Kiss & Tell

Well. She’d been hoping to hear him tell her goodbye. Or hear that he wasn’t much for obeying the rules. He seemed the sort, a bit brash, a bit dangerous. He’d obviously convinced Alan to let him hang out long after closing.

“It was all part of the act,” was what she finally said, ignoring the flutter of her pulse as he breathed her in and sighed, and the tongue of flame in her belly when he came back with, “The hell it was,” a response that begged the question, Where do we go from here?

Alan clearing his throat pushed her to answer. “If you can stomach the mess, I have a bottle of Drambuie in my dressing room.”

He didn’t respond right away, looking her over, staring into her eyes. His were hard to read in this light, but that didn’t lessen the impact of his gaze, or the heat simmering in the air around them.

She wasn’t sure if she should take back the offer, if she’d been too forward in making it. If he had wanted nothing from her. Or had just wanted an acknowledgment that the kiss had been way out of line.

That wasn’t how she’d read him, but she was so out of practice with men—

“A man in your dressing room. That’s not against the rules?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sliding from her stool, unable to stop herself from giving in to this very big wrong that had her nape tingling, other places doing the same. “You’re the first one I’ve ever invited to join me.”

4

CALEB COULDN’T BELIEVE his good fortune. First, that the bartender had told him to take his time with the coffee. Second, that Candy Cane had so easily fallen prey to his charms.

Especially when he had so few.

If what he did have qualified as charming at all.

Not many people thought so.

As she’d gestured in the direction of her dressing room and turned for him to follow, he’d watched the subtle exchange that had passed between the redheaded siren and the bartender.

The man who’d served Caleb the coffee he’d so desperately needed hadn’t seemed insulted or injured that she’d invited him back for a drink. Neither had he gone into protective, big-brother, hurt-her-and-I’ll-kick-your-ass mode.

So far, so good.

Having witnessed the conversation the two had shared earlier, Caleb assumed the bartender and Candy were good friends. Not that he’d heard any of what they’d said, but he had noticed the casual nature of their exchange and the comfortable intimacy between them.

All that was to say…either the man behind the bar with the ski-bum look knew Candy could take care of herself, or knew Caleb was the one heading into trouble. Judging by the sway of her hips as she walked through the club and his body’s primal reaction, Caleb heading into trouble was true either way.

He told himself to look up, to look away, over her shoulders, above her head, down at the floor. But her hips had been in his lap at the same time her tongue had been in his mouth, and that was all he could think about. That, and wanting more.

Or so it was until he reminded himself of why he was here, why he’d wanted the coffee in the first place. The recognition he’d needed to be sober enough to place. Yes, he was getting out of the biz, but he couldn’t give up his curiosity any more than he could cut off a leg. If he figured her out and found her story worth telling, well…he’d cross the bridge of what to do when he got to it.

She led him through the bar, across the stage and to a door down the hallway behind the wings.

There was no name, no star, nothing to indicate where they were. It could just as easily have been a broom closet for the lack of signage. But she opened the door, and like a beast in rut, he followed her in.

“Like I said,” she reminded him as she flipped on the lights. “A mess.”

It didn’t look any worse than his place, he mused, walking inside as she shut the door behind him. The floor was covered with the same red carpeting as the rest of the club. The walls were painted off-white with a pink tinge—or else the semigloss was reflecting the floor.

A closet with a six-foot rod took up the wall opposite one with six feet worth of mirrors. The accordion doors were open, showing red tops and bottoms on and off hangers, dresses draped over the pole, other items of clothing puddled on the floor and covering dozens of shoes flung here and there.

He turned toward the mirror, and she pushed in behind him, closing the doors as if to hide her shame. He wondered if her house was in the same disarray, and how she could look so put together when she dressed in a danger zone.

“I promise, I’m much neater than this in the rest of my life. For some reason when I’m here, I tend to let down my hair—as it were,” she tacked on, nodding to a shelf of wigs he hadn’t yet noticed.

“You didn’t fool me for a minute,” he told her, reaching for the strawberry strands where they caressed her bare shoulder. He allowed his fingers to linger on her skin, her soft skin that in this light was obviously freckled, leaving them there, tempting himself. Testing himself.

