Her Perfect Lips: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance

Her Perfect Lips

LISA FOX

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Lisa Fox 2014

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Lisa Fox asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Ebook Edition © December 2014

ISBN: 9780008115500

Version 2014-10-06

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

To booze, beads, and New Orleans.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Also by Lisa Fox…

Lisa Fox

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Stacy took her usual seat at the long conference table and arranged her notes in front of herself. Her coworkers filed into the large, airy boardroom, cups of coffee, water bottles, and tablets in hand, ready for the monthly All-Staff meeting. She smiled vaguely at them all, tapping her fingernail against the glass tabletop, waiting to begin. These multidepartment progress reports were informative, and very often fun, but her time could be better spent today. There was a mountain of paperwork waiting on her desk and her own part of the meeting was going to be small, she only had one minor update to offer, but it was a positive one. The staff-focused Instagram account she had opened for Sharpe Designs last month was getting some quality followers and loads of great comments. Her goal today was to encourage everyone to keep posting new, amusing pictures. Maybe there was some way she could deliver that message and then sneak out.

She gave Kat Greer a little wave as the stunning blonde graphic designer entered the room. Kat’s boyfriend, chief programmer, Dean Kirkwell followed close behind. Stacy made a mental note to grab Dean after the meeting and get an update on the Fisher account he’d been promising her for days. He must’ve known she was thinking about him because he caught her eye and winked. She smiled back, watching them settle into seats at the back of the boardroom. They were such a gorgeous couple, a perfect picture of contrasts. Kat was a New York goddess in her black Anna Sui dress and Trash and Vaudeville heels, while Dean looked like he had just stepped out of GQ, the hottest new face of “urban preppy.” But despite the seemingly outward differences, everything about their relationship could be summed up in the way they looked at one another. It was as though they were always sharing a wonderfully secret joke. She envied them a little bit.

The CEO and co-owner of Sharpe Designs, Ron Sharpe, entered the room, and the meeting was quickly called to order. Ron’s partner and husband, CFO, Alan Altman, started things off with an announcement that the company was doing better than ever. He explained that they were already outearning their projected figures and this was going to enable them to spend more freely in areas they thought they would have to neglect this financial year.

The lights dimmed for Alan’s PowerPoint presentation and Stacy’s thoughts drifted as the slides flicked across the screen in a blur of colors and graphs. She really needed to pick up her dry cleaning tonight or the place was probably going to sell all her stuff. She had no excuse for letting it sit there for so long either, the shop was only about two blocks away from her Ludlow Street studio. It wasn’t like she had to travel across town or anything. She had a good pile going at home now too, maybe it was time to do a trade. Go to the dry cleaners, pickup and drop off, then grab her tablet and reward herself with dinner at that new little Austrian café on Delancey.

Alan’s presentation ended and there was polite applause. Throats were cleared, clothing rustled, people drank water, and checked their phones as the director of development set up his progress report. Stacy shifted in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. She glanced at her wristwatch, the clock on the wall, the digital display on her tablet. They all told her the exact same thing. There was a lot of meeting left to go. She shifted again and saw Dean lean over and whisper something into Kat’s ear. From the flush on Kat’s cheeks and the side-glance she gave him, it was obvious that whatever he said was definitely not work related. She smiled, happy for them, but her own loneliness made her heart heavy. Here she was thinking about dry cleaning while they were going to go home and have awesome sex. Yay, Friday night.

She rested her chin in her hand and exhaled a long, weary breath. She worked hard at dating, just as hard as she worked at everything else, and in all the time she’d been in New York City, she still hadn’t found her ‘Mr. Right.’ She couldn’t figure out what she was doing wrong. She went to the right bars, joined singles groups, had an online dating profile, but nothing ever seemed to work out. There had been a few promising starts, but nothing special. Nothing lasting. And certainly nothing even close to that hit-you-in-the-gut kind of desire she craved. She’d never been a quitter, but the search was taking its toll. She was almost ready to believe it was a lost cause.

