On the Job (11 page)

Keep reading for an excerpt from

ONLY FOR YOU

A One Night of Passion novel by Beth Kery

Available December 2014 from Berkley Books

Two and a half years ago

His final project for the benefit ball cast admiring looks at her many reflections as she sashayed out of the room. Not without good reason, Seth acknowledged with wry amusement as he glanced at the Alien Ice Queen's ass gloved in a clinging blue gown. The starlet paused in the act of appraising herself from all angles.

She had ample opportunity to adore herself in the luxurious but garish dressing room where they stood. No less than a dozen gilded mirrors adorned the suite, including a large one on the ceiling. Daphne DeGarro, the heiress-turned-reality-show-star and hostess for the Cancer Research Benefit Ball, had opened several rooms in her Hollywood Hills mansion that night for the transformation of her guests. She'd reserved her risqué, decadently decorated dressing room for Seth, however. Earlier that evening, Daphne had led him to it with a sly grin. Seth had made her his first project, turning her into a magnificent, sexually flagrant Marie Antoinette, his creative instincts sparked by the woman's opulent bad taste and brassy beauty. The benefit ball for cancer research was now in full swing in an almost equally gaudy ballroom and downstairs terrace.

Seth was the last special effects makeup artist to finish. He was weary. He'd done his part for tonight. Between him and fourteen of his regular staff and two eager interns from Hightower Special Effects Studio, they'd completed nearly two hundred characters in costume and makeup. The price of their labor, in addition to the use of Hightower's extensive costume-and-makeup collection, was a sizable donation to the Cancer Research Fund by each client. Daphne DeGarro might have been in love with herself, but she was shrewd. Hollywood players would pay a hefty chunk of cash to be turned into a fearsome fairy-tale creature or glamorous fantasy character for one magical night.

Perhaps the young actress noticed his gaze lingering on her backside in one of the many mirrored reflections, because she turned to him.

“Aren't you attending the ball, Seth?” she asked.

“No, I'm done for the night,” Seth replied, briskly zipping up an airbrush case and returning it to his kit. Realizing he still had on the tinted glasses he wore when he did an application, he shoved them impatiently back on his head.

“That's all it was then? Work?” The Ice Queen asked. He paused warily, hearing the hint of seduction in her tone. She'd drunk too much champagne while he was doing her application. He glanced up. She was arching her back slightly, highlighting her ample, airbrush-frosted breasts beneath the low-cut gown. Earlier, he had offered to glue the edges of the gown—her nipples were bound to pop over the edge at any moment—but his offer had been flatly refused. Apparently the possibility was something she hoped for rather than dreaded.

She was a temptation, all right, but one he'd grown well accustomed to denying himself. Seth liked women a lot.

Just not the actress variety.

He resumed packing his kit methodically. He knew firsthand the level of infatuation a woman could get for a man who could turn her into a breathtaking vision. He tried to recall her name, but quickly gave up. What difference did it make? Seth avoided women possessed of fame fever. This particular ingenue was burning with it, which had perhaps been his inspiration for the Ice Queen makeup.

She could use a little something to cool her down.

“No. Not just work. It's my art as well,” he replied levelly, sliding some paints into his kit.

“I hope you're pleased with your creation then. I know I am. I feel so honored to have been touched by the best,” the Ice Queen said tremulously. When he didn't look up, because he had a damn strong suspicion she was feathering her fingertips across the top of her breasts and peekaboo nipples, he heard a resigned sigh.

“I see. All the rumors about you not fraternizing with the talent are true then. Shame.”

The door closed.

He exhaled in relief and shut his kit briskly in preparation to leave as well. Eight members of his staff had volunteered to stay and assist with prosthetic and costume removal after the ball. A delivery service had been hired to pick up all the costumes and gear left at Daphne's house tomorrow.

He paused next to one of several iced buckets of champagne in the room and poured himself half a glass. He rarely drank champagne—or any alcohol, really. He'd developed a dislike for the stuff at an early age after seeing firsthand its effects on his father and two uncles in his home village, Isleta Pueblo. It had been a long, trying night though. Usually a script and his creative instincts drove his work. Tonight, he'd been driven largely by vanity and questionable taste.

