Nothing Like the Sun by Megan Hart
“About what?”
The familiar voice turned his head, and Julian stood. Micheline was early, and irritated, and Julian had to struggle not to frown. She’d have no problem denying him the right to see Amie if he pissed her off.
“Mama!” Amie ran to greet her mother. “Will Daddy be able to come to my birthday party?”
Micheline gave Julian a cool look. “I’m sure your daddy will be busy with his tour.”
The way she wrinkled her nose made it clear what she thought of Julian’s work. Which was fucking ballsy of her, considering it was what had interested her in him in the first place. He gave her a bland smile.
“Daddy?”
“I’ll work it out,” Julian assured her, and the answer seemed to satisfy Amie.
“Go wait with Daddy Bill in the car.”
With a kiss and a hug for Julian, Amie did as her mother ordered. When she’d gone, Julian faced the woman who’d been more cause for trouble in his life than any other, and that was saying a lot because women and trouble, in his experience, always went together.
“You look good. Have you had more work done?”
Another woman might have been offended by the suggestion, but not Micheline. She viewed her body as a canvas to be forever improved upon. She barely looked like the woman he’d dated nine years ago.
“My chin,” she said and turned from side to side so he could get a better view.
“It looks good.”
She nodded, not even bothering with a thank-you.
“Let me know about the party.”
She sighed, dramatically. “We’ll see.”
He was surprised by her reluctance. She’d refused to name him as Amie’s father, after all, until he’d fought for and won the right to DNA testing that proved his paternity. A birthday party wasn’t, in his mind, any less important. Amie was his daughter, and even though he couldn’t be there for her every day, he could try to be there whenever possible.
“I want to be there, Micheline.”
“I know you do.”
“I have the right to be a part of Amie’s life.”
Micheline gave an aggrieved sigh. “We’ll see, Julian.”
He didn’t argue further. There was no point. She moved forward to give him two completely insincere air kisses to his cheeks and left him wondering how he ever could have thought he loved her.
6
The concert was fantastic. Better even than her imagination could have made it because her mind had left out all the inconvenient details, like the drops of sweat flung off Seth Graham’s face as he leaned into the crowd to howl out the lyrics to one of Blue Silver’s biggest hits, or the way the Troy Douglas’ drumsticks had had his name burned into them in flowing script. Georgie had gathered all those little pieces, the details that made the experience real, to herself, where she could sort through them later at her leisure and imprint the memories so she’d have them forever. Georgie was transported¸ and having her friends there to share it had made it all that much better, even if Cassie had refused to introduce Georgie to Julian at the airport.
The concert ended too soon, leaving her gasping for air and drenched with sweat. As the house lights came up, she giggled and gushed with Marcy and Faith and gave Cassie a high five. She even squeezed Arliss, who was not the squeezable sort.
“I’ll see you at the after-party,” she told Cassie as the crowd swept toward the doors.
Cassie gave her a dark look. “Yeah, yeah.”
Still grinning, Georgie ran across the walkway over the street from the theater to the hotel, and took the stairs to her first-floor room, booked for the express purpose of swift access. A good whore didn’t need hours of primping to look her best. One of Esther’s lessons, taken to heart. Georgie had rehearsed this like she’d practiced everything else from how to deep throat—she didn’t think she could eat a banana again for years—to how to look as sexy putting her clothes on as she did taking them off.
She leaped into the shower, scrubbing, hair under a shower cap to keep it from getting wet. Pits, tits, clit and ass, out of the shower, pat dry, not rub, to keep some moisture on her skin. Lotion, smelling faintly of vanilla, not a scent she preferred, but one studies had shown men responded to. Then, using an additional trick from Esther, she ran a finger through soft folds and pressed it to her wrists and behind her ears; the soft feminine scent of her own body, enhanced by perfume and nearly indistinguishable, but, Esther assured her, guaranteed to drive a man wild should he get close enough to smell her. Georgie fully intended to get Julian close enough to her.
