by Tina Donahue
He knew he was behaving like a goddamn fool, but shit, he couldn’t stop staring at her.
She was having the same problem with him, searching his face, her attention settling on his mouth.
Damn, she was something. Effortlessly seductive with a hint of guileless wonder that added no end of charm to her appeal. “Did you?” he murmured.
Her slender eyebrows lifted. “Did I what?”
Either she hadn’t been listening because she was as taken with him as he was with her, or she’d heard him and was stalling, knowing he wouldn’t like her answer. Suddenly, Tim needed to know the truth. “When I asked if you were with someone, you said unfortunately. Did you have a fight with your boyfriend? You know, the guy you’re here with tonight?”
“Oh…no.”
Shit. “Then you two are still tight?”
“What? No.” She appeared horrified. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a…” She paused, frowning.
Mystified, Tim asked, “He’s a what?” Goon? Creep? Jerk? SOB? Any of them sounded good to him.
“A,” once more, she hesitated, then muttered, “Fix-up.”
She didn’t sound all that certain. Why? And since when did a woman who looked like the star of every man’s wet dream need to go on a blind date? “He brought you here or you brought him?”
She studied the others milling about. “I came with him. These kinds of functions are his thing, not mine.”
Her dismissive tone told Tim she didn’t appreciate this setting, the people or his prying questions. Perhaps all three, with his snooping at the top of her list. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself. “What is your thing?”
She pulled her hand from his. Before she could leave and forced him to follow, a server finally arrived, different from the first.
“What are you drinking?” Tim asked her again.
“Another Chardonnay, miss?” the server answered.
She nodded.
“And for you, sir?” the young man asked Tim.
“Scotch and soda,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Tim couldn’t hide his surprise, stunned that she knew his preference in liquor. “How’d you know that?”
She gave him a blank look.
“What I drink,” he added.
Her attention shot to the glasses the server carried. A blush stained her forehead and neck as though she realized what she’d just said. Easing a lock of hair behind her ear, she mumbled, “I noticed the wedge of lime in your last drink. Its color looked like scotch and water. I saw you finishing it a moment ago.”
Prior to him seeing her. So, she’d been watching him before he even knew she existed? Tim would have grinned if not for fear of embarrassing her further, which might run her off.
Once they had their drinks, he cupped her elbow. “Is your fix-up in there?” He inclined his head toward the grand reception hall.
She finished her sip of wine. A drop of it clung to her lush bottom lip. It took all of Tim’s will not to lick it off.
“Billiards room.” She looked pained to be speaking of him. “He’s talking to a bunch of guys about SEO, bandwidth and other stuff as though he invented it.” She paused, then shrugged. “Maybe he did. His IPO put him in billionaire’s heaven.”
That described several young men here tonight, each of them determined to negotiate their way through the District and destroy the countless regulations that could affect their companies. “You work for him? Some genius in HR put you two together for this bash?”
She laughed. A husky, musical sound that stirred more than Tim’s unruly lust. It touched a part of him that he’d protected since Fantine. When their affair had ended in the worst possible way, he’d sworn off having his heart pulverized again, telling himself he was in this shit for pleasure, as much as he could get, just like dear old dad. Finally, they’d agreed on something.
“God no,” she answered at last, fighting a giggle that sounded slightly nervous, followed by a sigh that seemed strangely sad. “I never met him before tonight.” With her attention on her wineglass, she continued, “I’m a student. Master’s program at George Washington University. Bachelors from Georgetown with honors.”
Tim nodded, wondering why she seemed so keen on him knowing about her educational achievements. He wanted details on what made her sigh in delight, scream with pleasure, what she found interesting about him, why she’d been watching, waiting for him to notice her.
Hopefully, that would come later. For now, he asked, “So how’d you get fixed up with the Geek Patrol?”
