Kiss & Makeup. Alison Kent
laced her hands at her back, hooked one foot behind the other, canted her head to the side and rocked back and forth, playing up the part she’d created. “Where do you want me to sit?”
“In my lap, of course,” he said and reached out, pulled her hand from behind her and led her across the room to the far corner. The chair he chose was built for two, not quite the size of a love seat but definitely not meant for a single. He turned and dropped into it, tugging her down.
She sat sideways in his lap, her back against the plush arm that was wider than her body. Her feet she settled on the cushion on Quentin’s far side, where there would’ve been plenty of room for her to sit if he’d let her.
He hadn’t. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
Instead he draped one arm over her bare thighs, one behind her on the arm of the chair. He was so close. Right there. Inches away. It was hard to breathe, to think, to believe she was sitting in the lap of a man with this one’s fame, fortune and reputation.
With this one’s trail of broken hearts…because she was sure they must be legion.
“So what story do you want to hear?” he asked softly, his fingers toying with the end of one of her pigtails. He gestured toward the stack of books on the side table. “Beck Desmond? Harlan Coben? Charles Dickens? Anaïs Nin?”
Shandi shook her head. There was only one story she wanted. “Quentin Marks. I want to know everything. From his humble roots to his rise to stardom. And all the juicy bits in between.”
His mouth crooked. A dimple appeared at the edge of his beard stubble. “That story will put you right to sleep. I was hoping to keep you awake. At least for a little while.”
She had no intention of falling asleep now any more than she had of staying asleep on Christmas morning. Not with this gift she’d been given, this man who’d come out of nowhere and into her life when she’d least expected anyone to arrive.
She looked away from his gaze that left her breathless—oh, but his scotch-and-water eyes were compelling—to where she held her fingers twined together against what there was of her skirt. That didn’t help much with distracting her since his arm lay across her thighs.
Thankfully it wasn’t his skin but the fine fabric of his dress shirt she felt there. Otherwise she was quite sure she wouldn’t have been able to speak. “I doubt anything you could tell me would put me to sleep.”
“Trust me. I’m as boring as it gets.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve read enough about you in People and Vanity Fair to know how fascinating you are.” When he gave a soft snort, she smiled, cast him a quick glance and laughingly added, “Hey, it’s better than reading what all the tabloids have to say.”
He used his arm across her thighs to pull her closer. “Too bad all of the music-loving public doesn’t share your restraint. Or your taste in publications.”
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