Still naked, only ten minutes gone by on the clock, she used the straightening iron to touch up her hair so it fell smoothly to just below her shoulders. Practiced fingers swiped on foundation, liner, mascara, lipstick. She used glittery powder on her face, shoulders and bust. Twenty minutes now, by the clock, and her hands had begun shaking.
Like an athlete who’d trained for months to run a race or a dancer who’d rehearsed for years to perform a ballet, Georgie was about to face the results of her hours of practice.
“Stop. Deep breath,” she told her reflection, which looked slightly wild-eyed. “You can do this.”
She tilted her head and ran a tongue across her lips. During her hours of vigil at Joe’s bedside, Georgie had lost herself in classic movies. She’d modeled herself on those sex symbols. Marilyn, Lana, a bit of Scarlett O’Hara, and don’t forget to add a dash of Bette. Davis, not Midler.
Thus armored with the faces of screen legends, Georgie dressed. Bra, garter belt, panties, stockings. At last, the fitted blouse of dark plum, the top button, shaped like a dragonfly, nestled just between her breasts. After that, the slim black linen skirt. Nothing fancy. It hit her just above the knee and had slits on either side that opened invitingly when she walked or sat, to reveal a glimpse of black-stocking clad thigh. She made sure her seams were straight, then picked up the shoes.
“You’re my lucky charms, ladies,” she told each one, kissing the dark satin and not feeling the least bit silly for doing so. “Take me where I want to go.”
She put on the shoes. And she was there.
7
“Bloody fucking great concert!” Julian beamed, clapping Troy on the shoulder as he passed. High on the applause, Julian grabbed Seth round the waist and planted a wet kiss on the taller man’s cheek. “Seth, mate, you were fucking brilliant! Tell me that doesn’t get you harder than my granny’s fruitcake!”
Seth shook his head, wet hair spattering Julian’s suit, but Julian didn’t care. Seth’s grin told him all he needed to know. They jumped up and down, laughing, pounding each other’s backs and whooping like they were kids again.
“If you two lunatics have finished,” said Brad, with a roll of his eyes, “can you let a fellow through? Some of us want something to eat.”
Seth broke away, still grinning. “Yeah, yeah. C’mere, you bastard.”
But Brad, laughing, was ducking away and Seth was chasing him, the pair of them as giddy as old times.
“Pete,” said Julian, catching sight of the band manager’s familiar stubbled face. “You have to admit, we were fucking gorgeous out there.”
“First night,” Pete grumbled. “A bunch of wet-pantied housewives re-living their horny youths. We’ll see if we can hold that through.”
Julian laughed and gave Pete a hug, too. “So long as their panties are wet and they’re horny, does it matter if they’re housewives?”
Pete scowled, wiping off the kiss Julian had planted on his bristly cheek. “Keep your fucking lipstick smears to yourself!”
Julian winked. “I’m not wearing lipstick, Pete. Just gloss.”
Pete muttered a faintly scandalous curse and waved his hands at Julian, shooing him. “Get on with you! Some of us have work to do! Go greet your adoring fans!”
“I intend to do just that.” Julian ran a hand through his hair, swiping it smooth without having to even look. He straightened the cravat and tugged the cuffs of his
He’d been to swankier soirees, but this suited him. The other fellows were already scavenging the buffet and the bar, or being chatted up by the various folks who’d been lucky enough to score an invite to the shindig. Despite what Pete had said, the crowd was not mostly housewives. Julian saw promoters, easily discerned by the way they stood proudly by the banners advertising their water and sneakers or whatever the bloody hell else they were trying to sell. A few media blokes, cameras slung round their necks, were already busy scarfing up the free food and booze. The charity group, fresh-faced and glowing with earnest intent, stood by ready to natter on about their cause. But that was for later, when Julian had a checkbook and could actually do something for them. He also spotted another familiar after-party crowd…
“Groupies,” he said, with a purposeful leer directed at Cassie. “Point me in their direction, love. I know you’ve got some stashed away.”
