Midnight Fantasies

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Stephanie Bond

  The three dressing rooms separating the showroom from the workroom were all nicely furnished, but the red room was Rebecca’s favorite—soft lighting, a three-way mirror, red velvet upholstered cushions on the benches and plush red carpeting. She didn’t bother pulling the tapestry curtain because the dressing rooms opened into the shop and weren’t visible from the windows even if a Peeping Tom were persistent. Besides, with the curtains open she could hear the strains of the medieval music CD playing over the stereo speakers. The melancholy strum of a mandolin, the haunting lilt of a flute, the moody throb of a primitive drum—all of it helped set the stage for Rebecca, mistress of the night.

  She slowly removed the nun’s habit, then her underwear. The plastic teeth went in first because to begin the ritual of dressing like a vampire, she had to first assume the role. The fangs were barely visible with her mouth closed, but when she opened her mouth, she looked catlike and dangerous, and a thrill ran through her naked body. The air was tinged with a chill, bringing the peaks of her breasts to rapt attention. She stood quietly, imagining herself to be a she-vampire, admiring the slight flush of her breasts, the flat planes of her stomach, the triangle of dark hair at the juncture of her thighs.

  Arching her back, she skimmed her hands over her body, grazing the tips of her breasts, the dimple of her navel, the swell of her hips. The image of Michael Pierce’s face came to her in emphatic detail. As she imagined his hands covering the same ground, her body became engorged with desire. She somehow knew that Michael was a luxurious lover.

  She applied dramatic eye makeup and red lipstick, then slipped on a black G-string, and cinched the corset tight enough to push her breasts high. The barest hint of the pink skin around her nipples showed at the top of the binding garment. She rolled on black thigh-high stockings and attached garters to the corset. Three-inch black heels accentuated the curve of her calves and ankles.

  She swept her dark hair up into a loose knot, added dangling earrings to her lobes, then settled the sumptuous cape around her bare shoulders. The soft brush of the velvet sent goose bumps over her arms, and the budded tips of her breasts emerged over the top of the corset. She slipped on the sequined mask and, finally, raised the hood of the cape. Mistress Rebecca looked sinister and sexy and ready to take on the night. The costume was so convincing, she could almost imagine taking flight.

  She stepped out of the dressing room and fairly floated down the hall and into the brightly lit workroom. She turned quickly to the beat of the music, the fabric swishing around her ankles and stirring a breeze to fan her body. She reveled in the knowledge that this outfit would stop any mortal man in his tracks, even Michael Pierce who had doubted that such a costume could be provocative. A languid smile curved her mouth. If he could only see her now….

  At a sudden noise behind her, Rebecca inhaled sharply and whirled, sending the cape swirling. At first she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, conjuring up an image of Michael Pierce standing just inside the back door. But if so, his apparition looked just as stunned as she felt. Her panic turned to mortification when she realized that she’d left the door unlocked when she’d taken out the trash.

  And that the man she’d been spinning fantasies about for years had just caught her playing dress-up.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT TOOK A FEW SECONDS FOR Michael to assimilate the facts of the situation. Fact: He’d been drawn back to the costume shop to talk to Rebecca about her ideas for the restaurant. Fact: He’d seen her van parked in the back and had heard music coming from inside the shop. Fact: He’d knocked on the door, waited, then entered, expecting to find Rebecca bent over a sewing machine. Fact: He hadn’t imagined in a thousand years that he’d find her dressed in an outrageously sexy costume.

  The purple velvet cape hung open, revealing a long, lean body encased in a corset, thigh-high stockings and garters. In fact, he had to look twice to make sure the masked siren before him was Rebecca Valentine. The same Rebecca Valentine who reminded him of a pixie and who, the last time he’d seen her, had been dressed in a nun’s habit? Yes—same big green eyes, albeit now bugged out of her head. Same small shapely hands, now frozen in front of her. And same full mouth—now distorted by…fangs?

