Hot and Bothered (13 page)

Haven had not prohibited Mark from bringing up or discussing sex, so he did it as frequently as he thought he could get away with. Which was pretty much all the time. That meant he couldn’t get it off his mind, either. While he was trying to make her lose control, while he was indulging his fantasy that he would say just the right thing to convince her that she needed to go shut that door right now, he was also making himself rock hard and totally frustrated.

Once he’d lowered his voice to a whisper, leaned in, and said, “I was just thinking about the way you looked spread out for me on your bed.”

She’d rolled her eyes, but the fierce blush that rose in her cheeks gave her away. “We’re not doing this, Mark.”

She’d probably said that to him a hundred times since the night and morning they’d spent at her place. One of his only sources of consolation was that she sounded less and less sure each time she said it.

She was not very good at hiding how she felt, which was the only thing that made this period of celibacy bearable. That and sexting.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly sexting. It was texting that slipped over the line into flirting and then, just once or twice, over the line into something that didn’t quite entirely count as celibacy. Those texts required him to perform marvelous feats of coordination, during which he used his right hand for the purpose for which God had so deftly crafted it, and his left hand to keep the conversation going.

Haven had apparently not been able to stop herself from engaging with him via text. She’d said one or two things in texts that he couldn’t imagine her saying in real life, things about body parts of his that she particularly liked, and where she would like him to put them, preferably as soon as possible. Afterward, after she sent him a lot of nonsense characters to indicate the heights to which sexting had taken her, she also denied that it counted as sex and exhorted him, once again, to be discreet. (Exact words: “Don’t you dare lose your phone.”)

But what she hadn’t said was where this was all going, and that was the part that was killing him.

And speaking of killing him, a man had just materialized at Haven’s side. A tall, dark, handsome man who looked completely at ease in their posh surroundings. The bastard was laughing and taking Haven’s arm and making small talk and—God
dammit—
feeding Haven an hors d’oeuvre.

Mark went hot with jealousy at the sight of that man’s fingers in Haven’s mouth. Jealousy and totally inappropriate lust, because he’d been in Haven’s mouth in every way it was possible to be there, and if that guy didn’t keep his hands to himself, in about thirty seconds Mark would cross the room, wrench her out of the man’s grasp and kiss the hell out of her in front of everyone.

Ironically, Cindy chose that moment to feed
him
, her slim fingers lingering a tiny bit too long on his lips and tongue. He chewed and swallowed and said, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Cindy.”

“Haven told me we’re just having fun. But no point in not having all the fun we can, right?”

“Look,” he said. “I
really
appreciate your helping me out with this. But I’m actually not even in the market for fun right now.”

Which was crazy. When hadn’t he been in the market for fun? And why was he refusing an offer like this out of loyalty to a woman who had put him on a hiatus of an indeterminate duration and, when he thought of it, an indeterminate nature, too?

“Mark,” said a female voice at his elbow. He jumped, but it wasn’t Haven. It was Becca Steele, who did PR for Noteworthy. “They’re ready for you on stage.”

He thought he was going to throw up.

“You’ll be great,” said Cindy, smiling.

He followed Becca into the wings and waited his turn. By the time he got out on stage, people had sat at the dinner tables, and servers were bringing around salads. His stomach coiled at the sight of food, and then twice as hard at the sight of all those faces staring up at him.

“I’m thrilled to introduce Mark Webster, formerly of the band Sliding Up,” Becca told the rapt audience. “You probably remember ‘Twice as Nice’?”

The crowd murmured its approval.

“Mark’s here to talk to us a little bit about how music lessons changed his life.”

When she stepped back, he stood for a moment with the mic in his hand. He wasn’t sure he could even speak. And then he found Haven in the crowd, and she smiled at him. A full-on smile of pride and delight, and he thought,
I can do this
.

“I’m better with playing guitar than speaking,” he said. His voice was huge and echoey in the ballroom, but it sounded okay. Steady. “But I was told you wouldn’t appreciate me singing my speech.”

Laughter.

“It takes a lot to make me talk in public. I was never the guy in the band who did the witty little interludes.”

More laughter.

“So you know if I’m up here talking to you, it’s because it’s about something really important.”

They were watching and listening, and to his shock, he was enjoying this. They were waiting for him to say something, and he had something to say.

