Breathless Read online

  8

  Claire

  In case you’re wondering (because obviously you are), Real Life doesn’t provide fairy godmothers during crunch-time moments.

  How do I know this?

  See Exhibit A: I’ve got on a red dress that swoops down low in the front, promising a show of cleavage that I don’t have, and dips into a sharp V at the base of my spine. Two thin straps hold the Target masterpiece up (I love myself some Target), and I’m balancing on sparkly gold stilettos.

  The problem? My “ride” is due to arrive in five minutes, and I’m strapped for time. My hair is a dark brown mess. My face is nearly devoid of all makeup, save for mascara and a deep plum lipstick.

  Glaring at my reflection in the mirror as I pound foundation into my skin with a beauty sponge, I mutter, “This is what you get for taking a gig right before an event.”

  It’s true. But an old client (ha, are they “clients”? Who knows) of mine called early this morning, complaining that her boyfriend was acting very suspiciously. Naturally, she asked me to do a little stalking. Naturally, she wanted me to sidle on up to him and strike up conversation. Naturally, she wanted me to pat his butt and analyze his reaction. Did he like it? Did he leap away?

  Honestly, it’s days like today when I think people just need to take a chill pill.

  The man wasn’t cheating. Hell no. He was on the market for an engagement ring. The poor guy just wanted to propose, and he’d been accused of infidelity.

  All in all, just a fantastic Thursday.

  But I have a feeling that things are going to turn around for me, so long as I finish up here and finish up quickly.

  My gaze shoots to the alarm clock I’ve got on my desk. Two minutes.

  That is, two minutes if Jake actually shows up on time.

  But then the doorbell rings downstairs, and I realize—he’s not only on time, he’s early.

  With one last glance at my reflection, I shove away from the desk (which sidelines as my makeup station) and snag my gold clutch off my bed. If Jake honestly cares about a little contouring or blush, then he’s not meant for me anyway.

  Not that he’s mine.

  Ugh.

  Just sex. That’s all I want. And, according to him, that’s what he plans to give me—tonight.

  I skip down the steps as fast as I can go in my sky-high heels, clutching the skirt of my dress in one hand. Slow down. Act normal.

  I can’t. For a reason I really don’t want to think about, I can’t slow down. I can’t act normal. Hell, I don’t think I can “act” at all right now—my skin feels tight with anticipation, and my belly flutters with nerves.

  I take one deep breath at the front door, and then fling it open. Only . . . only . . .

  “Where’s Jake?”

  Max and Devin, Jake’s law firm partners, greet me with big smiles. Which is nice, I guess. I’m not trying to be bitchy here, but they’re not the guy I want to see right now.

  “He’s meeting us at the Met,” Max says, stepping to the side so I can close up the house. “He had to take care of something first, but he didn’t want you waiting.”

  Some of the excitement wanes. “A text would have been nice.”

  Devin glances down at me as he cracks open the back door of a fancy car. “It’s a surprise.” He puts a hand to my lower back, assisting me in like a true gentleman. “We were told that we couldn’t tell you anything.”

  Max clips him across the back of the head. “Dude, telling her that there’s a surprise is pretty much the same deal as telling her what it is.”

  Both men clamber into the front of the car. Since I seat myself in the middle, I can see both of their wincing profiles when I say, “Might as well just tell me then.”

  “Yeah, no.” Max starts the ignition and we take off. “I’m not interested in dying tonight. I have plans.”

  “For the gala?”

  He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I’m hoping to find a nice, pretty woman, who won’t mind putting me up for the night.”

  I scrunch my nose. “What, did you get evicted or something?”

  Devin laughs uproariously at that. “Nuh-uh, Claire. Max is just hoping to get laid.”

  Max gives his partner a hard side-eye glance. “Like you’re not hoping for the same.”

  “Well, yeah, of course I am.”

  Rolling my eyes, I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “Look at us,” I murmur, “the three amigos.”