  He stared and she stared, both speechless. Michael didn’t have to look down to know his body had reacted to her skimpy outfit. His instincts told him to seek and touch and feel. But his brain told him that the horrified look on her face was not the expression of a woman who wanted to be sought and touched and felt, at least not by him. Hadn’t Sonia mentioned once that Rebecca was engaged?

  Michael opened his mouth to defend his presence, to defend his body’s reaction, to defend the wicked thoughts stampeding through his brain. “I…wanted to talk…didn’t answer my knock…door was unlocked…I was concerned.”

  So much for coherency.

  But at least his words shocked her into movement. She yanked the cape closed, although her image was now forever branded on his mind.

  “Vish isn’t a guud time,” she said, her speech somewhat hampered by the fangs.

  “I…can see…that,” he remarked, then gestured vaguely. “Not that I saw…anything.” Only that she was bursting out of her corset. “I’m going now.”

  She nodded, his cue to head for the door, Michael knew. But he couldn’t ignore the sexually charged atmosphere—the low lights, the pulsing music, her incredible outfit, his awakened needs. His feet seemed rooted to the floor in some juvenile hope that…what—she’d ask him to stay?

  He finally mustered the strength to back out the door and pull it closed behind him. He stood dazed until the cold rain crept under his collar and trickled down his back. Michael turned and walked to his SUV. Dusk had fallen prematurely because of the low cloud cover. Horns sounded from the distant highway rush hour traffic. Just an ordinary rainy Wednesday evening.

  He had pulled out of the parking lot with both hands welded to the wheel when a big, goofy I-can’t-believe-that-just-happened smile spread over his face. Seeing Rebecca dressed in an erotic costume was like a teenage fantasy come true—without the explosive ending, of course. But still amazing. What kinds of things was she doing in her costume shop after hours? And did she do it often?

  The thought of her playing dress-up alone among all those…props sent his blood pounding. His arousal still strained against his fly. Who could have known that under the big fuzzy animal costumes and the funky fruit costumes and the nun’s habit lurked a stunning figure and a penchant for revealing lingerie?

  Then his fingers tightened around the steering wheel—what if Rebecca had been waiting for her boyfriend? Maybe they indulged in role-playing games in the shop after hours. He’d heard of those things before, and considering Rebecca’s line of work, it seemed likely. That would explain why the door had been unlocked.

  But for some reason, the thought of Rebecca dressing up—and being undressed—by some faceless man irked him beyond reason. She was young…wasn’t she? And innocent…wasn’t she? Hopefully the boyfriend wasn’t some pipsqueak greenhorn who fumbled his way through intimate encounters.

  Then Michael shook himself mentally. What Rebecca Valentine did and who she did it with was no business of his—he barely knew the girl, er, woman. And just today hadn’t he sworn off women? They did things to mess with a man’s mind, like completely blow a preconceived image by dressing up like a prowling she-vampire.

  He squirmed in his seat and tried to push away the naughty images of Rebecca, but snatches kept creeping in—her trim ankles, her toned thighs, those garters, that corset and the sexy, plush cape that would have made a virtual bed for them if he’d—

  Enough. He had to put his business first, and if he were going to implement some of Rebecca’s ideas, he would need her help. He’d just have to…handle everything over the phone.

  REBECCA WOULDN’T EVEN LET herself think about what had just happened until she locked the door. Then every muscle in her body collapsed. She leaned against the door as
waves of humiliation rolled over her. For whatever reason, Michael Pierce had come back to talk to her and instead had gotten the shock of his life. How could she ever face him again?

  With wobbly knees, she extinguished the dressing room and workroom lights, and climbed the stairs that led to the door of her tiny apartment. She wanted to go to bed and hide her head under the covers for a few months.

  The apartment over the retail space was one of the attractions when she purchased the building. Admittedly it was cramped, livable only because the Murphy bed disappeared into a wood cabinet in the sitting room to allow foot traffic to the bathroom and laundry closet. To call the room on the other side of the sitting room a kitchen required a stretch of the imagination, but a toaster oven, microwave, compact fridge and freestanding pantry was enough to store and prepare a passable meal.

