Lady Be Good

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “I don’t see any—Oh, there it is.” His voice had developed a rasp. “Kind of wedged down between . . .”

  “I’m sure a more experienced man would have found it right away.”

  “I have plenty of experience. I’m just used to seeing panties from the front.” He paused. “This is nice, though.”

  “Glad you approve.” She smiled to herself. “Dex?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “The blood’s starting to pool in my head. Do you think you could get on with it?” She shifted her elbow on the carpet to make her position more comfortable, and, as she moved, discovered she was resting on a lumpy surface. One very large lump in particular.

  Once again, he cleared his throat. “Get on with it? Oh, uh—yes. Sure.”

  His open palm connected with her bottom, but his heart wasn’t in it, and it didn’t even sting. Then he began stroking. As if he were caressing silk.

  It felt good—wonderful, in fact—but her awkward position kept her from enjoying it as much as she wished. “I think I’m pretty sure I’ve learned my lesson now. Do you suppose I could get up?”

  “Well . . . yes, I—I don’t see any reason to embarrass you further.” He traced another delicious curve over her bottom.

  She let her eyes drift shut as he doodled. It felt so good that it took her a while to remember she had an agenda. Mustering herself, she straightened, then turned and sank back on the bed, not making the slightest effort to push her dress down. The strap of flesh-colored lace that covered her in the front wasn’t wide enough to be really significant. She slipped the very tips of her fingers beneath it and gazed up at him. Then she licked her lips like a cheap porno queen.

  He paled. Was that a film of perspiration on his forehead? Poor baby. She stroked herself again. Her antics might be a little skanky, but they sure were effective. Still, as she looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, she tried to prepare herself for disappointment. Dex was an egghead, not a stallion, and he was bound to be a dud. Even so, she’d come here to settle things with him, and nothing would do that more effectively than bad sex.

  He stood, and his hands went to the buttons on the cuffs of his oxford shirt. A thrill of victory shot through her as he began unfastening them.

  He, however, looked displeased. “You do understand that I’m philosophically opposed to the two of us having premarital intercourse.”

  His eyes were glued on her fingers as she toyed with her lacy thong. She shifted one knee a bit to improve his view. “You’ve made your opinion on the subject real clear.”

  He began opening the front of his shirt. “Unfortunately, a weakness in my character is making it impossible for me to continue standing by my principles.”

  “That must be real painful for you.”

  “You have no idea.”

  She couldn’t repress a grin.

  His shirt dropped to the floor, and then one eyebrow arched in amusement. “You’re having the time of your life, aren’t you?”

  She grinned, let a hand drift to her breast, and, like a male sexual fantasy come to life, caressed herself through the dress.

  His earlobes turned red. Then he set his jaw in a stubborn line and crossed his arms over a lean, but nicely formed, chest. “If we have intercourse, we’re getting married.”

  “Will you stop calling it intercourse! It’s f—”

  “Torie . . .” His voice sounded a low, warning note. “Until we’re both naked, you’ll watch your language.”

  Abandoning her porn queen routine, she threw her arms over her head and groaned. “You are such a geek!”

  “Exactly. And don’t you forget it.” He set his knee on the bed, cupped her inner thigh, and then stretched out beside her. For the first time, she noticed little golden lights dancing in his eyes, as if he possessed some secret knowledge that had escaped her. She began to feel uneasy. His fingertips brushed the soft skin of her thigh.

  “If, at any time, my size bothers you, please say something at once.”

  Her eyes popped open.

  He smiled.

  She swallowed. “When you say size, Dex, you’re talking about your height, right? I mean, you’re a tall man, and . . .”

  “No, Victoria. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh.” Just like that, she lost the upper hand. She tried to think how to get it back, but his gentle caresses were screwing up her brain waves.

  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  She glowered at him. “Jeez, are you going to announce every damn thing you’re—”

  “I want to avoid miscommunication.”

  She thought about slugging him, but then his lips settled over her own.

  Mmm . . . Dex did kiss nice. Her days of nicotine deprivation no longer felt like such a sacrifice as he managed to find that perfect point between dry and sloppy, with his tongue giving a delicious hint of things to come. She decided she could kiss Dexter O’Conner for hours.

  And then she realized that he’d let her. Unlike her ex-husbands, Dex was a man who appreciated process, not just results, and he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get to the main event. He stroked the inside of her mouth and let their tongues play. It was soft, sweet, and thrilling. She ran her hands over his back, his hips, appreciating the textures of him, the clean, honest scent. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she were making love with a man instead of a series of boys. Her eyes teared.

  He sensed the change in her mood and drew back slightly. But instead of asking her a lot of stupid Dex-questions, he simply kissed her eyelids, then returned to her mouth.

  That made the tears pour in earnest.

  He drew back again. Through a haze, she saw the concern reflected in his serious, thoughtful face. “Do you need some time?”

  She shook her head.

  He took her at her word. He kissed her eyelids again, sipping up the moisture, then returned to her mouth. Her arms wrapped themselves around him, and she no longer felt like crying. This was too sweet to spoil with tears.

