Scandalized!: Risqué Business

by Lori Foster

  Delaney gave him a small frown, as if she’d suddenly realized he was up to something. Her small pink tongue slid over a rich, bitable lip. He wanted to mimic the action, to see if the plump glossy flesh tasted as good as it looked.

  “A car?”

  “I figured you might enjoy wine with dinner. Afterwards I thought we’d stop at a club I enjoy, but it has a two-drink minimum. I have a strict policy about alcohol and driving. It’s simpler to have a driver and car waiting. Then we can do whatever we want without limiting ourselves.”

  The long, slumberous look she gave him from those huge eyes had him wishing he could drop to his knees, just for the pleasure of kissing his way up her body. Hardly a monk, he’d enjoyed the company of a variety of women over the years. But none, ever, had equally intrigued and challenged him, while making him hornier than a sixteen-year-old with a free run of his daddy’s Playboy stash.

  Control, Angel. Get a grip.

  “I should probably warn you,” he told Delaney in his standard first date warning as they left the apartment, “somehow everything in my life makes its way into my books. There’s a good chance these bets will, too.”

  He waited for her reaction. Fawning excitement or outrage were typical.

  But Delaney was anything but typical. She gave him a startled look, then laughed. Not a small, ladylike giggle. A deep, husky laugh that brought to mind black silk sheets, moonlight and champagne.

  Nick’s eyes narrowed on her face. She was gorgeous, of course. But when she laughed she lost that “don’t touch me” air of sophistication.

  “I take it you wouldn’t object?” he asked, holding the elevator open for her.

  She stepped in, then waited for him to join her before shaking her head, a smile still playing over those kissably soft lips.

  “Object? Only if we end up being chased by nefarious evildoers with a goal to hurt us. Or—” she slanted him a slumberous look through her lashes “—if you make me the heroine and our storybook sex is impersonal, jaded and emotionless, used only to titillate rather than deepen the plot.”

  It took him half a second to decipher that. For a woman who looked like one of the sexiest hotties he’d ever met, she sure talked like a brainiac. Not that Nick objected to smart women. It was that most smart women objected to him. He wasn’t sure whether it was in response to his genre or his cynicism.

  “I doubt we’ll be chased,” he offered, leaning against the metal wall of the elevator.

  “And the sex?”

  Nick ran his gaze over the silky shape of her body. Her skin, so much of it exposed by the simple lines of her green dress, glowed in invitation. His fingers itched to trace a path from her collarbone down to the edge of the bodice and her breasts.

  Nick met her eyes. There was a hint of unease in the brown depths. Good.

  “Well, I draw the line at chasing you for it,” he said, and was horrified to realize he didn’t actually mean it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NICK WAS GOING CRAZY. Seriously, “ready to grab Delaney, toss her over his shoulder and haul her off to a dark corner,” crazy. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the SupperClub, an upscale restaurant that featured both titillating wait staff and the novelty of serving the patrons on beds, rather than at tables. Or maybe it was the fact that the woman across from him seemed only interested in him as a writer, not as a man.

  The dim light from the sculpted wall-sconce cast a soft glow on Delaney’s hair, as she leaned back against the pillows. Her foot, bare except for the wash of deep burgundy polish on toes Nick wanted to nibble, bounced a slow rhythm on the blue satin bedcover.

  Nick’s gaze slid to the brushed iron of the headboard. He’d spent the last hour fantasizing about her gripping those iron bars while he drove her to screaming delight with just his tongue.

  In preparing for this date, he’d realized he’d never actually set out to seduce a woman before. He glanced around the room and grimaced. Apparently he wasn’t very good at it. He’d figured a restaurant made up entirely of beds would give him a leg up in convincing Delaney to take his bet. After all, what was more seductive than eating finger foods on a satin-covered mattress to get a gal thinking about other in-bed delights?

  But he seemed to be the only one of them who was fixated on the bed…and on sex. He shifted, glad for the tray over his lap. Delaney, though, seemed oblivious to the sexual tension rippling through his system.

