Julie Kenner – The Perfect Score (страница 2)

“Have you put any thought into when you’re going to do the legwork necessary to reach this nirvana of sexual prowess?”

I made a face. Mostly because Carla was being typically Carla and reverting to what I call her adult-speak voice—which is what she does whenever she thinks anyone is acting like an idiot. But also because, frankly, I hadn’t put any thought into my newly announced resolution.

“That’s what I thought,” Carla said, making me scowl even more. “I mean, come on, Mattie. You’ve been working like a fiend for months. This is your first weekend off in forever.”

That was true enough. I work at John Layman Productions, and if the company sounds familiar, then you’re probably one of those people who watches really bad reality programming about celebrities that no one cares about anymore. Not that I’m criticizing my boss’s chosen field or anything (ahem). I mean, it pays the bills. But, honestly, does anyone really care about kids who were celebrities when they were six, then fell off the map during the last two decades? And if somebody does care enough to tune in every night at eleven, then, you know, maybe that person just needs to get a life.

All JLP programs have excellent ratings, though. So either I’m wrong, or there are a whole lot of people out there with no life whatsoever.

In fact, there are so many people out there tuning in that JLP is adding five new shows to our already overstuffed production schedule. And that, as Carla pointed out, is keeping me tethered to the office and, late in the evening, to my home computer. In fact, the only reason I have this weekend off is because the company’s computer network crashed. Since John’s currently following some stick-thin, party girl celebrity around Rio, he actually shut work down for a long weekend while the computer gurus do their thing. Amazing, but true. (Although he did instruct our furniture supplier to deliver a bookshelf and lateral filing cabinet to my apartment so that I can, in the words of my boss, “work even more efficiently on evenings and weekends.” Yeah, love you too, John. At the moment, four very large, very heavy boxes are sitting in my living room, waiting for me to suck it up and begin assembling my home office suite.

Carla also works in television. Her boss, however, is Timothy Pierpont, the Emmy- and Oscar-winning producer who’s giving Bruckheimer and Bochco a run for their money with his original, provocative programming. What did I tell you? Carla, perfect. Me, perfectly wretched.

As I pondered my wretchedness, I noticed that Carla was tapping her chin with her index finger, a sure sign that she was deep in thought.

“What?” I demanded.

“I’m just thinking that maybe your schedule can work to your benefit,” she said.

“Explain, please.”

“If you have no free time, then no one will get the impression it’s about commitment. It must be a fling, because who has time for anything else?”

“Right,” I said, drawing out the word as I tried to anticipate where she was going.

Carla, however, sped up, her voice channeling my earlier enthusiasm. “You should go for it. Definitely. Get out there and have a wild time.” She leaned back, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smile brightening her face. “And I know just how you should start.”

I narrowed my eyes, smelling a trick. “How?”

“Cullen Slater.” She spoke the name like an incantation, then waited for me to react. She didn’t have long to wait.

“Have you gone mental?” Dark and dangerous, Slater was a very gainfully employed male model who alternated between a Ferrari and a Harley, sported a perfect five o’clock shadow no matter the time of day, and tended to date women whose clothes consisted of colorful adhesive strips. Well, date may give the wrong impression since I never saw any of his women more than once. But our apartments shared a common wall, and I can say with absolute certainty that none of his women left Slater’s apartment unsatisfied. Or well rested.

Cullen Slater is the reason I started sleeping with earplugs. Considering my newly announced resolution, I should probably trash the earplugs and buy a vibrator.

Carla’s coral-pink lips curved in smug satisfaction. “You’ve seen the kind of girls he’s always dragging up the stairs at three in the morning.”

“Slater is a god among men,” I said. “And I have seen those women. There’s no way he’d be interested in me.”

Carla lifted one shoulder in a dainty gesture. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mat. He’s gorgeous, yes, but you’re not too shabby. And you’re brilliant and articulate and what guy wouldn’t want you?”

