Hot In Here. Susan Lyons
Читать онлайн книгу.
was S.O.L.
She stopped near the door, where she could watch and listen and not easily be seen. Casually she raised her camera, focused on the couple and the surrounding groupies and clicked.
Mr. February was actually looking embarrassed, which was kind of cute and endearing.
“Yeah, Lizzie,” he said, “it went okay and I owe you big-time.”
Damn. She must be his girlfriend, and she’d inspired his performance. Crap, crap, crap. It looked like Jenny’d be relying on her vibrator after all.
“And you will so pay up,” the blonde said cheerfully. Then, to Jenny’s surprise, she gave him a casual wave and headed for the exit.
Was the girl insane, leaving her boyfriend with this pack of adoring—no, make that starving—bitches, slavering all over him?
“See ya next week,” he called after her.
Hmm. Jenny would’ve sworn, from the bulge in the guy’s pants up on stage, that he’d have been dying to get it on just like she was. So was he really going to wait until next week, or did he figure on heading home with one of his drooling fans?
The latter, from the way he was ogling the tall, peroxided woman in front of him. Did Scott Jackman have a thing about blondes?
Not if he really had tossed his bow tie to her.
Even if he hadn’t, could he be persuaded away from blondes long enough to give Jenny what she needed so badly?
Was it immoral to try if he already had a girlfriend?
Whoa! She was assuming way too much. Lizzie could be a friend, maybe even a relative. She hadn’t seemed worried about leaving, and Scott obviously was getting ready to proposition the dye-job.
If he was going to screw someone tonight, why the hell shouldn’t it be her? A modern Western woman went after what she wanted. Right?
Muttering, “I can do this,” under her breath, she thrust out every single centimeter of her small breasts. Then, standing as tall as she could on one-inch heels, she strode toward Scott, scattering blondes, brunettes and redheads as she forged through them.
She planted herself squarely in front of him and stared up, way up, to hook his blue gaze. “Jenny Yuen, Georgia Straight.” She waved her camera at him. “I’m doing a feature on the calendar competition, and you, Mr. Jackman, are my cover.”
“Good choice,” one of the groupies said, and the others giggled.
“I need an interview,” Jenny told him.
A tiny girl had to either go for “cute” or be damned authoritative, and Jenny had both tricks in her arsenal. With the female flock, cute wasn’t going to cut it, so she scowled at the other women. “Now, and alone, if you don’t mind, ladies.”
They gazed at her uncertainly and then glanced at Scott to see how he’d respond.
He was staring down at Jenny, looking bemused.
Okay, bemused was better than pissed off. She’d try her secret weapon. Even if he did prefer blondes, it was a rare guy who didn’t respond to her hair.
Asian women tended to have great hair, but Jenny knew hers was, hands down, the best. That’s why she never colored or messed with it, just let it do its own thing. Which was to grow almost to her waist and gleam and shimmer whenever she moved her head.
She stowed her camera in her rose-colored backpack as she summoned her inner seductress.
Scott frowned down at the woman who was trying to ruin his evening. He’d been damned sure the Scandinavian type with the white-blond hair and those luscious boobs busting out of her top was ready and willing to rumble.
And now some pint-size chick who’d caught his bow tie wanted to interview him? Where the hell did she get off?
Funny thing was, she was about half his size yet didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated. She was standing there, cute and cocky as all get out, hands planted at her waist. Not his type. He went for tall, curvy blondes. Still, there was something about her.
He gazed down and began a lazy inventory. Her feet made him grin. Had to be about a size three, toenails painted pink, sandals decorated with all sorts of glittery stuff. Shapely feet, though, attached to pretty ankles and damn fine legs that were on display to midthigh, where they disappeared beneath a denim skirt about the size of a handkerchief.
What was she wearing under that skirt?
Why would he care? She wasn’t even his type.
Except, his cock was swelling. It had stirred a little through his teasing exchange with Scandinavia and her pals, but now it was definitely awake and interested.
Even more so as his gaze hit the band of smooth flesh between the low-slung skirt and the cut-off pink top. God, she had gorgeous skin. And—oh, fuck, he was dead meat—her navel sported a sparkly pink gem.
His fascinated gaze moved up over delicate curves, more of that incredible skin, the bow tie that made her look like a miniature Playboy bunny.
Fuckable. Definitely fuckable. At least that’s what his cock was telling him.
When his gaze reached her face, he encountered a raised eyebrow.
“Interview?” she said.
Interview? The word took a moment to sink in. Right. She wasn’t a bunny, she was a journalist.
“Jenny Yuen?” she said. “Georgia Straight?”
The other women who’d rushed backstage had made it clear they wanted to tease and flirt and probably go home with him. This one wanted to put him on the cover of the community paper, which would be embarrassing as hell.
But it was this one he wanted.
Her lips twitched and then she let her head drop and a waterfall of shiny black hair swung forward over one shoulder. In slow-mo. It shimmered under the artificial light, fanned out in the air, then gently settled, to drape one breast. Time stopped.
Then she flicked her head sideways and back, and the hair, a mesmerizing curtain, fanned out again and slowly slipped back into place.
Who’d ever known hair could be so sexy?
Scott realized he was panting, his heart was racing, he wanted to bury his hands, his face, his cock in all that incredible hair.
“Yes?” she said.
“Fuck, yeah.”
Her brown eyes widened and he realized what he’d said. “Sorry. I mean, yeah, I’ll do the interview.” Anything to spend more time with her.
“But, Scott…” The whine came from Scandinavia, the one he’d planned to take home to practice a little international body language, but now he couldn’t spare her a glance. China had won out, hands down.
“See ya around,” he said.
With nasty looks and mutters, she and her friends stalked away, leaving him with Jenny Yuen.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Scott Jackman.”
Her eyebrow tilted again. “I know that, Mr. February.”
“Oh. Yeah.” God, he was coming off like a goofball.
He was trying to figure out something witty to say, when a battering ram hit his shoulder, catching him off balance. He heard the words, “Hey, way to go, pisser!” as he lurched forward into Jenny.
He wrapped her in a bear hug, desperately fighting to regain his balance. He’d crush the girl if he fell on her.
A meaty hand grabbed his shoulder, steadying him, but he didn’t let go of Jenny. She was so small, her bones so delicate. Yet she didn’t feel fragile. He had a sense of strength, vitality, like there was a force inside her that was way bigger than the body that housed