  “You write sexually charged, sometimes terrifyingly brutal stories that embrace living life to the fullest. Why can’t you open yourself to the idea that other genres have just as much to offer readers?” she asked after nodding her thanks to the waiter who had brought the dessert tray and refilled their wine.

  “I’m not against other genres,” Nick said, pulling a face, “But don’t you think most are a little…formulaic?”

  Delaney lifted a mini-éclair to her mouth and took a bite. The rich cream filling oozed around her fingers, making Nick’s mouth water to lick it off. She swept cream off her lips in one wicked little swipe of her tongue.

  “So you’re one of those, hmm? A literary snob?” she asked. “I’ve met quite a few in my time, but I’m still surprised. The stories are really what it’s all about, and being true to your characters. Really, isn’t that one of the functions of fiction? To create worlds, lessons in story form, to draw people in and make them think? Yours definitely do all that.”

  Nick opened his mouth to retort, but couldn’t marshal an argument, too turned-on and fascinated by watching her eat the tiny cake, how she savored every sensual bite. He’d bet Delaney had been hell on wheels on the debate team. Laughter rolled, quiet at first, then growing as he replayed her argument in his mind.

  “You win,” he acknowledged.

  She pulled back, just a little, as if shocked by his response. Then her lips, gloriously slick and inviting, parted in what he could only term a bashful smile.

  He shook his head. The more time he spent with Delaney, the more confused he became. At the beginning of this date—hell, just an hour ago when they’d sat down to dinner—he’d thought he had her pegged. Sexy, sophisticated and worldly, he’d figured she was all about her career.

  But, he thought he was finally keying in on her true personality. An intellectual wrapped in fine silk, she was obviously used to lulling people into complacency with her looks. While a guy lost himself in the depth of her doe eyes or wondered if her hair would feel as silky on his thighs as it did between his fingers, her mind was skipping three steps ahead.

  It was fascinating.

  Then she tossed out that shy little smile and threw all his assumptions out the window.

  Afraid he’d go nuts if he didn’t get his hands on her soon, if only to dance, Nick tossed his napkin to the tray and lifted a brow.

  “I’m ready, are you?”

  *

  DELANEY HAD TO swallow twice to wet her throat enough to speak. She’d been so caught up in the thrill of talking about books with Nick, she’d forgotten his real reasons for being here.

  “Ready?” She hoped the wispy texture of her voice would pass as seductive, instead of terrified.

  She’d forgotten the terror over the last hour or so. That was to Nick’s credit, since her initial reaction on walking into the restaurant had been to gasp and run. She’d stomped it down, of course. She was sure his plan was to intimidate her with this side bet, to keep her all muddled and distracted so her reviews would fare poorly in the contest.

  And he might have succeeded. After all, he was the most incredible distraction she could imagine. Hot, intensely sexual and, best of all, an incredible author. But she had a plan of her own. As long as she kept in mind that she was now the kind of woman Nick wrote about, her own fantasy self, she’d be fine. After all, she was in this to win. The review bet, the side bet and Nick’s capitulation.

  So instead of running at the sight of a room filled with beds, she’d rolled her eyes and asked him if this was how he usually got women into bed.<
br />
  Because that’s what the restaurant was. A large room filled with beds. It took pillow talk to a whole new level. But instead of being sleazy, as she’d have expected, the atmosphere was lushly sensual. Probably aided by the ongoing lingerie fashion show taking place center stage. Nothing like lying in bed watching a bunch of women strutting around in their undies to keep the focus on sex.

  She wished she wasn’t so easily influenced. As it was, she’d resorted to debating the merits of popular fiction in an effort to keep some semblance of control. It hadn’t kept the images of climbing across the bed and straddling Nick’s lap out of her head, but it’d kept her from acting on them.

  “Do you dance?” he asked. “There’s a club I think you’ll like. Great music, a very…unique atmosphere.”

