Kiss and Makeup (19 page)

Chloe blinked. She certainly hadn't been expecting that. “No big deal.”

“It was. I'm a lawyer who built a name for herself defending feminism, and the next thing I know, I'm acting like a total bitch to my ex-boyfriend's new wife.”

Chloe couldn't have been more shocked if Melanie had punched her in the face. In fact, an elevator brawl seemed a more plausible scenario.

“I was jealous. So I elbowed my way into your home, and when I saw you wearing the ring, the ring he bought for me... Well, we're very different people, aren't we?” she asked.

Chloe looked down at her companion's perfectly manicured fingers, polished in a pale shade of pink. A ginormous engagement ring–wedding band combo glittered on her ring finger. From the man she'd chosen over Ben. Stupid mistake. Because Ben was amazing, and Melanie hadn't noticed. But Chloe had. And she was going to do something about it. “Yeah. We really are.”

“But I can tell you two belong together. You bring out this side of him, this fearless side.” Melanie laughed, but it was forced. “I mean, do you know how long I tried to get him to decorate his last condo?”

The elevator opened and they stepped into the bustling lobby.

“I acted like a petulant child whose toy had been stolen, and I am not only embarrassed, I'm deeply sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Sure, yes. Thank you.” Chloe nodded, unwillingly impressed with the woman in front of her. “And I'm sorry too. For being a jerk. And for thinking you were a stuck-up bitch.”

Melanie's chuckle was genuine this time. “I appreciate that. And Chloe? Take care of him. Ben's one of the good guys.” With that, she turned and strode out of the building and disappeared into the chilly Seattle morning.

It was, Chloe figured, the most grown-up conversation she'd ever taken part in. And it felt pretty damn good. Like she could handle anything.

Including getting her fiancé back.

17

C
HLOE
CRAWLED
OUT
of the cab with several bags of Chinese takeout. She hoped the food might keep Ben from slamming the door in her face. With a deep breath to calm the flipping of her stomach, she walked into the foyer of the building.

She was debating the merits of calling him on the phone versus ringing the buzzer when she remembered she still had his keys.

Here goes nothing.
With a deep breath, she let herself into the building.

By the time she got to his door, her heart was a jackhammer in her chest. And not because of her power walk from the elevator, either. She knocked on the door before her nerves could talk her out of it.

The door flew open alarmingly fast. Almost as though he'd been waiting for her. He looked unbearably handsome in the gray suit and blue tie he'd been wearing the first day they'd met. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She held up the peace offering. “I brought you some lunch.”

Ben's face fell, and it made her heart squeeze. “Oh.”

He invited her in with a sweep of his hand. She stepped into the familiar apartment—had she really only stayed here for a week? He took the bags of takeout from her and headed into the living room.

So much awkwardness in so little space. This was harder than she'd thought it would be.

“I went by your office to see you,” she said, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence that was stifling them. “Well, your former office, I guess.”

Ben nodded as he unpacked the cartons of food, spreading them out on the coffee table. “Yeah, I quit. I didn't want to end up being the kind of person who smothers dreams. I'd rather create them.”

He straightened, surveying the boxes that represented about two-thirds of the Mr. Chow menu.

“I'm starting my own company. Masterson Creative Group. I want to help people take their small businesses to the next level, but I'm going to do some consulting for larger firms until I'm solvent,” he told her. “Hotel Burke is looking over my proposal right now. We'll see how it plays out.”

“What about the cabin?”

“Someone pointed out to me that the real fun is on the lake, not in some swanky cabin.”

“Your father would be very proud of you, Ben.”

He shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal, but she could see his pride in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin. “I think you're right.”

“I'm really proud of you, too.”

The sudden quiet made it hard to breathe.

“Chloe?”

His voice was soft and low, and for the first time Chloe could remember, he sounded uncertain.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

“I just...there's something I need to know.”

He opened his arms in a
just ask
gesture.

“Why didn't you tell her?” She held up her hand. “Why didn't you tell Melanie this was your grandma's ring?”