“My dad, who raised me pretty much on his own, was a good guy. He wanted the best for me. But there wasn’t much for me at school.”

He told them how he hadn’t been particularly good at academics. Or at sitting still. He’d been just getting by, he said, and slipping back as the work got harder and there were more and more kids who were just plain smarter than he was. He’d been a wisp of a kid back then, and he had friends, but only a few. He had been shy and quiet and not particularly athletic at that point. “Now you wouldn’t want to meet me on the basketball court,” he said, grinning, and they laughed again.

That laughter was as much of a high as the applause had once been. Better, because he was doing something that came straight from his soul. This laughter felt like the applause he got for playing the blues, or the smile on Gavin’s face when Mark had shown him that guitar lick.

“And then one of the older kids in the neighborhood handed me something. It could have been a bong or my first beer or a crack pipe or a cigarette, but it wasn’t. It was a guitar. He let me play his guitar. And everything changed for me. Practically overnight.”

A deep hush descended, one he could feel in his own body.

“I started doing better in school because my dad and teachers told me I could only have guitar lessons if I kept up my grades. And suddenly I had friends, because a guy with a guitar was cool and useful. A guy with a guitar got the girls.”

More laughter.

“I’ve had my tough moments,” he said.

The faces in the audience were upturned. He saw sympathy, not judgment for what he’d done wrong. These people were hearing his story, and they were seeing him as a human being.

“But music has always been the thing that saved me. I believe music can be that thing for a lot of kids. The way many kids are saved by sports or by learning to write about their experiences. And those kids who are saved that way—they go on to do important things. They change culture and history and politics. They make our world a better place.”

His blood thrummed with it, that feeling. He was doing something that mattered. He was telling the truth. His truth.

“Bid high,” he said. “Bid frequently. For the kid I was. For all our kids.”

The applause was thunderous. He shook hands with Becca and began his descent from the stage. He saw Cindy first, coming toward him to congratulate him.

Right behind her was Haven, beaming at him as she crossed the floor, date in tow.

All the joy drained out of the moment. Oh, God, he was going to have to meet Mr. Whoever and make nice talk. All the while knowing—

Knowing what? What did he know,
really
?
Haven had told him she would bring a date to this, hadn’t she? What claim did Mark have on her?
Haven had had sex with him, had enjoyed herself in ways that were unusual for her. But he didn’t know why or what it meant to her or whether she wanted anything more to ever happen between them.

Even though he did.

He wanted to be more to Haven than a novelty, more than a plaything, more, even, than part of her journey of sexual self-discovery.

He wanted Haven in his life, because Haven had made so much in his life feel right, and real.

She was getting closer, and there was so very, very little to her dress, so much bare, smooth, curvy Haven. His hands were twitchy with the need to touch her, and his mouth was watering. His heart felt tight with the need to
tell her what she meant to him.

Her date placed a proprietary hand against the center of Haven’s bare back and Mark felt something deep and ill-defined snap inside him.

“Mark, that was brilli—”

He didn’t give her a chance to finish, didn’t let her introduce the man with the wandering hand. He just grabbed her arm and murmured, gruffly, “I need to talk to you.”

She looked startled for a split second. Then she gently removed her arm from his grasp and smoothed her expression out, bringing her polished social self to the rescue. “Well, hello to you, too,” she said sweetly, ignoring the urgency in his low whisper. “Don Dormer, this is Mark Webster and Cindy Sheldon...”

Haven continued her suave introductions—Cindy would of course be familiar to Don as the singer on that
amazing
Christmas album that was so popular last year, Don was the president of an up-and-coming sports cable station...

“Great speech. Really great speech,” said Don, putting out his hand. His shake was firm. He looked Mark in the eye. There was nothing anywhere in his demeanor to indicate anything other than the greatest ease and comfort in this situation, and Mark imagined you could drop this guy anywhere and he’d be exactly the same. Totally in control, totally on top of the world. Mark hadn’t been privy to Haven’s conversation with Elisa when she arranged this date, but he could imagine it.
Yes, someone who fits in perfectly at a fund-raiser. The kind of guy you don’t have to watch out for or worry about whether he’ll do something embarrassing...

Mark didn’t want Haven anywhere near this guy. Or any other guy. Not for the duration of the tour. Not for a few months, a few weeks, a few days, or the few hours it would take before this fund-raiser ended and they could all go home. He wanted her to be his right now, and his alone.

