Hot and Bothered (2 page)

She didn’t expect that argument to fly with Mark. He was too smart, too cynical. Too sure his best self was already showing.

“Can I ask you something? Given how much you obviously don’t want to work with me or apologize to Pete Sovereign, why are you doing the tour? What are you hoping to get out of it?”

The look he gave her could have lasered through glass, sheared it off clean. “Do we have to analyze it? I’m here, right? What if I just tell you I need to do this?”

“That’s fine,” she said, and watched his shoulders sink with relief.

It would be helpful to know who he was, what he was about, but strictly speaking, no, she didn’t have to know his motivations to do her job. She just had to get him cleaned up,
keep
him cleaned up and present him to the public eye at events where journalists would make a stink about his new, clean-cut self and the boozing, womanizing wreck he’d renounced.

She’d keep it simple, do her job and deliver a shiny new version of Mark Webster to his manager, as promised. Which meant she couldn’t waste time on sympathy or curiosity or any other extraneous emotions. She was an artist, Mark Webster was her medium and she had work to do.

* * *

M
ARK
’
S
STEAK
WAS
AWESOME
, no two ways about it. It was worth the awkwardness of this whole stupid scene, worth eating in this sterile black-and-gray room with the other stiff-backed diners, worth getting waylaid by the teenaged hostess and her judgmental eyes, worth being head-shrunk by Haven Hoyt. Mark could almost slice the tenderloin with the side of his fork and the flavor was amazing. He loved it when meat tasted like meat, not frou-frou ingredients.

Concentrating on the food also made it easier to keep his gaze off Haven’s breasts, which otherwise were... They were the eighth wonder of the world. He was surprised the other diners weren’t magnetically drawn right out of their seats to stare. Every time he lifted his eyes from his steak, he had to focus like a madman on her face and not on her curves. He didn’t know what she was wearing—the bottom part was like a burlap sack with a riding crop tied around the waist, and the top part was a 1970s-style button-down shirt under an absurdly short sweater—but whatever she’d engineered underneath her clothes should be part of the building plan for the next generation of bridges. He could practically feel her against his palms. His hands curved involuntarily.

It would probably be a bad idea to proposition her, but that was what he really wanted to do. He wanted to do that a hell of a lot more than he wanted to have a conversation with her about whitewashing his bad self.

She was asking him another question. “Do you have a look in mind you want to achieve? Besides ‘pop star’?’”

Pop star
had never been a look he aspired to. It had been a look he’d stumbled into, that he’d worn like too-tight clothing. And it sucked to think it was now something he had to work to attain. He shook his head.

“Particular people you want to see? Places you want to go?”

“I’m just not that guy.”

She nodded, like that made sense to her. Well, that was something.

He already saw the people he wanted to see—the guys he played blues with in the crappy little club in the Village, and the ones he shot hoops with at the gym near his apartment in Queens. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Haven Hoyt’s people to see and places to go were in a whole different league than his.

“I’m going to set up a bunch of appointments for you—hair, nails, skin.” She touched her hair and stroked the hot pink slickness of her own nails as she spoke, and his body heated. He had to look away. “For clothing, I’ll bring in a personal shopper—we can keep it simple at a department store.”

He hadn’t shopped anywhere other than his local secondhand store in nearly a decade. The whole idea made his skin crawl. He still remembered the way it had felt to be fussed over and groomed like a baby monkey when he was in the band. He didn’t miss that, not for a second.

He itched to get away from her scrutiny and her plans as intensely as he’d wanted to touch her earlier. His primitive brain screamed,
Run away.

“Can’t I just promise I’ll get a haircut and buy some new clothes?”

A half smile appeared on Haven’s glossy lips as she tugged a bite of pasta off her fork. She shook her head.

“I hate this.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he
liked
Haven, and something about her loosened his lips. She wasn’t a ballbuster, and she didn’t come off fake. She had a way of looking at him that, yeah, maybe bordered on pity, but it was better than the other brands of female attention he usually got—scorn or leftover band worship from self-destructive women who wanted to flush their self-esteem down the toilet with him.

“I’ll try to make it hurt as little as possible.”

She said it without sexual emphasis, but it still made the blood rush out of his brain. He bet she would. If he swept the utensils and plates off the white cloth, the table would make the perfect surface on which she could make it hurt, or not, as she pleased. He’d take it either way.

Only he wouldn’t. Because women like Haven Hoyt didn’t sleep with men like him. He could tell by looking at her that, despite the softness of those curves, she had a thick, hard shell. He’d bounce right off if he tried to get through. But knowing that didn’t stop him from craving Haven and her sleek black hair and riveting mouth. The steak had become tasteless and chewy, and he hastily redirected his thoughts. No point in missing the prize he could have to fantasize about the one he couldn’t.