She took another sip of her wine and swallowed, her graceful throat bobbing with it. “His sister’s a friend of mine. She said he was desperate for a date, didn’t want to come to this event alone tonight. She asked me to help out.”
“I’m glad you did. I’m even more pleased you were able to ditch him to come out here and watch me finish my drink.”
At his teasing, she arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow, indicating her disapproval. Liar. He could tell by the flush in her cheeks and the glint of arousal in her eyes that she enjoyed it.
“You’re not with anyone?” she asked.
He deliberately hadn’t brought a date, figuring he’d hook up with someone here. No strings. Just fun. Could he call it or what? “I am now.”
Before she could question or refute his claim, Tim escorted her away from the billiards room and front door—escape—into the reception hall.
The room boasted three thousand square feet. Six chandeliers constructed of Waterford crystals illuminated the impressive space. A Steinway grand piano, black and sleek, took up one end. The pianist, a young woman clad in a tuxedo styled for a man, played Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. The exquisite notes, stirring and lyrical, went unnoticed by the crowd. Many loitered at the buffet set up against one gold-colored wall where beef, lamb, fish, numerous side dishes and canapés—for those who were eating light and drinking hard—were in ample supply.
Outside, a light snow fell. The flakes twinkled in the white holiday lights that graced the thick bushes. In here, a twenty-foot Douglas fir wore its finery—silver garland, frosted ornaments and colorful lights designed to blink in time to the music. The tree’s pine scent added a sense of wonder and excitement Tim recalled as a young boy, before he’d been given everything money could buy and became all too jaded, craving nothing. Right now, he hungered as he hadn’t in years. Not since Paris.
What had begun as a night of work and boredom had turned into a magical scene.
One he imagined was his and hers alone. He pictured them in an earlier time, the late 1700s when men did whatever the hell they wanted without question, apology or regret…at least according to some of the triple-X-rated films he’d seen. In his fantasy, this place was his manor, she the chaste governess hired to care for his small children since his wife had died of illness brought on by her hysterics and insanity. On the carriage ride to his home, he envisioned folding back the skirt of her drab gown, exposing her legs gradually despite his pressing need, not stopping until he’d reached her sweet mound. Her delicate curls would also have red highlights, her womanly moisture sparkling on it, signifying to him that despite her innocent state, she was ready—no, desperate—for her master’s cock.
He wouldn’t sink himself into her sweet flesh just yet. He’d explore her first with his tongue, enjoying the slight saltiness of her skin, her female scent. Her nub would be hot and rigid, deliciously sensitive to each of his teasing licks, the flicks of his thumb. When he had her panting in pleasure but not yet sated, he’d order the driver to rein in the horses and come into the carriage so the man could hold her wrists, keeping her prisoner, ensuring her submission and obedience were complete. Only then would Tim suckle her clit, delivering her to climax, then mount her, driving his cock deep inside. Taking her, enjoying her, showing her what masters did with their female help whenever the mood hit…
If only dreams were reality.
He continued toward the windows. For one bl
essed moment, the conversation lulled, along with the music. Tim caught the light click of her heels on the hardwood floor, polished to a high sheen. Its dark color reflected her gown, coppery and rich, nearly as lovely as her skin.
Stopping finally, he turned to her. “By the way, I’m Tim Bellamy. A K Streeter,” he added, giving her the name of the firm where he worked as a lobbyist. Edging closer, he inhaled deeply of her wondrous scent, suddenly needing to know everything about her, even the non-sexual stuff. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight until he did.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Chapter Two
She shouldn’t have stared at him on the stairs and risked being noticed. She was an idiot for having taken his hand. A part of Catherine wanted to flee with his question. The rest of her couldn’t move.
What now?
She had no answer. His presence and masculinity continued to hold her. Even if she had wanted to leave, her legs were too rubbery for escape. Helpless, she remained, noticing the flecks of blue in his gray eyes and that he’d had his left earlobe pierced.
