Rock Chick Redemption (Rock Chick #3)(91)

Also not surprisingly, I babbled on enough for the both of us.

Then he took me to Indy’s to get Hank’s key.

She was in a bit of a dither about the evening’s dress code as demanded by Daisy, and loathe to ask Tod for another loaner for fear her Tangerine and Chocolate Wedding would turn into an even bigger nightmare.

We spent half an hour sorting through Indy’s closet and drawers for something “sparkly” for her to wear. We’d almost cracked it when Luke walked in.

Without a word, he grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the house to the company black Explorer.

Guess he was done waiting.

* * * * *

I, on the other hand, did not have trouble with sparkle. I was the Sparkle Queen. At Hank’s, I washed my face and put on Drama Night Makeup; heavy on the charcoal eye shadow and black kohl eye liner, dark raspberry lipstick on lined lips and glitter dust on my col arbone and shoulders.

I wore a black top that was tight across the midriff and bosom, loose around the waist. The thin sleeves and low, scooped neckline were designed to look torn, not finished.

One sleeve fit over my shoulder, the other one fel off by design. The torn bits were adorned here and there with glittery jet beads, a hint of sparkle. I put on a pair of tailored, slightly tight, wide-leg, low-rider, black trousers with a sharp crease. The trousers had a thick line of black beading al the way around my upper hips. I wore a bunch of spangly, thin black bracelets and dangly jet earring. I put my hair up in a messy knot, secured with bobby pins on the ends of which were baby, black rhinestones and I let lots of tendrils float down. I finished off with a spritz of Boucheron.

I walked out of the bathroom, al done up, to see Luke’s long, lean body stretched out on Hank’s bed, his hands crossed behind his head, eyes closed.

Shamus was sprawled and asleep beside him.

“Good God,” I whispered.

His eyes opened, his head turned and he did a slow body scan.

Then his lids lowered to half-mast. “Fuck,” he murmured low.

I pul ed myself sternly into recovery.

“You ready?” I asked.

His eyes went to my feet. “You aren’t wearing shoes.”

“Damn! I knew I forgot something, hang on.” I ran to the weight room slash junk room and tore through boxes and suitcases until I found what I wanted.

I walked into the living room carrying my shoes, a little red suede bag and wrap. Into the bag I transferred the necessities, running back to the bathroom for lipstick, lip liner and extra sparkle powder for emergency re-application, and put in credit cards, money, phone and the VIP passes Jet gave me.

I sat on a couch and slid on one of my (four) pairs of sexy, Jimmy Choo shoes (online auction, brand new, nearly ful retail price but worth every penny). These were pumps, pointed, red suede toe and matching suede four-inch spiked heel, the body of the shoe was red snakeskin.

The shoes were hot.

I settled a red pashmina around my shoulders, flipping an end around my neck.

Luke was standing at the door.

“Ready,” I said.

Luke didn’t move.

Then he asked, “You know what I said in the store today?”

“You said a lot in the store,” I told him. He hadn’t said a lot of words, but al of them had a lot of meaning.

“The last part.”

My eyes got big and I nodded.

“I was f**kin’ with you,” he told me.

I let out a breath. “I thought so,” I said.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

I wasn’t keeping up with him. He wasn’t exactly going fast but I stil wasn’t keeping up with him.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve decided I wasn’t f**kin’ with you.”

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

“Are you flirting with me in Hank’s living room?”

“I don’t flirt.”

I crossed my arms on my chest. “Seems like flirting to me.”

“Flirtin’ is me tel in’ you that you have pretty eyes. I’m not tel in’ you that. I’m tel in’ you, it doesn’t work with Hank, I want you in my bed. That isn’t flirtin’.”

I stared at him.

He was right, that sure as hel wasn’t flirting.

Then I scowled at him.

He was entirely unaffected by the scowl.

Then I looked to the ceiling.

“Denver men are nuts,” I told the ceiling.

He walked forward, grabbed my hand and pul ed me toward the door.

“Denver men are men,” he declared.

Good grief.

* * * * *

There was a line out the door and around the building when we arrived at Smithie’s. It was control ed by big, black leather jacket-wearing bouncers and a red velvet rope. Luke parked il egal y right at the front door.

“Hey! You can’t park there,” a bouncer, clearly feeling the need to risk his life, said to Luke, peeling away from his station to confront us.

I opened my purse to pul out the VIP passes and noticed the bouncer got close to me. Luke’s hand went flat against his chest, keeping him at a distance, while his other hand went to my arm and he moved me close to his side.

“Don’t,” Luke said, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.

I could only see Luke’s profile but whatever the bouncer saw made him say, “I guess you can park there.” I pul ed out the passes and showed them to the bouncer.