She was warm, smooth, and he couldn’t help but think about the rest of her that was still covered, wondering how soft she’d be elsewhere, thinking, too, about her mouth and the touch of her tongue to his, wanting that again, wanting her taste, wanting another jolt of that unexpected heat.

It took her several seconds to move, and his gut tightened while he waited. He watched her face as it broadcast the push-pull conflict driving her, push winning out in the end and demanding distance and space between them—though pull sizzled in the air that had grown sharp with expectation.

She opened one of the lockerlike cabinets stacked next to the closet doors. “I have a bottle,” she said, showing him the Drambuie and the single glass tumbler she had. “But I only have one glass.”

He took it from her hand, took the bottle, too, uncapped it and poured. He drank, then offered the glass to her. “So we share.”

She took it and sipped without hesitation. He closed up the bottle and set it on the vanity next to a pair of narrow-framed eyeglasses. A contact-lens case and a bottle of solution sat nearby, as did a brush with several strands of short dark hair caught in the bristles.

Caleb smiled, and turned back to the mysterious faux-redhead, thinking how much he’d like to see her in nothing but her freckles and her real hair. He swallowed hard, fighting the rush of blood through his veins, and asked, “What do singles do around here for fun?”

“Leave?” she suggested, and laughed softly, looking into the tumbler and avoiding looking at him. “The only place to get a drink besides Club Crimson is Manny’s, but it’s more a local watering hole. There’s Fish and Cow Chips—”

“Seafood and steak?” he asked, cutting her off with a grimace at that mental image.

She held the glass close to her chest as she finally met his gaze. “Yes, it’s very poorly named. Though the food is amazing.”

“No theater with dinner?”

“Nope,” she said, handing him their shared drink. “And if you want a movie, well, you drive down the mountain into Golden, or you get a satellite dish and be happy that you’re only six months behind the pop-culture curve.”

He wondered what she’d think if she knew he swung the bell for that curve. He leaned back against the edge of the vanity, swirled the herb-flavored liqueur in the glass, enjoyed the waft of aroma. Enjoyed even more being in close quarters with this woman he very much wanted to figure out.

“What do you do when you’re not Candy?”

She gave him a teasing smile. “I’m always Candy.”

“Then what does Candy do when she’s not onstage?” he asked taking a step closer, feeling the crackle of electricity burning fiercely between them, a live-wire connection he swore he could reach out and touch.

This time she gave him a shake of her finger, a school-teacher scolding a pupil for his impertinence, with a wickedly sexy gleam in her eye. “Ah, that’s something I only share with friends and family.”

“Hmm. In a town this size, that must cover everyone.” And then because he needed to know…“Including the man in your life?” Or the men who once were.

She shook her head, sat on one end of the vanity bench, took the glass when he offered it and allowed his fingers to linger against hers. “No lovers, current or ex. Not for a very long time.”

“That’s a shame.” He joined her on the bench. The seat was only so long, and their thighs brushed. She stayed where she was. Even when he shifted to touch her hip, her arm, she didn’t move. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

At the base of her throat, her pulse jumped, but that was her only response. She sat still, the glass of honeyed Scotch liqueur held between both of her hands in her lap. The walking slit in her skirt had parted to reveal the length of her stocking-covered thigh. The deep V-neck in her top highlighted the inner swells of her breasts.

It was hard to keep his gaze on her face with all that bounty to feast on, but her face along with her voice would help him figure out if he knew her—though he had to admit he was quickly forgetting he’d ever had such a hunch. He was much more interested in exploring the rest of her, and doing so for very selfish reasons.

“You never did tell me why you were here,” she finally said. A hitch in her chest when she breathed in revealed the state of her composure.

He liked that she reacted to him, that he wasn’t the only one here caught up by anticipation and need. “I’m attending a wedding.”

She gave a nod, a smile. “Another celebrity off the market?”

“It’s a private gig, but, yeah. It’ll be a pretty big deal when it makes the news.” He raised a brow, raised the drink. “I’m sure you could snoop into what’s going on, if you really wanted to know. A perk of working here and all.”