A remnant from his time in Paris? His file had touched upon his years there, stating only that he’d been bumming around, blowing his trust fund. Doing what? With whom? She craved information about him, the real stuff that ran deep—what made him laugh, his dreams, regrets, how he looked while asleep exhausted after several orgasms—without revealing a bit of information about herself.
Not because she was ashamed of what she did. Like Alexa, Catherine had a European’s appreciation of sex as a natural activity one should enjoy to the fullest. To earn money for it was a definite bonus.
However, telling Tim the truth might confirm Alexa’s appraisal of him as being a sanctimonious jerk. Catherine wasn’t ready for that disappointment and didn’t much like herself for wanting to make excuses for him or herself. Always, she’d been a realist, knowing that one did what was necessary to survive and succeed. Most of the people here subscribed to the same philosophy—hell, they’d written the damn ground rules—acting in ruthless self-interest while retaining their so-called sterling reputations. Why then should it be different for her?
Lightning fast, images popped in her mind of her leaning into Tim, allowing his solid weight to support her. She pictured her palm on his chest, over his heart, feeling its accelerated beat because of her bold mood. With her finger stroking one of his shirt’s black studs, she’d press her lips to his ear. Silkily, she’d whisper, “You want to know my name. The one I was given or the one I’m using now? No, wait, I’ll tell you an even better secret…I’m a call girl.”
High priced and in demand with this nation’s lawmakers and corporate elite, like her date tonight. He knew her as Catherine. No last name had been necessary.
“You’ll see,” Alexa had predicted early in their business relationship, long before they became friends.
How right Alexa had been. The few times Catherine’s client had remembered to introduce her, it was only to say she was his date. He hadn’t even offered her first name. Probably didn’t remember it. As far as he was concerned, she was a mere appendage to his magnificence. None of the men or the women they’d met had asked for more information. They’d focused on him, no doubt recalling the recent Time and Newsweek articles about his IPO, far more successful than Facebook’s had been. His wealth and accomplishments had blinded them to her. She was as invisible as if she’d been one of tonight’s kitchen help.
With her sorry background, she wouldn’t have been hired to scrub dishes. Lower middle class was a lofty state those in her old neighborhood had never aspired to. They’d resigned themselves to surviving on government assistance and living an abbreviated life fueled by the brief highs, then crushing lows of drugs.
Tim knew nothing substantial about her world and probably wouldn’t have liked it if he had. The differences between them flared again, along with Alexa’s previous warning, and yet Catherine couldn’t get past the way he regarded her. His interest was shameless desire, no different from what she continued to feel, and yet it seemed deeper somehow. The kind of attention a man gave a woman he already liked and wanted to get to know outside the bedroom.
She really should leave. “Catherine,” she murmured.
Tim’s smile said he approved. However, he also arched one eyebrow, a darker blond than his hair, the gesture indicating he wanted her last name too.
Catherine suspected he wouldn’t settle for anything less. He was a man used to being in charge, one she wanted to take down, to weaken with her kisses and caress. She longed to drive her fingers through his hair, mussing it, then coax his cock inside her cunt, driving him over the edge, making him defenseless within her embrace, proving her power over him.
“Oliver,” she added.
He grinned like a man who’d just won a prize, rather than having heard a partial truth.
Years ago, she’d legally changed her given name to one that was more elegant and preferred. With her agency fees and new identity, she’d enrolled in Georgetown, graduating with honors exactly as she’d told him. She’d gain her master’s next and get a real life, a home, using it to care for the one person who’d offered her love and safety during her bleak childhood when she’d had no one else.
None of her clients knew that, of course. Nor were they privy to her surname and educational accomplishments. No matter how many times they booked her, she was still merely Catherine to them.
A precaution she should have maintained with Tim. Already she’d told him too much, especially his preference in liquor, which she’d read in his dossier. How could she have been so dumb? Somehow, the words had just spilled out of her mouth without her realizing it.