“I’ll get you a schedule as soon as I can. It’ll have the makeover stuff on it and then a whole bunch of events you and I will appear at.”

He set his fork down at the side of the plate. “Events.”

“Parties, concerts, clubs—we’re going to take you out on the town so you can get photographed and written about. Otherwise, your new image isn’t going to do you any good.”

He tried not to let it show on his face how much he dreaded “events.” How much he loathed the people and the publicity, the fakery, the exposure. “It’s not going to do me any good.”

She tilted her head to one side. “It could do you a hell of a lot of good. If you want to do this tour.” Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

He couldn’t turn away, and it probably wouldn’t have helped, anyway. She’d see. He couldn’t decide if he liked that, or if it terrified him.

“So—I’ll ask you again. Why are you doing it?”

He still didn’t want to answer the question, but he knew she’d keep asking him until he spilled. She was that kind of woman.

“I said no when they asked me, at first,” he admitted.

Two of his former bandmates and his old manager had come looking for him after he hadn’t returned their calls, showing up at Village Blues one evening to corner him.

You look like hell, man.

He’d run out of disposable razors a few days earlier, along with milk and cereal. That meant no shaving, and it also meant breakfast had been Bloody Marys in the neighborhood bar. Nothing new on either front.

Thanks, guys.

They’d bought him
several
drinks and then explained the situation. His bandmates needed money. They wanted to do a reunion tour. They were sure he needed money, too, how about it? Jimmy Jeffers, the manager, would make it happen.

He’d told them no. In much stronger language, a burst of fiery self-righteousness that had felt better than sex.

They’d backed off, right out of the club. He’d thought it had been the persuasive power of his refusal, but probably they’d already decided they could replace him. His assholery had only reinforced their intention to do so.

“You know the band’s history?” he asked Haven.

She nodded. Her hair was up in some kind of fancy twist thing. He wondered how many hairpins it took to keep it there, how much hair spray. She was so flawlessly put together, the kind of woman he didn’t waste his time pursuing. Different worlds, different values. But Haven wasn’t looking through him. She was looking at him with sharp, knowing,
memorizing
regard.

“What that history
doesn’t
say is that I never should have been in Sliding Up in the first place. I’m not pop-star material, and anyone could have seen that by looking at me. I was going to school at Berklee, playing blues and rock and roots, and I let myself get snowed by a producer, which is what happens to a lot of musicians. Labels go after young guys in crappy circumstances who can’t say no. I should have had the balls to refuse, because I had other options.”

“So why did you eventually say yes to the reunion?”

“My dad had a stroke. A few weeks ago.”

Her face softened. She’d been pretty before, but now looking at him as though she cared—

It pissed him off that he still had this weakness in him. He hadn’t learned that women could do this at will—listen raptly, make you think you were the only man in the world. He hardened his heart and plowed on.

“He’s got months of physical rehabilitation ahead of him and a nurse taking care of him in his house. The bills are a bitch and his crappy insurance barely makes a dent. I’m his only kid. My mom’s dead. I told him I’d take care of it.”

“That was kind. You’re a good son.”

He waved it off. “I’m not, really. He and I hadn’t spoken for years. He raked me over the coals for being a screwup and—I lost my appetite for getting reamed out every time I had a conversation with him. But when this happened, I realized he’s not going to be around forever. I want a chance to have a father-son relationship with him. And it’s the right thing to do.”

Her eyes softened a little more, and he tried not to like it.

“So you agreed to do the tour.”

“Jimmy didn’t tell you all this?”

She shook her head.

“Did he tell you they were holding a replacement over my head? Someone who looks like me, plays the guitar, can lip sync a hell of a lot better than I can and doesn’t need you to dress him in the morning?”

She bit her lip, another partial smile. “I don’t think you need me to dress you.”

She stopped right there, perfectly innocent, but his dirty brain knew exactly what it wanted to say back.

Nah. I’d rather have you undress me.

The thought got a grip on his dick.
Nice work, schmo. Make this even worse on yourself.

“So, they can replace you. That must be weird.” She leaned across the table.
Keep your eyes on her face
. And it was no hardship. Her nose was long and elegant with a slight upturn at the very tip. Her eyes were greenish, her skin pale and creamy. He wanted to taste it. His tongue tingled.

He needed another beer as soon as humanly possible, but the waiter was nowhere in sight.