“Stacy Saunders!” Ron said, his jovial voice breaking into her melancholy thoughts.

Stacy’s heart leapt to her throat and she blinked as she looked around the table, a little disconcerted by all the eyes upon her. Obviously something had happened—something good from the way people were smiling and clapping. She plastered a toothy grin on her face and pretended she knew what was going on.

“As you all know, Stacy has recently been promoted to senior marketing manager,” Ron said, addressing the room as a whole.

The staff nodded, some applauded, others shot her smiles.

“What Alan and I didn’t tell her,” Ron went on, beaming over at her, “was that because of her dedication and hard work, we’re also sending her to New Orleans to attend the Advanced Marketing and New Business Innovation Conference.”

Stacy’s mouth fell open. Surely she had not heard him right. A chance to attend the ultimate rock star conference of the marketing world?

“Come on up here,” Ron said, motioning for her to join him at the head of the table.

Stacy rose on trembling legs. She was glad she hadn’t worn super high heels today. She might not have made it to the front of the room unscathed. Her heart swelled when the applause started again, and she held her head up high as she made her shaky way to Ron’s side.

Ron stood up when she arrived and held out his hand to her. “We know you’ll do great things.”

She took Ron’s hand, stupefied, speechless. She looked at him, at everyone gathered around the table, and she had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from screaming with joy. This was exactly what she had been working toward since the day she took the marketing specialist position with Ron and Alan a few years ago. She had just achieved one of her major professional goals a full two years before she anticipated it would happen. The success felt really good. “Thank you,” she said, shaking Ron’s hand firmly. “I won’t let you down.”

With the trip approaching, her first order of business was to hire two new marketing associates to join her team. She needed to get that done before she left. It was a difficult, time-consuming task, and she loved every minute of it. There were hundreds of résumés to review, and she found twelve solid candidates to put through the rounds of interviews. The whole process took longer than she’d hoped, spanning the entire month before the conference, but the new staff were in place when it was time for her to leave for New Orleans.

The journey itself was uneventful, filled with the usual disgruntled travelers and sour security agents, but the minute she stepped out of the airport, and the thick, swampy air coated her skin, her pulse quickened. Some of her favorite memories were of New Orleans and the year she’d spent waiting tables on Bourbon Street after graduating from Loyola. Those had been the best times, a time to be young and free and totally wild. Five years had passed since she landed her first real job and left the French Quarter behind, but being back felt a lot like coming home.

“Welcome to New Orleans,” the shuttle driver said as he hoisted her luggage into the back of the van.

Stacy gave him a huge smile in return. “It’s great to be here.”

The conference hotel was on Canal, on the Quarter side of the street. Check-in took forever, the slow pace of New Orleans never giving way to the impatience of the new arrivals. A water foundation bubbled serenely in the center of the lobby. The Muzak version of “Separate Ways” drifted over from the adjacent bar, accompanied by the clink of glassware and the low, constant hiss of air conditioning. People sighed and shifted their weight, checked their watches, murmured into phones.

After an eternity, she had her key card. She sent her bags off with a bellman and went to go wait on another line for her registration packet. This one moved a tad faster, so after only a single century, she had her badge and materials.

She took the elevator up to the twentieth floor, high above the restaurants and bars and cottages of the Vieux Carre. The room was pretty standard—beige walls, king-sized bed, Degas reproduction, desk, minibar, dresser, nightstand, but it offered a spectacular view of the river. She pressed her fingers to the glass and traced the curve of the mighty, muddy Mississippi until it disappeared into the distance. Stories and stories below her people were drinking and carousing, singing and stripping, making love in the sultry afternoon. Business as usual for the French Quarter.

