Bride on the Run

by Catherine Mann

  Valerie had to smile at their collective inability to stick to business since she figured the success of their start-up company owed as much to the threesome’s unlikely friendship as any discussion of issues that came up in their work giving advice to the relationship dysfunctional. Besides, Valerie appreciated Desiree’s black and white take on life. Desiree had an answer for everything, confidence zinging off her like a force field. It was one of many reasons she made a great phone operator for the hotline portion of the Sex Talk with Serena business they’d started as a website a year ago. The website had quickly taken off, spinning into a radio podcast.

  Since Serena had already been faking a British accent, she’d figured what the hell? Why not go live? She even took a certain kind of pleasure out of having such a public forum and still being completely undetectable to her family.

  Except for her father, who’d done an amazing job setting her up in this new life away from his “connected” relatives.

  “I only use it on the sheets,” Valerie admitted, sliding the detergent back on a shelf. “All the lavender wash in the world won’t relax me as fast as the scent of this stuff. Totally comforting.”

  “Relax? Seriously? Who can rest with one of the biggest radio networks in the business looking at our show?” Meg hefted a second load of clothes from the washer into the dryer, toned arms flexing from years of workouts to keep up with the inmates at the prison where she’d been a guard for almost twenty years, before an attack thirteen months ago had her retreating to her apartment with her pension and a set of free weights. “You know I love the work, but the business is growing too big. Too much of a name brand. I enjoy staying anonymous. I can’t risk the people I work with tracing the show back to me.”

  “Serena knows.” Desiree used Valerie’s fake name, the one she had used for the past year. “No offense to Sex Talk, of course, but this was about giving us all financial legs. We knew it could be temporary. I’m here because this makes for great research for my novel.” Desiree tucked her neatly folded clothes into a turquoise sport bag that looked far more chic than the ratty plastic basket Valerie used.

  Still, laundry was laundry no matter how you prettied up the hamper.

  “Of course,” Valerie agreed, even if she secretly loved the opportunity to be outrageous on an anonymous basis.

  Her romance life had died an unhappy death a year ago, so the only sizzle in her day came through an occasional vicarious thrill.

  Desiree hitched a hip on the dryer, her yellow shorts showing off tanned legs and a beaded anklet. “The world needs more bedroom etiquette books, don’t you think? No one has a clue how to handle sex anymore.”

  Valerie would not look at Meg to share an eye roll over that one, tempted though she might be. While she struggled for an appropriately intelligent comment on Desiree’s newest career goal, Meg mumbled under her breath.

  “Me included, sweetie.” Jabbing the dryer button with excessive force, Meg didn’t look all too pleased to remember her own failed relationship that hadn’t been just a one night fling like so many of their callers seemed to indulge on a regular basis.

  No, Meg’s broken relationship had been a nineteen-year marriage that fell apart after the prison riot.

  “That’s not true and you know it.” Valerie understood Meg had been devastated by the split with her ex last year, but her friend deserved more than a husband who let her down when she’d needed him most. Still, she’d hoped to see Meg make some progress in healing by now. “Your advice to our callers is flawless. Desiree and I agree you’re the most level-headed operator of the three of us.”

  They critiqued each other’s responses regularly and Meg’s advice was always sound. Desiree ranked as the most entertaining advice-giver in their crew while Valerie served as the operator most likely to recommend breaking up.

  A debatable way to distinguish herself.

  As for the sex advice, she’d read a lot of books to give her a leg up in that department. She had textbook knowledge, but she always wondered how some of those tips would play out in the real world.

  “Doctor, heal thyself.” Meg shook her head, dark curls bouncing on the shoulders of her T-shirt that read “Do the Crime, Serve the Time.” “Why is it so much easier to give good advice than to take it?”

  The hum of spinning dryers and agitating washers was her only answer.

  “If we could answer that, we’d be a whole lot richer than the sale of the Sex Talk rights would make us.” Valerie pushed a hank of damp hair from her eyes, her forehead sweaty from the heat of the laundry despite the air-conditioning in the building where all three of them had lived since Desiree moved in last fall to be closer for meetings. “Outside of the rough list we came up with earlier, is there anything else we want from the meeting with the radio network executives?”

  She’d hired an attorney to meet with the group, not wanting to risk putting her face on the organization. She’d stayed hidden from her uncles and her fiancé so far. She wasn’t risking her security now.

  “More money?” Desiree checked her manicure as she hefted her gym bag on her shoulder, no doubt itching to get to campus for her afternoon graduate class in counseling.

  Meg and Valerie traded watching her baby while she went to class. Val loved the opportunity to play mommy for a few hours when it was her turn, although it reminded her how far she was from her dream of a family now.

  “I’d like to know if we can get a discount to advertise on the show nationally, or if we can have first-come, first-serve status for public service announcements from the Savannah area.” Ever social-minded Meg had big plans for a women’s prisoners’ activist group after she retired from corrections.

  “I’ll ask for both of those things and see what we get.” Valerie made a note on her legal pad, aware that she had a safety net in her dad who had given her a healthy start for her business with the cash in those saddle bags. But these women counted on her.

