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Kiss And Makeup
Taryn Leigh Taylor
A hot shade of lipstick calls for a hot, sexy guy…Makeup artist Chloe Masterson has a look for every occasion. Flying home for your sister's wedding and family torture? Easy. Bring out the sarcastic wit and black eyeliner. Bonus—the look catches the eye of the corporate hottie sitting beside her on the plane. Turns out Ben has the exact same last name, and everyone assumes they're married.When they get stuck in a hotel room together, Chloe decides to accept the gift the Fates have bestowed upon her. (Tip: a bold lip color does wonders for seduction.) But as their lies begin to snowball, Chloe and Ben find it harder and harder to distinguish between what's real and what's all just smoky eyes and mirrors.
A hot shade of lipstick calls for a hot, sexy guy...
Makeup artist Chloe Masterson has a look for every occasion. Flying home for your sister’s wedding and family torture? Easy. Bring out the sarcastic wit and black eyeliner. Bonus—the look catches the eye of the corporate hottie sitting beside her on the plane. Turns out Ben has the exact same last name, and everyone assumes they’re married.
When they get stuck in a hotel room together, Chloe decides to accept the gift the Fates have bestowed upon her. (Tip: a bold lip color does wonders for seduction.) But as their lies begin to snowball, Chloe and Ben find it harder and harder to distinguish between what’s real and what’s all just smoky eyes and mirrors.
“I can do torrid...”
Ben’s expression darkened seconds before he caught her mouth in a scorching, wet kiss that convinced her they were both wearing way too many clothes.
She reached for the buttons on his dress shirt, and when she’d finally popped the last one, he rewarded her with a shift of his hips that brought their bodies into perfect alignment, and the pleasure that streaked through her made her gasp.
Damn, he felt good. Hot and hard. Her fingers curled against his skin, and her hips bucked to get closer. She wanted Ben, naked and panting, thrusting inside her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t care less about her sister’s wedding, or her exile in Chicago.
She felt alive. And sexy.
And desperate for more...
Dear Reader (#ulink_bdc17a55-badf-5886-9d50-d1697e76eea8),
You know that little smidgen of hope that hits when it’s just you, an in-flight magazine and the empty airplane seat next to you? Then the hot guy you were scoping out at the gate boards the plane, and your tummy flips with anticipation as he starts down the aisle? That uncomfortable chair beside you is suddenly chock-full of possibilities. Sexy, sultry, X-rated possibilities.
Yeah, that never works out in real life. Hottie McHotterson always walks right on by. But what good is writing fiction if you can’t fix that type of karmic unfairness and see what kind of sparks will fly between strangers on a plane?
Ben and Chloe were the perfect pair to explore the notion of instant attraction and whether a one-night stand has a shot of surviving once real life intrudes. And boy, does it intrude! Because you never really know if you’re right for each other until you’ve survived a snowstorm, a fake engagement, a wedding, a business dinner and your own mother, amirite?
Oh, and since this internet thing doesn’t seem as if it’s going to die down anytime soon, I’ve carved out a cyber-niche at tarynleightaylor.com (http://www.tarynleightaylor.com/), facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (https://www.facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and twitter.com/tarynltaylor (https://twitter.com/tarynltaylor), so stop by sometime. I’d love to virtually meet you!
Keep on dreaming out loud,
Taryn Leigh Taylor
Kiss and Makeup
Taryn Leigh Taylor
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
TARYN LEIGH TAYLOR likes dinosaurs, bridges and space, both personal and of the final-frontier variety. She shamelessly indulges in clichés, most notably her Starbucks addiction (grande-six-pump-whole-milk-no-water chai tea latte, aka: the usual), her shoe hoard (I can stop anytime I...ooh! These are pretty!), and her penchant for falling in lust with fictional men with great abs (Roarke, Harvey Specter, Kid Chaos, Dean Winchester and so on, ad infinitum.) She also really loves books, which is what sent her down the crazy path of writing one in the first place.