She dragged herself from the window, sat down on the bed, and opened her packet. Inside were a few sponsor ads, a trade magazine, her credentials, and a hard copy of the agenda she had already downloaded onto her tablet before she’d left New York. She scanned the itinerary again, just in case she’d missed something. She was definitely going to the Brand Growth and Strategy Workshop, and she liked the look of the Global Trends talk. There was nothing on the schedule for tonight though, and the official Welcome and Opening Remarks Reception wasn’t happening until ten o’clock the next morning.

She put the packet aside with a grin. Nothing on the schedule tonight and nothing until late tomorrow morning—that only meant one thing. “Cocktail time!” she announced to the empty room.

Day or night, it was always happy hour somewhere in New Orleans, and the hotel bar was no exception. She arrived on the first floor and found it filled with people, some very obviously for the convention, others just in town for a long vacation weekend. A few attendees even wore their nametags, already advertising themselves and their positions. She wished she’d thought to grab hers. The point of being here was to get her name out there as much as possible.

She spun on her heel, ready to go back upstairs for it, but as she turned, she made eye contact with an average height, darkly blond man across the room. He stood to the left of a group of by the bar, holding a pint of beer. They exchanged a long glance and then a smile. He was probably just a little older than she was, maybe right around thirty, trim enough body, expensive, though not custom-tailored suit. Not bad at all. Maybe her badge wasn’t totally necessary right now.

She walked toward the bar, wondering if he’d meet her there, hoping that he would. The purpose of this conference was to meet people after all. A friendly discussion with an attractive colleague seemed like a good way to begin. She gave him another glance over her shoulder and then chose a space where there were a couple of empty stools, a subtle hint and an open invitation.

The bartender took her order for a Cosmo, and Stacy smiled inwardly when she sensed her new friend hovering by her side. She turned to meet his gaze and was pleased to discover that he was as attractive close up as he had been from a distance.

“Hi,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I’m Peter Walker.”

He had a deep, if not resonate voice, and no discernable accent. “Hi,” she replied and took his hand. “Stacy Saunders.”

“Where are you from, Stacy?” he asked, taking the empty seat beside her.

Yes, come into my lair, she thought with giddy delight. I have cookies. He met her gaze and she flashed him a wide smile, trying to cover up her urge to giggle. “I live in New York. I’m the senior marketing manager at a boutique web design firm called Sharpe Designs.” Just saying her new title out loud gave her a wonderful little thrill. “Where are you from?”

“Boston,” he said, leaning against the bar to signal the bartender. “This conference was part of my promotion package. I’m the vice president of Customer Insights at DataX Ltd.”

Stacy waited as the bartender took Peter’s order, poured him an Abita Amber, and then hurried off to serve the ever-increasing crowd. “Congratulations,” she said, holding out her glass to him. “Promotions make all those long hours worthwhile.”

They toasted one another and drank. She sighed contently as the cool liquid slid down her throat. Drinks just tasted better in New Orleans.

Peter placed his beer on the bar and moved a little closer to her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, something spicy and sharp in her nose. “I’m thinking about buying myself a Porsche to celebrate when I get back.”

She blinked and gave him a small smile in reply. Something about his admission set her teeth on edge, for no reason. People were entitled to buy nice things for themselves. There was nothing wrong with that.

“I’ve never been to New Orleans before,” he went on, flashing her a winning smile. “I’d like to see some of the city before I leave.”

“It’s a great city.” She took another sip of her cocktail. “I used to live here. I loved it.”

“Did you? Why did you leave?”

A spark of interested illuminated his eyes. He was an attractive man. She didn’t understand why she wasn’t feeling any real connection with him. She wanted to. “This is a great place and I would’ve loved to stay, but the only industry here is tourism. I wanted my first job to be with a big firm, somewhere where I could interact with a lot of people. I needed to be in New York.”

“I understand. My first job was with one of the oldest marketing firms in Boston. Of course, I was recruited during my junior year at Brandeis, but it made sense to stay anyway. I knew even in high school that Boston was where I’d make my mark.”

Stacy nodded, not really sure how to respond, or if his statement even required a response at all.

