Chapter Four
Sutton applied mascara, the finishing touch for tonight. She’d always believed that it was the vitamin of make-up, the most essential one, and one should never leave the house without it.
“Right, my lovely Artful Dodger. You agree, don’t you?”
Sutton stroked her chihuahua-mini-pin between the ears and he looked up at her lovingly with those big wet eyes that always melted her. “Oh, you are my sweet, aren’t you?”
The Artful Dodger was sitting on the vanity in her bathroom, as he often did. He had bathroom counter privileges, but only when Sutton was applying makeup. She put the mascara wand away, brushed one hand against the other, and declared, “That’s that.”
Then she scooped up her nine-pound fur baby, brought him to her bedroom and deposited him gently on the burnished gold comforter.
She was ready for her first pretend date with Reeve at the theater. She was wearing a slinky gray dress that hugged her hips, knee-high black boots, and a silky red wrap thrown over her shoulders. She had the tickets in a small clutch purse, and as she grabbed the purse from the bed, she found her mind wandering back to the dressing room yesterday. Reeve kissed like he was made for kissing her, as if he’d been custom-designed by the gods of kissing to touch her lips, and taste her mouth, and drown her in kisses as she’d always wanted.
He’d seemed to want it too. He seemed to radiate hunger for her, like it was coming off him in waves. But yet, that was the point. That’s what she’d hired him for. She’d enlisted him to play a part, and he was playing it so well, she’d very nearly believed in the performance—that the kiss was legit.
She shook her head and bent down to kiss her dog on his soft brown fur. “I know you’ll always be here for me, my love.”
She had her dog; she needn’t worry about messy things like a bloom of feelings for a pretend boyfriend. The Artful Dodger licked her hand once, and curled into a tighter dogball.
Sutton was surprised to see Janelle and her husband at the theater. She’d thought Janelle had some sort of charity event to attend instead. But here she was, her hair slicked back in that tight-as-a-ballerina-bun and a stern look on her face as she kept her eyes on Frederick. Janelle rose and extended a hand to Sutton, while Frederick followed suit. Perhaps he had his puppet strings attached to her hand.
“It turned out we were able to make it tonight after all,” Janelle said, then flashed a smile that seemed fake, before giving Sutton air kisses on each cheek. “The charity event is tomorrow. I had the wrong date. And what a pleasure to see Mr. Larkin again. Reeve, please meet my husband.”
Reeve shook hands with Frederick and they exchanged hellos. Sutton wondered if Reeve was nervous meeting a producer who possessed the power to make or break an actor’s career, but he didn’t seem to exhibit an ounce of nerves because Reeve segued quickly into discussing golf, and Sutton couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d had no idea that Reeve too had researched the producers, but he was conversing now with Frederick on the best type of golf swing.
“Looks like they’re old chums,” Sutton said to Janelle with a smile. But the dark-haired woman barely cracked a grin. She seemed distracted, so Sutton followed Janelle’s gaze to a pretty usher seating other nearby theatergoers. Then to Frederick, who was checking out the usher’s trim little body. Ah, perhaps Janelle was worried that Frederick’s wandering eye might lead him astray during the play? Sutton’s question was answered when Janelle moved her hand to Frederick’s cheek, forcing him to look at her.
Frederick lowered his gaze, as if he were caught nicking food off the stove before it was served. He stopped chatting about golf, and Janelle said nothing as she stared harshly at her husband. Thrown off by the awkward maw in the conversation, Sutton wasn’t quite sure how to pick up the thread of casual banter again. Her mind raced through other details of the Pinkertons—they had a Siamese cat named Archibald. Perhaps, she should chat about pets?
But before she could toss out a line about cats and dogs, Reeve spoke. “Did you guys get a chance to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman at the Eugene O’Neill theater last week? He was as amazing as the critics say.”
Janelle relinquished her sharp-eyed stare and turned to Reeve. “Frankly, I don’t often care for big movie stars in Broadway plays. But he is the exception. A rare breed who can handle theater and film.”
Reeve nodded thoughtfully. “I hear ya. It can be a little distracting with movie stars, but then, he’s one of of a kind. What about you, Mr. Pinkerton? What else have you been to?”
They all chatted for a few minutes about the theater, and Sutton was relieved that Frederick’s wayward glance hadn’t unraveled the night for any of them.
“And what do you do, Reeve? Forgive me for not asking when we first met yesterday,” Janelle said.
“I’m an actor,” he said, with a touch of pride in his voice, Sutton noted.
“How marvelous,” Mr. Pinkerton chimed in. “And how did you two meet?”
