by Mel Curtis
Steve Tyler stopped singing and Evan drew back, staring at Amber with an expression that seemed…well…surprised.
The D.J. spun Pink’s latest hit. Without a word, Evan led Amber deeper into the club, dodging couples that were just catching the faster rhythm.
Amber’s heart pounded as they left the noise of the dance floor and headed down the dimly lit hallway that led to the back stairs and the balcony. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace more private.” He passed the stairs, stopped beneath the landing where it was even darker and studied Amber one more time as if considering his next move carefully.
If he’d nearly pushed her buttons on the dance floor, what would Evan do in a more discreet location? How far would Amber let him go? Her body trembled with anticipation and three years of pent up need as she waited for Evan to decide what to do with her, praying he wouldn’t have second thoughts, determined not to have any herself for at least another five minutes.
Tangling his fingers in Amber’s hair, Evan dragged her to him for a feverish kiss that demanded more than lips became involved. He crushed Amber against his hard, unyielding body, using his long arms and big hands to bind their bodies together as if they were physically joined. It took only moments for it to seem natural for Amber’s pelvis to strain against each thrust of his hips as if they were naked and he were inside of her. It was decadently thrilling and dangerously hot. It was bittersweet relief when Evan drew back enough to slip a hand inside the bodice of Amber’s dress to cup one lace cocooned breast, to squeeze her nipple until she ached for release.
Amber gasped for breath, burning for a more intimate touch. For sex. Full body pounding, nakedly urgent sex. But not here. Not where they might be discovered. Amber only wanted one more kiss. One more steamy stroke…
Evan’s hand wound its way inside Amber’s panties and then he thrust a finger inside her. She moaned tremulously against his mouth as she peaked, her heat spilling around him. Restless energy made her limbs shake. And then Evan withdrew and Amber would have sunk to the floor if he hadn’t held her close.
This is what depravation did to a woman.
It made her greedy and wanton.
Things hung in the balance between them. She could invite Evan home. Or at least to her dad’s house. As long as she didn’t let Evan into the room with whips and chains. Although Evan’s place might be closer and stocked with condoms. Guys were good about buying large quantities of condoms.
The beat of the music was fainter than the blood pounding in Amber’s ears. Without realizing it, her fingers had hooked onto the waistband of his slacks.
A raucous group of women clattered up the stairs.
Amber backed further into the darker corner.
Still cloaked by shadow, Evan let her go. “You weren’t faking.”
“What?” Why would he think she’d…
Amber’s mind spun back to Lyle’s accusation. Evan had captured her audible reaction with his mouth while she climaxed and he must have recognized the pattern of her orgasm from Kent’s video.
Amber felt dirty in her damp panties. “You looked me up on the internet.”
“You generated several hits.” His voice was emotionless.
It was a power play. She’d been on the receiving end enough times to know. Amber went cold, grateful for the gloom that helped hide her shock and pain as she tried to work up the nerve to escape.
Heavy footsteps pounded on the steps. “Hey, Cierra. Have you seen Amber?”
“Kent?” she whispered, moving toward the light as her ex-lover continued ascending the stairs.
Evan silenced her with a bruising kiss. Amber had to hand it to Evan, he knew what he was doing in that department. But this time she had her guard up. As Amber melted against Evan, as she pressed her breasts into his chest and half moaned into his mouth, she loosened the iron band of his embrace with hands ascending his muscular chest.
When he relaxed his hold on her Amber shoved him away, running down the hall, praying Evan wouldn’t follow and that she wouldn’t run into Kent. In the main room Trina was ripping into Evan’s tall teammate, but stopped as Amber darted behind the bar for her purse.
“What did he do to you?” Trina demanded.
But Amber didn’t answer. She just started running again.
Amber’s heart was still pounding and, presumably, it was her chakras that were still humming with need when she pulled into her dad’s driveway. She dropped her forehead to the steering wheel, unsure who she was more angry with – herself or Evan. She’d certainly marked herself as a target at the restaurant when she revealed her middle school weight crisis. It was no surprise that Evan had taken advantage. The question was: why? To get rid of Amber or because turning women physically on and then off gave him the jollies?
