More Naughty Than Nice

He might’ve thought he was being unfair, but he couldn’t miss the fact that there were other people here who didn’t care for her, either, what with the guy standing behind him who kept muttering, “Crazy broad,” and the ladies clustered around the baby carriage on the other side, all prim and proper in their disapproval. Good. He was looking forward to some fireworks.

And then she was late. As the bookstore got fuller and fuller, Owen grew more annoyed. It didn’t help that he didn’t want to be there in the first place, pretending he cared about the Blissfully Single crowd. He’d read the book. He knew how slick, shallow and maybe even dangerous her message was.

All that stuff about women who refused to get married and used men as sex objects struck him as pretty ridiculous. He’d had plenty of one-nighters in his twenty-nine years on the planet, and he’d learned from hard experience that being involved with someone purely for the sex always turned out ugly. He didn’t think there had to be love involved, necessarily, but he didn’t think you should be sleeping with someone if you couldn’t bear to wake up with them, either. Okay, so he was opinionated. He was a columnist. It came with the territory.

As he’d waited, he’d mused on why she came up with this stuff. What had made Stevie Bliss so cynical about love and relationships?

His first thought was that she must be some dried-up crone who couldn’t get a guy in the first place. He checked her picture. No dried-up crone there. But, hey, digital touch-ups were amazing. So who knew?

Or maybe she was no more than another fast-buck artist, mouthing whatever phony baloney self-help platitudes she thought were most likely to net her some easy cash. The crude, rude flavor of the month, clad in leather, sporting no undies just to get some attention.

As he was mulling the question one more time, the real Stevie Bliss walked out. No, she sauntered out, all long legs and saucy attitude. He noted the streaked blond hair, cut kind of wispy and choppy on the ends where it brushed her shoulders, the striking blue eyes behind snappy little tortoiseshell glasses, the creamy, pale skin curving down into that daring camisole, the skirt that was barely long enough to cover her assets… Wow.

If this was a dried-up crone, he was Methuselah. And far from vulgar, she seemed to have found the place where sex met class and lived happily ever after.

Letting his gaze linger on her spectacular legs, he wondered whether those boots were made for walking. And on whom. He had to admit it. She was hot.

He could see she was impatient as the introduction limped on, as her eyes scanned the room, taking the measure of the crowd, checking for pockets of negativity she might have to combat later. Smart girl.

And then her electric gaze hit him. Pow. One glance from media creation Stevie Bliss and he was sautéed in his seat. Where in the hell did that come from?

At first he wondered if this smoky glance thing was some tactic she tried on all the men in her audience. But no, she seemed to be as thunderstruck as he was. And she was gazing directly at him, no one else.

He steeled himself against his own overheated reaction. Owen Dasher was no neophyte when it came to dazzling women, after all. He’d interviewed a heap of stars as they hit Chicago to promote their movies, and if Julia Roberts couldn’t reduce him to a pile of goo, there was no way he was going to melt after one glance from Stevie Bliss.

So they did a little visual tango, eye to eye, with him hanging on to a sense of journalistic detachment by his fingernails. She’s shallow and plastic and this is all a scam, he reminded himself. And he was pleased—no, relieved—when she broke first to talk to one of her handlers. She seemed rattled, and he enjoyed that, too.

Relaxing for the first time since their gazes intersected, he managed to collect himself, taking himself sternly to task for losing it like that. But, yeah, he could handle her. He’d just proved that. She’d looked away first, hadn’t she?

Then she sidled up to the podium to begin her speech, and he felt his palms start to sweat. Okay, so her long, lovely legs and those wicked boots were hidden behind the podium. That helped. But the rest of her, still on display, was a lot to deal with. A lot of warm, delicious woman. His fingers began to clench and unclench, and he realized he hadn’t taken a single note. Hell.

As she spoke, purring about sassy sisters who knew their personal value and took no prisoners, she was staring right at him, giving him the full benefit of this little performance. Although his brain couldn’t seem to process a word she was saying, he was actually starting to believe her.

“I love men,” she confided, in a naughty tone of voice that sent sparks of heat licking up from the bottom of his spine. He stretched his legs, pretending to be bored, adjusting his position. Still burning.

“People call me a man-hater,” she continued, lifting a dismissive hand in the air. “Isn’t that silly? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I love men. I mean, I love them.”

As she drew out the word “love” to make her implication clear, she was met by a flurry of giggles, and she turned her focus to the gaggle of teens in the front row, the ones doing the giggling. Which distracted her from keeping him pinned to his seat. Thank God.

“And why not? Men have been taking the cake and eating it, too, forever. Now it’s time for my cake.” Her smile widened, and she had a mischievous gleam in her eyes that left no doubt what she was really talking about. Sex. “Maybe with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

Whipped cream? And a cherry on top? On top of what? Or whom? Owen groaned, slipping deeper into the fantasy.

And then Stevie licked her lip. That pretty pink little tongue flicked over her top lip, for only a second. He was a goner.

Oh, man. This was bad. Very bad.