Cassie gave him that regal look he’d always liked, especially when it had meant she was ganging up with him against Seth—yes, it was wrong, but oh, so good just the same. “I’m not your pimp, Juli.”
Julian put hand over his heart. “Careful, Cassiopeia, my queen, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
Cassie’s sniff didn’t sound amused. “You’d have to have some.”
This took him aback, a bit. He and Cassie had always gotten on well in the past, well enough for him to keep her on his annual Christmas card list and keep her phone number in his address book anyway. He studied her, his smile not fading because he was good at that. Pretending he was happy when he wasn’t.
“Ouch,” he said. “Why the hate?”
She didn’t say anything, but the direction of her gaze told him enough. She looked away from the sight of Seth across the room, and Julian let out a low whistle. Before he could say anything, Cassie turned on him as quickly as only a woman incensed could turn, and poked her finger into his chest. Hard.
“Ouch!”
“Say one word, and I will have your balls for breakfast.”
Julian blinked, rubbing the sore spot. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Not even,” Cassie said and turned on her heel, stalking off into the crowd, leaving Julian to stare after her, confused.
“What the—?” But he had no more time to ponder the mood of his best friend’s ex-wife because, at that moment, the crowd parted and he lost the ability to breathe.
A goddess. An angel. A…a… Vocabulary failed him. A woman. She’d just entered the room, pausing in the doorway for half a heartbeat, before she put one foot in front of her and moved through the throng.
He hadn’t always been so callous about the fair sex. Absolutely not. Julian had fallen in love. Hard. More than once. It had taken him three or four or seven times of getting his heart broken before he’d come to understand that a more stand-offish attitude worked better than pouring out his soul to a pretty face. Because no matter whether she was a bookish O-level student or a glamorous fashion model, the same thing remained—inevitably, he was shafted.
That couldn’t change the fact that Julian loved women, all sorts. Tall, short, thin, thick. But he had an especial fondness for the classic, voluptuous beauties of old-time movies. Women who knew how to dress, who carried themselves like royalty instead of galumphing along like ponies with hoof disease. The woman he’d spotted clearly knew how to do just that.
He started across the floor toward her, but lost sight of her as a group of young women crowded in front of him. Julian signed their breasts with a grin and a kiss for each of them, but his gaze kept searching for the mysterious woman. Lana Turner mixed with Marilyn Monroe and a hint of…who?
“I am so into your music,” chattered one of the girls, stepping in front of him as he made to move away.
“That’s great, love,” he said, still distracted.
“Yeah, like, “Her Eyes” is like my favorite song.”
This caught his attention and he looked at her. “Is it? Why?”
She seemed a bit flustered for a moment at managing to capture his eye, but she gave her hair a flip and thrust her bosoms forward in a way he recognized as practiced.
“Yeah, like, I love that line, ‘Her teeth leave kisses redder than then her lips.’ It’s really cool. How she’s like a vampire or something.”
Julian flashed her a grin, even as he started moving away again. She might have a set of Grade-A tits and a nice enough face, but what was the point? The last thing Julian wanted to do was have to explain himself all over again to some young thing who was hot to get into his pants because she’d just seen him up on stage.
“Actually, sweetheart, it’s not about vampires at all.” He knew why she thought so. Damn them for agreeing to make its video some sort of campy Dracula rip-off. It had seemed like fun at the time, but ever since then, most people thought he’d been writing about a bloodsucker when, in reality, he’d been paying homage to a Shakespearian sonnet.
“It’s not?”
“No,” he said kindly, for it wasn’t her fault she was young and didn’t seem to know anything about literature. “It’s not.”
“Oh. Oh, but—”
And he was off again, searching for the woman he’d seen before. He spotted her chatting with Cassie. Brilliant. Seth’s ex could introduce him to her friend. The crowd closed ranks again and he lost sight of them both.
