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Even the Score
A Tall, Dark, and Texan Novel
By Kate Meader, Liz Pelletier Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2015 Kate Meader
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-333-4
CHAPTER 1
Peering at her skanky reflection in the tiny mirror of the tiny dressing room at the Bella Sera Playhouse, Tess McKenzie arrived at the only possible conclusion:
The universe hates me.
The lace peekaboo neckline, aided and abetted by a faux corseted waist, left so little to the imagination she risked a wardrobe malfunction before the night was through. Over her ass, frilly tulle layers revealed a provocative band of bare thigh above black stockings.
"Five minutes to places, people."
Shit. The stage manager's sharp call lit a fire under her. With a last minute adjustment to the pink ribbon-trimmed garter, she straightened to a wobbly stand. Heels were so not her thing, especially five-inch stilettos, but creepy Derek, their esteemed director, insisted she wear them. Can't be a French maid without the fuck-me shoes, he'd added with a leer.
What a fine use of her —
"What a fine use of my theater degree," Amy chimed in — friend, co-worker, and brain twin. In the month since Tess had joined the cast of Chicago's premier murder mystery dinner theater show, A Taste for Murder, they had repeated this refrain before every performance. It might have started out as a joke, but as time went on, it felt more and more like the gods were playing a cruel prank on them. For classically trained actors, dinner theater was the equivalent of Gordon Ramsay slumming at Arby's.
That's okay. You weren't using your soul anyway.
Nudging Tess aside, Amy adjusted the beechwood rosary around her neck. It made a startling contrast against the full nun's habit blanketing her from head to toe.
Tess sighed heavily and pulled down the strip of material masquerading as a skirt. "At least you're not showing enough skin to make a career on the pole look like a viable alternative to acting."
Amy gave a sympathetic smirk. Bitch knew she'd lucked out. "In some cultures the words for actress and stripper are one and the same." She bared her teeth and used her forefinger to wipe away a smudge of Sister Mary Margaret's scarlet lipstick. It was that kind of show. "Or maybe it's actress and hooker?"
Clenching her eyes shut, Tess punched the negatives into submission and dialed up her happy. She was employed in her chosen profession, playing Claudette, the saucy French maid with more shocking secrets than she could shake her feather duster at. Five days a week and twice on Saturdays, she strutted across the boards with a flirtatious dose of ooh la la while old dudes and teenage boys ogled her ass.
"Remind me why I'm here again, Ames," she gritted out.
"Because the money is half decent, and it takes you one step closer to the dream, babe."
The dream. A theater storefront where Tess, Amy, and their talented but poverty-stricken actor crew could work on the projects of their hearts. Since earning their expensive degrees from Northwestern, they'd experimented with life. Some had moved to New York and L.A. Some were playing the late-night improv circuit while flirting with management jobs at Starbucks. Some had given up.
Tempted to pack it in, she had stayed the course fueled by Gran's cheerleading. The woman, more of a mother to Tess than her own, had been a ball of sunshine to the end even while her body slipped further into oblivion. Fucking cancer.
Oh, Gran, I miss you so much.
After a ten-month hiatus taking care of her grandmother in Terra Haute, Indiana, Tess had returned to Chicago and found her core posse still here, living on ramen and crazy ambition. As soon as they made enough to fund their theater's first year, they were going to grab their dreams by the balls.
And speaking of nuts ... The door to the dressing room was thrown open, and in strode Director Derek and his scene-stealing leather pants.
"Where's Millie?" he snapped while his lascivious gaze ate up Tess with a slimy spoon. Instinctively, she stepped back. Derek had a flasher-in-a-raincoat proclivity for brushing those leathers against her hips while trying to engage her 34Cs in deep conversation.
Millie blew out of the bathroom, pulling up the triple strength support hose that was part of her costume as the Countess Radwanska, an aging Polish noble who has a pretty strong motive for bumping off her husband.
"Did you knock, Derek?" Millie grabbed her elegant cigarette holder. "Or did you waltz in, hoping to catch an exposed nipple or something a little juicier?"
Visibly affronted, Derek flushed an ugly shade of red. "Not sure what you're implying, Millie, but — "
"Just that you're a perv, Der."
In sisterly solidarity, all three of them glared at Derek until he backed up under the weight of their collective disapproval.
"Chop, chop, ladies," he sputtered, underlining his shaky authority with a clap of his undoubtedly sweaty hands. "We've got a full house tonight, so go sell some booze."
Tess tamped down a budding growl. The worst part about this gig was the actors — the freaking talent — had to serve the audience while staying in character before the official showtime. Slinging cardboard chicken and soggy fettuccine to tourists was yep, a fine use of her theater degree. But the tips were good, especially for the French maid who twitched her tail and turned the accent up to onze.