“So, since you lived here, you must know some great places.” He touched her wrist, a light brush of his fingertips. “Maybe you can show me around.”

He was arrogant for sure, but he was also good-looking and ambitious, a well-dressed companion with a ready smile who would do well at company cocktail parties. Those were definitely good traits in a man. Boston was not all that far from New York. If things worked out, it would be very easy for them to see one another often. They might be able to share a very advantageous partnership and maybe even something more. She met his gaze and gave him a wide smile, open and inviting. She might be able to make this work. “I could do that.”

“You know what I’d really like to see?” he asked, leaning closer to her, giving the conversation an air of intimacy.

“No, what?” she asked, doing her part and moving closer to him.

His gaze flicked over her and there was much more than just professional interest in his eyes. “Bourbon Street.”

Stacy couldn’t help but recoil. “Why?”

He grinned like a little boy. “I hear it’s wild.”

“It is…something.” She took another sip of her drink, trying to think of a way to derail this train of thought. She did not want to deal with Bourbon Street, with the stink and the sordidness, the amateur drunks and assorted vermin. “But there are better things to see in the French Quarter.” She flashed him what she hoped was a meaningful look. She’d never really been a very good temptress, but she did try on occasion. “Private courtyards and gardens.” She paused for effect. “Dark bars.”

He shook his head, oblivious to her attempt at seduction. “Yeah, but Bourbon Street. I don’t think I could miss that.”

“Hey,” a petite, raven-haired woman in a group next to them called over. She was stunning, just one of those perfect women with flawless skin, shiny hair, and deep blue eyes. The sexy girl-next-door fantasy in real life. “Did I hear that you’re going to Bourbon Street? We were just talking about walking over. We should all go together!”

“Yes,” Peter said, nodding enthusiastically. “That sounds excellent.”

The eagerness in Peter’s tone made Stacy frown. This was not a positive development. “Super,” the woman said. “What are your names?”

Stacy knew everything was lost by the way Peter smiled at their newfound companion. “I’m Peter, and this is Stacy.”

“I’m Melanie.” She looked to Peter and flashed him a brilliant, white smile. “This is perfect. Going in groups is the best, don’t you think?” She turned back to the other people she was with. “Come on everyone, let’s go!”

Peter gave Stacy’s shoulder a quick squeeze, finished his beer in one gulp, and motioned toward the exit. “After you.”

Right now she had a decision to make. She could go along with the group, return to her room and spend the night alone, or try to meet some other people and persuade them not to go to Bourbon Street. She looked at Peter’s eager grin and told herself that it wouldn’t be too bad. At least it wasn’t Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest or even a Saturday night. She could do this. And maybe he was worth it. She gave him a single nod and followed him out of the bar.

The group left the hotel and walked up Canal Street. Two blocks later, they arrived at their destination. Bourbon Street was just as she remembered—loud music and neon lights, frat boys in muscle shirts and girls in crop tops, the stench of beer and pine-scented antiseptic cleaner, the sidewalks littered with garbage and puke. Their little entourage stumbled into the first club they found, which had “Play That Funky Music” blaring from the speakers. Stacy shook her head. Some things truly never changed. Bars on Bourbon Street would play that song until some ultimate, catastrophic apocalypse finally managed to wipe the city out for good.

The barker at the door proudly announced that the club was now offering their world famous three-for-one happy hour. The vodka tonic Stacy ordered was served in a plastic cup the size of which was rarely seen outside of a 7-Eleven. It contained more alcohol than any human should probably ever consume in a single serving, and she was glad to see that in addition to the bad music, the drinking culture had not changed either.

She headed toward the back of the club, outside into the little courtyard area where the music was somewhat blunted and she was less likely to have a drink spilled over her. The others followed, people in the group talking amongst themselves and goggling at the drunken antics on the dance floor. Peter had fallen back to walk alongside Melanie, and they ambled slowly, their heads close together, taking softly. Stacy sighed. So much for the whole reason to participate in this journey. Not that she could blame him. Melanie was gorgeous. Still, the rejection stung. Not that it would’ve worked anyway. The distance between them would have eventually become a hassle.

