Hot and Bothered. Serena Bell

this sterile black-and-gray room with the other stiff-backed diners, worth getting waylaid by the teenaged hostess and her judgmental eyes, worth being head-shrunk by Haven Hoyt. Mark could almost slice the tenderloin with the side of his fork and the flavor was amazing. He loved it when meat tasted like meat, not frou-frou ingredients.

      Concentrating on the food also made it easier to keep his gaze off Haven’s breasts, which otherwise were... They were the eighth wonder of the world. He was surprised the other diners weren’t magnetically drawn right out of their seats to stare. Every time he lifted his eyes from his steak, he had to focus like a madman on her face and not on her curves. He didn’t know what she was wearing—the bottom part was like a burlap sack with a riding crop tied around the waist, and the top part was a 1970s-style button-down shirt under an absurdly short sweater—but whatever she’d engineered underneath her clothes should be part of the building plan for the next generation of bridges. He could practically feel her against his palms. His hands curved involuntarily.

      It would probably be a bad idea to proposition her, but that was what he really wanted to do. He wanted to do that a hell of a lot more than he wanted to have a conversation with her about whitewashing his bad self.

      She was asking him another question. “Do you have a look in mind you want to achieve? Besides ‘pop star’?’”

      Pop star had never been a look he aspired to. It had been a look he’d stumbled into, that he’d worn like too-tight clothing. And it sucked to think it was now something he had to work to attain. He shook his head.

      “Particular people you want to see? Places you want to go?”

      “I’m just not that guy.”

      She nodded, like that made sense to her. Well, that was something.

      He already saw the people he wanted to see—the guys he played blues with in the crappy little club in the Village, and the ones he shot hoops with at the gym near his apartment in Queens. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Haven Hoyt’s people to see and places to go were in a whole different league than his.

      “I’m going to set up a bunch of appointments for you—hair, nails, skin.” She touched her hair and stroked the hot pink slickness of her own nails as she spoke, and his body heated. He had to look away. “For clothing, I’ll bring in a personal shopper—we can keep it simple at a department store.”

      He hadn’t shopped anywhere other than his local secondhand store in nearly a decade. The whole idea made his skin crawl. He still remembered the way it had felt to be fussed over and groomed like a baby monkey when he was in the band. He didn’t miss that, not for a second.

      He itched to get away from her scrutiny and her plans as intensely as he’d wanted to touch her earlier. His primitive brain screamed, Run away.

      “Can’t I just promise I’ll get a haircut and buy some new clothes?”

      A half smile appeared on Haven’s glossy lips as she tugged a bite of pasta off her fork. She shook her head.

      “I hate this.”

      He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he liked Haven, and something about her loosened his lips. She wasn’t a ballbuster, and she didn’t come off fake. She had a way of looking at him that, yeah, maybe bordered on pity, but it was better than the other brands of female attention he usually got—scorn or leftover band worship from self-destructive women who wanted to flush their self-esteem down the toilet with him.

      “I’ll try to make it hurt as little as possible.”

      She said it without sexual emphasis, but it still made the blood rush out of his brain. He bet she would. If he swept the utensils and plates off the white cloth, the table would make the perfect surface on which she could make it hurt, or not, as she pleased. He’d take it either way.

      Only he wouldn’t. Because women like Haven Hoyt didn’t sleep with men like him. He could tell by looking at her that, despite the softness of those curves, she had a thick, hard shell. He’d bounce right off if he tried to get through. But knowing that didn’t stop him from craving Haven and her sleek black hair and riveting mouth. The steak had become tasteless and chewy, and he hastily redirected his thoughts. No point in missing the prize he could have to fantasize about the one he couldn’t.

      “I’ll get you a schedule as soon as I can. It’ll have the makeover stuff on it and then a whole bunch of events you and I will appear at.”

      He set his fork down at the side of the plate. “Events.”

      “Parties, concerts, clubs—we’re going to take you out on the town so you can get photographed and written about. Otherwise, your new image isn’t going to do you any good.”

      He tried not to let it show on his face how much he dreaded “events.” How much he loathed the people and the publicity, the fakery, the exposure. “It’s not going to do me any good.”

      She tilted her head to one side. “It could do you a hell of a lot of good. If you want to do this tour.” Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

      He couldn’t turn away, and it probably wouldn’t have helped, anyway. She’d see. He couldn’t decide if he liked that, or if it terrified him.

      “So—I’ll ask you again. Why are you doing it?”

      He still didn’t want to answer the question, but he knew she’d keep asking him until he spilled. She was that kind of woman.

      “I said no when they asked me, at first,” he admitted.

      Two of his former bandmates and his old manager had come looking for him after he hadn’t returned their calls, showing up at Village Blues one evening to corner him.

       You look like hell, man.

      He’d run out of disposable razors a few days earlier, along with milk and cereal. That meant no shaving, and it also meant breakfast had been Bloody Marys in the neighborhood bar. Nothing new on either front.

       Thanks, guys.

      They’d bought him several drinks and then explained the situation. His bandmates needed money. They wanted to do a reunion tour. They were sure he needed money, too, how about it? Jimmy Jeffers, the manager, would make it happen.

      He’d told them no. In much stronger language, a burst of fiery self-righteousness that had felt better than sex.

      They’d backed off, right out of the club. He’d thought it had been the persuasive power of his refusal, but probably they’d already decided they could replace him. His assholery had only reinforced their intention to do so.

      “You know the band’s history?” he asked Haven.

      She nodded. Her hair was up in some kind of fancy twist thing. He wondered how many hairpins it took to keep it there, how much hair spray. She was so flawlessly put together, the kind of woman he didn’t waste his time pursuing. Different worlds, different values. But Haven wasn’t looking through him. She was looking at him with sharp, knowing, memorizing regard.

      “What that history doesn’t say is that I never should have been in Sliding Up in the first place. I’m not pop-star material, and anyone could have seen that by looking at me. I was going to school at Berklee, playing blues and rock and roots, and I let myself get snowed by a producer, which is what happens to a lot of musicians. Labels go after young guys in crappy circumstances who can’t say no. I should have had the balls to refuse, because I had other options.”

      “So why did you eventually say yes to the reunion?”

      “My dad had a stroke. A few weeks ago.”

      Her face softened. She’d been pretty before, but now looking at him as though she cared—

      It pissed him off that he still had this weakness in him. He hadn’t learned that women could do this at will—listen raptly, make you think you were the only man in the