Pleasure Seekers

by Rochelle Alers

  His eyes caught and held hers. “Perhaps you can explain something to me.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Where does all of your passion come from?”

  For a long moment Faye looked back at him. “I enjoy sleeping with you.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean why?”

  “Why do you sleep with me?”

  “I like you.”

  “Do you sleep with every man you like?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “So it goes a little deeper than liking?”

  Her temper exploded. “Why are you goading me?”

  His temper rose to match hers. “I want to know where I stand with you before we go any further.”

  “How much further are you talking about?”

  “I want you to marry me.”

  Faye felt as if someone had reached into her chest to squeeze her heart. She moved off the bed as if she’d been struck with a bolt of electricity. She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the bedroom, wanting and needing to escape Bart, but she’d miscalculated his reflexes because he’d sprung off the bed, caught her arm and spun her around to face him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out for a walk. I need to clear my head.”

  “If you want to leave the hotel, then we’ll go together.”

  She pounded his chest with a fist. “You set me up. You wait until we’re six thousand miles from home, then you spill your guts. Why didn’t you tell me this last week? Or even last night?”

  Bart held her hand to keep her from hitting him again. “Would you have come with me if I’d told you that I loved you?”

  “I don’t know. Besides, it’s not the loving me that bothers me.”

  He angled his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “It’s my wanting to marry you?” His statement had come out like a query.

  “Yes.”

  Even as she’d signed the documents to dissolve her marriage, Faye believed she would marry again and have a child. Bartholomew Houghton was presenting her with the opportunity, but she was unable to accept his proposal because she didn’t want to have a child with a man old enough to be her father; a man who might not live long enough to see their child to maturity.

  Releasing her wrist, he cradled her face between his hands. “I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want you to be truthful with me. Do you love me?”

  Faye compressed her lips as tears filled her eyes. “Yes.”

  Bart pulled her against his body. “I—” A soft tapping on the door preempted whatever he was going to say. He pressed a kiss to Faye’s forehead. “It’s probably our luggage.”

  She was grateful for the intrusion because it would give her time to recover her thoughts. She was thirty-two years old, supposedly a mature woman, but right now she was as gauche as a teenager leaving home for the first time. And for the first time since she’d contracted to be a social companion for Bartholomew Houghton, Faye felt as if she was in over her head.

  Enid Richards had hired her to provide companionship to wealthy men. However, it was apparent that she was very good at what she’d been hired to do because not only had she gotten her client to fall in love with her, but he also wanted to marry her.

  Anna Nicole Smith had nothing on Faye Anne Ogden.

  CHAPTER 88

  Faye reached for a small bag the bellman had left in a corner of the living room. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said to Bart as he closed the door behind the hotel employee.

  His expression was impassive when he turned to look at her. “I’m going to order dinner. What do you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Bart.”

  She was hungry, but eating wasn’t a priority when she had to make sense of the turn her life had taken. Bart knew she loved him; her dilemma wasn’t their love for each other, but if she married him did she want to have a child with a man eighteen years her senior.

  Retrieving her cell phone from her purse, she went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. The magnificent marble bathroom was designed for hotel guests to spend hours there. And the full bathroom was designed with a powder room. It was apparent Bart had spared no expense in booking the beautiful suite that was larger than many Manhattan apartments.

  She turned on the faucets in the large bathtub, adding a capful of scented bath oil; she sat on a padded vanity bench and dialed her parents’ number as she waited for the tub to fill. It was almost ten o’clock in Paris, which meant it was four in the afternoon in the States.

  “Hello.”

  Faye sighed audibly when she heard Shirley’s voice. “Hi, Mama. I’m calling to let you know we arrived safely.” She’d lowered her voice to just above a whisper.

  “That’s good to hear. But why aren’t you using the hotel phone? The charges to your cell phone are going to be outrageous.”

  “Mama, I didn’t call you to discuss money.”

  “What’s the matter, Faye Anne?”

  She told her mother about her conversation with Bart, leaving nothing out.

  “I told you to be careful, baby. The first time I saw you and Bartholomew together I knew he was more than a friend. I know you didn’t call me to hear ‘I told you so.’”

  “No, I didn’t,” Faye countered.

  “You love the man and he loves you. What’s the problem, Faye Anne? You’re both single and consenting adults, so what’s stopping you from marrying him?”

  “I want a baby.”

  “Is he sterile?”

  “Um—I don’t believe he is.” Faye assumed Bart was capable of fathering children because he’d always used a condom to protect her before she opted to take the Pill.

  “He asked you to marry him yet he hasn’t talked about children?”

  “He can’t talk about children when I haven’t accepted his proposal,” she said in Bart’s defense.

  “Why did you really call me, Faye Anne? What’s stopping you from marrying the man you love?”

  “Bart is eighteen years older than I am, Mama. If we have children, what are the odds that he’ll live to see them to adulthood?”

