Blazing Bedtime Stories (16 page)

Then one day he fell to one knee and asked her to be his wife. Having long since given him her whole heart, she agreed.

They wed on a summer day in a small village on the edge of a great sea, promising to love one another for the rest of their days.

Oh, and that happily-ever-after? It included a lot of fabulous, mind-blowing sex.

To my novella mates, Kimberly Raye
and Leslie Kelly.

Poor Cupid will never be the same!

T
HIS HAD BEEN
a
bad
idea, Juliet Swan thought as she stared across the table at her most recent pre-Valentine’s Day, rush-to-get-a-boyfriend blind date. The mall food court was packed, but the noise had receded to a dull buzz. Juliet blinked, certain she had to have misunderstood her companion. “I’m sorry?”

“I said that with a little bit of effort you could be sort of attractive,” he said.

So she hadn’t misunderstood him. She felt her expression blacken and her so-called date leaned back, seemingly startled. “‘Sort of attractive?’” she repeated, her voice throbbing with irritation. “‘With a little bit of effort?’”

He chuckled uneasily, then appeared to take offense. “Hey, look. I’m just keeping it real, all right? We’re both getting up there in years and there’s no point in beating around the bush with social niceties. I like a woman to want to look good for me.” His gaze drifted over her hair and his lips pulled down into a frown. “And I get the impression that you aren’t into that.”

She’d had enough, Juliet decided. She snatched her purse from the back of her chair and stood. “You’re right. I’m not.” Seething, she managed to paste a smile on her face. “But while we’re ditching the
social niceties,
why don’t I give you a critique, too? A little bit of effort might make me more attractive, but no power on earth is going to make you anything but a crass, simple-minded bore.” She gestured to his head. “And those hair plugs? Not working for me.”

With that last comment, she turned on her heel and stalked away from the table. Why, why, why did she put herself through this? she wondered furiously. Every February it was the same old song and dance. She’d have a momentary freak-out over being single on
Valentine’s Day—again—and she’d accept any invitation in order to find a little romance for the holiday.

And she was invariably disappointed.

She hurried around a mother pushing a baby in a stroller and a couple of perky teenage girls, then quickened her step toward the exit. Never again, Juliet decided. She was done.
Sort of attractive. With a little bit of effort
, she thought again, disgusted, and, damn him, stung by his less-than-tactful assessment. Men were bastards. Cocksure, boob-obsessed ingrates.

Juliet drew up short as a microphone was suddenly thrust in front of her face and a cameraman aimed a lens in her direction.

“Excuse me, miss, but would you mind if we asked you a couple of questions?”

As a matter of fact, she did. “Actually—”

“With the countdown to Cupid’s holiday officially on, the scent of roses and chocolate in the air, what’s
your
take on Valentine’s Day?” The reporter smiled expectantly.

A cynical laugh bubbled up in Juliet’s throat and something inside her just snapped. “You want to know what I think about Valentine’s Day? Great. I’ll happily tell you what I think about it.”

A minute later, she left the bemused reporter standing in the same spot, shell-shocked.

Juliet Swan was officially finished with Valentine’s Day.

One week later…

“H
ONESTLY
,
Juliet, it was crass. And you look so bitter.” A formidable Southern belle, Juliet’s mother, Cecilia Swan, clucked her tongue in disapproval and shook her head, passing the fried okra to her husband with a perfectly manicured hand. “What on earth were you thinking?”

Seated at her mother’s dining-room table—just as her family and their guests did
every
Saturday at noon sharp—Juliet resisted the urge to make a snarky remark and instead, tucked deeper into her plate. Frankly, she’d actually thought her mother would never see it.

It
being the newest viral video sensation via the World Wide Web and more specifically kissmyasscupid.com.

How was she to know when they’d stuck that camera in her face at the mall last week that her interview would be one of only three
the Web site would choose to make fun of this latest Valentine’s Day season? The damned thing had been featured on the front page of several Internet sites and had even been picked up by a couple of late-night talk shows. As a result, her inbox had been flooded with e-mail and her answering machine had been packed with messages, some from people she hadn’t heard from in years.