“Hav—I need to talk to you.” He said it more gently this time. It came out sounding a lot more civilized than he felt, but still pretty harsh.

“If you’d excuse me? Mark and I have been working hard preparing for a media exclusive with
High Note
, and we’ve had an awful game of phone tag today. We’ll just be a couple of minutes trying to sort a few critical things out.”

“Sure thing,” said Don, and turned to Cindy.

“This had better be good,” Haven said, as she followed Mark. “We’re supposed to be inconspicuous.”

“I remember. Discreet.” He led her out of the ballroom, around the corner, and up a half flight of carpeted stairs to a small mezzanine area. The spot was relatively quiet and afforded at least some privacy. Also, it was about twenty-five degrees cooler here than it had been in the ballroom.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern wrinkling her forehead.

“It was hot in there.”

“I wasn’t hot.”

“You aren’t wearing any clothes.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “This is awkward, Mark. We’re not supposed to be sneaking off together, leaving our dates to fend for themselves. The whole point of this is to divert any possible suspicion away from us.”

“No,” said Mark, taking a step toward her. She retreated, and he chased her back till her shoulder blades pressed against the wall behind her, an echo of that first time against her office door. She gasped, an innocent sound that nevertheless wrapped itself around his cock and tugged.

“No,” he said again, and he kissed her. Not a tentative, exploratory kiss, but a kiss into which he could pour the depth of his feelings.
You are mine, and I’m telling, not asking.

For a moment she struggled. Then she gave in, and when she did, she did it completely. Molded herself against him, the length of her body easing against the length of his. She slid her hands around the back of his neck and wove her fingers into his hair as she slid her tongue along his. She opened up to him and leaned in.

It made him want to cry with relief.

12

H
E
PULLED
BACK
,
held her face between his hands, and told her, “
That’s
the whole point. The whole point is that I like you
way
too much to pretend to you or myself or the world that you mean nothing to me.”

She was so startled by the kiss, by her own out-of-control lust, that it took a while for his words to sink in. At last she understood that he was telling her something big. Something real. Mark Webster was asking her for something that she
knew
he hadn’t been able to ask of anyone since Lyn had broken his heart.

And not only that—the thing he wanted from her was something she wanted just as much.

That was the surprise. Her belly warmed and her heart opened up. Her whole body along with her mind reached out to him, all ready to say,
Yes, yes, I want that, too
.

She’d loved his speech. Loved the way he’d gotten up there looking so ill at ease, as if he was wearing not only an outfit but also a role that felt wrong, and then...then, when he’d put his hand on the microphone, he’d changed in an instant. An expression, a whole new way of standing, had come over him as if he commanded not only the device in his hand but also by extension the whole room. All of them fell under his spell, the way an audience did when he played. And then he gave his speech, and it was like hearing him play. She
felt
him. That had been Mark to his core, to his soul, to that part of him she was most envious of, that part she was still not sure she possessed.

She was proud of him. She wanted to belong to him.

Maybe this wasn’t so difficult after all. Maybe it was the simplest thing in the world. Maybe she could follow her heart and figure out the rest as they went along.

She’d done that once before and it had ended badly, but that didn’t mean it had to end badly all the time. Screw Cinderella and Pygmalion and Eliza Doolittle. Mark was here tonight. He was a little rough around the edges, maybe, but that was part of his appeal. Maybe he could live in her world when he needed to, and she could live in his.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” He sounded startled.

“Yeah. We can make that happen.” She leaned in close and touched her mouth to his, sweeping her tongue across his upper lip. He opened to her, his mouth relaxing against hers.

“Huh,” said a voice. “You got the bonus package—image consulting
and
tongue.”

Pete Sovereign.

Of course.

“Can’t fault your taste,” Pete said to Mark. “She’s hot.”

She could feel the energy gathering in Mark, and she grasped desperately for something she could say to defuse the situation. Something she could say that would keep this from going any further awry.

“Hav?” a voice called.

It was Suellen Marvel from
High Note
, cresting the stairs to the mezzanine. And behind her, Becca Steele, the marketing director of Noteworthy. She guessed they’d come to see if they could get Mark to talk about the speech.