  Once again, he seemed to sense her change of mood, and once again, he drew back and whispered to her. “I’m going to touch you now. Not inside your panties. Just outside.”

  She felt herself nod.

  He traced the little strap of moist lace between her legs. Up and down. Rubbing. Stroking. Thrilling her beyond belief.

  It went on and on until she could barely stand it. Then his lips met her earlobe. “I have to take off your dress. I need to see you.”

  And she wanted to show him. Oh, yes . . .

  He removed her dress with an uncharacteristic clumsiness. Then he touched the clasp on her bra. “After I take this off, I’m kissing your breasts.”

  Was he going to broadcast every move? “You don’t have to ask for permission.”

  “Oh, I’m not.” He pushed aside the cups of her bra and gazed down at her. “Just giving you a chance to prepare yourself.”

  Then he set about making her feel as if her breasts were the most precious objects on earth. He studied them, kissed, tweaked, suckled, and studied them again. “I think,” he said, “it’s time for me to take off your panties.”

  “I think,” she said, “it’s time for me to take off yours.”

  He gazed down at her, took another nibble. “All right.”

  She shot to her knees, and her fingers flew to the fastener at his fly. But before she could open it, he stilled her hand with his own. “Just remember what I said about getting married.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She brushed his fingers away and pulled on the tab. A moment later, she was nearly speechless.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll take our time.”

  Her mouth felt dry as she stared down at him. “I’m not exactly worried. Astonished is more like it.”

  He chuckled, then shed the rest of his clothes. She tossed aside her dress and bra until the only thing left between them was a flesh-colored thong. He slipped his thumb beneath it and pulled it off. “Lay back
in the pillows, sweetheart. I’m going to love you.”

  A sigh slipped through her lips. She couldn’t ever remember feeling so safe.

  As the minutes ticked by, she discovered new things about Dex. He liked to inspect everything. Thoroughly. To evaluate, measure, and caress. And his curiosity seemed just about insatiable.

  She also discovered he had amazing powers of concentration, that he wasn’t the slightest bit fastidious, and that he didn’t grow bored easily. A less pleasant discovery was the pleasure he took in making a woman beg.

  “Please, Dex . . . no more. Oh, please . . .”

  “Soon, sweetheart. Soon.”

  When he finally worked himself inside her—announcing his intentions first in language that was thrillingly graphic—she discovered that they fit together just fine. His last announcement, however, was the one that sent her over the moon.

  “I’m going to come inside you.”

  Moments later, she discovered that Dex was a man of his word.

  Chapter 21

  Kenny couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep, but one minute Emma was yapping at him, and the next thing he knew, the wheels were bouncing against the tarmac as the plane set down in Vegas. The fact that he hadn’t made it into bed the night before must be why he’d slept so peacefully.

  And then he remembered. He was on his way to get married to the bossiest woman he’d ever met. He groaned.

  Her forehead scrunched as she looked over at him, and he watched her mouth begin to open.

  “Not one word.” He closed his eyes.

  She made this huffy sound, but she didn’t say anything.

  As soon as they were off the plane, he steered her past all the slot machines that were a staple at the Vegas airport and toward the Avis counter. It was nearly midnight, but it didn’t take long before he had a car and they were on their way into town.

  That’s when she started talking again, and nothing he said would hold her off.

  “. . . certain we can work this out. . . . And once Dallie learns the truth. . . . then I can catch a morning flight to London. . . no reason on earth for us to get . . .” On and on she went, and, as she spoke, gusts from the car’s air conditioner sent wisps of butterscotch curl flying around her head. A tendril came to rest on the tip of that small, sweet nose. She brushed it aside, her mouth still moving. “. . . the whole idea is absurd . . . difficult for me to understand . . . and the notion you have about rescuing me . . .”

  He’d been heading for a hotel along the Strip, but, instead, he whipped into the driveway of a pink-and-white-stucco wedding chapel where a red neon bell flickered back and forth in the front window. He pulled into one of four parking places, then turned off the ignition. There was a small flower garden near the walk, guarded by a chipped plaster elf.

  “Kenny!”

  He couldn’t stand to listen to any more talking about things he had no answers for, so he dragged her into his arms and smothered her mouth with his own. As their kiss caught fire, it occurred to him that this whole situation might turn out all right if they spent most of their time like this, but, try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself it would be that easy.

  A bony, middle-aged woman with spiked blond hair and red glasses met them at the door. Not long after, they were standing inside a white lattice arbor covered with dusty silk roses and getting ready to speak their vows. He hadn’t thought about Emma’s wedding ring, but it was a full-service chapel and, for an additional fee, he was provided with one.

  Lady E looked like she was going to cry again. “Kenny, I really don’t think—”

  He kissed the rest of what she wanted to say right out of her, and the ceremony began. As the woman in the red glasses started in on the Dearly Beloveds, he began to feel as if he were standing outside himself looking on—horrified at what he was doing, but helpless to stop it. And Emma’s small, uncertain responses didn’t sound anything like her normal storm-the-barricades speech. He squeezed her hand to give her confidence, or maybe to steal some for himself. What in the hell did he think he was doing?

