Janet Evanovich - Hot Stuff

The perfect living arrangement, Cate thought. It allowed her to go through school without education loans. It got her out from under her parents’ overprotective wings. And she had a big strong roommate who wasn’t interested in women.

Cate mixed two mojitos. It was late summer and that meant exotic-drink season. Lots of margaritas and piña coladas and mojitos. A man at the end of the bar caught Cate’s eye and lifted his empty glass. She handed the mojitos off to a waiter and sailed a Sam Adams draft down the polished mahogany bar. ESPN played on the television hanging over Cate’s head. Conversation rose and fell in the dark room. Eyes occasionally flicked to the small, empty stage. Marty was expected to start another set in just a few minutes. Sunday night at Evian’s Bar and Grill. Packed with regulars, plus one new guy at the end of the bar, staring at Cate.

“Okay?” Cate mouthed to him.

He nodded and moved his hand in the hold sign over his draft.

Marty took the stage and there was a lot of hooting and clapping and yelling.

“Aren’t you the shit?” Marty said to the crowd.

That led to more hooting and clapping.

Marty was six foot in heels. She was wearing a red sequined dress and a matching feather boa. She had a bunch of wigs, and tonight she’d chosen to have short black hair. Her red glossy lipstick matched her red glossy nails. Her eyelashes were long and fluttery and exaggerated for effect.

Gina Makin sidled up to Cate. Gina worked nights when Marty performed and extra help was needed. She had a husband and a one-year-old at home, and she was a primo bartender.

“She’s wearing the Judy Garland wig tonight,” Gina said. “I’ll bet you five bucks she opens with ‘Over the Rainbow.’ ”

Marty’s keyboard wrangler, Slow Joe Flagler, banged out “The Wicked Witch is Dead” and Marty gave him the finger. Slow Joe grinned and went into “Over the Rainbow.”

“The hot guy nursing the beer at the end of the bar is staring at you,” Gina said to Cate. “Do you know him?”

“No. He’s new.”

“You should go flirt with him. He looks like fun.”

“Think I’ll pass on that. I’ve had about all the fun I can handle for one night,” Cate said. “My mom invited another Mr. Right to dinner. He tried to kiss me when I left for work, I instinctively kneed him in the groin, and he said he liked a feisty woman.”

“Obviously you didn’t knee him hard enough.”

“Seemed pretty hard to me. He went down to the floor and rolled around some before he said I was feisty.”

Gina’s attention was fixed on the hot guy. “Did he look like him?”

“Not even a little,” Cate said.

The guy at the end of the bar was fine. Black hair, styled short, but long enough from its last cut to wave a little over his ears and fall onto his forehead. Nice mouth, dark eyes, broad shoulders. He had his button-down shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms. Clearly he had some muscle. He caught her looking and his face creased into a full-on smile showing big-bad-wolf-perfect white teeth.

Cute, Kellen McBride thought, readjusting his former opinion of Cate Madigan. She looked like she should be tucked away in an old Celtic castle, wearing a flowing dress of emerald green, waiting for a knight in shining armor. He’d been watching her refill glasses and mingle with the regulars and had reached the conclusion that she was confident, spirited, and in control. This dragged a mental sigh out of Kellen. Cate Madigan was not the type who would ever need rescuing. She would make the dragon into a pet, defeat the villain, and use the moat of fire to bake cookies. Cate was, in a single word, enchanting. And the second word that came to mind might be intimidating. Not that any of this mattered. Kellen had a plan, and he was sticking to it until something better came along. He was going to finesse himself into Cate Madigan’s life.

Kellen did a little come here crook with his finger, aimed at Cate.

“Me?” Cate mouthed.

“Lucky you,” Gina said. “He’s delicious.”

Cate added to the tab for one of her regulars and ambled down to the hot guy.

“What can I do for you?” Cate asked. “Another draft? Bar menu?”

“It’s what I can do for you,” he said. “ Tai mina fhear chun tusa a thogail on gnathsaol. ”

This got a bark of laughter from Cate. “Okay, I’m impressed. This is the first time I’ve had a guy try to pick me up in Gaelic.”

“Seemed appropriate. Do a lot of men try to pick you up?”

“No. I look like everyone’s little sister. Mostly people try to get Marty’s attention. And I know the translation to your Gaelic pickup line. You said I’m the man to take you away from everyday life. I appreciated the sentiment, but I actually like my everyday life… and sorry, I don’t date customers.”

Plus her mother’s words echoed in her ears. If a man is too easy on the eyes, he’s likely to be hard on the heart. This had always presented Cate with a dilemma. Was she supposed to actually look for an ugly man?

“I have very good references,” Mr. Hot Guy told her. “And my name is Kellen McBride. Your Irish father would love me.”

“You aren’t the banker, are you?”

“If I said yes what would it get me?”

Cate did an eye roll and moved to the other end of the bar to refill a wine glass.

Cate was in the kitchen, making breakfast decisions, when Marty bustled in, fully dressed in black Armani slacks, Gucci loafers, and a white shirt that was left unbuttoned enough to display an elaborate gold chain. Marty was in man mode this morning.

“Omigod,” Marty said, eyeballing the cereal box in Cate’s hand. “Are you still eating that dreadful stuff? It’s filled with chemicals. It really has no redeeming value. And it’ll go right to your ass and stay there.”

“I love this stuff,” Cate said, pouring out a bowl, admiring the pretty colors of the worthless, sugarcoated, puffed whatever. “What are you doing up so early? It’s only nine o’clock. You always sleep until eleven.”

“I have a long day. A meeting with my agent. Followed by brunch with Kitty Bergman.” Marty grimaced. “Ick to Kitty Bergman. And a private party gig tonight.”

The phone rang and Marty pressed his lips tight together. “Crap. I just know that’s someone I don’t want to talk to.” His eyes fixed on Cate. “Sweetie, would you get it?”

Cate stuffed the cereal box into the crook of her arm and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Is Marty there?”

The voice was deep and raspy. A man’s voice. Either a big smoker or someone very old.

Cate gave Marty raised eyebrows. A silent question.

Marty shook his head no.

“Marty isn’t available right now,” Cate said. “Can I relay a message?”

“Tell Marty I’m not waiting forever.”

“Great. You want to leave a name or number?”

“Marty knows who I am.” And he disconnected.

“Some guy isn’t waiting forever,” Cate said to Marty. “You’re such a heartbreaker.”

Marty Longfellow lived in a building that had at one time been a dress factory. The exterior was red brick and sturdy. The interior had been gutted and remade into four floors of midrange, two-bedroom, two-bath condos. It was a South End address, and the inhabitants were a reflection of the eclectic mix of people found in that neighborhood… young professionals, gay men, and a smattering of senior citizens.

Marty’s condo was on the fourth floor and was a candidate for Architectural Digest. The carpet was white plush. The furniture was black leather and chrome. The walls held original art. The chandelier was Murano art glass. Very beautiful. Very expensive.