The appearance of the women was a reprieve, possibly salvation, in fact. They presented the perfect way to rescue the situation and get Pete’s and Mark’s minds off their hatred of each other. Sure, there would still be a lot of work to do to defuse the tension, but at least things hadn’t exploded, as she’d thought for a moment was inevitable. She grasped Mark’s arm firmly, intending to lead him toward Suellen and Becca, and far away from Pete Sovereign.

Pete crossed his arms. He wasn’t trying to hide his cockiness from her now, the way he had that day in her office. The gloves were off. “Did Haven tell you I asked her to come to this thing with me tonight?” he said to Mark. “We had a
great
coffee date last week, and it seemed like a natural fit.”

Mark’s eyes found hers.

She wordlessly pleaded with him.
It’s not what you think. Trust me enough to believe that.
But all that came out of her mouth was, “He asked but I said no.”

Mark’s gaze wouldn’t hold hers. It sought Pete again, and he took a step forward. She tugged his arm, but he didn’t budge. “Mark,” she whispered.

Suellen’s eyes followed the action, flicking rapidly from one of them to the other. She had the avid look that reporters got when a situation blew up. Thrill of the chase.

“She did say no,” Pete confirmed. “And now I know why. She was plenty busy, what with having a date to the fund-raiser already, and having you on the side. But no worries,” he said to Haven. “Take your time. And when you’re done with Mark, I’ll take over. That’s the way it works, you know. Mark first, and then when you’re ready for a real musician—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mark lunge.

“No,” she cried.

It was too late. Mark’s hands connected with Pete’s throat. A crowd gathered—where had these people come from?—and several men grabbed both Mark and Pete, hauling them off each other. Mark flailed wildly, trying to escape his captors, his face twisted in rage.

Cell phones came out, held aloft for photos and video, and Haven watched it all, her thoughts a tangle at the wreckage of her work all around her.

All these people were seeing firsthand what it was like for her world to fall apart.

“Are they fighting over you?”

Trust Suellen to ask that question. The journalist’s tone recalled her to herself, like a slap in the face. This was her job. This was what she did. She answered tough questions. She cleaned up messes. No way would she lose control here. For Mark’s career and for her own, she would hold the pieces together.

“You know these guys have a long history. Lots of old tensions,” Haven said, and was proud of how cool she sounded. How unconcerned. As if her clients got in brawls all the time and it was just part of the long image-rehab process. As if it had absolutely nothing to do with her.

“Are you and Mark Webster together?”

“We’ll talk about all of this during the exclusive.” She took a deep breath. She could fix this. This is what she did. She could spin it. She could talk about how she and Mark were attracted to each other—“Who could resist such a hot guitarist?” she’d laugh—but had decided that dating wasn’t compatible with working together, so they’d put it off. That sounded fine. And then she’d say how Pete had a lot of envy issues with Mark, and had gotten the wrong idea.

She’d tell the world what had really happened between Pete and Mark when the band had broken up. This wasn’t a disaster. It was an opportunity.

And then she saw Mark’s face.

Dark. His expression, savage, aimed not at Pete but at
her
.

Regret choked her. And panic. She knew instantly that she’d been focused on the wrong priority. This wasn’t about fixing things with the public. What mattered was Mark. Her and Mark.

She knew what she needed to do, if she wanted him to ever look at her again the way he had in Nordstrom’s and in her apartment. She needed to answer Suellen’s question with the simple truth.
Yes, we’re together
.

Her mind raced through all her years of training, scanning the situation, looking for words, trying to foresee consequences. There would be so much sorting out for her to do, so much for Mark to do. They would lose things that mattered. She could do that, but for Mark—

Pete still hadn’t committed to the tour. Her handling of this moment would dictate how this scene played out in the press—and whether Pete saw the tour as a train wreck or his ticket to easy money. It could make or break Mark’s role, too—if Jimmy Jeffers decided that she and Mark were too much of a liability as a couple, he could trot that replacement out again.

Her next words might very well determine whether or not Mark would be able to take care of his father.

Could she make that decision for him?

She tried to catch his eye, to ask him without words—
What do you want me to do?

He wouldn’t engage. That fury was written so deep on his face, and his eyes darted away from hers.

“Dammit, Hav,” Mark said, his words hard, bitten off. “She asked if we’re together. It’s not a really hard question.”

Suellen had apparently given up on Haven. “Are you guys together?” the reporter was asking Mark.

“We were,” he said.

Then he walked away.

* * *

W
E
WERE
.

If it had never really been a relationship, officially, did it count as a breakup?