That caused her chin to come up, a frown to crease her brow—a response he hadn’t expected, and one he filed away. “I don’t think so,” she said. “People come here because they don’t have to worry about being stalked or hounded by the media, or by the staff.”

He made a mental note not to reveal the hounding he had done, the stalking, definitely not the betrayal. Reaching for their shared glass, he set it on the floor beneath the bench, then shifted to better face her before cupping his hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry. Offending you is the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

“What’s the first?” she asked, her lashes drifting down in a soft sexy sweep before she raised her gaze in invitation.

The heat he’d been feeling grew to engulf him, and the surface of his skin fairly burned. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She nodded, the look in her eyes one of hunger, of craving, one that caused him to ache. When he leaned toward her, he wasn’t a journalist. He was only a man. A man who hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since melting into her kiss.

And so he kissed her again. This time he didn’t have to be still or discreet. He was able to close his eyes and give in to the desire that rolled through him the moment their lips made contact.

He continued to hold her face as he slanted his mouth over hers and coaxed her to open. She turned toward him, leaned into him, allowed him the access he wanted, and met him with her tongue.

The kiss was tentative, a gentle exploration. He didn’t want to rush her or push her or frighten her away. She didn’t want to give in too quickly or show him too much of her need. He felt it, though, in the tense way she held her jaw, in the tautness of her neck as she kept her head straight.

She’d admitted to having no lover. He had a feeling it had also been a while since she’d had something as simple as a kiss. Not that this kiss was any simpler than the one in the club, any less arousing or potent.

The difference was in being alone and able to complicate things as thoroughly as they wanted, with no one to interrupt, with nothing to keep the kiss from becoming more.

She pushed forward, exhaled tiny moans into his mouth, used her teeth to nip, her tongue to bathe the damage, her lips to play catch and release with his.

Then she shifted her position, turning her body toward him instead of the vanity, and looped her arms around his neck, raking the fingers of one hand up his nape and into his hair. Her hunger was a match lit to his.

The hand with which he’d been cupping her face moved to cup her slender neck. His other hand found its way to the slit in her dress, and to her thigh. He slipped his fingers between her legs, and she parted them in invitation, whimpering as she did.

He stroked down to her knee, up to the seam where the sequined fabric split, but no farther. As much as he wanted to go there, he needed a sign that she was ready to take things that far.

She gave it to him with a softly whispered, “Please,” and with a hand that guided his higher between her legs. Before he’d even cupped the mound of her sex, he felt her moisture and her heat.

He used the edge of his index finger to play her, pressing it against her, rubbing it back and forth over her clit. She jumped, shuddered, blew short, sweet panting breaths against the edge of his open mouth.

“Good?” he asked.

“So good,” she answered, the words more moaned than spoken. “Can you—”

“Make you come?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” This time the words rolled up from the back of her throat, a growled order as much as a plea.

He smiled, covered her mouth, bruised her with his kiss until his erection strained against his fly. When he pulled away, she urged him back.

But first…“Your hose—”

“Get rid of them.”

He loved a woman who knew what she wanted. One brave enough not to let propriety get in the way. He found the seam between her legs, dug his fingers against it and tore the fabric free, finding a scrap of a thong covering her sex, and scooping it aside.

She was smooth and damp, and she gasped when he touched her. He moved his lips to the base of her neck and parted her folds with his finger. Her throat vibrated with the sounds she made as he toyed with her, sliding a finger inside her, flicking his thumb over her clit.

She tucked her chin to her chest, closing her eyes, gouging her fingers into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and rode his hand, pumping her hips where she sat, sliding on and off his finger.

He ran the flat of his tongue along her collarbone, kissed his way back to her throat, moved to the swell of her breast and pushed her dress aside. He found her nipple and sucked, penetrating her sex with a second finger, rolling the tip of her breast with his lips. She was close now.

He’d hit the right rhythm, found the right combination of pressure and motion, and he kept it up, stroking, rubbing, in and out and around. She tensed, grew wetter. Her breathing quickened, becoming labored and shallow and damp.