Tim finished a sip of his drink. He was close enough for her to smell scotch on his breath, along with his fragrance, masculine and woodsy. His file claimed he always wore Clive Christian’s No. 1, priced at over eight hundred dollars for less than two ounces.
As far as Catherine was concerned, it was money well spent. She suppressed a shiver of delight.
He leaned into her, his mouth near her ear, and murmured, “What discipline are you studying?”
Catherine turned her face to his, pleased he was interested enough to ask, delighted he was so near. A few more inches and their lips would touch. His shadow of a beard suggested he hadn’t had time to shave before coming here or hadn’t cared enough about the event to do so. She was damn grateful for that. His bristly cheeks would be a wonderful contrast to his soft, warm lips.
“Sociology.” She paused to breathe, surprised she kept forgetting to do so. “Social inequality to be exact.”
Bleeding heart territory, she knew, and work that would never make her rich. Not that Catherine cared. However, she did wonder what Tim thought.
He continued to regard her with what appeared to be fascination, as though he couldn’t get enough of her. Unless she was simply hoping for that.
“What?” she asked.
“Good for you,” he murmured, running his hand up her arm.
Her legs went watery at his appraisal and touch.
He leaned toward her again and whispered, “But don’t let any of the conservatives here know what you intend to do. They might burn you at the stake, then send you the bill for the cleanup.”
She laughed.
“Hey, I’m not kidding,” he said. “See that guy over there?” He swung his glass to the left.
It was a moment before Catherine could drag her attention from Tim to a knot of tuxedoed men who were short, tall, thin, stout, all either prominent lawmakers or business moguls and completely forgettable. Not who she wanted.
Another whiff of Tim’s cologne wafted past. Catherine swallowed hard, barely able to control her desire. Leaning into him, she kept her voice as low as she could given the music, conversation and her hammering heart. “The one with the Donald Trump comb-over or the one who’s staring at his server’s ass?”
Tim chuckled. “Freddie’s an independent. Nice guy. Very
broad-minded. He and his partner just broke up. I wish him well with the server or whatever new guy he wants. I’m talking about the stiff at the edge of the crowd. Fifty. Dyed brown hair. Permanent scowl.”
Ah. His sour expression had carved some very nasty lines in his forehead and around his pinched lips. In Catherine’s experience, crabby men like him were usually the wildest behind closed doors, finally giving themselves permission to be human. “Poor guy. Think his laxative just kicked in?”
Tim’s shoulders shook with laughter. “You’re bad.”
He had no idea. Catherine beamed, pleased that she’d amused him.
Tim’s complexion flushed a deeper shade as he regarded her. “You’re also not taking me seriously.”
“Sorry,” she murmured, lightly touching his arm. “What were you going to tell me about him?”
He stared at her thumb stroking his jacket, his expression going blank. “Who?”
“That guy with the terminal frown.”
“Oh.” Tim gave him a quick glance. “Rumor has it he wants a bill sponsored to bring back pillories, debtor’s prisons and Lawrence Welk reruns.”
“Old fart. Want me to give him the finger?”
“No.” Laughing, Tim grabbed her hand before she could remove it from him.
Catherine’s skin tingled at his welcomed touch. Heat shot to her chest and throat. She cleared it. “You surprise me.”
“I do?” His eyebrows rose in seeming shock, while his expression registered delight. “Why?”
He was part of this world, wealthy beyond belief, indulged since day one according to his dossier and Alexa, and yet so damn easy to like. Not that Catherine would be stupid enough to say any of that. “I thought this party was for uptight right-wingers. The morality patrol, family first and all that.” She thought of the heathens upstairs and continued to tease, “Don’t tell me you’re not for apple pie, virginal mothers and father-knows-best dads.”
Something flickered across his face, unexpected, unreadable. Releasing her hand, Tim quickly finished his drink and studied the glass as he chuckled. “Not since I got back from Paris.”