Amber desperately wanted to quit the Foundation, but she couldn’t run away from the Rules this time, not when her privacy depended on it, not when her investments weren’t earning much.
So if she couldn’t quit, how was Amber going to coach Evan Oliver without sleeping with him or killing him?
Chapter 16
L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln
…After dining at Panache, the Flash’s newest player, Evan Oliver, made a move on the latest Rule breaker at Tingle last night. Who could blame Oliver? What’s not to find alluring about an heiress who’s taking courses at Wicked Tantric?
Someone was in the kitchen operating machinery. At six-fifteen in the morning.
Amber had an idea who it was. She rolled to her stomach and crushed a pillow over her head.
It was bad enough she’d been played by Evan Oliver last night. Why did she have to be saddled with housekeepers who showed up for work at ungodly hours?
She could still hear whatever appliance the Zablonskis were using through the pillow.
They weren’t going away.
“I like my sleep!” Amber kicked off her covers and hunted around for some clothes. When the thumping continued, she yelled, “And my privacy!”
Muffled voices drifted back her way.
In record time, Amber dragged on fresh underthings, track pants and a T-shirt. She captured her hair in a ponytail as she shuffled to the kitchen. She was going to tell the Zablonskis to come back later.
“Good morning, dear.” Yvonne placed a tray of cinnamon rolls topped with melted frosting on the table. The rolls smelled almost better than sex.
Yesterday Amber would have said better than sex. But then she and Evan collided.
Amber stood at the end of the counter. The French doors opened to the back yard. The cool morning air nipped at her toes while she breathed in cinnamon. The pseudo sugar high temporarily clogged her brain.
“Late night?” Sonny drawled, peeking around the corner of the sports page.
Amber may have gotten home early last night but she’d tossed and turned for hours trying to figure out how to spin her orgasmic meltdown with Evan to her advantage and keep him from using it against her. Her pondering had done nothing but given Amber a headache. No solutions had miraculously popped into her head. Knots of worry still twisted in her stomach. And it felt as if she was getting a zit on her chin. Amber needed to tell the Zablonskis to leave so she could crawl back into bed and wait for divine inspiration or a visit from her fairy godmother.
Look, guys. This is L.A., home of the late night life. You aren’t supposed to start work until nine a.m.
Amber wet her lips, hoping this might encourage the words to come out, but all it did was make the cinnamon hit stronger.
“You shouldn’t start the day without breakfast,” Yvonne sing-songed as she set a pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice on the table.
Yvonne hadn’t made breakfast. She’d served high octane cellulite. Amber’s thighs seemed to swell even as her mouth watered.
“You can face anything on a full stomach,” Sonny said. “Taxes. Traffic. Bitter ex-wives.”
“Sonny,” Yvonne chastised.
“I’m
agreeing with you, puddin’. Life is so much better after one of your home cooked meals.”
“Come on, Amber. You’ll be late for work.” Yvonne stood in front of the sink, the epitome of a So-Cal grandmother in her stretchy tangerine Capri’s and white capped sleeve T-shirt, short streaky gray hair carefully tousled. “I’m sure you have a busy day planned with lots of important things to do.”
As Amber took in the bright blue sky and twittering birds, the tightness in her chest eased. On a day like today, what could go wrong? Maybe Blue had a solution to all their problems. Maybe she’d find her father’s hidden files sitting on her desk when she arrived at work. Maybe Evan Oliver’s game had already improved.
On auto pilot, Amber made her way dutifully to her chair. She accepted a plateful of warm, fragrant cinnamon roll and a glass of juice. Then she opened the lifestyle section of the newspaper, searching for the L.A. Happenings column. Perhaps Lyle had reported on someone who deserved to be dragged through the mud. Kent Decklin came to mind.