He’d lost the thread of their conversation. “What’d you say?”

“I said it must be weird to feel like you’re replaceable.”

Now she sounded like a shrink again.

The truth was, it pissed him off how easily they could drop another man into his slot. Which was stupid because he’d known that pop groups like Sliding Up were just pretty illusions that presented the music some producer dreamed up. And there was nothing—
nothing
—about the job that he wanted, except the money.

Or so he told himself. But if he didn’t want the job, why was he so pissed? He hated to think he still had the same old craving for fame and fortune that had gotten him in trouble in the first place. The desire to have an arena full of people telling him with their applause and their screaming that his music was worth something...when he knew all too well it wasn’t.

“Whatever,” he said, because she was too much—too pretty, too sympathetic, too easy to talk to. Because he had this feeling that she wouldn’t want to stop with messing with his hair, his clothes, his nightlife. She’d want to open him up and make him over from the inside out. And there was no way she was getting in there. “It’s fine. I need the money, I’ll do the tour, I’ll live with their stipulations.”

He would let the exquisite Haven Hoyt put her hands all over him (metaphorically) and turn him—but only the external him—into some version of himself he wouldn’t recognize.

She was still looking at him as if she could see right through him. He wondered what the hell she saw.

Maybe the truth. How much it sucked that he needed the tour, sucked that the only way to help his dad was to sell himself out—again.

Or maybe she saw what he saw most of the time when he looked inside.

Failure.

2

“N
O
MORE
HEDGE
-
FUND
MANAGERS
.”

Haven leaned over Elisa Henderson’s broad desk and smacked its surface for emphasis. She had to find a blank space between all the photos Elisa kept of the couples she’d match-made over the years. Brides in white, husbands and wives romping across tropical beaches on their honeymoons and even a few couples mooning over swaddled-up newborns and fat-cheeked infants. Haven had plenty of satisfied clients, but even she had to admit that you couldn’t beat Elisa’s job for visible results.

Her dating coach frowned at her. “You’ve already said no more lawyers, no more surgeons and no one who’s involved in any way in film. You stipulated up front you wanted a successful, independent, professional man who dresses well. That right there makes the field pretty narrow. You can’t keep eliminating whole categories of men. Next you’ll be saying no chest hair.”

The thought had crossed Haven’s mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She did like things smooth, metaphorically and literally.

She had a quick flash of Mark Webster’s decidedly un-smooth face. Probably only because she’d spent so much time staring at it, trying to picture how it would look clean shaven. The last time he’d been photographed without stubble, he’d been considerably younger.

“Haven.”

“Sorry, just thinking about work.”

“Can we agree? No more eliminating whole categories of men?”

“No one in finance,” Haven amended.

“That’s even
worse
. That’s half the professional, well-dressed men in the city.”

“And no musicians,” Haven said, thinking of Mark again. He was
not
going to be an easy project. He
hated
the idea of the tour. Money was forcing his hand, and that never made for a good situation.

“I’d already eliminated musicians. They don’t tend to be well dressed, at least not according to your vision of what well dressed entails.”

For Haven, that involved a suit, or at least pressed slacks and a dress shirt hanging on broad shoulders. An expensive leather belt around a narrow waist. It was possible she was salivating slightly at the thought. She’d been sex deprived too long for her own good.

Haven had hired Elisa after Elisa had pulled a surprise two-match victory out of a tricky dating–boot camp weekend. Both Haven and Elisa had briefly looked like fools as their shared client, Celine Carr, tromped all over a Caribbean island sucking face with a paparazzo, while her two handlers chased after her and failed to catch up. But just when it had seemed that nothing good could come out of the weekend, Elisa had realized that Celine and her paparazzo, Steve Flynn, were head over heels for each other, and she’d managed to make a splash of it on national television. On top of that, she’d found true love herself with a former friend-turned-lover on the trip.

Haven had been so impressed that she’d signed up for Elisa’s Love Match package, which included both advice and actual matches. Elisa didn’t always make matches. Sometimes she just poked and prodded from behind the scenes. But Haven felt as though she’d exhausted enough possibilities on the island of Manhattan that she’d better seek new blood. She wanted access to Elisa’s top secret, intensely coveted,
expensive
database.

Elisa tucked her auburn hair behind her ears. “I think you might need to adjust your criteria.”

“What’s wrong with my criteria?”