When it opened, though, he saw her again, standing alone this time. She was glancing over her shoulder, looking annoyed, as she walked.
It took only a dip instead of a dodge for her to step into the path of a media thug dead set on getting his share of the fresh plate of canapés. The lout didn’t even stop, just pushed on, and the object of Julian’s attentions grimaced as her foot came down wrong.
He was there in the next instant, a hand steadying her at the elbow. “Careful there. Come out of the path of rampaging photogs, yeah?” He tugged her gently toward a chair set off to the side.
She sat. “Thanks. I twisted my ankle.”
“I saw that.” Julian looked to find the man, but he was already gone. “Wanker didn’t even stop. Let me take a look.”
Before she had time to do more than murmur, he was on one knee in front of her. And hell, if she wasn’t gorgeous enough to stop his heart, the shoes sealed it for him. Dark violet satin. Pointed toe. Shaped heel. And not cheap knock-offs either, these were genuine hand-tooled leather soles and hand-stitched uppers. The woman knew her shoes.
He put her foot on his thigh and made a show of probing her ankle. “It looks fine to me. Does it hurt?”
“No. I think I’ll be fine.”
He looked up at her face and was instantly bewildered by the look of amusement on her face. “What?”
“You’re looking at my shoes like you want to ask them out on a date.”
Julian grinned. “They’re great shoes.”
“I know.”
He got up and took the seat beside her, then held out his hand. “Julian Manchester.”
She took it, shook it gently, but didn’t let her palm linger in his. “I know. We’ve met…sort of.”
“Have we?” Damn. Well, that happened more often than a polite lad would have admitted. Julian wasn’t that polite. “You’ll have to be kind and remind me, love. I meet a lot of women.”
“I don’t doubt it.” That small, amused smile was beginning to work its way under his collar.
He raised a brow. “Have I taken you to bed? Is what you’re implying that I’m an oaf for not remembering?”
“No. I haven’t let you take me to bed yet.”
Yet. She was a vixen, this one. He loved it.
“Charity ball? Garden party? Did you come to my door for the census?”
She chuckled at last, a sound low and rich, like melting butter. She shook her head. “No. I’m Georgiana Davis. Cassie’s friend.”
That expla
He leaned back, ogling her up and down.
“I wasn’t wearing the shoes,” she told him, just as though she had his number, all right. The thing of it was, she likely did.
“Georgiana. What great name.”
“I usually go by Georgie.”
Georgie was a tomboy’s name, though this woman in front of him was anything but. She crossed one shapely leg over the other, and her skirt fell just so, exposing a glimpse of bare thigh above the black stockings. Delicious.
“That’s funny,” he said. “I sometimes go by Juli. So you’re the lady with the bloke’s name, and I’m a fella with a girl’s.”
Georgie laughed, tipping back her head, and Julian watched the line of her throat. He’d like to lick it, all the way from her chin down to the crevice between her breasts. Glitter gleamed there, faintly, and that pleased him as he was a big fan of glitter.
She looked at him again. “Thanks for helping me, but I think I’m fine. I don’t want to keep you from something.”
He looked round the room. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, drinking and eating and flirting. He looked back at Georgie. “What would you be keeping me from?”
She waved a hand at the party. “That.”
“Oh, that.” He mimicked her gesture. “That I can get anywhere, anytime.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And,” Julian said, leaning in so he could catch a whiff of her scent. Hell’s biscuits, she smells good. “I’d rather be talking to you than fending off giggling girls who want to talk about vampires.”
Again, that laugh. He wanted to sink inside that laugh and wrap himself up in it like pulling on a cashmere sweater. Georgie tilted her head, a curl of deep brunette hair falling over one eye.
“Vampires?”
“That girl”—he indicated her with a lift of his chin—“thinks “Her Eyes” is about vampires.”