Even though they’d prepped for this line of questioning, Sutton suddenly felt a jangly mess of nerves course through her. Was Janelle onto her? Was that why she was here? To check up on the engagement?
“On the job,” Reeve answered. “Sut cast me in It’s Raining Men, and the day we wrapped my bit part, I asked her out. I couldn’t resist. She was smart and she was beautiful and that was all it took. I’ve only had eyes for her since then.”
Reeve looked at Sutton, his brown eyes were so warm and true—they seemed to project all the things he was saying, as if he really were feeling them.
“And now the wedding is when?”
Sutton’s boardroom confidence fell away as Janelle glared at her. It was as if Janelle knew Sutton had proffered a lie and was trying to catch her. Sutton’s mouth went dry as she tried to open her lips to speak. She couldn’t read Janelle—one minute the woman was generous and warm, the next she was the ice queen.
Reeve jumped in, clasping Sutton’s hand tightly with his.
“May. One year after we met. I was ready to elope, but she insisted we have a real wedding, and we were lucky enough to get the sculpture garden at MoMA reserved. A late Sunday afternoon was all they had, but heck, I’ll take it, right?”
Reeve flashed a what-can-you-do kind of smile, and Janelle’s features seemed to soften. Reeve was good. He knew how to play this woman. He knew how to spin fables on the spot, especially because he now had Janelle eating out of his palm. Soon, the tightly-wound hawk of a producer’s wife was chattering about MoMA and her favorite artists and Reeve was saying something about an Edward Hopper painting, and Frederick was looking only at his wife, and Janelle was beaming, and Sutton felt like she could breathe again.
This man—this young, delicious man—was saving the day. She looked up at Reeve, he was easily a good six inches taller, and she felt a rush of affection for him, a surge of gratitude. Impulsively, she stretched to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He looked at her, and shot a quick smile. She thought she might have even seen him blush.
He gestured to the seats, letting the ladies sit first. He sat between them, with Frederick by Janelle’s side. Then Sutton felt Reeve’s warm hand and glanced down to see him loop his long, strong fingers through hers and squeeze. It was tender and comforting, and it was exactly what she needed. As if he’d sensed the way she’d forgotten her lines earlier. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. That was odd. Sutton was never the cuddly type, except when it came to her darling dog.
Soon, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and the play began. Sutton sat up straight and focused on the stage, but Reeve kept his fingers linked through hers. As the characters argued about who’d forgotten to do the laundry on time, Reeve began stroking the inside of her palm with his thumb. Light, fluid lines. From her wrist to the edge of her fingers.
It was soft, and it was sweet, and most of all, it was caring. She closed her eyes, giving into the way his touch felt. It was a caress, it was a promise. He drew soft little zig zags across her palm, lazy lines that told stories of the two of them, of the things they’d done, the times they’d had, the love they’d shared. Or so it felt as he crept casually past her barriers, his touch making her believe in the fiction of them. Soon, his fingers were tracing the inside of her wrist, then the soft skin on her arm, and then, as all the words spoken from on stage became a distant faraway sound to her, he moved closer, planting a tender, soft kiss on her jawline.
As Reeve pressed his lips on Sutton, he couldn’t help but notice Janelle sneaking peeks at them, all while her husband focused on the stage as if it pained him to look anyplace else. Why was she watching them now? To appraise their relationship or for some other reason? Well, Reeve wasn’t going to let a high-strung lady like her win. He and Sutton were winning this game, they were landing the gig, and he was going to do whatever it took to make sure there was no question they were together. Of course, he didn’t mind kissing Sutton. He didn’t mind touching her. He was a guy, and she was hot, and that was that. Do the math. Two plus two equals…Wait…Reeve heard a slight swishing of clothes behind them, and Frederick glanced quickly over his shoulder. The cute little usher from earlier had just walked behind them.
Janelle gave her husband a sharp stare that Reeve was sure translated into “Don’t you dare.”
Frederick muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “…help me out now and then…”
Reeve chuckled silently. He’d heard the rumors about Frederick’s multiple faux pas. But had Janelle cut him off?
Frederick sneezed, then coughed, then cleared his throat in rapid succession. As someone who’d been trained to do those three things on cue—sometimes, an actor had to sneeze, cough, or clear his throat—Reeve could tell Frederick was faking it. The man rose, muttered an embarrassed “excuse me” and exited the box.
Janelle whipped her head around and watched her husband disappear down the hallway. She narrowed her eyes, and her expression said she might start breathing fire.
What was up between the two of them?
But Reeve needed to focus on his role, and he was playing it to the hilt. So he layered another kiss below Sutton’s earlobe, hearing the breathiest little whisper escape her throat. There was nothing fake about that sound, and Reeve forgot about the Pinkertons and their strange habits, as he found himself drawn back to Sutton’s neck, brushing her with another kiss.