Amber shot out of her chair, crumpling the newspaper. “How did he know that?”
“What’s wrong, dear?”
Sonny looked up from the Sports section. “Did they print another picture of you?”
Amber backed into the stove, staring at the column without seeing the words. “I’ve been tagged by Lyle Lincoln.”
“Let me see, dear.” Yvonne pried the newspaper out of Amber’s cold hands. “Oh, look at this.” Yvonne read the piece aloud, then asked, “What’s Wicked Tantric?”
“That sounds like one of those titty bars, puddin’.” Sonny gave Amber a once-over. “You aren’t that hard up for money, are you?”
“Sonny!”
“Puddin’, she drives a Mercedes and lives in Beverly Hills. You gotta ask these things.”
This was a nightmare. Amber wanted the Zablonskis out of her house, Evan Oliver erased from her life and to be invisible to Lyle Lincoln. She needed to disappear somewhere, take a trip to Miami or the Greek islands.
Instead, Amber made a temporary disappearance into the shower.
Responsibility sucked.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to sleep with him,” Blue said as he entered Amber’s office with Mr. Jiggles riding one foot, hanging onto Blue’s pants leg and growling.
“I didn’t sleep with him.” Amber had just had her first non-solo Big O since Kent. If Evan wasn’t such a jackass, she’d be grateful. But Evan was a jackass and Amber was sick with remorse. Or perhaps too much cinnamon roll.
Amber tightened her lavender Pashmina across her shoulders and smoothed her black jersey skirt over her knees. Two paparazzi had been lurking on her sidewalk this morning and four more prowled the parking lot behind the office. Their questions were personal, taunting. To keep her peace of mind, Amber was carrying today. She had a squirt gun fully loaded in her Gucci bag.
Blue grunted and hobbled around behind her desk. “Haven’t checked out TMZ lately, have you? Or Twitter?”
“I’ve given up the internet.” She’d driven through Starbucks this morning and the barista had recognized her. He’d asked if Amber was certain she wanted a shot of espresso in her tall skinny caramel macchiato. As if her problems stemmed from too much caffeine.
“That Lyle Lincoln piece was great. But Evan Oliver posted two Tweets about you and you made the lead story on TMZ.” Blue punched up the gossip site first on the red laptop. TMZ devoted a paragraph to Amber and Evan being spotted having dinner together and then hitting the clubs, where they’d seemed intimate.
“That’s not so bad,” Amber said. And then she noticed there was a link to the previous day’s story of their courtside meeting and another link entitled: More Amber Rule Video. Amber’s stomach knotted.
Blue punched up Evan’s Twitter page. He’d posted a shadowy picture of the moment he’d plastered her body against his on the dance floor, his hand wrapped beneath her bare thigh, reaching higher. Looking at the photo Amber couldn’t believe she hadn’t creamed on the spot – and she’d been there! No one was going to believe they hadn’t been doing something that should have been private – or not happened at all – in front of everyone at Tingle.
The knots in Amber’s stomach tightened. Evan must have known the photographer was there. He wanted her to know who was calling the shots. The jury was in. “I’m going to kill him.”
Her iPhone announced a text message. It was from Trina: Don’t look on TMZ or L.A. Happenings online.
“Kill him or sleep with him.” Gemma clomped into the room in her combat boots and a teal corduroy mini. “Either way, it’s good for sales. The distribution center called. They’re running low on all our book titles.”
“This is excellent.” Blue reached down to pat Mr. Jiggles on the head, sending his little pom-pom tail wagging, despite his uninterrupted growling. “I posted something nebulous on Twitter for you. You need to write something on Facebook.”
“Can I say I didn’t sleep with Evan?”
“No one’s going to believe you,” Gemma noted. “Evan Oliver is hot. And hot guys get what they want when you date them.”
“I’m not dating him.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Dinner and clubbing don’t sound anything like a date to me.” Gemma stomped out.
