by Jo Leigh
“There are no details. He kissed me. And he said he wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want him to.”
Marcy leaned back and gave her a quick once-over. “Is that why you’re dressed like somebody’s aunt Fanny?”
“I’m not.” She looked down at her dress. It was a little on the baggy side, but so what?
“And I suppose it’s a coincidence that you didn’t have time to put on makeup. Or do something with your hair?”
“I happen to think I look fine this way.”
“You lie like a rug. You’re putting up defenses, my friend. And the only reason to put up defenses is because you think he’s got a shot.”
“A shot at what? Seduction? Please, Marcy, do you think I’d abandon my beliefs so easily?”
Marcy shrugged. “Personally, I don’t think he can seduce you—but not because of your beliefs. I’ve thought a lot about you, Dr. Jamie, and your lack of male companionship.”
Jamie’s heart thudded in her chest. “I’ve been busy.”
“Or scared.”
“Marcy, we haven’t known each other long enough for you to make such an assumption.”
“Maybe not. But I’ll tell you my theory, anyway. I think you were hurt badly—probably in college, but maybe high school—by someone you loved a great deal. And I think you’re scared to care again because you think it was maybe your fault.”
Jamie started to tell Marcy that she was way off, but she swallowed her rebuttal in a muffled sort of grunt.
“I knew it.” Marcy stood and smoothed down her already smooth, gray slacks. “You’re not the only relationship maven at this station.”
Jamie nodded. “I don’t like to talk about it. I hope you understand.”
Marcy’s victory smile faded. “Of course. Oh, hon, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
The lie lodged in her chest, right next to her heart, making it hard to breath. She gathered her papers together. “It’s all right.”
Marcy didn’t stop her as she left the office and headed for the booth. Thank God. She couldn’t have kept up the charade for another second.
This was just swell. A whole new layer of torture. She hated lying, and she was terrible at it. But Marcy’s explanation was so much better than the truth. In fact, that story was probably going to save both their jobs. She’d have to refine it, give it the details that made a story believable…and stick to it until the day she died.
She pushed open the booth door, relieved that Chase wasn’t there. He hadn’t spoken to her since last night. In fact, he’d left her right after the incident in the alley.
The thought conjured the image of his body pressed against hers—and her armload of paperwork fell all over the floor. She bent to gather her things, remembering the heat of his erection, the strength in his hands. The confusion when he’d led her from the alley, hailed a cab, put her in the back seat and closed the door. The yearning to take back her “no” and make it a “maybe.” She hadn’t gathered her wits until long after he’d paid the driver. In fact, she wondered if she’d ever have her wits about her again.
“Anybody home?”
Jamie grabbed the last newspaper clipping and stood up to find Fred Holt standing just inside the door. “Hello, Fred.”
“Hello, my beauty. I have a surprise for you.”
She groaned inwardly. Just a few days ago, his announcement would have filled her with anticipation. Today, dread washed over her like a bucket of cold water. “What now?”
“What now? Jamie, you’re the talk of the town.” He stepped closer and threw a folded newspaper on the empty desk. She recognized immediately that it was the Post, arguably the most notorious paper in New York.
“Go ahead.” He nodded. “Check out the headline.”
All things considered, she’d rather not. It couldn’t be good, not with the way her luck had turned.
Fred couldn’t wait any longer. He retrieved the paper himself and opened it so they could both see the oversize type of the headline.
The Sexpert And The Playboy!
Will He Seduce Her? Or Will She Just Say No!
She read with mounting horror that in offices all across Manhattan, bets were being wagered, sports pools formed, sides taken. Someone claiming to be an ex-lover of Chase’s was quoted as saying Jamie didn’t stand a chance: Chase could seduce any woman in any country in any language. He’d leave Jamie broken and heartsick as he sailed off to his next race.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Somehow, they’d gotten hold of Dianna Poplar, one of her college roommates. Dianna and she hadn’t known each other well, mostly because Dianna had majored in sex, drugs and rock and roll. But now, Jamie read that Dianna “…had been like her sister.” Dianna said Jamie was so smart and clever, but she didn’t date much. The inference was that perhaps Jamie didn’t have to worry about being seduced by Chase because she was more interested in someone like Dianna.
Jamie wobbled over to her chair and sat down.
“Isn’t it great?” Fred kept holding up the paper as if she was next to him. “You’re a household name. Everyone in the city is talking about you. People magazine called. So did Cosmo. This is brilliant. We’re all gonna be rich.”
If reporters had gotten to Dianna, they could get to other people who’d known Jamie in college—people who’d tell the world that she’d been a bookworm and a social outcast. That she’d never had one single date, let alone a lover. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to have the world think she was gay. At least she’d have had some experience. Her cover was going to be blown any second, and the potential for humiliation was expanding exponentially.
Fred closed the paper. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“That’s good. We wouldn’t want anything spoiling this. It’s our ticket, Jamie. Our big hairy multimillion-dollar ticket.”
“Right.”
“You’re on the air in two minutes.”
She nodded, tried to put her papers in some kind of order, even though she couldn’t focus. When she looked up, Fred was gone, Cujo was giving her the count, and in five, four, three, two—
“This is Dr. Jamie Hampton. And we’re talking about sex.”