  She hadn’t thought about that when she’d first embarked on this venture.

  The Sex Talk hotline had become more than a means to an end, a fun entrepreneurial idea that brought the three of them together when they’d all been struggling through a variety of life crises.

  For Valerie, the radio show was a way to hide in plain sight. A way to protect herself and her identity. She was interested in selling the business for her friends’ sake and to pay her father back for all he’d invested to help her start over somewhere new.

  Yet if she was honest with herself, the last thing she really wanted to do was give up her one real connection to the world outside her apartment building. These days, she felt more like Serena Allen than Valerie Dimitri, and that was a very good thing.

  The more she became Serena, the safer she would be from the past.

  *

  Later that night, Valerie adjusted her cordless phone against her ear as she spritzed furniture polish on the coffee table and explained to her caller the basics of G-spot identification.

  “If you don’t have a partner to help you, just insert your finger into your vagina.” What was it about the advice that sounded less racy when said with a prim English accent?

  Regardless, that British schoolmarm sound had helped catapult the radio show up the charts. And she truly did believe in the help she gave people, assisting people in having a more fulfilling romantic life. After her own wedding debacle, she hoped to spare others the pain and embarrassment.

  And they could live a little while they were at it.

  Valerie attempted to be as succinct as possible, knowing her callers didn’t want to shell out extra money for more minutes. Sex Talk with Serena had started the hotline in response to feedback on the original blog from fans interested in a more ways to communicate with “Serena,” the maven of bedroom politics. So they’d expanded from just the radio show to a hotline, occasionally asking callers’ permission to use their questions on tape delay for show features. It gave the show more dimension.

  And, tru
thfully, a bit more spice.

  When no sounds were forthcoming over the phone, she assumed her customer was writing down her instructions. She swiped the towel across the maple chest that was the sole heirloom she’d hidden away of her mother’s belongings before her father threw everything away in a fit of grief.

  Tired of waiting for a response on the other end of the line, Valerie launched into more instructions.

  “Then you need to crook your finger forward as if you were telling a friend to come closer. Can you picture what I mean?” Squeezing the phone tighter to her ear with her shoulder, she dropped onto the sofa, grabbed a magazine and propped her feet on the coffee table.

  “Yesss.” From the ecstatic moan on the other end of the phone, she had the distinct impression her caller wasn’t just making notes on finding the G-spot. She had someone assisting her with the task.

  Sighing, Valerie adjusted the bright, red throw pillows on her black leather couch so she could lean back and thumb through the magazine, trying to distract herself from the provocative conversation. How ironic that she gave out sex advice when her own love life was nonexistent these days. “It should feel a little different texture there. The tissue should be harder and slightly wrinkled almost like a peach pit.”

  “Um, yes, I’m sure it is.” The woman’s breathless agreement hit a higher octave. “I’d better go now. Thank you, Serena, so much.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  Tossing the receiver on the couch, she scribbled down the time and content of the conversation in a notebook she kept near the phone. She kept a log of topics customers seemed most interested in, along with a record of times and dates in case any more weirdo calls rolled in. There hadn’t been many, just one incident Meg had fielded, but it had been enough to make them all a little more wary.

  It also made her more determined than ever to keep track of the hotline activity in case they needed to call on the local police. For now, they’d simply agreed to maintain normal security and to each carry a can of Mace at all times. Thankfully, prison guard Meg had plenty of connections when it came to purchasing self-defense items. She’d gotten a great deal buying bulk, but now Valerie had four-dozen cans of the stuff in her hall closet. More than enough to cover the perverts in Savannah.

  Reading over her log, Valerie realized the topic of G-spots ranked high on the list of most frequently discussed topics, but damn it, why did people have to test out the information while on the phone? She could only imagine the contortionist poses callers resorted to while shimmying out of clothes, juggling the receiver and finding that elusive hot spot.

  And it irked her that the satisfied sighs of men and women who called for help was the closest Valerie had come to sex in too many months.

  The phone rang again just as her doorbell buzzed, jarring her from cranky thoughts of her dead in the water sex life. She flung the notebook on the sofa as she answered the phone and marched toward the door.

  “Sex Talk with Serena. How can I help you today?” Serena took most of the calls, but her associates periodically stepped in as substitutes – ironically, she’d encouraged them to use fake names while never admitting her own wasn’t real. They answered using the “Serena Says” relationship manual.

  Tucking the phone under her chin, she peered out the peephole.

  And welcomed the sight. Wow. Just wow.

  A gorgeous guy stood outside her door, a sexy stranger she’d never seen before. Had to be the lawyer for the radio conglomerate. She tucked on glasses and wrapped a scarf around her hair like an eccentric, a mild disguise. So far no one had gone past the accent. She forced herself to focus on the call as she unlocked the four bolts down her door.

  “I’ve got a problem with my boyfriend but I can’t talk long because I can’t afford a big charge.” The voice on the other end almost distracted Valerie from thoughts of the dark-haired male standing on her welcome mat. Although as she inspected all that muscular bulk restrained in a navy business suit, she didn’t exactly tear her eyes away from the view either.