He drained the flute, finding the cold, dry liquid cleared his mental cobwebs better than he would have expected.

He caught his reflection in one of the gilded mirrors, a tall man holding a delicate flute in a large hand. Next to the feminine flounces and pastel shades of green, gold and blue décor that surrounded him, he looked especially out of place, a bull in a china shop . . . a savage in the midst of contrived artifice.

It was the paradox of his life that those unlikely, big hands contributed to the subtlety, artistry and nuance of Hollywood's grand façade.

He couldn't wait to leave. He set down the flute. A small amount of peace and a large steak were awaiting him at home. Even though it was the weekend and almost nine thirty in the evening, it was early for him to be taking off. He was looking forward to a little R and R.

He swung open the door to the hallway and halted abruptly at the sight of a young woman's pale, startled face—a face he definitely did not know. In the distance, however, he heard a voice he recognized all too well.

Shit. Cecilia.

“Why is she playing coy?” Cecilia was saying, sounding out of breath. “Half my client list is here tonight. I haven't got time to play hide-and-seek with her. What makes your girlfriend think she's so important?”

“I told you,” a man said in a bored tone. “She claims I'm not her boyfriend anymore.”

The girl stared at Seth with huge green eyes. At first, he thought she was stunned. He quickly realized she
was
dazed, but also nearly panicked. Reacting purely on instinct, he reached for her hand and pulled her into the room with him. She came without hesitation, spinning into him in a motion that bizarrely struck Seth like a dance move between familiar partners. Her back was to his front as he reached around her and silently shut the door. He could tell by the sound of their footsteps that Cecilia and her companion had rounded the corner of the hallway in the distance. Very gently, he turned the lock. His fingers lingered on the metal while his other hand continued to clasp the woman's hand in the vicinity of her waist.

For several seconds, they just stood there, utterly still as he half-embraced her, staring at the door and listening. He heard the sound of door after door opening and shutting as Cecilia and the man carried out their search.

“What have you done now?” Cecilia Arends, one of the most successful agents in Hollywood, continued. Cecilia was smart and savvy. Seth and she had gone out a few times. Cecilia had made it clear she wanted more than a few dates. He regrettably didn't return the interest, and he had been friendly but frank with her about it. Cecilia was
way
too attached to her cell phone and doing business, even while they were on a date. When Seth took off from work, he relished his private life, his freedom and anonymity. Cecilia had infringed on his privacy via her celebrity deal making while at candlelit dinners—or finally—during an intimate moment following sex. He'd ended things with her the next day.

He hadn't been avoiding Cecilia—until tonight, that is—but he hadn't been seeking her out either.

“Did she catch you at it with another girl?” Cecilia was saying. “I've told you all along Gia won't stand for your antics. She's too smart for her own good and values her opinion far too much for someone so young. Good
God
,” Cecilia added in a beleaguered, distracted tone. “
Look
at this décor.” A door snapped shut. “Who does Daphne DeGarro think she is, the Whore of Babylon? You'd think with that much money, she could buy herself some taste.”

The searchers' footsteps drew nearer. Instead of being concerned, Seth looked down at the girl distractedly. She possessed gleaming, golden brown hair that was gathered at her neck in a thick braid. He unlocked his gaze from the way the light hit the richly colored strands, and he watched dispassionately as the doorknob turned. His inner elbow pressed against the young woman's shoulder and neck. She was cuddled against the middle of his body like a pea in a pod, the pressure of her against him slight, but . . . nice. He sensed her tensing and holding her breath as the doorknob rattled. He, on the other hand, inhaled deeply. The clean, fresh scent of soap and tangerines tickled his nose. Sexual awareness flickered down his spine, the charged, wholly unexpected scenario perhaps amplifying the sensation.

The knob twisted back into place.

“It's locked. Let's go back down to the party. Maybe she's turned up there again,” the male said in an irritated tone.