It felt like a breakup. The coldness of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. The accusation in his expression.

That one word, that little
were
, had hit her like a sucker punch. It was the force, the pain, of realizing that something important—no, something essential, as essential as breath or the beating of her own heart—was gone. She had hesitated, she hadn’t seen what mattered fast enough. She hadn’t stood up for the person, the relationship, that mattered most to her in the world. How could she blame him, when she’d already eroded his faith in her so much that he hadn’t believed she could make any other choice?

He’d walked away.

Of course he’d walked away.

She would have done exactly the same thing.

She turned her back on Suellen, on the crowd. She’d never done that before. Out the door of the hotel and down the street she ran, catching up to Mark as he tried to flag down a cab.

There wasn’t a cab to be seen, fortunately. In a city full of cabs, when you were trying to flee, you were almost guaranteed not to be able to hail one. In this case it worked in her favor.

“Mark.”

“Don’t bother.” His voice was icy, his posture rigid.

“I’m sorry. I—” She couldn’t figure out the right words. Everything she could possibly say seemed so painfully inadequate. “I should have—”

“You know what? I’m glad I know the truth. You’re ashamed of me. Better to know now than later.”

That caught her off guard. “I’m not
ashamed
of you, Mark. I was going to tell her the truth.”

“When? How long was it going to take you? How many other excuses and lies were going to come out of your mouth first?”

The sick hurt swerved and became a little spark of anger. “I was trying to help you! I didn’t want everything you’d worked for to blow up in your face.”

“Oh, really? Because that’s sure as hell not what it looked like. Look closely at yourself, Haven. Tell
me
the truth at least. Can you picture a scenario where you put your arm around me, rest your head on my shoulder, and say, ‘This is my boyfriend, Mark Webster? Burnout, has-been, drunk, brawler, scruffy unshaven guy with shit taste in clothes.’ Me.” He left the edge of the curb and paced as he spat out the words, his brisk, angry steps taking him close enough for her to reach out and touch his sleeve—if she’d wanted to, if he hadn’t been bristling with frustration and self-loathing.

Every word he said pierced her, each one of those angry, self-abusing descriptors. Suddenly she realized how he saw himself, and by extension how he thought she saw him. How could he still believe that? How could he think that about her, about
himself
after what they had been through together? “God, Mark. Any other way you can tear yourself down? Because, man, you really do make that sound appealing.”

“But that’s who I am, Haven. You don’t want the real me. The real me disgusts you. I think you might be more right than I wanted to admit that you only want me if I can be your—what was the example you used? Frankenstein’s monster?”

“Pygmalion,” she said.

He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You only want me if you can trot me out in public and I fit in just perfectly and the time is right and nothing is out of place.”

It hit home, and yet she heard, under the all-too-accurate words,
his
terror. “Is that what you’re
afraid of?”

“Don’t make this about me. Don’t fucking make this about me and
my
fear. I’m not the only one who let all that public sex happen. You wanted to get caught. You’ve got all this stuff inside you that you keep hidden. You want people to know you but you won’t let anyone in, and if someone gets close enough to figure out who you really are, then you—”

She watched, saw the moment the anger drained out of his face to be replaced with the hurt she’d seen in the ballroom.

“Then you push him away.”

She wanted to deny it, but there was too much in her head, too much in her heart. It had hurt him when he thought she was going to lie about their relationship in there, and she didn’t know how to undo her failure to claim him. How could she make it right? How could she take back pushing him away so she could make him believe she meant it?

She had lied by omission because when push had come to shove, that’s what her instinct told her to do. She had denied him by failing to claim him when it really mattered. This was exactly what she’d told Elisa she feared.

What the hell did she
really
want?

Mark held a hand up, and she saw an empty cab coming up the street.

He stepped to the curb and opened the door. “I don’t know what you’re scared of, but— Look, I want to be with you, but not like this. Not until you’re ready, until you know what you want.”

And he stepped back and held the door wide for her.

“Mark,” she began. But she didn’t know what she wanted or how to say it. She didn’t know how to not be scared and just tell him all the things she felt.

“Go,” he said.

“I—”

“Go, or I will.”

“Lady,” said the cab driver. “Get in the goddamned cab already. I don’t have all night.”

“Mark,” she tried again, but he was already gone, his shoulders hunched as he headed up the street away from her.