No Strings Attached. Alison Kent
go already.” He knew where this was headed, knew he’d been smart to establish his just-say-no terms up front. Making like Chloe’s arm candy was not his idea of self-respect. “I’m sure you can find a date. Or better yet, avoid the reputation hassle and go alone.”
She shook her head. “This girl does not fly solo.”
“Why not?”
“My reputation, duh.”
Try as he might, Eric could not make sense of her logic. “I hope you’re kidding, because I think it’s your reputation that’s gotten you into this mess, am I right?”
“You’re not a girl. I don’t expect you to understand. I can’t go alone. I have to have a date. And I would be ever so appreciative if you could help me out here.”
He ignored the eyelashes she batted. “And by help you out, you mean…”
She nodded.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Chloe. I’m not sure I want to be one of your statistics.”
“You wouldn’t be. This is strictly business. Totally up front. If I show up with the same date all three times, the industry gossips won’t have a tongue-wagging leg to stand on.”
Threads of common sense were unraveling all over the floor. “Sure they will. It’ll just be a different leg. My leg. And I don’t really care to be the object of anyone’s wagging tongue.”
Then again…
“Don’t you get it?” She wrapped delicate fingers around his forearm. “That’s the point. Sydney can hardly object if the reason for the gossip is all good. You’d be putting a positive spin on my situation. Party girl interrupted.”
“First you want an escort. Now you want a spin doctor. I know it’s hard to believe, but even I can’t be all things to all women.”
The imprint of her touch remained on his arm long after he’d pushed away from his desk. He’d hoped he could walk away; why had he never learned how to walk away? But he didn’t get very far because Chloe was in his face, one hundred twenty pounds of enthusiasm.
“Think about it, Eric. Three dates. That’s all it is.” She counted them off on her fingers—one, two, three. “Three nights spent in my company, schmoozing with the media. With designers. Supermodels.”
She’d called him Eric. Not sugar. “Supermodels?”
“I’d do the same for you.”
Oh she would, would she? “Supermodels, huh? I tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”
He had to give her credit; she didn’t turn him down immediately the way he had before hearing the dirty details of her idea. She had an open mind.
A desperate open mind?
Willing to go to any lengths to save her career?
Hmm. He could see himself playing the devil to her Faust.
“What? What’s the deal?”
“You get your three dates.” He did the finger thing—one, two, three. “And I get my three—”
“No.” She shook her head so forcefully that wisps of her blond hair caught on her lips, leaving her decidedly disheveled.
Eric liked the look. “What kind of double standard is this? I’m not allowed to say no, but you can turn me down flat without hearing me out?”
“I don’t want to hear you out. Not if it’s going to be about sex.”
He hung his head and did his best to look puppy-dog pitiful instead of guilty as hell. “After all that talk about friends being there for each other? You’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Chloe.”
“You’re saying your deal-making efforts aren’t intended to get me into bed?”
He looked up in time to catch the imperial lift of her brow. “What? And ruin this beautiful friendship?”
He wasn’t about to admit what the picture of her tousled hair was doing for his imagination. Just get her out of her shoes and shorts and, yeah, he could see Chloe Zuniga in his bed, wearing nothing but her socks and that jersey hanging over her thighs and curvy bare ass.
“Okay.” Her chin went up. She shook back her hair. “What three nonsexual things do you want in exchange for your escort services?”
“We’re going to do this, then?”
“Well, it depends on what you want.”
Nope. He wasn’t going anywhere near that one, either; there wasn’t a long enough pole. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
“So, you don’t even know what you want? This is just an open-ended deal? I’m expected to be at your beck and call while you get off on stringing me along?” At each question asked, her voice had risen. Her final query was nothing if not a screech.
“I suppose we can set a time limit.”
“Damn straight we’re going to set a time limit. I’d be a thousand kinds of a fool to leave myself open to the warped workings of your imagination.”
Ah. Now this was the Chloe he knew and…hmm. Definitely didn’t love. Admittedly had the hots for. “Okay, then. What? A month? Six weeks?”
She’d pulled a mini diary from her mini knapsack. “The Wild Winter Woman fashion show is my third event, and it’s in the middle of May, so let’s wrap up this deal by Memorial Day.”
He thought of everything he had on his calendar between now and then. A huge grin started at the edge of his mouth and spread until he thought his face would split.
“What the hell are you so happy about?” Chloe groused, hoisting her small leather backpack onto one shoulder.
“Just thinking how I’ve always wanted a genie to grant me three wishes. And here you are.”
SETTLED IN THE SADDLE of her exercise bike, Chloe wished her legs were longer so she could give herself a good swift kick in the pants.
Instead, she pedaled harder, faster, her legs pumping like pistons, and all the spent energy getting her abso-friggin’-lutely nowhere. She released the bike’s handlebar just long enough to swipe a towel over her forehead.
Her sweatband had long since passed the point of saturation, but she wasn’t about to stop spinning to switch it for a dry one. Not when she had an unstoppable rhythm going and hours of frustration to burn.
The television mounted in the corner of the spare bedroom she’d converted into her own personal exercise-slash-torture chamber was running a tape of Shakespeare in Love. But even Will’s desperately romantic pursuit of Viola was not enough to distract Chloe from yesterday’s fiasco.
Damn that cocky Eric Haydon, sweet-talking her into doing exactly what he’d wanted. Granting him three wishes. And how stupid of her to agree. No, not stupid. Just desperate enough to act like she didn’t have an ounce of common sense…or much of a memory for details.
He was wrong.
Yesterday afternoon, once she’d gotten out of Haydon’s and arrived home, she’d headed straight for her diary. And Eric was wrong. Sixteen. Not twenty.
She’d gone out with sixteen different men so far this year. Eight of them had been one-nighters, not deserving of the time of day much less any more than her cell phone number. Caller ID was a girl’s best friend.
Puffing through the aggravation of realizing she needed a new strategy for finding that elusive happily ever after, she tried to sort out the entire dating process—or at least her personal lack of dating success.
She was not unreasonably selective, yet she didn’t go out with just anyone who asked. Somehow, though, she had gained a reputation for doing