  “You didn’t talk this way before you married Norman. You married him believing you’d be together for the rest of your life. It didn’t happen because no one can predict the future. I don’t know what it is about Bartholomew but he’s changed you. I realized that the weekend we stayed at his house. You’re more relaxed, softer. Even your daddy noticed it.

  “Life is hard, baby girl. Life can be ugly, but you’re so focused on being a strong black woman that you refuse to see the happiness that’s right in front of you. You’ve met someone who loves you, someone who wants to take care of you. And no matter what women say about being able to take care of themselves, they still need male protection.”

  Faye swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “I know you’re right, but I’m frightened, Mama.”

  “No, you’re not. It’s your brother who’s frightened, frightened every single day he has to wake up in that concrete cage. So, pull it together and stop acting like a girl. You’re a woman, Faye Anne. Act like one!”

  “Mama!”

  “Goodbye!”

  “Mama, don’t…” Her mother had hung up on her. “Dammit!” she screamed.

  “Faye. Is everything all right in there?”

  She groaned. It was apparent Bart had heard her. “Yes.”

  “Why is the door locked?”

  “I’m doing my business,” she lied. When, she asked herself, had she become such an accomplished liar? “I’ll be out as soon as I finish taking a bath.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Okay.”

  Faye opened her eyes to near darkness. The bedroom would’ve been completely dark but Bart hadn’t drawn the drapes. She’d dozed off twice, only to be awakened by his tossing and turning. They’d eaten a sumptuous dinner on the terrace in total silence. Not even the romantic views of the city’s most famous monuments could dispel
the chill between them. They’d come to one of the most romantic cities in the world yet were reacting to each other like strangers.

  She’d wanted to tell him that she loved him, loved him enough to marry him and become the mother of his children, but the words were locked away in the back of her throat.

  Turning over, she pressed her chest to his back. “Darling?”

  Bart heard the endearment and clenched his jaw. What he’d feared was manifested. He’d bared his soul, confessed his love, offered to share his life, and the woman who had become his obsession continued to view him as her client.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want children?” Faye felt him suck in his breath before exhaling.

  “Where is this coming from, Faye?”

  “I need to know if you want to become a father at fifty, because I want children.”

  Bart turned over to face Faye, his heart pounding a runaway rhythm. “What if we begin with one, and if I’m not too old and broken down to run after the little tyke, then we can have a few more?”

  A cry of relief slipped past Faye’s parted lips as she moved over Bart like a lithe cat, straddling him. There was enough light coming through the parted drapes to make out his eyes.

  “Ask me again,” she whispered.

  Bart feigned innocence. “Ask you what?”

  Her hand moved down his hip, searching between his thighs until her fingers closed around his penis. She stroked him, smiling when he grew hard against her palm.

  “I don’t think you want to mess with me. Not when I hold your future generation in my hand.” She dug her fingernails into the sensitive underside.

  Gasping and then shuddering, Bart gritted his teeth against the exquisite erotic torture as Faye alternated stroking him while applying pressure with her nails. It wasn’t enough to cause him pain, but he doubted whether he could take much more before ejaculating.

  “Will you marry me, Faye Anne Ogden?” he asked in a voice that sounded as if he were being strangled. She released his penis and joined their bodies. Bart’s groan matched her long, lingering sigh of pleasure.

  Cradling her hips, he closed his eyes and let his senses take over. It was the first time Faye had assumed the dominant role and position in bed, and he loved it. And if this was what he had to look forward to with her as his wife then he prayed for a long and healthy life.

  Bracing her hands on Bart’s shoulders, Faye lowered herself until bare chest met bare chest. Love, passion and desire heated the blood throughout her chest and down to the area between her legs. Her body melted against his as she quickened the pace. She moved faster and faster, up and down, and around and around until their bodies were in perfect and exquisite harmony with one another.

  She’d fallen in love with Bart when she hadn’t wanted to. She trusted him when she’d told herself that she would never trust another man. And her body told him without words that she would marry him and become the mother of the children they hoped to share.

  Faye’s lips traced a sensuous path from his ear down the column of his strong neck, the hollow of his throat and up to his mouth. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, meeting his tongue in a duel for domination and surrender.

  Bart’s hands were as busy as his mouth. They traced the indentation where her waist curved inward before flaring out to her hips. His fingers traced the opening separating her buttocks and it’d become flesh against flesh, man against woman.

  In that instant he realized he truly loved Faye. He loved everything that made her who she was: her coloring, golden brown eyes, full, lush lips, compact petite body, her soft curly hair and her tiny feet. He loved her strength and the vulnerability that made him want to protect her regardless of the consequences. He loved her passion and her femininity, a delicate, tantalizing femininity that enhanced his maleness.