He shook his head, a slight frown marring his forehead. “I'm not sure. I've wondered about that a lot. Especially over the past week.”

“You told me.”

Ben nodded. “I wanted you to know.”

Chloe tried to absorb the words, to force them to make sense. “We'd only just met when you put this on my finger.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I don't have any explanations for you and me. It shouldn't work. You said it yourself. You've spent your whole life running away from the stuff I've been working toward. But we do work. Somehow all that other stuff doesn't seem to matter.”

Chloe's skin pricked to life even as she tried to hold her hope in check.

“I'm so sorry I hurt you, Chloe. You're right. I was trying to impress them because I thought that was the life I wanted. But it's not. Especially not if it's going to make me act like a raging douchebag. But I meant every word I said. I didn't spin anything. I just told them the truth. You
are
an incredible makeup artist. It's what you should be doing with your life. And don't let the fact that I got carried away trying to make some ignorant old fools see how amazing you are cloud the issue.”

Chloe sat heavily on the couch and bit her lip. “Do not make me cry, Masterson.”

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love the mess you've made of my bathroom counter. And I love how every time you mention your hair, you pull a piece forward and stare at it, as if you're judging it for yourself. I love that you chew your right thumbnail when you're nervous. And I love that you've brought color to my living room. And to my life.”

Ben got down on one knee and grabbed her left hand in his, and Chloe laughed through her impending tears.

“I realize we haven't known each other for very long, but I like you a lot, Chloe Masterson. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm completely and totally in love with you. So will you do me the honor of unmarrying me?”

He slipped his grandma's ring off her finger, and with it went the pressure and the lies. Chloe's hand suddenly felt as light as her mood. Although her eyes still stung a little.

Romance was making her soft. And she'd never been happier.

“I love you, too, Masterson. And I'd be honored to unmarry you.”

His lopsided grin stole her breath. “Then it's settled. We'll start over.”

She crinkled up her nose. “Like in all the girly movies?”

He grinned at the reference. “Just like that, Latoya.”

“C'mere, Julio.” She fisted her hand in the crew neck of his T-shirt, tugging him closer.

“Careful. This T-shirt cost an obscene amount of money.”

“I'll bet it did,” she said, breaching the space between them to touch her lips to his. To kiss Ben like it was the first night, when nothing was hanging over their heads except possibilities.

And great sex.

He stood up, pulling her to her feet, and then right off them and into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he started walking them toward the bedroom.

“So, listen, I don't usually mix business with pleasure, but as the owner of a struggling start-up, I could really use a client who's poised on the brink of success.”

He set her down in front of the bedroom.

“Makeup by Chloe is a business built on integrity. We frown on nepotism. You're going to have to really wow me if you want the job.”

“Okay, picture this—a campaign with the tagline ‘Kiss and Makeup.'”

“You make a strong case, Masterson.” Chloe grabbed Ben's hand and tugged him into the bedroom. “I think we should definitely get started on that right away.”

* * * * *

Read on for an extract from TEASING HER SEAL by Anne Marsh.

1

“H
UNGRY
?” T
HE
DANCER
gyrating in front of Lieutenant Commander Gray Jackson's table wasn't pushing burgers or chicken wings. She ran a hand down her body, highlighting various edible spots. Her costume—or lack thereof, because she rocked a barely there thong and a pair of four-inch Lucite heels—offered plenty to look at. It was a sad commentary on the state of Gray's sex life, however, that the skin show left him unmoved, without so much as a twitch from the boys.

“Darling, I'm always ready to eat.” He ponied up the teasing words automatically, because his cover as a bad-boy biker required acting like a jerk. When he didn't follow up with a cash offer, the blonde pouted and moved on to the next table. Too bad, so sad.