Dinner? They hadn’t eaten. Did one dance equate to clubbing? Then again, Evan had gotten to second base. Or was that third? “Oh, my God.” Gemma was spot on. “What are we going to tell Jack Gordon?”
“Don’t panic.” Blue carefully removed Mr. Jiggles from his foot and knelt next to Amber. “Let’s review what happened.”
“No.” Amber stared at the picture on the internet.
Blue captured her mouse and closed the window. “Forget that. What did Oliver say to you?” When Amber still couldn’t form words, Blue prodded. “Start at the restaurant.”
“I don’t know. We talked about nothing. He came onto me, but I’m sure half of what he said was bullshit.” While half of what she said was distressingly honest.
“The Rules. Did you talk about the Rules?”
“I did. And I got the feeling that he truly wants to improve his game. He’s just too much of a jerk to admit it.”
“Perfect. We can’t let him go, Amber. Too much rides on this.”
“You can’t expect me to work with Evan. And Jack will demand an explanation.” Amber gnawed on her lip. Or maybe he’d just fire them without one. Although technically they didn’t have a contract.
“Jack wants Oliver to play better. The Flash has another home game tonight. Let’s see what happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.” Because Evan hadn’t taken the Rules to heart. Amber lowered her voice. “It’s not like I’m a trained life coach. I have no idea what this guy needs.”
“I do.” Blue grinned stupidly.
Amber didn’t like that look. “The last time you smiled at me like that you suckered me into going to prom with Roscoe Bollinger.”
“Hey, Roscoe was a good guy.”
“Who drove a moped and showed up in his grandfather’s maroon polyester suit.”
“You got to go to prom, didn’t you?” Blue was still smiling. “You just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s good for business.”
“It may be good for business, but it’s not so good for me,” Amber said sullenly.
“We’ve already had ten calls this morning from men who want to sign up for life coaching with you, not improve their sex lives in your bed...or on the dance floor.” Careful not to step on Mr. Jiggles, Blue moved around to the other side of the desk. “Now, tell me everything Oliver said to you after I left.”
“Why? You want to humiliate me some more?”
“No.” Blue pulled a chair closer to the desk. “The first conversation you have with someone is the most revealing. You don’t know who they are, so you tend to give away who you really are, before expectations set in.”
Amber didn’t think Evan let anyone close, much less inside. “And you know
this how?”
“I have no desire to get married, Amber,” Blue admitted. “I can tell in the first five minutes of listening to a woman what she wants out of a relationship and if I can give it to her or not.”
“Really. What kind of life coaching was Winnie Tiegler wanting?” After all, he’d had lunch with her yesterday and hadn’t seemed happy about it last night at Panache.
“I’m not sure, but I think…” Blue rubbed his chin. “Group sex.”
Amber was sure her jaw hit the floor. It took her a moment to pick it up and speak. “We aren’t in the business of hosting orgies.”
“Winnie’s just lonely. She’s a former B-movie actress from the 1970s whose husband died a couple of years back. I could have misunderstood.” But Blue’s eyes were tight with worry.
“Refer her to Wicked Tantric.”
“She kind of…requested me.” Blue spoke slowly, as if he were shell-shocked.
Amber slouched in her chair. Blue was never shell-shocked. “You’re not available.”
“We need the billings,” Blue said hollowly.
“I’m not pimping you out.” Amber was firm. “I think we should agree that goes both ways.” Why had her father offered sex therapy?
“We need the billings,” Blue repeated, holding up a hand when Amber would have protested again. “We’ll figure out a way to coach Winnie that doesn’t involve me touching her. But right now we need to come up with a strategy for you and Evan Oliver.”
“Okay, but the next time we tell each other we can handle a client alone...” Amber blew out a breath. “Let’s not believe it.”
Chapter 17
L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln
…Ah, spring. The days get warmer. Flowers bloom. All the outdoor tables at The Ivy become filled. And women everywhere shed their layers, revealing what we all suspected was underneath.
