so she thought—but that was little better than pop psychology. Wasn’t it? Frowning, she twisted the charm bracelet until the clasp faced up.

Climbing into the driver’s side, Walt saw the attention she was paying to the bracelet. “You need some different jewelry,” he groused. “Do you even have any jewelry other than that?”

“Only if watches count,” she answered and unclasped the bracelet. She held it out to him, dropping it when he opened his palm in acceptance. “And if you think I need something different, Walt Diaz, you’re just going to have to buy it for me.”

He smiled, opened the center console and let the bracelet spool into it. “Fair enough.”

Bryce watched wordlessly as he put the Suburban in gear and backed from the parking space. His jaw was tense, as if he expected Artemesia to rush from his apartment and throw herself in his path. While the woman might be that desperate, Bryce didn’t think she’d be so publicly blatant. No, Artemesia Diaz was much more the closed door type of diva who made sure all the rumors about her stayed rumors.

Bryce remained quiet all the way to the restaurant, unsure if letting him stew over Artemesia’s appearance and what the woman had said was a good idea. She half felt the need to sulk, too. But she would be damned if Walt’s mother was going to ruin what could possibly be her last night with him.

At the restaurant, he parked the car, seeming to shake off his bad mood in the time it took to walk around to her door and help her out. He held her hand and waited until she had both feet on the ground. “You look really stunning tonight Bryce—I’m sorry if anything was said to make you feel otherwise and that I took so long to say something.”

Well, at least she could stop worrying about what Erato had done to her—she only wished she could see it. She glanced down at her legs and feet but still only saw a blurred mess. She thought she was in a two-piece. She could feel the flutter of soft fabric around her arms and ankles while something tighter hugged her hips. But these were just impressions that shifted as she moved.

Letting go of the door, he slid his arm around her waist and bent to nuzzle her neck. “My favorite restaurant, and I know nothing in there is going to compare to your taste.” He kissed her throat, the pressure just light enough to keep from bruising her pale skin. “Nothing will be as sweet or creamy.” He repeated the kiss, along her jaw line and just below her ear. He ran his lips over hers. “Or as spicy.”

Walt drew her tight to him, still holding her hand and pressing his palm against the small of her back. A lovers’ dance with no music. She could feel him molding into her curves, feel her nipples beading in response. Far from him making her forget her body, she was aware of every tingling inch of skin, every length of muscle pulled tight in anticipation of where he would touch or kiss her next.

He ran his hand up her back, spreading delicious shivers across her arms and chest. He stopped at the edges of her up do and stroked the wispy strands that refused to be restrained. “You may have ruined all of L.A. for me, Bryce, if I can’t keep seeing it with you,” he whispered.

Damn, he was dangerous.

“Your lips shouldn’t be trembling like you’re ready to cry, Brycie.”

He was so warm—his voice, his lips, the concerned olive green gaze. Each time they were this close, she could feel her anxiety and resolve melting.

“Kiss me then,” she said.

Walt took her mouth with a hard reverence. He swept Bryce up into the kiss. He held her tight around the waist while his other hand pressed against the base of her head, forcing her into a yielding position. His tongue parted her lips, stroking and teasing as if he were kneeling between her spread thighs. She gripped his shoulder to steady herself, the pale, soft silk of her hand a white flag of surrender.