  Dickie disliked the “attic,” as he referred to her apartment, but next to his posh condominium, Rebecca found her little nook quaint and intimate. Miss Illinois probably lived in a penthouse somewhere, with a big stationary bed and a commercial-grade kitchen that she never used.

  A fresh well of tears threatened to surface, but it was only six-thirty—she had hours to go before she could have a good cry. Rebecca stripped the vampire costume, burning with shame. She donned sweatpants and a T-shirt and sneakers, then fell onto the couch and pressed a pillow over her face. If there was a God, she’d be able to travel back in time to thirty minutes ago and stop herself from looking like a colossal boob.

  Maybe Michael had thought about her suggestions and wanted to discuss them further. If so, she’d blown any credibility she might have had. He was probably talking to his wife on his cell phone at this very moment, guffawing over the little scene he’d stumbled onto. Good grief, she hoped Mrs. Pierce didn’t think that she was trying to seduce her husband. She banged the pillow against her forehead. Every time she replayed the scene in her head, she could more clearly see the expression on Michael’s face—bewilderment, shock, dismay. She groaned and squeezed back tears. And of all people who might have stumbled in the back door—burglars, bums, serial killers—why did it have to be Michael?

  Desperate to expel her nervous energy, Rebecca grabbed an apple, then headed back down to the shop to dive into the Pierces’ stack of mending. Somehow the tedium of sewing on buttons and repairing rips made her feel as if she were paying penance to the Pierces for what she’d done. She’d probably lost their business for good anyway, so she might as well tie up all the loose ends.

  By 9:00 p.m., she’d finished the mending and dropped the clothes into the chute for the cleaners to pick up. She rolled her tired shoulders and stretched tall, looking for something else to occupy her hands and mind. When her gaze landed on the closet, she suddenly remembered the mysterious box and that she’d meant to tell Meg that she’d heard from Lana.

  She pulled the box from the dark closet out into the light, then dropped to her knees to dig through the bothersome packing material. Her fingers came into contact with something pillowy and plastic. Rebecca lifted the item from the box, displacing foam peanuts everywhere, and stared into the face of a male blow-up doll.

  Harry. A wry smile pulled at her mouth as memories came flooding back. She did remember Harry at the bachelorette party. Angie had passed him off to some girl whose name escaped her, joking that when the girl got married, she’d have to pass the anatomically correct doll on to another single friend. Apparently Lana had gotten the doll and now that she was married, she was passing it on to Rebecca for “good luck.”

  Rebecca scoffed. Good luck? Where was Harry a month ago before her life went into the toilet? She extracted the pajama-clad doll from the box and shook him free of the staticky peanuts. He’d been underinflated in lieu of his trip through the postal system, which made his hard plastic erection all the more prominent beneath the striped pajama pants. He’d been repaired in at least one place.

  Out of curiosity, she pulled out his waistband for a look—make that two repairs, although the equipment seemed to be in good working order. She pondered the kind of aggressive interaction that would have led to the doll’s blowout, then discarded all the notions that flitted through her mind. Not everyone had to rely on private little games to get their jollies, she reminded herself.

  “Sorry, Harry,” she said, pushing him back into the box. “As much as I could use a little luck right now, I do not need a good luck love charm, so you’re going back into the closet until I can figure out what to do with you.” After she returned the box, she closed the door and shook her head. Good luck love charm—right.

  She turned off the lights as she headed back to her apartment with a heavy heart and heavy feet. The cable was out again, probably due to the weather, so she decided she might as well go to bed. She flipped on the radio and lowered the Murphy bed, then clapped off her lights and crawled under the covers.

  Being at the top of the old building meant that she sometimes went to sleep to, and woke up to, the soothing tune of rain on the corrugated roof. But tonight the rain seemed to mock all the tears she’d shed over the past few weeks. And on top of everything, tonight’s humiliation in front of the man she least wanted to make a fool out of herself in front of. Her chest ached with frustration and defeat. She curled up into a ball and tried not to think about the next time she’d see the Pierces.