To my family—
Mom, for keeping me sane (and for believing in me always, no matter what),
Dad, for inspiring me (“You should add a kid with glasses. And a dragon.”),
and Logan, for keeping me honest (“Are you writing? Because that doesn’t look like writing.”).
And to my friends—
Crystal, you know I couldn’t do this without you, right? We brainstorm together, we split...70–30, plus you get the benefit of reading the stories no charge (that’s very fair);
Michele, this story is published because of you and I’m forever grateful;
and Michelle, thank you for teaching me to never ever give up on a dream. Ever.
Contents
Cover (#u07fede1f-2351-5912-87c8-308f0e738941)
Back Cover Text (#u743cf344-7784-5bef-84fd-df382818c833)
Introduction (#uc41a41df-472b-5aa3-97e6-eaf9f81ea61c)
Dear Reader (#u24cdd2f7-b31b-5cb2-a83f-5f9a2f66e6e8)
Title Page (#u0922c0ce-493f-59bb-ad5d-32d339562307)
About the Author (#u1230b41e-48a2-5f4e-8f66-086cd5591493)
Dedication (#u5e9d2d58-bf58-5678-8823-04ea7e350e08)
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Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u0d14a43b-fbe8-521a-8f21-f2a7101e22f1)
“DOYOUWANT me to kick the crap out of that seat back and tray table for you?”
Chloe Masterson looked over at Window Guy, the man that the Goddess of Economy Airline Seating had seen fit to plaster against her right side. The upper-arm contact had started in Seattle and lasted until Chicago. Thanks to bad weather, their scheduled forty-five-minute layover in the Windy City was now pushing two hours, and had featured a long wait in the plane deicing line and then a “that didn’t sound good” thunk. The plane was now sitting motionless on a vast expanse of snowy tarmac and they’d officially hit the six-hour mark of their touching-a-stranger marathon fifteen minutes ago.
It wasn’t his fault, really. Window Guy had broad shoulders, so the contact was incidental and, in a weird way, kind of comforting. She liked that the sleeve of his gray wool suit was soft and warm against her skin.
And okay, maybe she was leaning against him a little more than was strictly necessary. Not because he smelled of spicy soap and warm man—which was a pretty wicked combination—but because he smelled better than the guy to her left. The gag-inducing aroma of stale sweat, onions and something else she couldn’t quite place but preferred to leave a mystery had worn her down about twenty minutes after boarding. That’s when Chloe had decided that the comfort of her left elbow wasn’t worth permanent olfactory damage and had conceded the battle of the joint armrest to him.
Damn middle seat.
“Sorry?”
Despite their close confines, she and Window Guy hadn’t exchanged more than the official “that’s-my-seat” gesture of air travelers the world over before he’d awkwardly shuffled past her to sit down. After that, he’d pulled his laptop out and tapped away at the keys like a good little company automaton while she’d worked her way through a few chapters of a gently-used Stephen King novel. She’d been so engrossed in her book, she hadn’t noticed that at some point he’d put the laptop away and moved on to reading the offerings from the seat pocket in front of him.
And that wasn’t all she hadn’t noticed.
Now that she was actually looking at him, his breach of their companionable silence was even more surprising. Because Window Guy was kind of sexy. Bedroom eyes the color of whiskey and twice as potent. A strong jaw and a straight nose. His brown hair was short enough to be business-appropriate, but long enough to get mussed up under the right circumstances. And that mouth! As she took her fill of him, it pulled slightly up at the right corner in an easy smirk that was hot as hell. He was the clean-cut kind of handsome that came with no visible neck tattoos and an expertly-knotted blue silk tie that bespoke gainful employment.
Men like him didn’t talk to women like her. He was way too...corporate. And she was...not.
At her question, he raised his chin at the worn gray vinyl seat back in front of her. “You’ve been giving that chair dirty looks for the last twenty minutes, and then you sighed,” he explained.
“I did?”
Window Guy nodded. “The sigh was pretty loud, actually. It disturbed my reading.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry that my sigh threw off your concentration.” Chloe sent a meaningful glance toward the airline safety pamphlet on his lap.