"What's that again about the words for actress and stripper being the same in some cultures?" she asked Amy, who was tying her rosary beads around her waist, trying to give the sack she was wearing a shape.
"Actress and hooker, babe."
Tess shook her head. Another day, another piece of her soul down the drain.
"'Allo, mes amis, what can I get you this eve-ven-ing?"
The response? A tableful of blank stares from a family of five — mom, dad, and three surly teens.
She tried again. "Zee wine, zee cocktails, zee Perrier?"
Tourist Dad's jaw practically grazed the hardwood floor, but his eyes stayed locked on her corset-enhanced rack. That's right, bud, they're breasts and your wife has a pair.
"George!" the woman beside him snapped. She nailed Tess with a keep-your-mitts-off-my-husband glare. As if, lady.
"The Robert Mondavi Pinot Noir," Tourist Wifey said primly, lifting her sharp gaze from the skeletal wine list. Two reds, two whites, and a rosé for the truly adventurous. "Is that any good?"
"Zee best of Napa." And at the outrageous fifty dollars a pop the Bella Sera playhouse was charging, at least a ten dollar tip right there if these guys didn't stiff her at the end of the night.
Awesome sauce. She was now measuring her worth in Robert Mondavi jug wine.
Order taken and smile pinned on, she turned quickly.
Too quickly.
On her deadly spindles, she tottered and felt the slippery hardwood give from under her. The room tilted. Like something out of a French farce — oh, the irony — she fought to keep her ass from making a painful meet-cute with the floor.
Going, going ...
But just as her right heel missed finding purchase, two strong hands, tucked beneath her elbows, broke her fall.
"Careful now, honey," she heard in a whiskey-rough drawl.
A flicker of recognition pinged her chest just as warm, callused palms righted her balance and turned her deftly toward her savior.
It couldn't be. Not here. Not now.
Even with the added height, which gave her five-four frame a solid boost, she still had to look up. Into the darkest midnight eyes she had ever seen.
She knew those eyes.
She knew that jaw.
And by the looks of that grim slash of a mouth, he knew who she was, and worse, he remembered exactly what she had done to him.
Thank you, universe. You're the best.
"Well, if it ain't Miss Weddin' Wrecker herself," Hunter Dade said, still with a country twang, backed up by a Texan oil field's worth of heat.
The man who had vowed to put her over his knee the next time he saw her was back — And he was as ticked off as ever.
Sixty seconds.
He'd had sixty seconds of heaven from door to catch before he realized his mistake.
To think that the sugar sweet ass Hunter was admiring as he made strides to his table belonged to Tess McKenzie. Covered in frilly layers, she'd been leaning forward just enough to give a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, peachy skin above her sexy stockings. In those heels, damn, her legs were so killer he was already imagining the myriad ways he would get those stockings off.
Fast, fast, and faster.
Zeroing in on her ass, his pulse had quickened when the best thing imaginable happened: the honey fell right into his arms. Unfortunately, this particular sweetness came laced with strychnine.
Tess was the menace responsible for the worst day of his life. Her interference a year ago had cost him a deal, a wife, and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in vendor fees for the wedding that never happened.
"Hey ..." she said, uncertainty in her voice. That'd be a first. The woman was a snob, an artsy free spirit who hated his roughneck ass from the moment she laid eyes on him after one of her theatrical efforts. His then-fiancée and Tess had been college roommates, and Hunter knew it was important to his future wife that he make an effort.
Making an effort was one thing; lying his balls off was another. So he didn't know dick about "the Arts" and his ignorance showed like a nasty rash on his skin. He might have commented that Tess's show was a particularly special brand of bullshit. Some crap about women in ancient Greece punishing their men by withholding sex. It had hit all his buttons, and he had no problem speaking his mind. Neither did Tess and they'd — Well, they'd gotten into it good.
That argument had been the most fun he'd had all year.
Back in the present, his hands still cupped her smooth, silky elbows. He needed to release her.
Every day as a partner in Score Property, one of the fastest-growing real estate development companies in the U.S., he made whip-fast decisions, yet now he had a crystal clear choice before him, and he couldn't think for shit. That enticing freckle on her left breast, an alarmingly half-exposed left breast, was fogging his brain to mush. What would it taste like, that freckle?
Nothing. Freckles don't taste of anything, but the scent invading his nostrils told him this woman's skin would taste so fine. Dangerous, not-coming-back-from-it fine.
His hold had drawn her into the cage of his body, leaving her no choice but to palm his chest right over his nipple. The one that was hardening with each passing second. The touch of her slender hand was light, but not so much it wouldn't hold its own fisting and stroking and working his — how in the hell had his brain gone there?
He let go.
Pausing as he ran the play in his head was a mistake. It signified weakness, and she stepped right into the gap, wresting back any advantage he had in surprising her.
"So how've you been, cowboy?"
"Just fine, princess."