The Born To Ride was a seedy dive bar popular with motorcycle gangs. On a mission to infiltrate the outlaw biker gang M-Breed and shut down their arms pipeline, Gray's squad had been deep undercover as potential recruits for the past six months. It was a scene Gray recognized all too well from his wilder, younger years. Dancers shimmied up and down poles on a raised platform to the banging pulse of the music, while the patrons knocked back beers and shots, broken up by the occasional bar fight or game of pool. This was
not
the kind of place a man took a date. The men here were interested in three things: drinking, drugs and dealing. Sex, when it happened, was quick, rough and accomplished in the alley or the bathroom stall. They were also, by and large, ex-military and patch-wearing members of M-Breed.

Gray fit right in, and only partly because he'd grown up tough and fighting. He'd ridden from an early age, joining a local biker gang with his cousins and chewing up the highway whenever he could fill a tank. He'd done more than his fair share of juvenile law-breaking and, if he hadn't enlisted in the US Navy when one of his cousins had, he'd have most likely ended up here, anyhow. Instead, he was a SEAL and active-duty military. If tonight's mission went well, they'd finally have M-Breed's lieutenants selling arms on tape. Lights out, show over, go directly to federal prison and serve ten to twenty. Both of the guys at Gray's table tonight were members of his team. Levi Brandon and Mason Black had his back and his six. Outside and down the street, Sam Nale and Remy Leveaux worked the tech detail, monitoring the wires Gray, Levi and Mason wore.

A fistfight broke out in a far corner of the bar, but the ruckus barely merited a second glance. If trouble headed in Gray's direction, the Glock tucked in his waistband had him covered. And, when he ran out of bullets, he had a pair of knives down his motorcycle boots and a length of chain in his jacket pocket. Add to that his two hands, and he didn't need more to kick ass in a fight. God, he hoped there was a fight tonight. He had energy to burn and then some. Fight for Uncle Sam, bust some heads in the names of freedom and democracy. He loved his job.

“Aww, I think you broke her heart,” Levi drawled, eyeing the dancer's butt as she worked a new table.

“That's the way it goes.”

Levi flipped Gray the bird, but the man was grinning, so his tender feelings were just fine. Unlike Gray. He had no idea when his sex drive had hung a left and disappeared, but casual sex left him cold now. The empty beer bottles lined up in front of him were as much window-dressing as the interest he'd briefly feigned in the female shimmying and shaking her way over to him. Which was kind of a shame. Two years ago he'd have enjoyed the attention, but now he was dead inside.

Mason tapped the table. “Company manners, boys. Our date just walked in the front door. He's not a pretty bitch, but then, neither are we.”

Gray checked out the door and, sure enough, it was showtime. Spokes, M-Breed's second lieutenant, sauntered toward the bar, towing a petite blonde in his wake. The blonde was his old lady and Friday-night bar accessory, although how a crusty fifty-year-old man like Spokes had scored this fetching twentysomething was debatable. Cash or drugs—Gray would have laid money on one or both as the culprits. Spokes had gotten his name after stabbing a guy with a handful of motorcycle spokes in a chop shop. He'd done five years on a manslaughter rap before rejoining the gang. He was a mean bastard who preferred fists to words, as the rainbow of bruises on his old lady's arms attested.

Emily. Her name was Emily.
Gray would damn well use her name, rather than the label that marked her as belonging to Spokes.

Spokes might not be parting with Emily, but he had agreed to sell Gray a trunkload of high-caliber automatic weaponry for bargain-basement pricing. AK-47s weren't the kind of firearms that should be available on the street, although Spokes clearly didn't give a crap about where his guns ended up.

“You want me to see if I can detach Spokes's arm candy?”

The fourth member of Gray's undercover team, Ashley Dixon, wasn't actually a SEAL—since the SEALs had yet to induct a female member. She'd been borrowed from the DEA to provide mission-critical cover, pretending to be Levi's girlfriend. She perched on the man's knee as if he were a chair, a skintight minidress skimming the tops of her thighs.

Gray's phone vibrated before he could answer Ashley, and he automatically pulled it out, checking the screen. Around him, Levi and Mason did the same. Yeah. From the disbelieving looks on their faces, he knew their phones were also flashing the code word to pull out. What. The. Hell?