  All Delaney heard was the word dancing. Her hands, hidden by the tray across her lap, crushed her linen napkin. She never danced. At least, not in public. In private, alone, she loved nothing better than turning on the music full blast and losing herself in the rhythm.

  She flipped through a mental summary of the probable results of refusing. With a quick clench of her jaw, she realized she had no choice. Refusal meant looking like a chicken. And worse, losing any advantage she’d made toward winning their bets. Which, after all, was why she was sitting on this bed with Nick.

  She needed to keep that in mind instead of losing herself in the vivid blue of his eyes.

  “You don’t want to go dancing?” Nick guessed, his gaze narrowed and thoughtful. He wouldn’t push her, she realized. Nor would he gloat. For all his charisma and charm, he was remarkably easygoing.

  “I’m not much into modern music,” she hedged instead of taking the escape route he offered.

  “What kind of music do you prefer?”

  Delaney hoped the dim lights hid the color washing over her cheeks. At the college, her stock answer would have been classical music, of course. She’d listened to enough to discuss it, and did, to a degree, enjoy it. But it wasn’t her first preference.

  “Hard rock,” she murmured, waiting for his laugh.

  A slow smile curved his lip instead.

  She shook her head and gave him a playful swat on the arm. If she was tempted to let her fingers linger, to fondle the hard muscle beneath his black shirt, she kept it to herself. “I said hard rock, as in eighties hair bands. Not rock hard.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” he defended.

  “But you were thinking it.”

  He just grinned. Then he lifted a hand. Their waiter was there immediately to take away their trays and Nick’s credit card. Delaney shot the server a startled glance, then tossed her napkin on the tray with a smile of thanks.

  “You’ll like this club,” he promised. “It’s vintage rock, so I’m sure there’ll be plenty you enjoy.”

  Goody. She offered what she hoped was a smile, but felt like a sickly grimace, and took his hand to slide off the bed. She kept a hold of his hand for balance as she slid her feet back into the spiked heels that brought her eye level with Nick.

  “I know you brought me here to push my buttons, and probably to set that sexual scene you’ve got plotted in your mind,” she told him, “but I’ve got to admit, this is the most comfortable dining I’ve ever experienced.”

  From his frown, she’d nailed his motivation. While he signed the credit slip, Delaney didn’t bother to roll her eyes at his surprise. It was almost as baffling to be treated like a desirable sex object as it was to have him underestimate her intellect.

  “I admit I had our bet in mind when I booked the reservations. The atmosphere here—” he waved his hand to indicate the rich colors, decadently comfortable beds and half-clad women on stage “—is unquestionably sexual. But I don’t want you to think I thought to manipulate you into following a plotline.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said with a smile. “When you go to bed with me, it’ll be your choice. I might have lain next to you on that bed and fantasized about how it’ll feel, of the moves you’ll use, of the ones I’ll use. But I don’t have a script. Besides, you have an incredible mind. Sex between us would be so much better with your input.”

  Something melted in Delaney’s heart. A wall she hadn’t known was there gave way as she realized how much he did respect her intelligence. He saw her as a desirable woman, but to him, that femininity wasn’t exclusive of intellect.

  His eyes met hers, the heat of his gaze burning through her. Already familiar images of the two of them, naked and sweaty, flashed through her head. She’d have denied having moves only a few days before, but her research had paid off. Now she had a whole list of things she’d love to try.

  Who knew this was what it would take send her over the edge from considering Nick’s bet to taking it. And all because he hadn’t underestimated her intellect. In fact, he acted like it was a turn-on for him. How…novel. A guy who wanted the whole package, looks and brains. Except she knew the looks were a temporary mask. She had to keep that in mind so she wouldn’t let herself think she could fall for him.

  The concept, so huge she couldn’t quite take it in, had Delaney swallowing. Seeing Nick was waiting for a reply, she murmured, “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  Twenty minutes later, Delaney almost wished she had gone with her first instinct and told Nick to take her home so she could strip him naked and have her way with his body.

  It couldn’t have gone worse than walking into this club.

