Coming Undone

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IT WAS GOING TO BE A long day.

Jared sprawled on the trendy pink love seat that dominated the waiting area of the Mane Event salon. Stretching across the small couch at an angle, he extended one foot out onto the floor, his opposite knee drawn up and deliberately positioned spread-eagle across the seat to discourage any of the black-kimono-wearing clientele surrounding him from getting the wrong idea. Sharing his space was not an option.

Rock music pounded out of the overhead speakers, which P.J. insisted was a good thing. She claimed that anyone who tuned in heavy metal as their normal listening preference was unlikely to be familiar with the country music world-let alone its gossip. And that, she asserted, made her anonymous-which in turn gave her a heaven-sent opportunity to be just like any other woman in the place.

God knew the salon was packed to the rafters with the species. There were tall women, short women, skinny women, fat women and every size and shape in between. There were women who had hip down pat, women who looked as if they spent every spare minute taking lessons from country club pros and matronly women-although there were a damn sight fewer of those.

The joint was awash in estrogen, and female voices wove over and under the thumping music as they chatted about stuff both more mundane and way more intimate than any snippet of conversation he'd ever overheard Esme or his sister have with their friends. It was like being in a foreign country-one where the air was ripe with the scents of shampoo, hairspray and a witch's brew of chemicals.

He was tempted to hook a finger beneath the collar of his shirt and tug it away from his throat. He resisted because one, with its two top buttons unfastened, his collar wasn't the least bit constrictive and two, the gesture would be too revealing. But man, did he feel out of his element.

Two women, one seated to his right and the other three chairs down, talked on their cell phones. Everyone else either flipped with varying degrees of interest through magazines dedicated to hairstyles, movie stars or fashion-and-beauty tip stuff or visited with each other. In many cases they did both.

He was coming in for his share of curious looks, as well, probably because he was the only appreciably straight guy in Girlyville. For the most part it was nothing more than a quick peek over the top of a magazine or a new client faltering briefly when she turned from the reception desk and saw him sitting there. One of the cell phone talkers, however, and a brunette facing him on an Eames-style chair down against the other wall, subjected him to slow, bold, up-and-down inspections. The phone chatterer was checking out his package and the brunette, catching him glance her way, opened her lips, gave them a lascivious circle with her tongue and pantomimed a kiss.

Now, Jared wasn't a shy guy and ordinarily he'd welcome a little female attention. But not only was he badly outnumbered by the gentler sex, he was on the job. Plus the tenor of some of the attention focused on him was a helluva lot more predatory than that of an admiring woman catching his eye in a bar. For the first time he fully appreciated how women walking the gauntlet of whistling construction workers must feel. Sexual aggression wasn't appealing in either gender.

Coolly he returned Phone Chick and Miss Kissy-face's comprehensive appraisals, letting his own gaze conduct a leisurely assessment from head to toe before pointedly turning his attention elsewhere. And if he started to suffer a persistent little get-me-out-of-here itch, well, he'd just keep that to himself.

He hoped.

No. His face went stony. There was no "hope" about it-he would.You're a trained professional, he reminded himself grimly.There hasn't been a sissified beauty palace built that has the chops to take that away from you.

But it was sure as hell a different world in here.

He looked past the reception desk into the heart of the pink and black salon. The rituals practiced back there were a mystery to him. He could see Nell seated at a station down near the end of the room. A girl with black and fuchsia hair had whacked the tour manager's braid off at the nape, secured its cut end with a pink ribbon and set it like a trophy on the counter in front of her. Miss Two-tone had then snipped up a storm until he'd swear more hair lay on the floor around Nell's chair than was still attached to her head. He didn't know squat about this stuff, of course, so he had to assume she'd look great when the stylist was finished. Right now, however, what hair was left bristled with layers of aluminum foil. He saw at least two other patrons sporting a similar look, making the lot of them appear for all the world like alien invaders from a fifties-era B movie.

A stylist had already trimmed P.J.'s hair and tamed her usual tumble of curls into a sleek, straight waterfall that cascaded over her shoulders. Currently seated on an elevated chair over in the alcove, the long skirt of her red dress rucked up between her thighs, she sipped something from a delicate china cup and carried on a rapid-fire conversation with the technician painting her toes. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but if her frequent laughter was any indication she was having the time of her life. A slight smile curved his lips. It was good to see her enjoying herself. It had been a tense couple of days.