MARCY TYPED IN the information for the tenth caller, then turned the phones over to Alexis, one of the new interns. Jamie didn’t sound too good. Who could blame her? It was lousy that she’d been caught up in this, but that was radio for you. Marcy had been involved in a lot of stunts in her day, but this one was the craziest. But she’d bet the farm that it was going to be the most lucrative stunt she’d ever seen. She was due for national syndication. She’d been in radio for eighteen years, working her way up the slippery ladder. Jamie was her ticket.
Jamie was also her friend. And Marcy had a feeling this wasn’t a completely awful thing for her. Jamie needed to get out there, to live life instead of just talking about it on the airwaves.
Chase wasn’t a complete unknown, although he was at most an acquaintance. What she did know about him made her feel secure that he wouldn’t hurt Jamie—not in the traditional sense, at least. He was a heartbreaker, there was no denying that—but this was only for two weeks, and surely nothing that terrible could happen so quickly.
She just hoped Chase would prime the pump for Jamie. Let her see that she could risk her heart again. Poor thing. Her college sweetheart really must have done a number on her.
But then, who hadn’t had a sweetheart that did a number? She’d had hers—a charming, devilishly handsome man who’d stolen her heart at the age of twenty-two. She’d leaped into the marriage bed, only to realize her husband already had a lover—Scotch. For six tumultuous years she’d hung on to his falling star, but she’d had to leave before he hit bottom. She simply wasn’t able to take it.
Marcy chased away her memories, walked over to the window and focused on the show.
JAMIE PUT DOWN her empty teacup and concentrated on her caller’s question. “Can you be a little more specific?”
<
br /> “Yeah,” Bev from Lincoln Heights said in her thick New York accent. “I’m just, you know, curious about this G-spot thing. Is that for real? My boyfriend—he said it was a bunch of bull.”
“Oh, it’s real. First, so you know, it was named after Dr. Ernst Grafenburg, a German gynecologist, who discovered it. The G-spot is about two inches along the inner upper wall of the vagina between the back of the pubic bone and the front of the cervix. There’s a bundle of nerve endings there that may be more sensitive than the rest of the vagina. Although, this isn’t true for all women. But it’s worth exploring.”
“Uh, how?”
“Have your boyfriend insert his finger inside you, palm facing up. When he’s in all the way, have him rub the flat of his fingertip in a “come here” motion. You’ll know right away if your G-spot is sensitive.”
“What’s supposed to happen?”
“Nothing’s supposed to happen. But you may feel stronger sensations and climax sooner. So I suggest you go for it.”
Bev laughed a little, which was normal. In fact, the whole conversation had been normal. Jamie relaxed as she finished off her tea.
“Did you go for it?” Bev asked.
“Pardon me?”
“Does Chase Newman know where your G-spot is?”
The second his name was out there, Jamie’s body filled with heat. It wasn’t embarrassment and it wasn’t arousal, but it was something real close to both. “Not from personal experience, no.”
“So what happened on your date?”
“We talked,” Jamie said, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice. “We found out a few things about each other.”
“What’d you find out?”
Think, Jamie. What had he said? “Um, he doesn’t have a house. He lives in hotels.” “Cool. Why?”
“Because he travels so much.”
“So did you go back to his hotel?”
“No, I didn’t. Get your mind out of the gutter, missy.”
Bev laughed. “But he’s so gorgeous.”
“Be that as it may, sex is not something that’s going to happen. Not by accident or by design. No seduction, remember?”
“Yeah. Well, when is he coming back to the show?”
“I don’t know. But I do know it’s time for us to take a break. This is Dr. Jamie, and we’re talking about sex.”
She took off her headphones, pressed the mute button and leaned back in her chair. “The Sexpert and the Playboy”? God, she’d never live that down. The name would stick with her and make it virtually impossible for anyone in her field to take her seriously. A private practice would be a joke. Marvelous. She’d lose her radio show if anyone found out the truth, and now she didn’t even have a backup plan. Maybe she could be a waitress. They made pretty decent money.
“Hey, kiddo.”
She looked up as Marcy’s voice came over the intercom. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Shoot me.”
“Other than that?”
Jamie shook her head. “No, wait. Tea. I have no tea.”
“Coming right up. And Jamie?” “Huh?”
“Cheer up. It’s just radio. No big deal.”
“Uh-huh.”
Marcy gave her a perky little thumbs-up before she headed out the production booth door. Jamie let her head drop, and it hit her desk with a resounding thunk.
“Ow,” she whispered. Was it possible to feel worse than this? To be more screwed? Wait. It wasn’t smart to think that way. The gods always knew when she figured she was at bottom, and then they opened up a trap door.
The last thing she needed was a new low. Maybe Chase had grown bored with her. She’d expected him to be here. To discombobulate her with his slow smiles and his heat. She should be thankful, right? Only, she wasn’t so much thankful as disappointed. Which made her certifiable. Completely whacko.
“Jamie?”
She lifted her head from the desk.
Cujo smiled at her from the other room. “We’re almost on.”