  “I was thinking that we were like your fairy god . . . fathers,” Devin says. “Picking you up. Escorting you to the gala.”

  Laughter floods my chest, because wasn’t I just thinking something similar about needing a fairy godmother? I suppose my godfathers will just have to do. “You’re missing the pumpkin carriage,” I tell him.

  Max’s lips turn up in a grin. “Honey,” he says smoothly, “you’re currently riding in a Hellcat. You’ve been upgraded from the pumpkin carriage life.”

  I smooth my hand over the buttery leather seat. “Is a Hellcat a good thing?”

  Max gives a groan of despair, even as Devin chuckles. “You’ve just soundly insulted him, Claire. Max is partial to Dodge Chargers. Except that he only bought this guy because of the name.”

  “What can I say? I’m partial to hellcats, those in bed and out of it.”

  The rest of the ride to the Met provides just the sort of comedic relief that I need to ease my nerves. For the record, I’ve never been the sort of girl to really worry about a guy. Perhaps because of my history. I can’t give men what they want most, so it’s always been easier to stay clear of them.

  I don’t get attached easily because, really, do I particularly want to set myself up for heartbreak when the relationship starts heading for those types of topics? No, I don’t. I sate the itch (you know, via sexy-times) whenever I need it, which is pretty rare actually, but otherwise . . . I focus on my business, if you can call it that, and on my dream of becoming an actress for something other than toothpaste commercials.

  Tonight, though . . . tonight I’m anticipating like I’ve never anticipated anything before. And I know the reason why—Jake Matthews.

  From the first day that he showed up and teased me about my stupid chicken costume, I wondered what it would be like to taste him. To touch him. To feel his body rock against mine as I see only him. But now that I know all of that . . . I want more.

  And, in my experience, “more” is a dangerous thing.

  I’m walking myself into the lion’s den and I don’t even care. Not yet, anyway.

  9

  Jake

  For the umpteenth time in the last twenty minutes, I check my phone. They’re late.

  I knew I should have gone with my gut instinct and picked up Claire myself. But Max and Devin had pushed and prodded, telling me to go take care of everything that I had to do and that they could handle it.

  And here I am, still waiting.

  A server passes by with a tray of champagne flutes. He makes eye contact with me, dipping his chin to his load of booze, and I shake my head.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, I plan to only immerse myself in Claire Holloway—if only she’d get here sooner.

  “Mr. Matthews! Yoo-hoo, Mr. Matthews!”

  My eyes squeeze shut. Oh, Jesus. But there’s no chance to escape.

  I feel the force of Sarah Lipton’s presence infiltrate my personal bubble just as she wraps a hand around my arm and pulls me to a stop. Huh. Apparently, my feet were moving, ready to get the hell out of here, and I didn’t even know it.

  “Mr. Matthews,” Mrs. Lipton (Ms.? Hell if I know what she prefers to go by nowadays) says, still clutching my arm. I can feel her nails marking my skin, and I subtly attempt to pull away. No go. The damn woman has a death grip on me.

  “Mrs. Lip—” I cut off at her narrowed glance, and smoothly murmur, “I mean, Sarah.” The dark expression on her face eases. Thank God. “How can I help you this evening?”

  “My
husband, he’s here.”

  A sarcastic retort leaps to my tongue but I bite it back. Not literally. “From what I understand, that was his plan, yes.”

  “He can’t be here,” she snaps. “I heard he plans to bring a date? That’s not acceptable.”

  God save me from exes. “Ma’am, regardless of how you feel about the situation, Mr. Lipton will conduct himself how he wishes. With a date or without a date.” So long as he doesn’t have Claire on his arm, I don’t really care what the man does. “I’d also like to point out that you were the one to file for divorce.”

  “Well, yes,” she snaps, her brown eyes flashing behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, “but do we really need to bring that up?”

  I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s the furious blush staining her cheeks or the way that she continues to glance over her shoulder at the door which grants entry into the delegated “ballroom” this evening. Hell if I know what it is, but for whatever reason, I open my mouth and say, “Sarah, are you having a change of heart?”