“You say you want all these things—educated, polished, well dressed, well spoken, a good earner—but then you go out with the guys I pick and say they’re leaving you cold. What if you opened up the field a little? Tried someone a little different?” Elisa tapped a few keys and brushed the trackpad, then turned the laptop around so Haven could see. “Check this guy out. Teaches rock climbing, former Navy.” Elisa ticked off his claims to fame. “Does have a fondness for wool socks and hiking boots, so as you might imagine he’s kinda outdoorsy—”

“Stop.” Haven held up her hand and noticed that she’d somehow chipped one Screaming Pink fingernail. She had the color in her drawer at work—she’d patch it when she got back to the office. “Outdoorsy? Seriously? Look. At. Me.”

Elisa did as Haven asked, an appraisal as coldly clinical as a doctor’s exam. Not at all the way Mark’s gaze had felt yesterday. His scrutiny had melted over her skin like warm butter. She thought of saying something about that, but she suspected Elisa would take altogether too much glee in it. She might even cite it as proof that Haven was barking up the wrong dating tree. But Haven wasn’t. She knew what mattered, and for better or for worse, image was a big part of it. It was what she’d made her career on. It was who she was. And she needed a guy who could appreciate its importance.

“Like seeks like,” Haven told Elisa.

She could picture him. At least six feet. Dark hair, close-cropped but not so short she couldn’t run her fingers through it. Dark eyes. Tailored clothes. Athletic. Professional—maybe a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Or, she wasn’t
that
picky—he could be a small business owner, too. Just—successful. Refined. At ease with social events and people.

“Okay, I admit, you’re not terribly outdoorsy. But I don’t think like always seeks like. Look at me and Brett.”

“But you are alike. Education, background, socioeconomics, level of polish.”

Haven hadn’t worried about any of that in her last serious relationship. Poet Porter Weir had worn consignment-shop artist’s garb to go with his longish hair and his intense,
life is nasty, brutish and short
gaze.

Haven had met him at a poetry reading she’d attended when her mother and sisters were visiting New York.

Haven had somehow been born into the wrong household of brilliant, passionate, neo-hippy women. As a child, Haven had loved her family but never quite felt as though she fit in with their crafty projects and eco-adventures and thinky ideas. She was like a Limited Edition Fashion Barbie among handcrafted fabric dolls made by a fair-trade cooperative in Lima, Peru.

On this particular New York trip, she had done her best to make her family feel comfortable—taking them to out-of-the-way galleries, artists’ studios and literary events. She’d felt like a fish out of water, much as she had as a child, when her mother had introduced her sisters and then added, with a wry twist to her mouth, “And this is my princess, Haven.” Maybe in some families, “princess” would have been a compliment, but Haven had known from the time she was very little that in her case it wasn’t. She was decidedly outside the freewheeling, new-age family her mother had dreamed of.

At the poetry reading, Porter Weir had walked past all her sisters in their fun, colorful peasant clothing, their soft, flowing hair and natural faces. He’d made straight for her, in her of-the-moment New York fashion and her pinned-up hair and perfect makeup. He asked her what she thought of his poetry, how it made her feel. And it had been such a long time since anyone had asked her how anything made her feel that she’d found herself answering.

He’d wanted
her
. And in the early days of the relationship he had made her feel not only beautiful, but also smart, interesting and creative. Still, she could never shake the fear that if he looked too closely, he’d discover that she was far more princess than poetess.

And that was more or less what had transpired. He’d dug deep and been deeply disappointed.

Haven had never told Elisa what had happened between her and Porter. She’d mentioned him, of course, because he was her most recent serious relationship. But she’d said only that they’d been too different.

“The point is,” Haven concluded, “I don’t do outdoorsy.”

Elisa nodded, admitting defeat, then hit a button on her computer and made the former Navy guy disappear. “It was just a thought.”

“Next.” Haven had to get back to her own work soon, but Elisa’s office always felt like a refuge. If Haven had had time for therapy, she would have wanted it to feel like this. Cozy and friendly and with a splash of humor.

Elisa laughed. “Okay. Try this.” She displayed another man on the screen. “He’s the vice-president of marketing for a well-known jewelry maker. Think expensive Christmas gifts.”

Haven was already a beat ahead of Elisa, hoping for diamond studs. “Wardrobe?”

“He’s wearing a rumpled jacket in this picture.”

Haven leaned in. Dark hair, dark eyes. The jacket was indeed rumpled, but that was only one small strike against him. Maybe it had been raining the day the photo was taken.

“He likes to ‘dine out,’ ‘socialize with friends,’ and ‘go to the movies.’”

“Why haven’t you shown me this guy before?” Haven demanded.

“Honestly? Because this profile bores me to tears.”

“Maybe he’s just not that good at—”

Elisa scrunched up her face, and they both started laughing.