She adjusted her headphones, and pasted a smile on her face. Just then, Ted and Marcy walked into the production booth. Ted had his hand on the small of her back. Marcy was laughing about something. Then Ted moved away and Marcy turned to the window. She waggled here eyebrows and mouthed, Oh my God!
Jamie’s smile became real, and, a second later, she was on the line with Ellen from Old Westbury.
“I’ve got one for you, Dr. Jamie.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s the difference between a golf ball and a
G-spot?”
“What?”
“A man will spend half an hour looking for a golf ball.”
Jamie laughed. “Ellen, that was great. Just what I needed. Thank you.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Jamie. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“When you see Chase, give him a big old kiss from me, okay?”
Jamie shook her head. This Chase business wasn’t going away. She was cursed. Cursed!
THE SOUND OF HER FOOTSTEPS brought him out of his meditation. He’d learned the Zen practice years ago from a Tibetan monk he’d met in Italy. At first he’d just meditated before a race to clear his mind, but slowly the ritual had become a habit, and he always made time in his day for the deep relaxation.
But tonight’s session, attempted while leaning against Jamie’s door, hadn’t been relaxing at all. Jamie had seen to that. No matter how hard he’d tried to clear her image from his mind, she’d lingered. Her full lips, the way her skin felt under his palm, her wide, almond-shaped eyes. He’d actually become aroused, and that was one hell of a surprise because in his thoughts she was fully clothed.
“What in the world?”
He looked up. She stood a few feet from him, her arms loaded down with a grocery bag and her purse. He’d surprised her, and that made those eyes of hers widen so that she reminded him of those anime cartoons. Hoisting himself up, he took a moment to appreciate the rest of her face. Especially her lips. He liked them parted like that, ripe and ready for kissing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” He lifted the grocery bag from her arms. “What did you buy?”
“Dinner.” She added, “For myself.”
He looked at the vegetables, the small package of chicken breasts. “I can make it stretch.”
She blinked at him for a moment, then got her key out of her purse. Once she’d opened the door, he slipped inside quickly, not giving her a chance to tell him to leave. From there, he went right to her kitchen. It was small, but then this was Manhattan. Only the rich or those in rent-controlled apartments had the luxury of space.
“Excuse me, but I don’t recall inviting you to dinner.”
“That’s okay. I like to cook. Maybe you could open a bottle of wine or something.” “But—”
He put down the groceries and opened the fridge while she sputtered. It was cute sputtering, and he resisted the smile that tugged at his lips.
“Are you listening to me?” she demanded.
He spied a bottle of chardonnay and pulled that out. Then he opened cupboards until he found the wine-glasses. “Here,” he said, handing them to her. “Do you have any linguini?”
She nodded. “In the cupboard. Hey, wait a minute.”
He crossed the kitchen and opened the pantry door. The linguini was on the top shelf, and so was the olive oil. He took both. Only when he was at the stove did he turn to Jamie. “Yes?”
“I want you to stop this. I’m not a child. This is my apartment, and I say who comes in here.”
He walked slowly over to her, plucked the bottle and the glasses from her fingers and put them on the counter. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he pulled her into his arms. “Can you ever forgive me?”
He bent down, gently brushing his lips with hers, amazed once more how the slightest touch made him a littl
e bit crazy. He licked her lips, tasting her on the outside before he dipped inside and tasted her there, too. The hell with dinner. He would dine on Jamie, until he’d sampled every inch. Then he’d go back for seconds.
She tried to push him away, but only for a moment. Once the kiss deepened, she surrendered. In fact, she sort of went limp on him. He took her hands and wrapped them around his neck. She got the hint and splayed her fingers, massaging him just enough to make his eyes close. He left her lips, but only to bring his mouth to her ear. “Say it tonight, Jamie. Say you want me.”
The whispered entreaty didn’t have the desired effect. She let go of his neck and stepped away, turning so her back was to him. “I’m tired.”
“All the more reason for me to make you dinner. You’re in charge of the wine, and then you have to step aside. I need some elbow room.”
She faced him again wearing a cynical frown. “Oh, please.”
“What? You don’t think I can cook?”
“I think you know how to make spaghetti. You don’t even have a house, and the last I heard the Four Seasons doesn’t have kitchens in the suites.”
He didn’t answer her. The food would be the proof. He got busy, first with a pot of water to boil, then with making the sauce. The wine forgotten, Jamie watched him. He focused on the preparations, using the knife like an old friend. He’d learned his skills years ago from a French chef. She’d schooled him in many techniques, not the least of which was how to please a woman with his lips and his tongue. Jamie would get the full benefit of his education. Tonight, she would eat well. And later tonight? If he had anything to do with it, she would learn his other secrets firsthand.
When the vegetables were ready, he pulled out another pot and put it on the stove. Still, he didn’t look at her. Not until the last of the spices had been added to the gently simmering sauce. When he finally turned to her, she blushed. Her cheeks turned a soft pink and she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her thoughts hadn’t been on pasta. But what had she been thinking? Had she wondered what his hands would be like on her flesh? How he’d treat her like the rarest delicacy?