  By the time they got back in the car, they were both shaking. “That was awful.” Emma shuddered.

  “It’s over. We don’t ever have to think about it again.”

  “We can get a divorce. If it’s this easy to get married, it has to be just as easy to get a divorce.”

  “We’d need to fly to Mexico, and I’m too tired.” He started the car.

  “This can’t be a legal marriage. It was too tawdry.”

  “The state of Nevada doesn’t care about good taste. Just out of curiosity—That thing Torie mentioned . . . do I get to be Lord Kenny now?”

  “You do not! Of all the absurd notions—” She stopped as she realized he was teasing.

  He went on because, if he didn’t, he knew she’d start in again. “The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can either keep your last name or you can use mine, but you’re damn well not going to string them all together. Nobody will ever take you seriously if you go around calling yourself Lady Emma Wells-Finch Traveler. At least not in Texas. Am I making myself clear about that?” He watched her glance down at her new gold wedding band.

  “Perfectly.” As Emma twisted the ring, she wondered if her finger would turn green by tomorrow. She looked over at Kenny’s hand and wished she’d thought to buy him a ring, but it hadn’t occurred to her.

  She’d spoken those vows of her own free will—he hadn’t forced them out of her—so why had she done it? Because she owed him, and restoring his reputation was the least she could do. But she couldn’t see how getting married was going to accomplish that. It would have been much more effective to simply have called Dallie and explained, except that every time she’d mentioned it, Kenny exploded.

  She was lying to herself. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to say no, even though she knew it was wrong. The garish lights of the Strip splashed over the car, and shame at her own weakness overwhelmed her. She tried to distract herself by thinking of other things—how a stranger would be going through her possessions in the cottage and packing them up, Penelope’s reaction when she learned she was St. Gert’s new headmistress, Hugh’s spitefulness.

  As she thought about Hugh, she once again experienced the sense that she’d missed something in his hotel room this morning. What was it he’d said? It had slipped by her at the time, but . . .

  She shrugged off her uneasiness. She had enough real problems to worry about without creating imaginary ones. For example, what were the odds of ever seeing her luggage again? “I don’t have any clothes.”

  “That’s not exactly a disadvantage from my point of view.”

  “You don’t have any either.”

  “That’s why God invented credit cards.”

  “I’m not taking your money.”

  “Our money. It’s all going into one big pool now, so get ready to open up your bank accounts and turn over all those pounds you’ve got tucked away.”

  “There aren’t that many,” she said glumly.

  The corner of his mouth curled. “We’ll work it out.”

  Half an hour later she was standing under the shower in the spacious marbled bathroom of their hotel suite. The door slid open behind her and two suntanned arms encircled her waist. She leaned her head back against his chest. “Oh, Kenny, we should never have done this.”

  “I don’t see what the big damn deal is, especially since you already told me you loved me.”

  “Marriage bloody well is a big damn deal!”

  “Don’t cuss. Profanity just isn’t effective with a British accent.” He nuzzled her ear. “Even if you all of a sudden let loose with the Big One, it’d still sound like something you could say from the pulpit.”

  She sighed. What was she going to do with him?

  “Wash my back, will you?”

  She soaped the washcloth, slipped behind him, and began stroking it over his shoulders. Slowly, she moved lower, to his waist, his buttocks, his thighs. �
�You have to be faithful,” she said. “As long as we’re married, you have to be faithful.”

  He took the soap from her and replied softly, “I’m not the one who tried to buy herself a gigolo.”

  “Still . . .”

  He dipped his head and kissed her. She kissed him back—loved the feel of his mouth, loved the slide of his tongue, the scratch of his whiskers—but, even so, her kiss turned into a yawn.

  He drew back. “I think this’d better wait until you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

  “Rubbish.” She could see what his consideration was costing him, and she mustered herself. “The only reason I yawned was that I didn’t sleep much last night either, and it’s late, and—Go ahead. Really. It’s fine.”

  He lifted one eyebrow, turned her around, and began washing her in an impersonal fashion, as if he were taking care not to arouse either one of them. But it definitely wasn’t working for him, and as his finger accidentally brushed one of her nipples, she realized it wasn’t working for her either. She rubbed her soapy back against his front.

  “Emma . . .” His voice held a husky, warning note.

  She pulled his head under the shower and kissed him.

  He took her right there in the shower, holding her against the wall, her thighs locked around his waist. Afterward, as they lay in bed together, their bodies were so closely entwined it was hard to decide where one of them began and the other left off. But as exhausted as she was, she didn’t fall asleep immediately.

  As she listened to the deep sound of his breathing, she tried to absorb the fact that this man was her husband. She knew she loved him, and she certainly desired him, but that travesty of a marriage ceremony had given her no real connection to him. Where was the feeling of attachment she’d been searching for all her life? Despite Kenny’s ardent lovemaking and apparent fondness for her, he didn’t truly love her, and pretending anything else was too self-indulgent to even contemplate. Her relationship with him felt as transitory as those temporary bonds she’d had with teachers and friends, as fragile as her relationship with parents who were all too eager to forget they had a daughter.