More Naughty Than Nice

“And I have done everything so far that skewed right with that data,” Stevie explained patiently. “But the whole thing, the whole Stevie Bliss persona, it’s set now. Set. In stone. Or at least in leather.”

She took a deep breath, looking down at the slick black leather miniskirt and zip jacket, both scandalously expensive, the deeply plunging neckline on the silk camisole underneath, the knee-high boots with three-inch heels… She had never imagined herself strutting around in an outfit like this. And whether you called it a hottie or a ’ho, it certainly made an impact.

She’d tried hard to own this new brazen person she had become. Day in and day out, she continued to try. And she was doing pretty well, if she did say so herself. For the past month, ever since they’d launched this leg of the official media tour for Blissfully Single, she and Anna and their PR machine had been blitzing the East Coast markets. Everyone from Letterman to Liz Smith had bought into Stevie Bliss, champion of the single, sexy, independent woman, confident in her own sizzling womanhood.

And now they’d brought their act to Chicago for the holidays. They had a month of appearances and signings designed to saturate the Midwest from their base in the Windy City, where there was fabulous shopping and exactly the right demographic of shoppers.

Meanwhile, every piece of her persona, from the streaks in her hair to the shape of her “smart girl” glasses and the precise amount of cleavage she showed, had been carefully selected, based on hours of marketing research. She looked terrific. She didn’t need iced nipples to sell this package.

“But Stevie—”

She held up a hand. “Anna, give it up.”

The bookstore manager peeked around the corner into the office, cutting off further discussion. “Ms. Bliss? We have everything set up. Are you ready?”

Stevie raised her chin. “Absolutely,” she said, with the lazy drawl that was her trademark. Soft and sexy, with a hint of a growl, this was the voice that played best with her public.

From recent experience, Stevie knew she would be fine as long as she stuck with the program and played the role to the hilt, safe behind the disguise. Reminding herself—as some psychological consultant or other had recommended—that she was a cool jungle cat, she strode out behind the man from the bookstore, sliding carefully and yet easily into the chair next to the podium, perched at the front of her seat with her knees down so as not to show off anything she didn’t want to. Instead, she offered a polished smile and more than a hint of décolletage to the eager fans in the front row.

I’m a tiger, they’re hyenas, and I will eat them all alive.

Whoa. They were really crammed in here today, weren’t they? Anna would be pleased—every seat was filled, with more fans standing around the sides and in the back, all clutching hardcover copies of Blissfully Single. There were also two TV cameras shooting across the crowd from different sides, but it didn’t faze her. Stations frequently sent someone out to her appearances to get some footage for the evening news, maybe collect a sound bite or two. As constructed, the Stevie Bliss persona was telegenic, so getting on camera was the whole idea.

On the sides, Stevie could see bookstore clerks trying to shove racks and shelves farther back to accommodate extra people. Such a big crowd. Butterflies flickered in her stomach, and she really had to clamp down. You’re a tiger, damn it!

The store manager was halfway through his introduction, playing to the closer camera as he told the assembled folks how lucky they were to get to see Stevie Bliss, author extraordinaire, up close and personal, how much her book had meant to so many, and on and on. Stevie tuned out, trying to judge the people in the crowd. Would they be receptive? Or would they throw tomatoes, with the TV cameras catching every splash?

The stony faces over on the left side—the ones near the baby carriage—looked like protesters for sure. Moms on parade, no doubt, who felt the need to fight for the sanctity of marriage. She’d seen their ilk before.

Ditto the group of men nearer the back, shuffling as they stood. Although most of her fans were female, she tended to get a good number of men, too, the kind who wanted to meet the daring woman who boasted short skirts and no panties, who made no bones about the fact that she slept with whoever she liked, had no interest in anything permanent, and would only stay with a man for one month, tops. For them, it was like an open invitation. Meet the hottie! Get her to give you a month!

It wasn’t going to happen—her scandalous reputation was all smoke and no fire—but she wasn’t going to tell them that.

For others, and these grumpy guys looked like they fell squarely into the “other” category, it was more of a war. A bit older, a lot more insecure as they looked ahead to hair implants and Viagra, they hated the idea that a woman would claim the upper hand when it came to sex. They showed up to boo on behalf of their beleaguered gender.

Stevie held her head high. Mentally, she had classified and discarded them. Hadn’t she had hours of training on how to deflect hard questions? She could handle a few measly hecklers. Besides, they provided good publicity, even if they did give her headaches. Tiger, tiger, she repeated under her breath, smiling brightly as she watched one of the TV guys shift for a different view. But when he moved to the side, her eyes were drawn to the man behind him, someone who had been hidden until now.