“You seeing what I'm seeing?” Maybe the alcohol fumes had finally done a number on his brain.

Levi nodded, looking pissed off. “We need to roll.”

Fine. He'd fall back, but first he had a detour to make. “Detach Spokes's girlfriend. Get her out on the dance floor.”

Ashley slid off Levi's lap. “I've got this.”

Busy pounding tequila shots, Spokes didn't object when Ashley tugged the man's lady out onto the dance floor. Ashley bumped and spun, the hem of her cocktail dress inching its way up her muscled thighs. She dipped and worked her hips in an exaggerated shimmy, and her companion flashed a smile and followed suit. Ashley looked happy, and Gray didn't think it was an act. She enjoyed dancing and so she was seizing the moment. The awkward bump of her butt against her companion's had them both laughing.

Levi watched the pair, a frown on his face. “Where do you think she learned to dance like that?”

“Not at Saturday ballet class.” She demonstrated a serious lack of rhythm and finesse, but her enthusiasm was contagious. Ashley had a life outside the DEA and her undercover work. He, on the other hand, was a SEAL. End of story. If he ever walked away from his team, he was nothing. A big, blank page of nothing. He didn't have any family he'd stayed in contact with, which he could only partially blame on his work for the government. Sure, he couldn't share the details—or anything much at all—about the covert missions, but he also hadn't tried.

Since his inner shrink had apparently decided to work overtime, he could admit that he was hollow inside, carting around a crater-sized hole that couldn't be filled by gunfights or the adrenaline rush of nailing a dangerous assignment. He'd tried the bar scene and the fight clubs, but the alcohol left him with a hangover, and the fight clubs gave him two broken ribs. Neither were long-term options, and at least he'd been smart enough to recognize that truth. Now he ran on empty. No love, no faith in anything but his guns and his guys, nothing to look forward to but the next time he shipped out and the next firefight.

Speaking of which, it was time to get this show on the road. Shoving to his feet, he headed toward the dance floor. His guys fell in behind him, ready to hump their asses onto a plane, fly down to Central America and take care of whatever it was that needed doing there. They were real fucking Musketeers, and that was the truth. They'd have his back, even on the dance floor, where way too many bodies did the bump and grind. Some of the dancers were pretty, others were not. He knew which category he fell into, although his face didn't stop hands and thighs from touching him in a way that was pure invitation. He was big. He had money. And in the world of the motorcycle gang, that put him at the top of the food chain until someone else knocked him down.

“Ladies.” He inclined his head as he joined the dancing duo, and Ashley pulled him into her circle of two. Spokes's girlfriend gave him a quick once-over, looking nervous, and darted a glance over her shoulder. Spokes must not have protested, because she stayed put. They danced silently for a moment, the music pulsing around them and vibrating through the soles of his boots, and he almost got why Ashley liked this.

The bruises on the blonde's arms, however, were even more disturbing close-up. His own relationships might not last longer than a night, and he might need his sex raw and gritty, but hurting his partner was off-limits. No exceptions. Whether or not the US Government had enough to put the scumbag away for a few decades, the lady needed a breather. Unfortunately, while her tired eyes flitted between him and the man waiting for her at the bar, she showed no signs of heading for the door.

He put his mouth right up by her ear, making sure she had no excuse to not hear him over the pounding beat of the bar music. “Emily, you need to pick up and get the hell away from Spokes.”

Maybe she tweaked or maybe Spokes's cash spoke louder than the man's charming personality. Either way, breaking Spokes's nose wouldn't get her to the door if she didn't want to leave. A woman had to want to walk, and she also had to be ready. He'd learned that firsthand when he'd been six. The trailer park where he'd grown up hadn't been big on personal space or privacy. When a man and a woman fought, the neighbors heard every word, every grunt, every slap of flesh on flesh. He slipped Emily a wad of cash. Money wasn't enough, but it was a start. She'd have to do the rest of the work herself. After a moment, she nodded and laid in a new course for the side door. With the cash, she'd have a chance, but only if she kept on walking and didn't return home where Spokes could find her.