She shuffled his way a short while later. Glancing down, he took note of disposable green and yellow Hawaiian-print flip-flops on her feet and rainbow-colored separators that spread her red-tipped toes. With a bemused shake of his head, he shifted to make room for her on the love seat.

"Shades, J?" she demanded, dropping down next to him, only to immediately hitch up one bun. "Ow. What's this thing made of, bricks?"

"I was thinking poured concrete, myself."

Her lips quirked up, but almost in the same instant she went all stern on him. "Don't change the subject. What's with the Ray-Bans? Could yoube any more conspicuous? Everyone probably thinks you're FBI."

He slid the sunglasses in question down his nose and peered over their black rims at her. "Hey, it's blinding in here." And that was true as far as it went; sunshine did pour through the window onto the left side of his face.

It just wasn't the real reason he'd donned them.

She apparently knew it, too. "Uh-huh." She gave him a swift elbow to the ribs. "More like you're hiding out from all the babes wanting to jump your bones."

"Yeah, right," he scoffed. Nodding his head toward two particularly aggressive blondes who'd replaced Phone Chick and Kissy-face, he said, "I was thinking of asking those two to join me in a little menage a trois." God knows they'd been staring holes through him for the past several minutes and hadn't bothered to keep their voices down when they'd exchanged the increasingly raunchy methods they'd like to use to wear him out.

Then he broke like a cheap china plate. "Jesus, Peej," he said in a low voice. "Is there a sign over my head that says Fresh Meat, Come and Get It or something? You shouldhear some of the trash they've been talking. If a guy said half the shit they've suggested he'd be sued for sexual harassment."

She laughed. But leaning into him, she also butted her head against his chest like a kitten seeking attention. "Poor baby."

With no conscious decision on his part he found himself threading his fingers into her shiny chestnut hair to hold her in place.

Peering around him at the two women under discussion, she finger-walked her way down his row of shirt buttons until she reached his stomach, which she proceeded to pet. "Back off, ladies," she told them in a low but firm voice. "He's mine."

The blonde with the more impressive implants made a rude sound. "There's nothing to you," she said, subjecting P.J. to an insolent up-and-down appraisal. "Maybe the big guy's ready for something a little more exciting."

"Thereis nothing more exciting than what she gives me," Jared said flatly. Then awareness burned through him at the feel of P.J.'s delicately curved breast pressed against his side and he turned his head to look down at her. "Is there, baby?" he demanded softly. And he lowered his head to kiss her.

He'd been telling himself ever since she'd laid that wet one on him the other day that it hadn't truly fried every circuit in his brain. But he'd been fooling himself. Because her lips were soft-God, so soft and sweet-and the interior of her mouth was sweeter still, tasting like green tea and hot, willing woman.

It was that last thing, her willingness, that nearly pushed him over the edge and made him want to lay her back on this uncomfortable little love seat and punch that compliance into overdrive until both of them were revving full throttle.

Instead he geared himself down. Deliberately he kept his kiss brief and restrained. And when he came up for air he told himself that the entire performance had merely been for show.

But he knew better. And he could have kicked his own butt around the block. So much for his big claim of professionalism anytime, anyplace.

"Well, that did the trick," P.J. murmured cheerfully. "It appears the Porn Twins have finally taken the hint."

He looked over to see that the blondes had indeed moved their attention elsewhere. Then he turned wary eyes back on P.J.

And little by little the tension in his shoulders eased. Thank God she at least seemed to believe he'd kissed her with the sole purpose of getting the blondes off his back.

The Twins had been called back for their appointments by the time Nell came out. Whistling when he got a look at her, Jared rose to his feet. "Wow. You look:fabulous."

She did. Her dark hair had been cut short to feather around her temples, forehead and nape, and it stuck up on the crown in soft, modish spikes. She had beautiful skin and the highlights around her face not only accentuated it but made her eyes look bluer.

"Muyfabulous," P.J. agreed. "You look so hip."

Nell laughed. "Oh my God, I do, don't I?" In an age-old feminine gesture, she touched her fingers to her hair. "I thought I was going to wet my pants when Rachel chopped off my braid, but I really like it." She gave her head a shake. "It feels so light."

"Did you remember it, by the way?" he asked her, noticing that her hands were empty.