  “What’s this place called again?” she yelled into Nick’s ear as they made their way through the throng of bodies. Hot, overly scented, writhing bodies. The music was a physical thing, pounding a beat through the floors, its rhythm echoed in the flashing neon lights. Dark, intense and edgy, it felt ripe with…something. She couldn’t figure out what, though, except that it made her nervous.

  Nick shot her a grin. “Fantasy Club,” he clarified.

  Delaney was glad for Nick’s hand in hers since she was sure if they separated she’d never find him again. When they tried to get through, the crush of bodies was so heavy, they were pushed to the center of the dance floor.

  “Shall we?” he asked with a laugh, pulling her against his body.

  No! She wanted to scream and run, but Nick had his hands firmly on her hips, his body moving in easy time to the thudding beat of the music.

  It was so crowded, she couldn’t have pulled away without a major scene. Besides, with Nick’s hands guiding her, she didn’t have to worry about more than following his lead.

  Shift, rub, slide. Hip against hip, thigh against thigh. Her body was stiff, barely moving beyond his directions. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she clenched them over his biceps.

  “Loosen up,” he said, pulling her even closer. The beat shifted, slower, heavier. Letting go of her hips, he took her hands and placed them on his shoulders, then trailed his fingers back down her arms, so lightly over her waist she almost giggled, and back to her hips.

  She felt like an idiot. Dance lessons hadn’t been a part of her makeover, and thank God they weren’t necessary for “Critic’s Corner.” Not wanting to see disdain in Nick’s gaze, she looked around at the other dancers, sure they were staring. But nobody was. For all the attention anyone paid, it was—almost—like she and Nick were alone.

  “What do a vibrator and soybeans have in common?” he asked.

  “Huh?” Her gaze flew to his.

  “They’re both meat substitutes,” he deadpanned.

  Delaney’s mouth dropped. He grinned. She couldn’t help it, she started laughing.

  “That was bad,” she told him with a shake of her head.

  “It made you relax,” he said, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Just let the music flow, let your body move. It’s not a test, not a contest. Just you and me, having fun.”

  Fun. Delaney took in a deep breath, forced her body to relax. Fun, as in her and Nick, their bodies pressed together. For the first time since they’d hit the da
nce floor, she became aware of how close they were. How good it felt. His thighs, so hard and solid, slid against hers in a way that suggested other kinds of rhythm. Their torsos didn’t touch, but she could still feel his warmth. Answering heat curled low in her belly, tingling, winding tighter. Delaney focused on that feeling.

  Her gaze locked with the vivid blue of his. There beneath the humor she could see a spark of desire. As he slid closer, his hip brushed hers, and she felt the proof of his interest. That he was getting turned-on by her and her lousy dancing skills actually relaxed her. For the first time, Delaney listened to the music, letting the feel of it, the rhythm and pulse, move through her body.

  She shifted her hips, just a little wiggling undulation, and his eyes went dark. Her hands curled around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his silky hair, and she shifted just a little closer. She wanted to taste him. She stared at his lips, wanting to feel them crushed against her mouth in passion.

  Passion. Her gaze shifted away as reality clicked back in. The bet. They were here for a reason, and her playing tonsil hockey with Nick on the dance floor would only work in his favor, not hers.

  Shoving aside her body’s screams of protest, Delaney pulled back and gave him a little shrug. She waved her hand in front of her face and said, “It’s so hot here. Can we get a drink?”

  Nick gave her a long look, but didn’t press the issue. “Sure. We’ll go upstairs. I’ve got reservations.”

  Their progress was slow. When they finally moved past the bar, she noticed alcoves built off to the sides. Each one had some kind of filmy curtain closing it off, but was backlit so the shadows of the people inside were clear.

  Graphically clear, she realized as one of them pulled her shirt off and pressed her breasts to the guy’s face.

  Heat curled over Delaney’s cheeks, an odd buzzing sounded in her ears. She’d never considered herself a voyeur before. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the sexual display.

  The woman pushed the guy backward, stood and gave a little shimmy to lift her skirt. Then she climbed on.