Still, it was hard to turn away, towing Ashley with him as if he'd busted up the dance circle simply to collect her. It helped some that all hell broke loose behind them as two of the bar's patrons got into a fistfight that rapidly escalated to criminal property damage and felony assault and battery. He'd given up pretending that he minded the violence. Because truth was, violence came with the territory, and his team had ended more than one mission that way.

The Harleys he and his boys had parked outside were, hands down, the best perk of this particular mission, especially since it looked as if they wouldn't be taking Spokes down any other way tonight. Ashley had complained loud and long that she hadn't scored a bike of her own, but an independent ride didn't fit the biker girlfriend image.

Mason turned the ignition switch on and shifted his bike into neutral. “Where we headed?”

Gray rechecked his phone. “I've got one word for you.
Belize.
”

“What's in Belize?” Levi kicked the starter hard, his bike firing to life.

It was a good question. Up until five minutes ago, Gray would have answered jungle, scrubland, historic ruins and some damned good fly-fishing. He might even have fantasized once or twice about buying a piece of land on one of those little sandy cays and putting up a house. Sitting out in all that blue, casting a line. He sighed. Whatever undercover op Uncle Sam needed them for now, it sure wouldn't involve a cold one and a fishing lure.

“Our next op. We're going undercover as resort staff at some place called Fantasy Island.” He gunned the bike toward the highway. Another night, another mission, even if this one came with blue water and palm trees. Yeah. The odds of him passing as the employee of a five-star resort seemed low, but he went where he was sent, and he'd do what it took to get the job done. He'd never blown his cover yet.

Hooyah.

* * *

T
HE
SEAPLANE
LURCHED
,
and Laney Parker dug her nails out of her armrest. When she risked a glance out the window, she spotted nothing but Caribbean blue beneath them, the ocean's flat surface dotted with shadows from the clouds. The view was pretty, but missing any kind of landing zone whatsoever. She'd triaged a small plane crash her first year in the UCSF emergency room, and the injuries had been particularly horrific.

The plane bounced again, and she immediately reattached herself to the armrest. Although the odds of dying in a plane crash were low, it hadn't been her week for playing the odds. Her stomach rose halfway up her throat. She'd pass on the meet-and-greet with the ocean's surface. Leaning forward, she riffled through the seat pocket contents. The charter airline had stocked up on glossy magazines, but skimped on the barf bags. For the ridiculous price tag this week in the tropics had cost, she'd use the magazines if she had to. What was supposed to be a week of glamorous sex with her new husband by her side was most definitely
not
turning out as planned. Still, when the plane leveled out, she exhaled slowly. Maybe surviving the landing was in the cards, after all.

The sound of a cork popping and champagne fizzing had her head turning in time to catch the flash of a long-necked bottle out of the corner of her eye. Frankly, she wasn't sure how anyone could think of drinking so early in the morning—although it was definitely five o'clock somewhere. The woman who dropped into the seat opposite her, however, didn't look as if she cared about what the rest of the world thought. Ever. It was a good look, and one Laney needed to emulate.
Screw it.
That was her new motto, and she'd buy the T-shirt just as soon as she could.

Maybe Fantasy Island had a gift shop.

The woman had ink-black hair and an ear full of piercings that must have given the TSA fits. She'd paired the metal-head look with jeans, a ripped concert T-shirt from a band Laney had never heard of and a pair of military-issue combat boots. An audible, fist-pumping beat issued from her earbuds. Laney, on the other hand, sported her usual yoga wear from Target in practical black. Dark colors didn't show the blood, and since as a trauma surgeon, she tended to get called in whenever she wasn't actually already
at
the hospital, there was no point in not being comfortable or racking up a dry cleaning bill. In fact, now that she thought about it, her yoga pants were just about the only thing she owned that weren't hospital-blue or wedding-white.