  She’d become accustomed to sizing up people from her grandfather’s world, and the man on her front step didn’t look like the type. He was clean-cut, for one thing. But more significantly, he lacked the darting eyes and gangster gun bulge around his waist. This guy looked refined compared to the street toughs who came up through Serge Dimitri’s system.

  “In that case, I’ll help you as fast as I can,” Valerie agreed, especially since she was in a hurry to see what her visitor wanted. Why hadn’t she looked out the peephole before she answered the phone? She could have switched the call over to one of her partners.

  Reaching into the hall closet for a can of Mace just to be on the safe side, Valerie hid the container in the pocket of her skirt before tugging open the door for her visitor. She smiled politely while her phone customer rambled on about sex with her boyfriend.

  “Serena from Sex Talk with Serena on the radio?” The guy on her doorstep launched into conversation without preamble while Valerie nodded and motioned for him to wait a second.

  He had to be the lawyer. No one else knew to look for Serena here except for the small inner circle of radio executives.

  Focusing on the phone call instead of the mouth-watering man, she forced herself to take care of her hotline customer first.

  “The problem is my boyfriend loves oral sex—for him.” The woman’s scratchy voice on the other end of the line sounded frustrated. Resentful. Loud. “But he doesn’t seem the least bit interested in reciprocating. How can I entice him without seeming pushy?”

  The man’s eyebrows jacked upward. The vocal – loud – caller could clearly be overheard.

  Awkward.

  Not to mention any discussion of oral sex while Valerie stared at the visual feast in the hallway made for awkward times ten.

  “Just one second,” she mouthed to him before turning her attention back to the call and lowering her voice for privacy’s sake and thumbing down the volume on the phone. “First of all, it’s not pushy to ask for things that would give you pleasure. Chances are, if your boyfriend cares about you, he’ll be glad to know how he can give you added fulfillment.”

  The advice was perfectly ordinary. Utterly rational. The kind of pep talk she gave at least ten times a day to callers. Yet this time, with the navy-clad stud staring at her, her words felt provocative.

  “So you think I ought to just come out and ask for it?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounded slightly scandalized. Possibly a little excited.

  Valerie fought for her usual cool, professional demeanor as her eyes skimmed the angular features. A square jaw and chiseled chin gave him a cool, forbidding look despite the heat of his liquid brown stare. Close-cropped, dark hair framed his face in a precise cut that could only come from a twice-a-month barber appointment.

  “Definitely come right out and ask for it,” Valerie counseled, her voice hitting an unanticipated husky note while she dialed down the volume. “You have every right to receive as much pleasure as you’re giving.”

  The sentiment seemed simple enough. Too bad Valerie had gone thirty-one years without ever stumbling into a relationship where mutual pleasure truly took place. What was that Meg had said about not being able to take their own advice?

  Thanking her caller as the woman said a hurried goodbye, Valerie hoped her phone would stay silent for a few minutes as she set the receiver aside.

  “Can I help you?” She greeted the man with what she hoped passed as cool reserve, careful to maintain her British accent that Serena used with callers. Just because she’d been drooling over him while she took her call didn’t mean she would let her guard down.

  He didn’t cross the threshold, but something about the way all those muscles shifted under his suit gave the impression of him coming closer. “Serena, I presume, from your conversation?”

  “Yes,” she answered, starting to get a little nervous about discussing her business affairs privately with the network’s
lawyer, but hadn’t thought it wise to meet with the full company board directly. Too much risk of someone recognizing her.

  Yet now that she looked more intently, something about this man seemed familiar.

  “Boone Sullivan.” He held out a hand and seemed to wait for her to acknowledge him. As if the name should mean something significant.

  “The network’s attorney? I have the disclosure file about our assets that your company requested.” She’d tucked the file at the bottom of her laundry basket. “But while the offer to syndicate the show to a broader base interests me, my partners have concerns I’ve outlined for you and I’ve hired an attorney to handle things moving forward.”

  She couldn’t be too careful with her privacy, even though it had been her idea to hand off the disclosure forms here rather than make a trip into their corporate offices. She slipped her hand in her pocket to make sure the can of Mace was still there and easily accessible. Her father had taught her to be careful.

  “Boone Sullivan,” the man repeated, not taking the papers out of her hand. “I’m not a network attorney.”

  “Really?” She swallowed a lump of fear in throat. Who the hell had she opened the door for? “How can I help you, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “You can help me by admitting that your Sex Talk advice show is the biggest sham in town.” His expression darkened. “Your joke of a radio show broke up my engagement the day before my wedding.”

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  “Excuse me?” If he’d wanted to snag her attention, by God, he had it.

  Valerie might be a lot of things. Ashamed of her family’s criminal connections. Protective of her personal life. But a sham? Never. She had credentials – even if her father had to create a fake set, it was the same as what she’d earned honestly in her real life. A Master’s degree in counseling and a bachelor’s degree in psychology, along with real world experience with what it felt like to fall for the wrong man. She understood better than most what it felt like to be swayed into believing what you wanted to believe about a guy.