And her mother was right—she
did
look bitter. Shockingly so, if she were honest.

Her gaze slid to her two younger, beautiful, perky blond sisters and their current dates. She suppressed a sardonic smile. Was it any wonder?

She’d
never
brought a date to Saturday lunch.

“Your mother forwarded the link to me, Juliet,” her father chimed in. He squeezed a wedge of orange into his sweet tea, then, chuckling, shot her a smile. “If you weren’t my daughter, I’d think it was funny.
‘Valentine’s Day is an overhyped commercialized crock of crap, focused on the most fickle of emotions, and celebrated by those rare, happy—usually beautiful—people who are fortunate enough to be in a relationship,’
” he quoted, much to her embarrassment. “But the best part was when you told Cupid he could kiss your—”

“That’ll do, Warren,” her mother said, darting him a frown of disapproval. “We’ve all seen it, unfortunately. We know which part of Juliet’s anatomy she told Cupid he could kiss.”

A muffled laugh emerged from Bianca’s latest boyfriend—Victor, if memory served—and Portia’s newest conquest wore a barely suppressed smile.

Bianca leaned over and gave Victor a little one-armed squeeze. “I happen to love Valentine’s Day,” she said, beaming. “It’s only two weeks away. Victor and I are taking a dinner cruise.”

“Really?” Portia asked, her bright-blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Joe and I haven’t made any plans yet, but that sounds lovely.”

Juliet grimaced, carved off a piece of ham and popped it into her mouth to keep from gagging. This was precisely why she loathed the holiday. Most of the time she was quite happy being by herself. She enjoyed her own company, didn’t have to consider another person’s feelings when making day-to-day plans and loved having sole power of the remote control. She slept in the middle of her bed—Romeo, her pug, at her feet—selfishly hogged every
pillow, and never had to worry about sharing her closet space with anybody else.

There were perks.

Occasionally she would succumb to a little loneliness—laughing with someone was always preferable to laughing alone. But in those increasingly frequent instances when she wished she had someone to share a movie with—or her bed—Juliet would just channel-surf until she found a good Brit com or go into her studio and pick up a paint brush. The pungent scent of gesso and the sight of a swirl of color on a fresh canvas never failed to make her forget whatever else might be lacking in her life.

Or at least they always could…until Valentine’s Day.

Then everything went to hell in a handbasket.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were always a whirlwind of activity—it was all about the food and the shopping and the last-minute gift for Great-Aunt Ida, spiced cider and her mother’s squash casserole recipe. While having a significant other would be nice, the lack of one wasn’t quite as pathetic because there was so much else going on. During those holidays, she was much to busy too focus on being lonely.

But Valentine’s Day? Juliet blew out a resigned breath. Being unattached on February fourteenth was a.) significantly noticeable and b.) even more pitiful.

Juliet had spent much of her life feeling pitied. Despite her last name, she was definitely the ugly duckling in the family. Her sisters were petite and fair, with curling blond hair and vivid violet-blue eyes. Cherubic, everyone always said. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror over the antique buffet and inwardly winced.

And if they looked heavenly, then she definitely represented hell.

Her hair was stick-straight—it absolutely would not hold curl, much to her mother’s chagrin—black as a raven’s wing and her eyes were even darker. And petite? Er…no. At five foot ten—eleven in shoes with any sort of sole—she towered over many men and was at eye level with most. To her perverse satisfaction, she found a lot of men—generally shallow, self-serving, oversexed, one-dimensional assholes—found her intimidating.

She’d heard her looks described by various family members as “striking” and “unique,” as well as getting the occasional well-
meaning pat accompanied by a “you’re lovely, too, dear,” but Juliet accepted them for what they were—patronizing compliments delivered with an awkward smile, usually after a gushing session over her younger sisters.

She was an afterthought.

It would be easy to be bitter about it if her parents had ever once made her feel that she was less attractive than Portia or Bianca. But they hadn’t. To their credit—despite their love of all things Shakespearean, which accounted for each of the Swan girls’ names—they had never played favorites. And while Juliet was occasionally jealous of her sisters’ beauty and social ease—she couldn’t quite forget the galling crush she’d developed on one of Portia’s brief boyfriends a few years ago—she couldn’t harbor any resentment toward them either. They were smart, accomplished young women. Both of them taught at the local elementary school, and Portia had just completed her master’s degree.