"Hmm?"

"Your braid. I saw your beautician-Rachel, is it?-set it on the counter in front of you. Did you forget to grab it?"

"Oh. No." She smiled up at him. "They're keeping it for the Locks for Love program."

He must have looked as blank as he felt, because P.J. said, "Nell donated it to a charity that makes wigs for cancer victims."

"Whoa." Leaning down, he kissed the tour manager on the cheek. "You are one classy lady."

Their next stop was a department store makeup counter and while it was hardly the activity he would have chosen to while away an hour he discovered he didn't really mind the time spent there. Nell's quiet delight in her haircut and the changes wrought by some lipstick, blush and mascara were endearing, and he liked the way P.J. was equally delighted for her friend. In fact, the entire day, from what he could tell, seemed to have been designed with Nell in mind.

Not that P.J. didn't throw herself wholeheartedly into a shopping spree of her own. She, too, bought lipstick, two cosmetic brushes and some eye stuff. Given their hand-to-mouth existence back in the day, he had to admit he got a kick out of seeing her with money to burn and clearly enjoying the hell out of spending it.

He was still in a pretty mellow mood when the women moved their shopping bender up to the second floor. Nell stopped in the misses section but after a quick low-voiced consultation, P.J. kept going.

He followed her to the junior department where he stood out of the way with his hands in his pockets and watched as she shuffled hangers on the round stands boasting markdown signs of fifty to seventy-five percent off. "Country music must not pay as well as I thought if you're reduced to shopping the clearance rack," he said wryly.

P.J. barely spared him a glance. "You try finding summer stuff in the summer," she said and selected a skirt that started out denim but then exploded at the hipline into three short flounces of frothy, lightweight material with bits of lace and lines of ribbon appliqued all over them. "Their fall lines are already out."

"Yeah, I've never understood that not being able to buy the clothes you need in the season you need it."

"Me, either." She gathered an amazing number of separates off the sale racks, shoved them into his arms, then led him to the lingerie department where she selected slinky little camisoles and tank tops in a rainbow of colors. Carrying those herself, she led him back to the misses section in search of Nell.

"Looks like you found a few things," she said to her friend when they met up, indicating the armload Nell clutched to her breast.

"There's an advantage to being a size fourteen."

"Aside from being a nice, warm armful, you mean?" Jared asked and the elated smile she flashed him tugged up the corner of his own mouth.

"Yes, aside from that, you honey-tongued devil." Cheeks flushed, Nell turned back to P.J. "He makes me feel desirable and totes your stuff. This shopping with a man riff ain't half bad." Then her brows furrowed slightly as she indicated the jumble of clothing in her arms. "What do you think of my selections?" she demanded. "Am I headed in the right direction?"

P.J. inspected Nell's choices one by one. "This one looks too baggy," she decided of a dark, shapeless dress, and Nell put it back on the rack. "Ooh. I like this jacket and these three tops. And I see you hit the lingerie department, too."

"Damn few tank tops to be found otherwise," Nell agreed.

"Tell me about it." P.J. vetoed one other selection and applauded the rest.

"I'll give these a try then." Nell reclaimed the hangers containing the clothes that had survived the cut and nodded at the fragile tops in P.J.'s hands. "What about you? You ready to try some stuff on?"

"Yep." P.J. headed down the aisle, crooking her finger at Jared over her shoulder. "Come, boy."

Nell's head whipped around as if to assess his reaction to her friend's insolence. He merely tugged a lock of hair falling over his forehead and murmured, "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh my," Nell said. "This just keeps getting better and better."

A moment later P.J. indicated a nice overstuffed chair situated outside the women's dressing room. "Have a seat," she invited. "You might as well get comfortable, because this is gonna take a while."

He kind of enjoyed himself at first. P.J. insisted they could use a man's perspective and he liked seeing the flush on Nell's cheeks and her pleased expression every time she came out to model an outfit that he approved.

P.J. modeled her picks, as well. And for a while he got a charge out of watching her parade out of the dressing room to twirl in front of him, then turn this way and that to assess every angle in the triple mirror situated not far from his chair.

After twenty minutes of being constantly asked to endorse her choices, however, he'd had enough. He'd been trying to ignore his attraction to her ever since he'd signed on for this job, but his determination to hold himself aloof only worked as long as he manned the ramparts, maintained the defenses. And somewhere between the salon and this comfy chair outside the women's dressing rooms, he'd let his guard down.