And then she cried out, tossing back her head as her orgasm consumed her. He watched the fierce sweep of emotions cross her face, felt her sex contract around him, found himself awash on an amazing high at being able to give this to her, share this with her. At pleasing her so completely.

She came down quickly, shaking, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his biceps, color rising to her cheeks as she dipped her head. “I can’t believe—”

“Believe.” He didn’t want her to feel self-conscious, or awkward at what she’d allowed him to see. He wanted her to bask in the lingering sensation, not embarrassment.

“But you didn’t. It’s not right—”

He smiled, leaned forward to nuzzle the skin beneath her ear. “If you want to do something about that, I won’t say no.”

5

TEN MINUTES LATER Miranda and Caleb were sneaking into the Inn at Snow Falls’ kitchen, ready to feed their hunger with leftovers since the lack of a condom had kept them from feeding it in more intimate ways.

Miranda was still smiling at Caleb’s lack of preparedness. Her own lack was just as sad, but then she never expected to cross paths with eligible men. She’d resigned herself to a life of having sex with herself and her vibrators, and poured out her sensuality onstage.

But a sexy, gorgeous and extremely persuasive man like Caleb—for him not to have a condom at the ready for the women he must meet…She glanced back at him, her smile widening and taking over her face.

“Are you laughing at me or with me this time?” he asked from behind her as she waved at the dishwasher, Earnesto, who winked back a promise not to tattle to the boss about her bringing company along on her kitchen raid.

“I’m not laughing at all.” At least not outwardly. Inside she was like a kid on an amusement park Tilt-a-Whirl. “I’m giddy because I can’t wait to dig into the chipotle tomato cheese spread I heard Chef made up today. He always keeps snacks around for us late-nighters.”

In the smaller of the kitchen’s three refrigerators, she found the cheese spread and a bottle of wine; the latter she handed to Caleb. After grabbing two saucers, she pointed him to the rack of wineglasses and a bag of seasoned bagel crisps. Then she led him toward the corner of the kitchen where a folding table with four matching chairs was tucked away in a small alcove for the inn’s staff to use.

She sat facing the kitchen, which was probably a mistake since it left him to sit facing her and the wall, and left her to deal with his scrutiny. It wouldn’t have been awkward had he not just fingered her to orgasm. But he had, and she could hardly ignore how close they’d come to taking things all the way.

Caleb went back to the utensil cabinet for a corkscrew while Miranda removed the cover from the cheese spread and opened the bag of bagel crisps. By the time he had the wine opened and poured, she had used one of the sturdiest chips to scoop cheese onto their plates.

“Do you do this a lot?” he asked. “Midnight snack in the hotel kitchen?”

“Of course.” She laughed, dipped a chip half into her cheese. The light in the alcove wasn’t as bright as in the main part of the kitchen, making it hard to read his face. “A perk of the job. And a good one since the town is short on all-night convenience stores.”

He watched as she popped the bite of food into her mouth. “That’s one of my favorite things about New York. The bodegas. Need a sandwich or a roll of toilet paper or batteries at 4:00 a.m.? It’s a one-stop shopping trip.”

“Is that where you live? New York?”

He shook his head, reached for his wine. “Not anymore.”

She noticed he didn’t volunteer where he was from. “Do you miss it?”

“Not much to miss.” He held her gaze while he drank, and returned his glass to the table. “I’m there a lot. And I’m in L.A. a lot.”

“Is all that travel for work or pleasure?” she asked, doing her best not to look away. His attention was so focused on her, his expression so intense.

“A little of both. I work in…the arts,” he said, and she picked up on his hesitation.

The arts could mean books or movies…or music. He’d said he was here for a wedding, one that would be a big deal. She’d gathered from the staff’s whispers while they scurried to do Ravyn’s bidding that the singer was home. As far as Miranda knew, Brenna had not been in contact with her mother. But with the congressman here as well…

Could Brenna and Teddy be tying the knot? Could Caleb be here because he knew Brenna as an industry insider, or was a friend? She wanted to press for Corinne’s sake, but if Brenna didn’t want her mother to know what was happening, well, it wasn’t Miranda’s business anyway.