As she moved away from whipped cream, talking instead about empowerment and freedom, about making good choices and having no fear, he could feel the crowd moving with her. He could feel himself moving with her. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Yes! Yes!” along with the rest of the converts.

Hell, he wanted to throw her on the floor and make love to her until she screamed, “Yes! Yes!”

Time to get a grip.

Reining himself in with fierce control, Owen glared at her. She was manipulating everyone in this room, and he was not going to be part of it.

Finally it was time for questions. He looked to the groups of dissenters he’d identified earlier. Surely they could bring her down a peg or two. Go to it, guys! Dent that sex kitten veneer.

“Miss Bliss,” a rather stodgy-looking woman called out, raising her hand, which was weighted down by a huge diamond and a thick wedding ring. Several other women rose behind her, and they lifted neatly printed signs into the air. Mom, Marriage and Apple Pie read one, while another went with Bliss is a Big Liar!

“I prefer Ms.,” Stevie Bliss responded quickly. “Or you can just call me Stevie. Would you prefer that?”

“No. Yes. I mean, no.” The lady with the question looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “I do not want to call you anything. Our group, the Righteous Moms Brigade, believes that marriage and motherhood should be respected and commended, not spit upon, as you seem to do, and we would like to say that your book is just hateful—”

“Don’t you just love what she said about marriage and motherhood?” Stevie cut in. “Isn’t that wonderful? Respected and commended. You are so right. Because if it weren’t for women like you, who are on the frontlines of the marriage wars, the rest of us, the ones who are totally unsuited for that life, might have to sub in. So let’s give the Righteous Moms a hand, shall we? We love you, Righteous Moms!”

As the other women present dutifully applauded, Stevie added, “I hope everyone will read chapter five of Blissfully Single, where I talk about how you decide what’s right for you. It’s not whether you choose to be married or single that counts. It’s about having the choice, about being smart and not being afraid to go it alone if that’s what really suits you.”

And with that, she dismissed the Righteous Moms from her radar and moved on. They were still sputtering over there, but she had pretty much stripped them of their weapons by agreeing with them. Besides, she was in charge of the questions, and she wouldn’t call on any more of them.

The next set of questions was less contentious, all about what makeup she used and what designer she was wearing, before three or four guys in a row asked if they could sign up for a month of her time. “A month, a week, whatever,” one of them offered breathlessly. He was young and didn’t seem very bright, with his backward baseball cap and goofy grin, but he certainly didn’t look like he was insane or anything. “Hey, Stevie, I’ll take an hour if that’s all ya got. Ten minutes. Whatever.”

He couldn’t believe it when Stevie Bliss actually grinned back at the kid. “Aren’t you adorable?” she declared. “I’m in the market, too. My December calendar has plenty of spots. So you just get in line, and bring ID, please, so we can make sure you’re old enough, and then I will definitely put you on my list of contenders.”

Owen rolled his eyes at the level of bull being shoveled here. Who in his right mind would sign up to march in Stevie Bliss’s never-ending parade of boy toys?

Finally, a cranky gent from the back of the room pushed forward far enough to get to talk. He had a buzz cut, a Chicago Bears jacket and a sour look on his face, all of which tended to suggest he wasn’t a Bliss fan. Yet Stevie actually called on him.

“Yes? You, sir.”

“My name is Joe Ramsey, and I’m the president of the Swingin’ He-Men, Chicago chapter.”

“How lovely for you, I’m sure,” she said sweetly.

“Well, thanks.” He swaggered a little, building up steam as he unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “So, anyway, we want to know who you think you are, emasculating the male half of the society with your wanting to take our place as the predators and the hunters and all.” He glanced up expectantly. “Well?”

“Mr. He-Man, you hunt and predate all you want.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t mind a bit.”

“But what about you getting in the way and telling women they get to dump us whenever they feel like it? That they shouldn’t do our laundry or make our food or any of the other stuff women are supposed to do. That’s just wrong!”

“I agree with you, Joe. Women being forced to do your laundry or make your food, that’s just wrong. Isn’t it nice we can agree on something?” She smiled and turned away from him before he sorted out exactly what she’d said to him, as she pretended to catch sight of the clock. “Oh, dear,” she said regretfully. “I’m afraid our time is up. Thank you so much, everyone, for coming out to see me today. I’ll be happy to sign your books if you’d like to line up.”

Which they did, like lambs to the slaughter. There was even a traitor from the Swingin’ He-Men who came tramping into the line with his book under his arm, blushing and looking sheepish.

Owen was grudgingly impressed. Two protesters turned back without a hint of a dustup. No fistfights, not even a raised voice. Too bad.

“Mr. Dasher?” It was the handler, the one he’d seen chatting with Stevie before her talk. Where Stevie wore leather and displayed all the right skin on her long, lithe frame, this short, somewhat stout lady was buttoned into a nondescript brown wool suit with a plain white blouse. Big-boned and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense expression, she looked more like a Righteous Mom than someone who’d be riding the Blissfully Single train.

“I’m Owen Dasher,” he said. “You are…?”