She sipped her cocktail, watching the dance floor light up red, then blue, then green as the strobe light pulsed over the dancers. Once again, she had a choice and none of her options were all too appealing. She could go back to the hotel and try to find a new group of people to talk with, she could go to bed, or she could stay right where she was and basically drink alone.

“Let’s go someplace quieter,” Peter shouted over the music and everybody agreed.

She followed them back out onto Bourbon Street, seriously considering her next move. Should I stay or should I go now? She let the chorus play out in her head and in that one millisecond pause, a drunken man wearing only jeans shorts and plastic beads lunged at her from the crowd. She sidestepped around him and almost collided with a woman exiting Pat O'Briens. The woman squealed and Stacy veered off the sidewalk into the street. A group of tourists swept her away, forcing her backward along with them. She fought against the wave of bodies, but it was a losing battle. And then, out of nowhere, a hand grabbed her arm, a lifeline in the storm.

The tourists continued on their journey, but Stacy was held in place, firmly anchored by that strong grip. The hold on her arm was a little too familiar for a stranger and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank or berate her rescuer. She turned, and her breath caught when she recognized her savior. “Hello, Ten.”

“Hey, Stacy.”

He grinned and every single part of her tingled. He was as attractive as she remembered—tall and strong, with rich, chocolate-brown hair, and a twinkle of mischief in his startling green eyes. The years had changed him only slightly, taking away the softness of youth and adding hard ridges and planes to his handsome face. His hair was a little too long, and he had a two-day beard, but the scruffiness didn’t take away from his almost poetic good looks. And though she would never admit it out loud, just the way his thighs filled out his well-worn blue jeans sent a thread of wicked heat trickling down her spine. Ten was the stuff of all kinds of naughty fantasies, and a few of her favorite ones instantly flashed through her mind.

“There you are,” Peter called, cutting through the never-ending stream of people. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“Sorry,” Stacy said, though she wasn’t. She’d forgotten all about him. She gestured toward Ten. “I ran into an old friend.”

Peter looked from her to him, back to her. He held out his hand to Ten. “Hi, I’m Peter Walker.”

Ten glanced at her, a million silent questions in his raised eyebrow. Are you with him? Should I step back? Do you want me to get rid of him? She answered them all with a slight shake of her head.

Satisfied, he turned back to Peter with his charming, professional smile, the one that had got him a lot of tips—and even more phone numbers—when they’d worked together. He dropped her arm and took Peter’s hand. “Tennyson Landry.”

Melanie joined them then, sliding up close to Peter. She was followed by the group, and they created a little cluster in the middle of the street. People flowed around them, to-go cups in hand, beads around their necks.

“It’s so good to see you,” Stacy said, touching Ten’s arm. She couldn’t quite believe he was there, but his bicep was hard and firm and very real under her fingertips. “Do you still live here?” She wouldn’t be surprised if he had moved. New Orleans was a transient city. People came, hung out for a while, and then left for better jobs, better homes, ‘real’ lives. Just like she had.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve got a little place up on Magazine now.”

She smiled, ridiculously pleased to see him again. The huge crush she had fostered and fed five years ago had obviously not dwindled over time. He still made her weak in the knees, gave her skin that deliciously tight, tingly feeling. She probably could have spent the entire night grinning up at him like a fool, but Melanie stepped in, standing very close to Ten.

“We wanna go someplace fun,” Melanie said, giving him one of her brilliant smiles. “Do you know anywhere good?”

Stacy was about to give Melanie a few key suggestions on where she should go, but Ten put his hand on her shoulder, capturing her attention.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said, his eyes never leaving Stacy’s. “It’ll be nice to catch up.”