  “What?” Her eyes dart down to her feet. “Absolutely not. You know what he did. Everyone knows what he did.”

  They sure as hell did. No one can unsee Carl Lipton doing whatever to a blowup doll, especially Devin. Even so . . . “It’s all right if you want him back, Sarah. No one will judge you.”

  Her shoulders flinch. “Everyone will judge me,” she whispers. “You can’t possibly understand how humiliating it all was.”

  Actually, I sort of do. Perhaps not first-hand, but since everyone has seen the video . . . Well, you get it. “Take the time to talk to him,” I finally say, wishing that I hadn’t just donned the hat of psychologist. I shouldn’t be in charge of anyone else’s emotions. “Maybe you two can come to an understanding.”

  “I don’t think—oh!”

  I turn to look over my shoulder. “What? What is it?”

  Sarah hisses loudly. I don’t often get scared shitless, but Sarah Lipton is terrifying. Or, right now she is, at least. “I cannot believe his nerve,” she growls. “And your partners! To be encouraging him? How dare they!”

  My partners? Encouraging Carl Lipton?

  Oh, fuck.

  My gaze catches on the sight of them all. Max. Devin. Carl. Claire.

  And then every thought, every last one, empties. Because Claire—my Claire—looks breathtaking. She always does, chicken suit and all, but tonight it’s different. Tonight, I know, she dressed for me.

  Her red dress flutters around her legs, but the top . . . well, the top is barely there. Barely a scrap of fabric. Her hair is up in one of those messy but artfully arranged designs that accentuates her high cheekbones and the elegant line of her neck. There is so much exposed skin that I go cross-eyed, thinking about every last man in the place staring at her.

  Because they are. I can see the heads turning, male and female, as they eat up the sight of her.

  Mine.

  Hell yes she is, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

  “Where are you going, Mr. Matthews?”

  Shit. My feet are moving again.

  I barely spare a glance back at Carl’s wife. “I’m going to get my date,” I tell her, “feel free to follow along if you want your husband back.”

  This time, I don’t wait for her.

  My legs eat up the distance between Claire and I. She must feel the weight of my stare because she twists her head, just so, and our gazes clash. I’m drowning. That’s how I feel as I approach her. Like the water is twisting over my head, sucking me down into the depths of the ocean, and I have no wish to be anywhere else.

  “Jake,” she says breathlessly when I reach her side, “it’s nice to see you.”

  Nice to see me?

  I’m over here dying just at the sight of her, and it’s “nice to see me?”

  Screw that.

  If I’m drowning, she’s coming down right along with me.

  I smooth one hand down over the curve of her backside, relishing the way she jumps and turns to me with a fiery glance. Then, without giving her the chance to escape, or the chance to give me a saucy setdown, I cup her cheek with my other hand and drag her close.

  Up against my body.

  So that her unbound breasts—no bra that I can see—press against my chest.

  So that her hands land on my hips, her fingers clutching my belt to steady herself.

  So that her face instinctively turns up to accept my offering—a kiss. A dirty, hot kiss on her dark-painted, plump lips that tells every dude in this place that she belongs to me and me only.

  She’s just walked into the lion’s den. And tonight I plan to show her every last reason why she should never leave.

  10

  Claire

  Jake’s mouth is possessive. Hard. Sexy as all hell.

  There’s nothing soft about the way he nips at my bottom lip, demanding entry, or in the way his fingers clench down on my butt, digging in, tugging me closer to his muscular frame. With a jolt, I realize that he’s kissing me in a very public show of claiming me.

  Nope. Not happening.

  Sexy as Jake is—and, oh God, he is—I don’t play by those caveman rules. Not in public, anyway. If he wants to shove me up a wall while we’re alone, and rip my panties off? Go right ahead, do it, I dare you. But in front of New York City’s modern-day aristocrats? He’s going to have to work for me, with something else besides his full mouth and hard cock.

  I have standards, people.