Hold on. Who was he? He didn’t fit the profile of either the wannabe wolf or the macho man. Chewing her lip, she ticked off the important details, trying to get a handle on Mr. Way Cute. Sitting by himself, dark hair, piercing gaze, very good-looking, cool and removed, carrying a small notebook flipped open to the first page….

Reporter, she decided. If there was such a thing as a really hot reporter who looked like George Clooney’s younger brother. Did reporters come like that? She’d been interviewed quite a few times, but never by anyone who looked like this one.

The mystery man paid no attention to the bookstore manager, who was still up at the podium, droning on through that endless introduction. Instead, he stared right through her. His gaze was frank, speculative, insolent, raking over her, judging her. He sat back in his chair, putting his pen aside. The challenge was palpable, crackling in the air between them. I don’t think you’re so special. You’re going to have to prove it, baby. Every word.

She swallowed. Okay, well, if he was going to be that way, she would just have to turn up her sex appeal another notch, past “ensnare” and right up to “torture.” She could do that. Right?

She looked at him. He looked at her. He narrowed that sharp gaze. And suddenly she felt a lot less like a tiger and a lot more like a hyena.

Breaking first, Stevie scooted to the side and sent a frantic glance Anna’s way, signaling that she needed help. Anna was excellent when it came to picking up on the “panic” vibe, and she rushed over, bending in. “What?” she whispered.

“Back row,” Stevie murmured. “Reporter. Who is he?”

“Oh.” Anna relaxed. “Owen Dasher, a columnist from the Chicago Chronicle. It’s the third-rated paper in town. But he’s a real up-and-comer.”

“I sense a certain…” She licked her lip. “Hostility.”

Anna spared him a quick glance. “I don’t think he looks hostile.”

“Very Cary Grant in Notorious. He needs Ingrid Bergman to sleep with Claude Rains as part of this spy thing, but then when she does, well, he thinks she’s a ’ho. Very hostile.”

Anna was steeled and ready to jump before Stevie got to the end of her thought. “What have I told you about the old movie thing? I know it’s a habit, but it’s not sexy. It makes you sound more like a geek on the trivia bowl team.”

They’d been through this a million times. Could she help it if she had once been a geek on the high school trivia bowl team? And she adored old movies. The flickering black-and-white images on the classic film channels had everything the real world did not.

Still, she knew Anna was right. Old movies might fit Stephanie Blanton, but not Stevie Bliss. And a hefty percentage of their target demographic hadn’t seen anything made before Titanic.

“Okay, okay. Nix on the movies. Back to the reporter.” She ventured a glance his direction. Cary Grant? Ha! Okay, so he had the dark hair, a penetrating gaze, a classic jawline, even a certain elegance in the way he held himself. But he was no Cary Grant. She was sure of that. Quickly skipping back to Anna, she asked, “What do you think he wants?”

“A column, obviously,” Anna said impatiently. “Maybe if you really make an impression, he’ll do more than one. I told you about him. The Tribune and the Sun-Times dissed us, but the Chronicle sent him. I looked up some of his columns, just to check him out. He’s good. Seems to champion causes a lot, although he does some satirical stuff, too. Not exactly who I’d pick to write about you, but he has a following. He may have an agenda, I don’t know. And I don’t really care.” She smiled. “I have no doubt you can turn him around.”

“Right.” Owen Dasher of the Chronicle, huh? She frowned.

“Don’t frown. And quit chewing off your lipstick. Smile,” Anna ordered. “Look happy and in charge.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Stevie? Uh, Ms. Bliss?”

She glanced over at the bookstore manager, who was speaking in a stage whisper and beckoning with one hand. “Yes?”

“I’m done with my… I mean, you’re on. Now.”

“Oh.” Damn it, anyway. All caught up in the irritating man in the back row, she’d missed her cue. And now she felt flustered and off balance. You’re a tiger and they’re hyenas, she reminded herself quickly as she swept up to the podium, facing down her audience. She focused on a smiling young woman in the front row, exactly the right age and attitude to be receptive.

But it was that damn man in the back row she was thinking about. She was going to have to be at the top of her game to sell her message with him staring at her.

You’re Stevie Bliss, she told herself. You can do it.

Deliberately, she swung her head around, she found him in the crowd, and she began to speak right to him.

“Definitely single,” she purred. “And totally satisfied. Let me tell you all about it.”

OWEN DASHER felt himself fall neatly into the palm of her hot little hand.

And how exactly had she done that? He’d come prepared to be unimpressed. Bored, cynical, a little annoyed his editor had made him do this, he’d sat there as the crowd filled in, making a quick first draft of the column he intended to write.

Yet another attempt to hijack women’s brains and send them to Never Never Land, he scribbled into his notebook. Stevie Bliss—who is as fake as her Power-puff name—takes up where the Spice Girls and Ally McBeal thankfully left off….

He smiled. An excellent turn of phrase. That one just might make the final cut and end up in his column.