No, the only person who had ever made her feel less than beautiful was Juliet herself. And that was because…she owned a mirror.

And, from an artist’s standpoint, she could appreciate that she wasn’t as aesthetically pleasing to look at. Her eyes were a little too dark, her jaw a little too sharp and her mouth a little too wide. She didn’t care for makeup—her face always felt like it was smothering—and she’d long ago given up trying to style her hair. Every effort resulted in burns from a curling iron—
not
attractive—and clumps of scorched hair. Her so-called style of choice was the ponytail. Quick, efficient and timeless, Juliet thought, her lips twitching.

“Did you know you were going to end up on the Internet, Juliet?” Portia asked.

Juliet chewed the inside of her cheek and shook her head. “No. But I guess the camera should have tipped me off that it could turn up somewhere.”

Her dad chuckled. “Yes, that should have been a clue.”

“It’s not funny, Warren,” her mother chided. “Didn’t you hear what she said? She hates Valentine’s Day.
Our daughter
. Named after one of the most romantic characters in all of classic literature and the only thing she likes about the holiday are those chalky conversation hearts.” Her mother gave a delicate shudder.

“She’s named after one of the most tragic heroines in classic lit
erature, Mom,” Portia contended. Her lips twitched. “Given how her namesake’s love life turned out, you should be glad that Juliet isn’t interested in romance.”

That wasn’t precisely true—she’d been interested once. A vision of dark auburn hair, humorous mossy-green eyes and a crooked smile interrupted her thoughts, making an unexpected longing rise up her throat where it almost choked her. Her thighs gave a little quake and she felt her sex quicken, remembering. It had been more than a crush—utter infatuation, more like.

“Juliet’s interested,” her mother insisted. “She just hasn’t found that special guy yet.”

“It takes a special guy for a special girl,” her dad said, offering one of his favorite platitudes. He glanced at each of the gentleman seated at his table and lowered his brow into a fierce line. “All my girls are special and should be treated accordingly. Keep that in mind, boys.”

Smiling, Bianca rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you just drag out the shotgun and start cleaning it, Dad?”

Her father grinned. “Don’t think I won’t.”

They all knew he would. Warren Swan might be a mild-mannered podiatrist with a penchant for drama—both her parents were players at the local theater—but he took his fathering duties quite seriously.

Every guy Portia or Bianca had ever brought home had been given the third degree and found her father on the front porch polishing a rifle, awaiting their timely return. Extreme, yes, but effective. Dating one of the Swan girls had never been for the faint of heart.

As a teenager Juliet had both anticipated and dreaded her first date, seeing her own guy through her father’s version of the Spanish Inquisition. Unfortunately, she’d never dated in high school—that miserable milestone had occurred in college—and she had completely skipped her prom. She regretted that now. At the very least, she wished she would have gone stag.

She had several friends who’d gone as a group, but Juliet simply hadn’t been able to bring herself to do that. The prom was meant to be a couples’ event. The idea of going by herself had simply been more than she could emotionally stomach. She’d spent the evening
painting a gazebo scene on her bedroom wall instead. She still considered it among her best works.

Speaking of work…

Juliet set her fork aside and wiped her mouth. “I’m afraid I’ve got to be off,” she said, carefully placing her lace napkin next to her plate.

“Off?” her mother parroted, startled. “But you haven’t had dessert. I made pie.”

She knew she was committing a cardinal breach of etiquette by abandoning the table before dessert, but she had no choice. She was meeting a new client today, one whose fancy address and interest indicated a hefty commission. Business was good, of course. She was a fine artist, if she did say so herself. She was prompt, efficient, had a good eye for scale and composition and completed projects on time. But each new job was only as good as her last and she depended heavily on word of mouth to keep her calendar full. A wealthy client meant equally wealthy friends, and her potential for income would increase exponentially.

Juliet winced. “Sorry, Mom. I’ve got to meet a client.”

“It’s chocolate,” she said temptingly. “Your favorite.”