  I slip my hands over his belt buckle and give him a little push back, only to feel an immediate sense of loss. Damn it. Why is he so hot?

  He watches me with glittering blue eyes and then—oh boy—brushes the pad of his thumb across his lower lip.

  Panties. Wet.

  Maybe I’ve made a mistake.

  “I like your dress.”

  That’s all he says—I like your dress. But it lights me up from the inside and I grin. “Me too. I like the color red.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  “Two compliments in one night,” I muse with a saucy wink in his direction, “excuse me while I mark the occasion down.”

  His brows furrow. “I give you compliments all the time.”

  “No, you make fun of me all the time. Your family’s chicken suit ringing any bells?”

  Overhearing my conversation with Jake, Devin leans over and throws an arm around Jake’s broad shoulders. Shoulders that are encased in a well-tailored black tux. God, he’s gorgeous.

  “Haven’t you heard of how it works, Holloway?” Devin says, reaching up with one fist to pinch Jake’s cheek. “If a guy is teasing you, then he probably wants in your pants.”

  Jake bats his friend’s hand out of the way, even as I break out into a coughing fit. Carl Lipton is fully entrenched in a conversation with Max, thank God, but I still feel my ears heat with embarrassment.

  Be cool. Be cool.

  “What Devin is trying to say,” Jake mutters gruffly, “is that you intrigue me, Claire.”

  “He likes you.” This from Devin, who grins wildly.

  “Dev.”

  “He’s probably already got a ring picked out.”

  I feel the most ridiculous bubble of laughter threaten to burst from my chest. I eye Jake, whose cheeks are the same shade as my dress. “Is that true?”

  Poor guy doesn’t even have the chance to speak before Devin jumps into the fray again. “Marriage in six months, a kid in a little over a year. You two moving out of the city into Jersey or some shit. I can just see it now.” He closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath, and adds, “And me as the godfather. It’s just beautiful.”

  His lids pop open and he gives a little hum of satisfaction. “I think you two are going to have a great night. Hey Carl, Max, I need alcohol.”

  And, with that, our fairy godfather (who we never asked for) sweeps the others away into the growing crowd of guests.

  Leaving Jake and I alone.

  He averts his gaze and clears his throat a
wkwardly. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m not,” I tell him boldly. “He’s hilarious, and honestly? I sort of like seeing the impenetrable Jake Matthews squirm.”

  A slow, sexy smile lifts his lips. “Ruthless, Miss Holloway. Utterly ruthless.”

  I shrug because it’s true. Call me crazy, call me a bitch if you want, but I’m enjoying the tables being turned around. Enjoying the way Jake looks all flustered and bothered, and not at all his usual, nothing-fazes-me self. “Maybe a little.”

  “Anything else you’re dying to know about me?” He steps close, forcing my chin to kick up so we can maintain eye contact. “My favorite color, maybe?”

  “Black.”

  The corner of his mouth curls. “Like my soul?”

  I scrunch my nose playfully. “You have one of those?”

  The amusement in his gaze darkens, and he takes another step forward. “It’s on loan.” Another step closer. I don’t move away. I want him to catch me. I want him to want me. “But like Cinderella, it’s only mine until midnight.”

  I make a show of peering down at his shiny dress shoes. “No glass slippers? Mr. Matthews, for shame.”

  Husky, masculine laughter curls around me like a warm summer breeze, and the next thing I know, he’s dragged me into his arms and onto the dance floor. There’s no chance to escape, to guard my heart from the headiness of his presence, his touch, him.

  Lowering his head, he whispers near my ear, “These shoes were made for dancing,” and doesn’t get another word in before he succumbs to laughter again, and I’m . . .

  Sucked in.

  It was one thing when Jake and I first started dancing around each other when he was cocky and a prick, and another thing entirely to know that he’s quick-witted and silly and so damn confident in his masculinity that nothing truly affects him.

  He’s sucked me in.

  My fingers slip up the slope of his neck and into his hair. “So, is your favorite color actually black?”