Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

Cam rubbed the spot on his fourth rib where Ryder had elbowed him. He’d find a bruise there in the morning. If it had been anyone else Cam would have returned the favor, but aside from not wanting to ruin the BBQ for everyone, Ryder was one of the few women who’d rather try to kick his ass in the ring rather than kiss it outside of the ropes. “So much for making lovey-dovey cow eyes with Devin mellowing you out.”

She cut him a don’t-fuck-with-me glare. “I’m serious. It’s not the time or the place for you two to m

easure dicks.”

Alex held up his hands and took a step back. “You’re right. You’ve got nothing to worry about—when it comes to me.”

Cam fisted his hands before the urge to knock that smarmy grin right off the asshole’s face took over.

The other man smirked and let out a laugh before pivoting on his heel and sauntering off across the crowded backyard.

Ryder leaned over. “You know his mom was a prosecutor—at least until some of Diamond Tommy’s people got to her. They found the body last year. Not surprisingly, he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon. Once he gets to know you…”

“He’ll still be an asshole.”

She chuckled. “Probably.”

But being a douchebag and being right weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Do you think he’s on to something? When it comes to Drea?” He hated himself for being such a total wuss and even asking the question, but he had to know.

Ryder sighed and tucked her short hair behind her ear. “It’s not my story to tell. Let’s just say the truth is always more complicated than it first appears.”

Complicated women and complicated truths. He’d spent his life avoiding both, but Drea Sanford had him reconsidering, and wondering what it would be like if he were a different kind of man.

Chapter Two

“Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is art.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

If the true sign of being rich was to never have to ask how much something cost, then Drea’s clients had never uttered those words in their entire lives. She was one of Harbor City’s most sought-after makeup artists, and it’s most expensive—but worth every penny.

She walked up the stone steps to the five story brownstone that took up half a block of Harbor City’s most expensive real estate. The place looked so different from Tony and Sylvie’s Waterburg home. It wasn’t just the size, it was the whole atmosphere. Her client, Natasha Orton, kept the brownstone’s vibe as icy as the pale blue walls in each one of the twenty-something rooms.

The thick front door swung open, revealing the Orton’s butler, Fergus. From the bland expression to the steel gray of close-cropped hair, he looked every inch the English butler. Until he smiled. Then it wasn’t hard to imagine the Harbor City heartbreaker he must have been twenty years ago. Drea had almost fired temperamental Natasha as a client a million times, but the thought of not getting to joke around with Fergus kept her coming back armed with a ten-pound makeup case and skin thicker than the oldest elephant.

“Here, let me help.” Fergus took her makeup case, carried it inside to the small parlor off the hallway, and set it on a table. He popped open the snaps and lifted the lid, revealing brushes, lipsticks, foundations, powders, and all the other tools of the trade. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. “I just love that smell. I wonder why that is?” He held up a tube of Chanel’s Rouge Coco lipstick in Perle as if it contained the answers to life’s great mysteries.

Drea rolled her eyes and started to unpack her gear. She’d need her sensitive skin cleanser and Philosophy moisturizer right away. “Because whenever you smell it, you know she’s on her way out.”

He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, but he could never hold the pose for long. She counted.

One. Two. Three…

The mask cracked and a wide smile broke his offended look into pieces.

They could laugh when it was just the two of them, but the reality wasn’t nearly as funny. Natasha was an aging trophy wife with a mean streak four times as wide as her size zero Donna Karan wrap dress. Thank God that wasn’t the case with all of her clients, or Drea would be stabbing her eyes out with her tweezers.

“What’s the number today?”

“Out of ten?” Fergus asked.

Drea nodded her head and set out the Nars Skin Smoothing Prep primer, RCMA foundation, a Temptu Pro S/B Concealer wheel, bronzer, Nars blush in orgasm, highlighter, and oil control perfect for Natasha’s combination skin and tan complexion.

He tapped the lipstick against his chin and glanced up at the ivory inlayed ceiling. “A solid fifteen.”

Perfect. She rolled her head from side to side, mentally reaching for that little piece of Zen determined to stay just out of her grasp. She let out a low whistle and dropped a sealed bag of makeup application sponges on the table. “Goodie. She’s not still giving you a hard time about having to give up her pet ferret because of your allergy, is she?”

“Luckily for my ability to breathe, no. That thing is off living out its days on a farm somewhere.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “However, she met with a lawyer yesterday.”