  Faye breathed in deep, shuddering drafts of air as she felt the soft flutters grow stronger until she was mindless with the gusts of desire that made it difficult to know where she began and Bart ended. Passion radiated from her core, and she surrendered to the ecstasy hurtling her beyond herself; he tightened his hold on her hips and met hers in a powerful thrusting that left both groaning and trembling when they yielded to what had become a raw act of possession.

  She lay atop Bart, her pounding heart keeping time with his. Talking with her mother had given her a new sense of objectivity. She had the freedom to make choices about her life where her brother didn’t. The man in whose arms she lay wanted her and he would have her.

  Smiling, she nuzzled his neck. “Yes, Bartholomew Houghton,” she said softly. “Yes, I will marry you, but on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I cannot continue to take money from you as a social companion. Once we return to the States, I’m leaving P.S., Inc.”

  “Don’t worry about money, darling. I’ll give you whatever you’ll need.”

  “I don’t need anything right now.”

  Bart’s fingertips made little circles over her back. “I’ll get you a credit card while we’re here, and once we’re back in the States I’ll set up an account for you. Do you have a favorite department store or boutique?”

  “Why are we talking about money?”

  “Because it was you who brought up the subject, Faye.”

  “Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. When do you want to get married?”

  “Valentine’s Day.”

  “You want to wait that long?”

  “It’s not long, Bart. By the time we marry we’ll have known each other at least nine months.”

  “I suppose you’d want to wait another nine months before we start a family.”

  “No. I’ll come off the Pill in October. We can start trying then. I assume you’re going to want a son so that he can take over your company.”

  Reversing their positions, Bart withdrew from Faye and settled her over his chest, her legs resting between his. “No. If we have a son, I want him to be whatever he wants to be. It’s not about setting up a dynasty so my children can takeover DHG. Personally, I’d rather they become teachers or social workers where they can affect change and touch lives.”

  “You don’t like being a builder?”

  “It’s not about liking, darling. It’s about what I do well, and right now I’m at the top of my game. I much prefer designing buildings.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to do that again.”

  I know I will, Bart mused. He’d left Hakim Wheeler with the responsibility of running DHG until he returned because he was grooming the talented urban planner to take his place when he went into semiretirement.

  At sixty he wanted to design homes and office buildings, make love with his wife, travel extensively and protect and love their children. He would do all of the things he should’ve experienced in his thirties and forties. However, he’d been given a second chance at love, and he planned to make the most of it.

  CHAPTER 89

  Faye and Bart spent their first full day in Paris at the hotel. Despite sleeping on the transatlantic flight, they hadn’t fully recovered from jet lag. They slept late, ate brunch on the terrace with the Arc de Triomphe and Parisian rooftops as a backdrop; dinner was in the hotel’s restaurant, Le Cinq. The only competition for the three Michelin-star cuisine and intuitive service were the views of the courtyard.

  The next day a courier delivered a package to Bart as they prepared for a walking tour of Paris. He signed for the package, then handed Faye an envelope. She opened it, stunned to find a black-colored American Express card, also known as the Centurion Card.

  Bart offered her a pen. “Sign it, darling.” He watched as she scrawled her signature over the magnetic strip.

  Faye returned the pen. “Are you going to give me a spending limit?”

  He frowned. “Do you get a thrill out of pushing my buttons?”

  Her frown matched his. “What are you talking about?”

  “If I intended to give you a s
pending limit I would’ve said so beforehand. Use the card to buy whatever you want or need.” There was a steely edge to his voice.

  Faye wanted to push another button and ask him about a prenuptial, but decided not to broach the subject. If Bart wanted her to sign a prenuptial agreement he would’ve mentioned it. And when she exchanged vows with Bartholomew Houghton she wanted it to be the last time she married.

  She slipped the card into a compartment of her shoulder bag and zipped it. “I’m ready.”

  Reaching for her hand, Bart led her out of the suite toward the elevator. He’d planned a one-day tour that included visiting the Jardin des Tuileries, Musée d’Orsay, Notre Dame de Paris and after dinner riding a bateau mouche at Pont Neuf. Tomorrow they would leave Paris for Marseille. He’d reserved a car and driver to take them south, where they would board a yacht for Monaco and Saint-Tropez.

  Dressed casually for the warm weather and wearing comfortable footwear, Bart and Faye walked centuries-old streets, stopping and peering into the windows of various shops they passed on their way to the places of interest they’d decided upon beforehand.

  “How often do you come to Paris?” Faye asked Bart when he led her to the Metro. He’d disclosed that he learned French at his prep school, and had excelled so much that he’d become president of the French club for three consecutive years. He also admitted to watching French-language films to keep himself fluent.

  He shielded her body from the crowd of tourists filing into the car. “I come here once or twice every couple of years.”

  “Business or personal?” she asked, staring up at his sunglass-shielded eyes.

  “It’s always for business. This is the first time it’s personal.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  Bart found himself experiencing things with Faye he hadn’t shared with any other woman, and that included Deidre.