I let that one hang, because in my experience with guys like Cullen—as in, guys whose talents run more toward the camera than the cognitive—brilliant and articulate weren’t that much of an asset. Come to think of it, those two traits weren’t exactly a selling point to any man, IQ notwithstanding. Breasts, I think, were the common denominator among men. And on that score, I was definitely only average.

Carla, however, was on a roll. “And he always asks you to bring in his mail when he’s out of town,” she pointed out, “so we already know that he trusts you. He must like you, too. And if you can get Slater in your bed, you’ll know you’ve reached some sort of slut nirvana.”

My stomach did one of those dropping-off-a-cliff numbers.

Slater.

I took a deep breath, felt beads of sweat form on my forehead, and silently agreed that Cullen Slater was an idea worth pondering. Not to mention a goal worth reaching.

Cullen Slater. The consummate bad boy.

Slater. And me. Me and Slater.

In bed.

In me.

Oh my.

MIKE PETERSON COULDN’T concentrate on his book, even though he usually glommed on to anything and everything by Stephen King. Today, even a reread of the horrors that plagued poor Derry, Maine, couldn’t compare to what he’d just heard as he’d been walking past the laundry room toward the pool.

Mattie Brown was looking to ratchet up her sex life.

He gripped the book a little bit tighter as an image of Mattie slipped into his mind. Her quick smile. The friendly waves as they passed on the stairs. The way she tossed her hair when she scanned her mail.

Get a grip, man.

The truth was, he’d fallen hard for her the first day he’d met her. Fifteen days ago, actually, when she’d blown off grocery shopping to help him schlep boxes from the U-Haul up to his brand-new apartment. She’d been wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that boldly exclaimed that A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle. When he’d commented on it, she’d blushed and explained that she’d bought the T-shirt a few months before, after a breakup with her longtime boyfriend.

He could still remember the little surge of relief—both that she was unattached and that the shirt didn’t necessarily reflect her overall opinion of the male of the species.

Ever since that first encounter, he’d been intending to ask her out. Coffee at one of the little shops down on Ventura Boulevard. Maybe a movie. Even pizza by the pool. But damned if work hadn’t kept him booked solid for the past two weeks. Not that he could complain. Getting the Menagerie gig had been a huge coup, and he was more than willing to work his tail off for as long as MonkeyShines, Inc. was willing to pay him.

He’d worked in the computer gaming industry for years, but this was the first time he’d headed up a project since he’d gone freelance eighteen months ago. The fact that he’d scored the job at the same time he’d moved from Austin to Los Angeles had made life a little more hectic, but it had also satisfied that niggling fear that he wouldn’t be able to pay the bills.

Bottom line: the job came first. Women—even women as tempting as Mattie, whose scent alone had driven him nuts—were off-limits until the project was well under control.

He smiled a little to himself, wondering if Grandma Jo had been right—he really did have a guardian angel. Because how else could he explain the fortuitous convergence of events? Him finishing up Phase One of the Menagerie project right as Mattie was looking to add a little more spice to her life? And—more importantly—him being in the right place at the right time to hear about Mattie’s New Year’s resolution.

He took another swig of beer, casually wishing that he could have heard the rest of their conversation. He’d heard the first part only by happenstance, since he’d come the back way to the pool, circling around the laundry room because he’d gone to the parking garage first to get the Stephen King novel from his car. Their voices hadn’t been high so much as urgent. At least, Mattie’s had.

As soon as he’d recognized her voice, he’d slowed his pace, hoping to find an opening where he could pop into the laundry room. Maybe say hi. Casually suggest a coffee sometime.

But as soon as he’d realized the topic of their discussion, he’d known that any interruption would not only embarrass the heck out of Mattie, it would also kill any chance he’d ever have of taking her out on a proper date.

What he should have done was leave. Right then. That instant. But his guardian angel had sprouted horns and a tail, and he’d hung around, then overheard the delicious, decadent New Year’s resolution that Mattie had proposed.