Free Cruising the Strip by Radclyffe, Karin Kallmaker

accepting a career as a substitute for love, as if a stack of bestsellers could warm a bed. Well, it didn’t warm one bed. It warmed three, including the one in Kauai, thank you very much. Three empty beds were better than one empty bed—oh, you’re blathering, she scolded herself.
    “Farrah!”
    Crap. Barrett had seen her and the groupies were making room. Flashes popped as they did cheek kisses, then more photos were snapped as the smooches were repeated with Racie.
    Those of Barrett’s groupies that weren’t hot for Barrett were hot for Racie. Where Barrett was just a bit scruffy, just a bit dangerous and rough, Racie was sleek and elegant, like a supermodel, except she had cleavage and muscles. Her long black hair stretched past her shapely backside. Farrah could be hot for Racie, too. Face it, you idiot, you could be hot for anything right now.
    “How have you been, Farrah?” Racie held her just a little bit longer than the exchange of cheek pecks. The question, in her sexy contralto and the glance from her dark bedroom eyes made Farrah feel slightly confused, dazzled. That was one thing Racie and Barrett had in common. Both of them had the same alluring gaze that suggested that if were you in private, you’d see a very different woman, and not a woman who was necessarily clothed.
    It was a ridiculous thought, she told herself. They were oozing sex appeal for the fans.
    Farrah gathered her wits and answered, “Absolutely wonderful. I love it when conventions are in Vegas. There are direct flights out of Honolulu.”
    “Isn’t this insane?” Barrett took her by the arm, and suddenly Farrah was in between the two of them, arm-in-arm. “When I found out we were doing a session together it blew me away. I’m so not worthy. They’re all here to see you.”
    “You’re too modest.” Farrah found herself glancing back and forth between Racie’s suggestive warmth and Barrett’s bold admiration.
    “I’m just making sure the lovely Miss Fotheringay makes it safely to the podium,” Barrett assured someone in the crowd. Her warm hand tightened on Farrah’s arm.
    In a heartbeat Farrah was back in San Antonio at the convention six months ago when she’d stumbled going up the stairs to a dais and Barrett, right behind her, had pulled her close to save her from a nasty fall.
    The contact had been pure electricity, and the moment had disturbed Farrah’s sleep for weeks. The Internet mania over the amateur photo of Farrah Fotheringay swooning in Barrett Lancey’s arms was what had given Ling the idea for this photo shoot. Well, Farrah had her misgivings. Internet mania needed to translate to sales, didn’t it, or what was the point? Hell, they both had warm hands.
    The session moderator introduced them both with suitable flattery, and after some patter, their “conversation” got underway.
    The questions weren’t surprises, and as she and Barrett chatted, Farrah was even more aware of the animal charm that Barrett exuded. She was doing it on purpose. The look in her eyes was so blatant at times that Farrah inevitably glanced at Racie, wondering if she noticed. The event was over in what seemed like no time, and Barrett’s efficient groupies limited the number of lingering fans until the three of them could finally have a few semi-private words.
    Racie touched the light cashmere tunic that Farrah was wearing. “That blue makes your skin look like fine china. Were you going to wear that for the photos?”
    “I could,” Farrah said uncertainly. “I also have a silk dress that has Asian styling to it. Mandarin collar. It’s a similar shade of blue.”
    “Speaking purely as a photographer,” Racie said carefully, “I would love to see you in scarlet, and off the shoulder. I’ve got things staged for a sort of fainting couch pose.” Her gaze was so intense that Farrah could feel it on her breasts. “Your round cleavage contrasted against Barrett’s square shoulders, I mean, composition-wise, it’ll be