Big mistake. Because now P.J. had begun modeling those damn little underwear tops and spandex pants. And he was starting to sweat.

"Do these make my butt look too big?" she asked, twisting to look at her reflection in the mirror. The fingers of her right hand splayed atop the anatomy in question, which pulled her elbow back and thrust her breasts forward.

"You're kidding, right?" His gaze was all over the full curve challenging the stretch in the little black capris that she eyed so critically. "You've got a great ass." His fingers flexed, tempted almost beyond bearing to reach out and palm a handful.

"That's what I'm always telling her," Nell called from inside one of the dressing rooms. "J-Lo's got nothing on our girl."

"You think?" She turned around and looked at him uncertainly. "Then it's this top. I look like a boy, don't I? Damn, I've been waiting my entire life to grow a decent rack, but some things never change."

"Jesus, P.J." But tearing his gaze away from the sweet little cupcakes pressing slight but insistent curves in the cherry-red satin chemise, he looked into her eyes and saw genuine anxiety.

It was crazy. She was a rising star in an impossibly tough industry. She brought fans to their feet every night and this very evening she was to be awarded a prestigious plaque. She was loaded with talent, she was pretty:yet the insecure little girl he'd once known still lurked inside of her.

He rose to his feet, took her by the shoulders and turned her back to face the mirror. The top of her head barely reached the hollow of his throat and she looked dainty and feminine against his more muscular frame. Reaching around, he smoothed her top from just beneath her breasts to the exquisite garment's hem. "Trust me," he said in a low voice as the material pulled tight against her tits, "these are sweeter than sugar. There's not a man on earth is ever gonna mistake you for a boy." The satin under his hands was slippery smooth, the flesh beneath that warm and alive. He watched his hands in the mirror as if they belonged to someone else as they cupped the slight bottom swells, watched his thumbs as they swept like windshield wiper blades from her outside curves to her nipples. He observed those nipples shoot from soft quiescence to hard little bullets beneath the luxurious red fabric. "Not any man with blood in his veins," he reiterated, pressing the stiff crests between the sides of his index finger and the pads of his thumbs.

Her head lolled against his chest and her eyes grew sleepy-lazy as they stared in the mirror at the hands on her breasts. He watched her watching.

Then his brain belatedly kicked in.What the hell are you doing?

He jerked his big paws to her upper arms and stepped back, holding her steady when she staggered at the removal of the support that had been propping her up.

He cleared his throat. "So, we just about done here? It's getting late." He raised his voice. "How about you, Nell? You almost ready to go?" A couple of women had come and gone while they'd been back in this corner, but had he even checked to see if anyone was around before he'd manhandled her? Hell, no.

Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!God, he was a moron.

He did his best to make up for it, however, acting cool and businesslike as he encouraged the women to speed up the remainder of their try-ons, pay for their purchases and climb in the cab he'd called to take them back to the arena. But he had his doubts that his sudden professionalism fooled anyone. He couldn't really say about Peej, he supposed, since she was avoiding eye contact with him as assiduously as he was avoiding it with her. But Nell, whom he'd learned over the course of the day might be quiet but was far from meek and sure as hell didn't lack for intelligence, had a speculative gleam in her eyes whenever she looked at either of them.

Traffic was a nightmare and no one said a word to alleviate the tension inside the taxi as it crawled down the freeway. When they finally pulled up to the tour bus P.J. turned to him and coolly addressed a point beyond his left shoulder. "I'd like you to help take this stuff inside, then come with me to my dressing room."

He did as she asked but walking by her side toward the arena a short while later, he didn't hold out much hope for a pleasant conversation once they reached their destination. They were both silent at the moment, but he had no doubt that P.J. would have plenty to say once they hit her dressing room. And he was pretty sure what he was going to hear.

Hit the road, Jack-or whatever the country equivalent was.

Her posture was stiff as she stopped before the door to her room. Opening it, she waved him in like a grande dame. Gut roiling, he complied with her gesture and she closed the door behind them. Certain that this was the end, he abruptly realized that he wasn't even remotely ready to call this assignment-or whatever was happening between them-quits.

He was even less prepared for her to leap on him, wrap her legs around his waist and rock her mouth over his.