“Right,” said Haven. “He’s in marketing. He should be able to write a profile of himself that makes him sound worth meeting. But honestly? I’m in PR and I could never write those profiles. If I made them too cute, I always felt like I was fake, and if I made them honest, they sounded boring.”

“That’s why you have me to do it for you,” Elisa said. “So it’s up to you. Do you want to give this guy a chance?”

“He sounds perfect.”

“Okay, let’s go for it. I’ll set something up for this weekend. And I’ll gently suggest that he wear something a little more—pressed—than what he’s got on in this photo.”

“That sort of spoils it, if you have to tell him, right?”

“Well,” said Elisa with a mischievous grin, “if it gets him laid, maybe he’ll learn from it.”

“Who said anything about anyone getting laid?”

Elisa looked up from the laptop screen. “How long, exactly, are you planning for your current dry spell to last?”

“Why break something two years in the making?” Haven winced.

“As someone who has recently broken a two-plus-year dry spell, I have to recommend it. The breaking, not the spell.”

“Do you think it was the breaking that was so good? Or the man you broke it with?”

“Probably the man.” Elisa smiled dreamily.

Haven wondered if being happily matched was a boon or a liability for a dating coach. On one hand, if Elisa could do so well for herself, it said something for her emotional intelligence. On the other, Haven suspected most single women would be more likely to confide in a dating coach who didn’t seem quite so smugly settled.

Elisa snapped out of her reverie. “The point is, you don’t
have
to find the perfect man to break the losing streak.”

“Sex is a lot of work. If I’m going to do it, it’d better be good.”

Elisa narrowed her eyes. “Sex is a lot of work? Are you doing it right?”

“Pumice stones and moisturizers and Brazilians and lingerie shopping and the good sheets and candles and—”

“It’s not an Olympic event, Hav,” Elisa interrupted. “You’re allowed to just do it. Like on the living room couch, drunk, and with the full complement of God-given body hair.”

Haven knew from personal experience that while guys might claim not to need things groomed and romantic and perfect, over time they would come to crave the fantasy version. Once the early, oblivious bliss wore off, Elisa would find that out, too.

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Haven said.

Elisa crossed her arms. “Are we talking about ‘right’? Or are we talking about ‘looking good’?’”

“When it comes to men, there’s no difference.”

Elisa gave her a hard look. “I’m a dating coach. There’s a difference.”

“I’m an image consultant. There’s not.”

Elisa laughed. “Agree to disagree.” She shut the laptop and came around the desk as Haven stood. “You’re a hoot, girl.”

Elisa put her arm around Haven, and Haven rested her head on Elisa’s shoulder, glad Elisa thought it was funny. But she hadn’t been joking. When it came to men, image was everything.

* * *

M
ARK
STEPPED
INTO
Mad Mo’s and was assaulted by screens and vintage neon signs, piped music and raised voices. Even years of having his ears blown out on a stage and in blues clubs hadn’t made him immune to the overstimulation. He had to pause in the doorway to get his bearings.

Mad Mo’s had been around since the 1940s, and it was the antithesis of the place where he’d had lunch with Haven yesterday. At Charme, everything was calculated and calculating, from the color scheme to the people who chose to put themselves on display there. Here—well, it had all happened through year after year of accidents. Someone had once given Mo a neon beer sign and then he had become a known collector of them. The art on the walls was a mélange of photos of Mo’s family, crayon pictures kids had drawn and postcards from every corner of the world. And the food was— It was just food, the fries spilling over the top of the burgers, pickle wedges stuffed wherever they’d fit. Haven Hoyt would have a heart attack if she saw this scene. She’d want to call up whichever of her friends was responsible for giving restaurants image makeovers and have them here before close of business.

Earlier that day Haven had sent him a color-coded spreadsheet that laid out his fate at a series of fund-raisers, openings, soirees and cocktail parties. Nothing in her schedule—not even the two-hour appointment at the high-end barber or the afternoon of shopping at the department store—had struck as much fear in his heart as the text Jimmy had sent him a couple of hours ago, telling Mark to meet him and Pete Sovereign at Mo’s.

Mark had called Haven for help and together they’d worded an apology. She was sorry she couldn’t accompany him to Mo’s but she had to attend an event. She told him she had faith in him; he should just deliver the apology and get out, fast.

While he’d needed the help in getting the words right, he was grateful she wasn’t with him. It would have felt too much like having a babysitter. Better to face up to Pete and do his best.

And so he was here. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, trudging toward what felt like his doom.
Love you, Dad
.
Doing this for you.