He kept his response flat, giving nothing away. If she looked down, she might have noticed his emotion was distilled to his uncomfortably tight jeans. What the fuck was happening here? So it had been a while since he'd released his pent-up energy inside a woman, but this was Tess McKenzie. They despised each other. The last time they'd been this close, he had been losing his ever-loving shit on her, a memory he conjured with ease and not a small amount of embarrassment.
More than a little pissed by his body's reaction to her, he aimed for the jugular. "Still playin' at your hobby then?"
Jackpot. Two spots of color lit high on her cheeks. For someone with such a fancy education and acting pedigree, this dinner theater gig didn't seem up to her usual standards.
"It pays the bills," she said, a proud jut to her chin that, along with the widening of those beautiful green eyes, was the only signal she was affected by his mockery. Aw, shit. The answering lurch in his chest felt like pettiness.
"I should ..." She gestured with raised eyebrows that she needed to get back to it. Fine with him, they were all caught up. With his eyes locked on hers, he stepped aside, giving her more than enough room to thread her smoking body through as she walked past. Still with that chin and nose high in the air. The woman had spirit. He'd give her that.
A few more steps and he had found his party. He slumped to his chair, one of four seated around a cabaret style table about twenty feet from the stage. Flynn Cross, his business partner, drinking buddy, and the guy he could rely on for a pickup game at two in the morning, eyed him with interest.
"Is that ...?"
"Yep."
The clip to Hunter's tone should have been enough to shut it down, but "leave well alone" and "personal space" were not part of Flynn's vocabulary.
"Well, I'll be." He squinted in what Hunter assumed was Tess's direction. "She looks hot. Wonder if she does private shows in that costume."
"Are you ogling the talent again, hon?"
The stunning blonde to Flynn's left ran a finger along his jaw and turned it to face her. Flynn broke into the shit-eating grin he had been wearing since she agreed to become Mrs. Cross six months back. They were here seeing this junk that passed for entertainment because Flynn wanted to take Becca out to do something touristy for her visit to Chicago. She was completing her OB/GYN residency at Baylor but planned to move here to set up house with Flynn when she finished in eight months.
Flynn kissed her softly. "I only have eyes for you, Becs. I was thinking about my boy's needs."
Becca curved her skeptical gaze around Flynn to take in Hunter. "Handsome, wealthy, and Texan is its own calling card. You don't need my man's help."
Hunter tipped an imaginary hat. "No, ma'am, I don't."
"And polite, too." Her assessing gaze turned soft with compassion he neither wanted nor needed. If he had a dime for every well-meaning look he'd received in the last year, he'd have a motherfucking load of dimes. "The right girl's just around the corner, Hunter."
"Or how about the wrong girl at the other end of the bar?" Flynn gave an unsubtle chin jerk in the direction Hunter was no longer looking. There could be a five-alarm fire happening over there, and he'd be ignoring it.
Becca wasn't ignoring it, but as she had seen Tess only once before, Hunter felt safe the interfering maid of honor would pass without comment. On his wedding day, Tess had looked positively demure in a jade gown that set off to perfection her auburn hair and those eyes the shade of melted shamrocks. "Demure" and "Tess" weren't even in the same zip code tonight.
"We can do better than that for Hunter," Becca said dismissively as she perused the playbill for the show. "I know just the girl. Vassar, Rotary Club, child psychologist. She's the complete package."
Right. So was Jenna, his former fiancée. A bluestocking Chicago socialite, a charity doyenne, perfect on paper. These days, Hunter was done with overeducated, careerless, rich girls who liked to play tourist with guys from the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon line.
Flynn leaned in and whispered, "Is this the first time you've seen her since the day she got all up in your business?"
Hunter nodded, not trusting himself to speak. After so long, his fury at her should have faded. He never lost control, not since he'd been a punk-ass teen. But that day — his wedding day — raw emotion had done a number on his granite tight grip, and he'd gone apeshit on Tess. Strange, when the woman he should have been blaming was the beautiful bride who had elected to jilt him at the altar in a church filled with four hundred guests. But getting mad at Jenna was impossible. She was so pure and innocent that the sight of her with tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks had melted the hot fist of anger in his chest. He had loved her wholesome regality, how she would make the textbook society wife. His reward for crawling out of the dirt of a hardscrabble upbringing in a run-down trailer park in Texas.
But all that changed in a heartbeat when the maid of honor pulled him aside ten minutes after the ceremony was supposed to begin. Snooty Princess Tess had loved being the bearer of that particular piece of news.
Thinking on that stalled his brain, so he was glad for the interruption, even if it was a guy sporting a penguin suit and a monocle, asking him what he wanted to drink. Jesus H. Christmas.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Even the Score by Kate Meader, Liz Pelletier. Copyright © 2015 Kate Meader. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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