“The damage is done.” He picked up the tri-fold piece of card stock. “It was just getting good, too. After the cabin depressurized, the plane crashed and the passengers were proceeding in an orderly fashion for their lives!”
Huh. She hadn’t expected funny. Hot guys rarely had to develop such plebeian talents. “Sounds intense.”
“You’re telling me. I was really enjoying it until the author got all kinky and made the heroine take off her high heels before she used the inflatable slide. I think he might be a foot fetishist.” He shoved the pamphlet back in the seat pocket in front of him before he met her gaze with a teasing glint in his amber eyes. “Wow. Spoiler alert. I hope I didn’t give too much away.”
“No, I appreciate the recommendation. I’ll be sure to tell my book club about it.”
His grin was practiced, but appealing. “I’m Ben.”
Uh-oh. Time to nip this in the bud. “Well, Ben. You’re a very handsome guy, and I appreciate the effort, because I’m sure that maneuvering a sober pickup with only a safety card, an in-flight magazine, and an airsickness bag as props is a challenge that few men could meet. But don’t waste all your sweet, panty-dropping material on me. Save some of that A-game for Stewardess Barbie over there.”
They both looked at the perky blonde flight attendant who’d been making doe eyes at Ben since he’d boarded. Right on cue, she twirled her ponytail and glanced away coyly.
Ben shifted, trying to arrange his large frame more comfortably in the tiny chair—a futile cause. “Let’s get one thing straight here, if this had been a pickup, we’d already be—” he eyed his Rolex—so cliché “—three minutes into you becoming an airplane-bathroom sex convert. Let the record show that we are both still safely buckled into our designated seats, ipso facto, I clearly wasn’t flirting with you.”
Ignoring the frisson down her spine—legal jargon always had that effect on her—Chloe raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Okay, I was kinda flirting. But, it was completely recreational. Minor league stuff.”
“Oh, please! Foot fetish references? That is gateway flirting. If I hadn’t called you out, you’d have escalated to the hard stuff—asking me my astrological sign and telling me how beautiful my eyes are.”
He laughed, and Chloe ignored the flare of pride at having elicited the sexy, rumbling sound. Not that she was flirting, either, mind you.
“Well, it’s hardly my fault that your eyes really are beautiful. Emerald green, with golden flecks that sparkle when you roll them like that because you think I’m being cheesy.”
“Oh. Well that’s probably because you are being cheesy. At least the safety pamphlet pickup was original.”
“Original enough to get your name?”
“Chloe,” she relented.
“Nice to meet you, Chloe.” He offered his hand again, and this time she accepted it.
His palm was wide and his fingers were long. He didn’t molest her hand; it was just an acceptable, firm shake between new acquaintances. Even so, a phantom warmth lingered after he’d relinquished his grip, the kind that buzzed up her arm and sort of made her wish he had molested her hand, at least a little. Chloe rubbed her tingling palm against the thigh of her jeans.
His gaze held steady on hers and his focus was flattering, almost seductive. If you went for that whole slick-successful-businessman-in-a-five-thousand-dollar-suit look. Which, she reminded herself, she didn’t. Not anymore.
For the most part, her tiny diamond nose stud and purple highlights were enough to warn corporate wunderkinds that they had nothing in common with her.
But then she remembered that she no longer had purple highlights. She’d dyed her piecey, deconstructed bob for her sister’s wedding. Right now it was a respectable, boring, normal shade of mahogany that skimmed her jaw before angling a bit lower in the front. The dye job was her attempt at a peace offering to her family. She just hoped it would be enough.
“...so if you look at it that way, cheese could be considered a high form of flattery, you know?”
Ben’s voice snapped her out of a flashback of the most recent guilt-laden, middle-name-invoking phone call with her mother.
“What? Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”
Ben’s grin was endearingly self-deprecating. “Tough crowd.”
“It’s not you.” Chloe shoved her offensively monotone hair behind her ears. “Going back to Buffalo has put me in a rotten mood.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. What’s Buffalo ever done to you?”
