Alison Kent - Kiss & Makeup

But now it was time to get over it. She sat up and thought about Quentin—what she knew of him, what she hadn’t yet learned, what different impression she might make as his date than she already had as his bartender.

It was time to turn the heat up a notch. But how?

It was when her gaze landed on the short green-and-blue-plaid skirt hanging in her closet that she knew exactly. Ooh, but she loved it when a plan came together!

You have a thing for waifish schoolgirls, do you?

“I THINK I STARTED SINGING in front of audiences as soon as I learned to talk.”

It was Tuesday night, nearing seven o’clock. Quentin was sitting in the elegant boutique hotel’s art-deco lobby, relaxing back in one of the plush leather chairs, waiting for Shandi. At least, he was sitting and he was waiting.

The relaxing part had ceased the minute Mrs. Cyprus had sat down in the chair beside him and opened her mouth. She had yet to shut it.

“In grade school, I actually sang the lead in Annie. Can you believe it? I wasn’t even ten years old and I won the part over children older than I was.”

This was what Shandi had saved him from last night, what he wished she would show up and save him from now. Sure, he could save himself by heading to one of the lobby shops, the restaurant or the bar, even back to his room.

But he had this thing about wanting to be right here to see Shandi walk through the front door. To see her before she saw him. He liked catching her unawares, wanting to weigh the expression on her face as she sought him out. Doing so might not tell him a thing, he mused, frowning as he watched a huge black cat stroll through the lobby, but he wanted those few brief moments anyway.

“The summer before my freshman year in high school was when I caught the notice of my camp counselors. I organized a routine for my backup dancers and sang a medley of Elvis songs. You should’ve seen our costumes.”

He nodded, smiled, then braced his elbows on the chair arms and laced his fingers, tapped his thumbs to his chin. He wasn’t going to give up what he wanted more than anything right now because of the annoying woman at his side reciting her résumé.

He simply tuned her out, shut down the volume, left her running as background noise. Funny how adept he’d become at ignoring what he didn’t want to hear. And how often he had to stop and wonder if he was tuning out what he shouldn’t.

If he was paying attention when he should.

If he’d become too jaded to recognize the difference.

“I studied voice at university. Oh, the raves over my performances. It was the sort of reaction I’d been working toward all my life. And I knew I was on my way. That I’d never get enough.”

She might not have gotten enough, but this one-sided conversation was edging close to more than he was willing to put up with. And he’d just moved his hands to the chair arms to push himself up and make his excuses when the revolving glass doors swung around and there Shandi was.

Or so he first thought. It took a second glance and then a very long and lingering third before he was able to convince himself he was seeing Shandi and not a young girl at whom he shouldn’t be staring at all.

At his side Mrs. Cyprus continued to chatter, remaining oblivious to everything but herself. And that gave Quentin the freedom to focus.

He started at Shandi’s feet, where she wore penny loafers and white kneesocks, both of the sort he hadn’t seen on girls since grade school. And never on a woman he wanted to bed the way he wanted to bed this one. He felt like a complete perv and loved the thrum of arousal stirring in his groin.

He followed the long lines of her legs where they disappeared beneath a green-and-blue-plaid skirt so short it barely covered her ass. And from this vantage point, sitting lower than her hemline, that coverage was questionable.

He was able to see skin and curves and what appeared to be an edge of frilly white lace that had his gut tightening like that of a starving man.

His gaze had reached her white blouse—gauzy and nearly sheer—when she finally saw him. She turned and headed his way, and he sat immobile and watched the gorgeous bounce and sway of her braless breasts.

When she lifted a hand to her mouth, he followed the movement and watched her pull a red lollipop from between her lips. This time it was more than his gut that clenched and stirred, and he shifted in his seat to calm the buzz threatening to turn into full-tilt arousal.

Little good it did. Especially once he got a good look at her hair worn in pigtails. And at her face.

Her skin was made up to appear as translucent as pale porcelain yet soft and warm instead of fragile. Her lips and cheeks were tinted pink, a shade he only saw when she tilted her head and smiled and the light picked up the shimmer.

But, oh god, her eyes. He’d seen stage makeup. He’d seen exotic costuming. Hell, working in music videos, he’d seen it all—or so he’d thought, because he didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes like Shandi’s at any time in his life.

And it wasn’t just the way she’d used the cobalt- and violet-blues, the greens that seemed to reflect every hue between teal and jade. It was the way she’d used her face as a canvas. From her brows to her temples to her cheekbones.

The end result of the application of makeup resembled a colorfully jeweled Mardi Gras mask, complete with hints of ruby and gold. Except there was no mask. It was all done with the tools of her trade.

But the biggest impact, the one striking him like a blow in the chest, came from her expression. The look in her eyes. The way she was looking at him.

He couldn’t help it. He slid deeper into his seat, sat on his spine, spread his legs and groaned.

“I just know there’s an audience waiting out there for my voice, for the way I make every song my own…excuse me?” Mrs. Cyprus looked up as Shandi stepped between Quentin’s knees. “This is a private conversation.”

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Shandi sidled closer, fluffing her skirt before sitting down in his lap, her weight on his thigh as her free hand went around his neck. “My bedtime story can wait until you grown-ups are done.”

Quentin chuckled as Shandi crossed her legs. He brought one hand down behind her to hold her hip in place and draped his other arm over her knees. Now that he had her where he wanted her, he was not about to let her go.

He cleared his throat lightly, trying not to grin. “Mrs. Cyprus has been sharing her fascinating experiences in musical theater.”

“Ooh, can I stay and listen?” Shandi asked. “I know it’s late, but I promise to go to bed the minute you tell me to if I can hear one story. Please?”

“Just one then,” he said, his hand slipping to the hem of her skirt and finding the lacy edge of her panties exposed. “As long as Mrs. Cyprus doesn’t mind. She was telling me how she’s performed everything from Annie to Elvis.”

“Ooh.” Shandi squealed as she waved her lollipop. “I love Annie. Can you sing it for me? That song about tomorrow?”

When Mrs. Cyprus looked from Shandi and met Quentin’s gaze, he simply shrugged and tried to appear chagrined—not an easy task with his body tight enough to snap. She got to her feet, smoothed down her slacks and the halter vest that exposed even more than her plunging neckline last night.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she said to Quentin. “But not half as sorry as I am to have wasted mine. Had I known you preferred girls to women…”

She left the sentence unfinished and then left the lobby, heading into the bar. Quentin watched Shandi watch the other woman go, finally finding enough of his voice to ask, “Do you think she recognized you?”