When the voices began to fade, the young woman turned and looked over her shoulder. She stared at his face as if rapt. The silence stretched. She blinked and seemed to come back to herself.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I didn't think I'd run into anyone I knew tonight.”

He arched his eyebrows, extremely curious and a little wary. He drank in the vision of her face. “Cecilia Arends is one of the most sought-after agents in Hollywood. What does she want with you?”

She shrugged uneasily under the costume armor she wore. A light pink stain spread on the cheek turned toward him. Realizing she was still sheltered by his body, he lowered his arm from the door reluctantly and straightened. She stepped to the side, but he noticed with a sense of satisfaction that she didn't move far off. He'd liked having her next to him. He dropped her hand and scowled slightly.

His gaze lowered over her with growing interest. She'd been costumed as Joan of Arc. Whoever had done her makeup had been smart enough to apply hardly any paint. The typecasting was perfect. The girl had the intelligent gaze and radiant, fresh glow one might imagine the virgin warrior to possess . . . although Seth somehow doubted a saint would possess such a pink, delectable mouth. There was an interesting tilt to her light green eyes; beautifully shaped, high cheekbones added a hint of regal haughtiness to her otherwise girl-next-door pretty face. He found it striking, the unexpected and exotic combined with all that rosy, creamy freshness. There was something very frank and honest about her gaze. He'd have said she possessed a tomboy quality if he didn't find her to be utterly feminine.

“It's actually Tommy who is responsible for the search party,” she said, interrupting his unexpected and increasingly lustful thoughts. Never let it be said that one night you might randomly open a door and see an incredible, singular woman standing there.

“So you're
not
one of Cecilia's clients?” he pressed.

Something flickered across her face. She shook her head adamantly. “No. I came with my old college roommate. She's an intern for—”

She abruptly halted her rapid, anxious speech, lush lips falling open. Eyes the color of a newly opened leaf lowered slowly over his face and body, and then widened. “Are . . . are
you
Seth Hightower?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“Yes.”

White teeth scraped across her lower lip. Seth felt his body tingle and tighten. Her mouth was a hundred times the temptation of the Ice Queen's flagrantly displayed ass and breasts.

“Your friend is an intern with my company? Liza,” he stated calmly rather than asked.

The young woman's face went tellingly blank.

“What makes you think that?” she hedged, the spark of panic returning to her eyes.

He nodded once at her Joan of Arc costume. “That's a costume from my collection. Only one of my staff could have given it to you. And I brought just two interns tonight, Liza being the only female. Last I heard, they didn't allow males and females to share rooms at UCLA,” he said, the vision of Liza's résumé springing into his mind's eye in perfect detail.

Anxiety and regret flickered across her face.

“I'm sorry. Please don't be angry with Liza for bringing me and loaning me the costume. It's my fault. I begged her to let me come tonight. I'm only visiting her in Los Angeles for a few days, and I wanted to see her at work. She's been vibrating with excitement because she won the internship with you. She says you're the absolute best in the special effects–makeup business. She's been walking on air.”

“Are you trying to flatter your way out of this?” he asked. For a second, her anxious expression intensified. Then her gaze sharpened on his face. She smiled slowly, her anxiety apparently evaporating.

Funny. Most people couldn't tell when he was joking.

“I just wouldn't want Liza to get in trouble because of me,” she said, her smile lingering. “No one else wanted the Joan of Arc costume, and as you can see, Liza wasted no time on my makeup. I did my own hair. Do you . . . disapprove of my makeup?” she asked cautiously.

He realized he'd been scowling again as he tried to discern the trick of magic to her face. He kept telling himself not to stare at her, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

“No. It would have been a mistake on her part to paint you,” he admitted gruffly. “Liza showed good taste in that. Or maybe that was your doing? Are you an artist, as well?”

She pulled a face. “Sort of. I doubt
you'd
think so.”

“What did you study at UCLA?”

“History,” she said, suddenly beaming.

He smiled and glanced down at her Joan of Arc costume in admiring amusement. “Appropriate. You still haven't told me why Cecilia and that man were looking for you. Why were you running from them?”