As Sutton moved the slightest bit closer, Janelle grabbed her purse and leaned over to whisper in a forced, happy voice that barely hid the anger beneath, “Looking forward to Friday night.”
Then she was gone.
Sutton opened her eyes. “What was that about? They both left?” she asked in a low voice.
He shrugged. “Guess they didn’t care for the play,” he said, but he suspected Janelle was making sure Frederick wasn’t chasing a hot young usher into a broom closet for a quickie.
“I suppose not.”
Sutton looked at the stage, as if she were enrapt in the acting, and Reeve could have gone back to watching the play. But he’d lost track of whatever the characters were up in arms about, and he didn’t really care in the first place. He was much more interested in this woman beside him, in the way she seemed to respond to his touch. He hadn’t expected it, but he sure as hell liked the way she seemed to want his hands on her, from the kiss in the dressing room, to now here in the theater.
As far as he could tell, there was no reason for him to stop touching Sutton. They were both having a good time, and there was nothing wrong with that.
He brushed a long strand of her hair from her ear. She shivered, and he loved the way the littlest thing elicited a reaction from her. He bet she was a tiger in bed, clawing and moaning, and screaming his name. Damn, he was even more aroused now, picturing the way she must make love, with a sort of fearless abandon. “Do you like the play?”
She swallowed and nodded once. “Very much so.”
He glanced back at the entrance to the box seats. The Pinkertons seemed long gone, there weren’t any other ushers nearby, and the closest patrons were in the next box over, a low wall between them. So he went for it. He placed one hand on her opposite cheek and shifted her face toward him, then moved his other hand to her thigh. She looked at him, and even in the dark of the theater, he could read those blue eyes, he could tell they were trying so hard to resist, but yet not wanting to resist in the least. Hell, he didn’t either. He moved his thumb along her cheek, tracing a line to her lips. Then over her lower lip, and she nipped playfully at the pad of his thumb. He smiled in the dark, as he outlined her mouth, then moved down to her neck, as if he were imprinting the feel of her throat, the heat from her skin, the way her body seemed to pulse toward him with every touch. She practically radiated the words kiss me and so he took the liberty to do just that. It was the barest of kisses, the kind that signals the beginning of something.
As he savored the cherry taste of her mouth, he played with the top of her stockings, slipping a finger along the band that held them in place. Sutton seemed to like him there. She opened her legs the smallest amount, an invitation to explore. He splayed his hand across the top of her thigh, being careful to make sure her dress covered his hand. She bit down on her lip as he inched higher. Another cue. Another sign. He moved closer, sliding his fingers to her panties and pressing against her. There. Between her legs. Where she was already damp beyond words. You couldn’t fake that kind of arousal.
“Can I touch you?” he whispered.
“Please do,” she said, and Reeve knew she was aching too, burning with the need to be touched, to feel some kind of release. He slipped his hand into her underwear, and she groaned under her breath, leaning her head back in the chair. As he stroked her, he imagined her spread out across the chair, arms thrown back, neck long and inviting, legs wide open as he tasted her. God, he wanted to bury his mouth between her thighs, to smell her, inhale her, run a tongue across all that wetness. He wanted to breathe her in, and kiss her deeply. She was a feast of a woman; the slightest touch seemed to turn her on, as if she was ready to go at any moment, a live wire, just needing the combustion to set her off.
“I totally want my tongue between your legs right now,” he whispered in a low and husky voice that belied his own reckless thirst for her.
“I want that too,” she managed to say as he stroked her, his fingers moving up and down all that glorious wetness. She was trying so hard to be still, to be quiet, as she moved her hips in the smallest of ways, not enough for others to see, but enough for Reeve to know how much she wanted him. He pressed a palm against her, and she let a little moan escape. Then she clasped her hand over her mouth to muffle her noises as he worked her. She was rocking back against his hand, and she was so soft and silky wet, and her little breaths were coming faster, and she spread her legs another inch or so, and damn, this woman was all fire and heat. He was going to make her come in a Broadway theater, and he knew in this instant that she was so deep in the throes of passion that she didn’t care anymore if anyone saw or anyone heard. She was so far gone into the crest of the orgasm he was about to give her. He wanted to slam into her, to enter her and feel that wetness wrap around him. But for now, he was thrilled to feel her arch against his hand, once, twice, three times. She inhaled sharply, and took several quick deep breaths as she came in his hand.
Gently, carefully, he moved her hand from her mouth, and kissed her, just as softly and just as tenderly as he’d had when he started. Then the curtain fell and it was time for intermission.