In fact, she could be totally off the mark. And she was not going to ask questions that could start hurtful rumors. “An interesting line of work, I’ll bet.”

“It is. It can be. It can also be a pain in the ass.”

Now that she could relate to. “Show me a career that doesn’t have those moments, and I’ll show you someone who’s not working very hard.”

His eyes flashed with a teasing heat. “I know you work hard. I’ve seen you.”

He’d seen things she didn’t want to think about right now. She was trying to get beyond the frustration of their aborted encounter, and she never would if every look he gave her reminded her of what they’d done as well as made her regret what she’d missed.

She needed a drink, and took one. “And you want to know what there is about being Candy Cane that could possibly be a pain in the ass.”

He popped a bagel chip into his mouth and nodded.

“The wigs make me sweat.”

“So why wear them?”

“Because I don’t have long red hair, and red is a theme here, in case that’s slipped your notice. And, yes, the wigs are well-made and breathable, but that doesn’t help much when I’m onstage. Those lights are brutal.”

“Then spend more time offstage with the audience.”

Funny man. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Me and the rest of the men watching you. Some of the women, too.”

And again the suggestive innuendo, the heat in his eyes, the want. It was hard to look away. “That’s what I’m afraid of. And why I don’t mingle more than I do. This is a lovers’ resort. I don’t want to come between the lovers.”

“Why did you mingle tonight?”

She’d been trying to figure that out for herself ever since draping herself across his table. Using a broken chip, she toyed with the cheese on her plate.

Instead of eating it, she told him, “You looked lonely.”

He paused with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. “A pity kiss?”

“Not hardly,” she said, the gruff accusation causing her chest to tighten. “More like a sense of familiarity. Not to sound totally pathetic, but I know that feeling well.”

Without drinking, he returned his glass to the table. “And you thought you’d cheer me up.”

“To be honest, you weren’t the one I was hoping to cheer. My motives were much more selfish.” She felt the heat of a blush on her face and fiddled with her food to try to hide it.

“It was my pleasure.”

“No,” she said, laughing quietly. “I’m pretty sure it was mine. You were the one left hanging.”

“Being left hanging never killed a guy.” He gave her a look that left her unable to breathe.

Oh, this was going so many places she wouldn’t have expected when singing for him tonight, places she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Not according to the stories I’ve heard.”

“Old wives’ tales. Trust me. But just to be on the safe side…” He shifted forward, leaning toward her with an intent that wasn’t threatening, but unnerved her because of what she sensed he was going to say. “I’ll come prepared to tomorrow night’s show.”

“Thanks. Now I’ll never be able to perform,” she said, sighing as she popped the chip and cheese into her mouth. It kept her from having to say anything more, and gave her a chance to catch the breath she still hadn’t found.

He didn’t press, gave her the time, finally asking, “Were you a performer before coming here?”

Reaching for her drink, she cut her gaze sharply toward him. “Is this the man who works in the arts asking?”

He shook his head. “Just the man who kissed you.”

And thank goodness he left his comment at the kiss. “Then, no. Not a performer. Unless you count singing in the shower and the church choir.”

“A soloist?”

“From time to time. Always at Christmas.”

“Do you do anything special for Christmas here?”

“Besides my regular shows? No. Though I do change up the set. Christmas isn’t Christmas without Bing Crosby. Alan’s wife is trying to get me to sing at the high school’s holiday dance, but I just can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, refilling both of their glasses. “Afraid some of the boys might be lonely?”

“Oh, that is so not funny,” she said, though she couldn’t stifle a laugh. “But, no. I don’t take Candy out of Club Crimson. Except to raid the fridge.”

He studied his plate, picked up a bagel crisp. “I would think a local celebrity would be in demand.”

“In demand for what?” she asked, curious as to how he saw her alter ego. “Mistletoe doesn’t have political fund-raisers or charity events. It’s too small a community—one of those places where everybody knows your name. Besides,” she went on, “I like my privacy. And Candy’s not real. She’s a fixture here at the inn just like the huge stone fireplace in the lobby and all the knotty-pine tables.”