Plastic beads whizzed past her head, crackling on the pavement. A group of men on the balcony above chanted “Show your tits!” to a bunch of women below, and every time one of them obliged, they were showered with beads and adoration. Bourbon Street would never change, and she was sick of it already. She nodded to Ten. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

He took her hand, gave it a gentle tug. “Come on.”

She caught Melanie’s frown out of the corner of her eye and a little malicious grin curved Stacy’s lips. It was probably a character flaw that made her dislike the other woman so much, but she wasn’t about to fight that feeling. She laced her fingers through Ten’s and let him lead her away from the garish lights and drunken vulgarity.

“What were you doing on Bourbon?” she asked, as they turned onto St. Peter and headed toward the river. No self-respecting local went to Bourbon Street unless they absolutely had to.

He looked over at her, a huge grin on his handsome face. “I could ask you the same thing.”

She shook her head, smiling even as he pulled her close to get around a woman puking next to an overflowing garbage can. “I’m just a tourist now, in town for a convention.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Is that right? So, what? Are you trying to get sloppy drunk and sleep with the locals?”

She glanced over at him. Well, maybe one local. “That is a solid plan.”

He laughed with her as they turned onto Decatur, and then headed back toward Canal. A frenzied Cajun tune blasted out of a souvenir shop on the corner, bright Florissant lights illuminated the sidewalk. “I was just stopping in to see a friend at work. I don’t spend much time in the Quarter anymore.”

There were so many things she wanted to ask him. What he was doing now, where he was working, what he had been up to for the last five years, but their conversation was cut short when they approached a dark alley, a long corridor tucked between two buildings. Stacy looked around, trying to orientate herself. The fire station was still there like she remembered, and the House of Blues a little farther down, but she had no memory of this place.

“Is this new?” she asked, as he led her down the narrow alleyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s only been here about a year.”

The passage curved and then emptied into a wide courtyard surrounded by brick walls and banana trees. People sat around wrought-iron tables, drinking and laughing. A brass band performed in the corner, playing a low, bluesy tune filled with promise and longing.

Ten headed straight for extensive bar built into the rickety, old building that had probably once been the slave quarters for a house on Decatur. He signaled one of the bartenders, then glanced back at her. “You gotta get an Electroshock.”

“A what?” she asked.

He gave her a wicked grin. “Trust me.”

She knew that grin too well. This was going to be something dangerous. And probably really fun. She nodded, and he ordered one for her. He handed her a clear plastic glass filled with chartreuse-colored liquid that tasted suspiciously like Kool-Aid.

They meandered over to an empty table in the far back corner of the courtyard. Stacy brushed her damp hair off her forehead as she settled into her chair. She’d forgotten how humid it was here, how her skin was prone to “glisten.”

Much to her chagrin, Peter and Melanie found them and sat down without any invitation in the empty seats opposite them. Melanie brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and Stacy noticed with some annoyance that the other woman even made sweating look beautiful.

“Tennyson,” Melanie said, favoring him with her beautiful blue-eyed gaze. “What an interesting name. Is it a stage name of some sort?”

He leaned back and extended his arm across the back of Stacy’s chair. She was hyperconscious of his arm draped behind her, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up at electric attention. “Oh, no,” he said, flashing Melanie that charming smile of his. “My mother’s a poet. She teaches at Bennington. I’m just thankful every day that she didn’t name me Cummings or Yeats.”

Stacy smiled to herself, recalling the night she’d asked him a very similar question. They’d decided to conquer the ‘Drink Around the World’ challenge at The Alibi to celebrate the completion of her training at the Cabin and they’d just begun a beer from Honduras when the alcohol really started to settle in. He’d told her about his mother and how much she loved the British poet laureate. He claimed to dislike the poet’s work himself, yet that didn’t stop him from reciting one of his namesake’s more famous works, The Lady of Shallot, right there among the servers, strippers, and Quarter rats congregating in the bar. He did it with so much gusto, he even earned himself a resounding round of applause.