  Especially Michael.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MICHAEL STARED AT THE spreadsheet on his desk that represented the changes he wanted to make to the restaurant. But the numbers kept blurring as his mind wandered to figures more entertaining—Rebecca Valentine’s, to be exact. He simply couldn’t stop thinking about her. The last day and a half his body had been in a constant state of readiness, as if it might be called into action at any moment. And he was ready to explode from wanting her.

  It was as if the sight of her in that erotic costume had flipped some kind of switch in him, igniting a sexual surge he hadn’t experienced in years, if ever. Before Sonia, he’d slept with an average number of women, and found the experience to be very…average. No woman had ever captured his imagination as completely as the sweet-faced shopgirl had. The fact that he’d stumbled onto her in such a vulnerable situation made him feel oddly protective of her. He wanted to see Rebecca, to reassure her that her secret was safe, but frankly he was afraid he might betray his rampant fascination.

  He picked up the phone for the twelfth time with the intention of calling her, but since he still couldn’t think of anything brilliant or even reasonable to say, he set the receiver down again.

  Damn, he’d have to face Rebecca sooner or later—sooner if he were going to get these changes implemented within two weeks, later if he didn’t get his libido under control.

  REBECCA STOPPED IN FRONT of the Incognito restaurant and inhaled, then exhaled. She could do this. She’d been giving herself pep talks for the past day and a half and had determined she’d be less miserable if she delivered the mended and cleaned costumes herself rather than cringing every time the bell on her door rang.

  She shifted the clothing to one arm and pushed the door open with the other. At this point, outright laughter in her face would be better than the slow torment of wondering what the Pierces were thinking. She swallowed. Especially Michael.

  Her skin tingled as she entered the brightly lit foyer. The noises of electrical tools and workmen sounded from another part of the restaurant. A dark-haired man dressed in chinos and a button-down shirt emerged and smiled.

  “May I help you?” He spoke precise English with a slight Hispanic accent.

  “I’m Rebecca Valentine from the costume shop. I have a d-delivery for Mrs. Pierce.”

  The man frowned slightly. “Mrs. Pierce…isn’t here.”

  Dread filtered through her—if possible, she didn’t want to see Michael. “When would be a better time to speak with her?”

  He hesitated, then held up a finger. “Just one moment.”

  The man disappeared down the hallway. Reb
ecca took the opportunity to look around and try to calm her thudding heart. The building was old and beautifully maintained, heavy with ornate woodwork and moldings, blessed with high ceilings, black and white marble tiled floors, and brilliant chandeliers. Immediately her mind took flight—she could see elaborately costumed couples milling arm in arm under sparkling lights.

  Then she shook herself—this was the line of thinking that had gotten her in trouble the other night. At the sound of footsteps behind her, her heart jumped to her throat. She turned and, to her horror, Michael Pierce was striding toward her looking superb in jeans, red T-shirt and athletic shoes. She willed the floor to open and swallow her, but she wasn’t to be so easily saved.

  “Hello,” he said, his expression passive, just as if she’d been fully clothed the last time he’d seen her.

  Rebecca wet her lips. “I, um…brought the mended costumes to…save you and Mrs. Pierce a trip.”

  “That’s kind of you,” he said, stepping forward to relieve her of the hanging garments.

  She caught a whiff of his masculine scent—woodsy and clean, almost minty. Their hands brushed as he collected the clothes, and the contact was enough to set her on edge. She was fairly shaking, and her cheeks felt warm.

  “Rico said you wanted to talk to Sonia.”

  “I wanted to make sure the costumes were satisfactory,” she murmured. “And I didn’t want to…bother you.”

  He held her gaze for several long seconds, then said, “I’m glad you’re here. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  No, she needed to get back to the shop, and the last thing she wanted to do was relive the humiliation of the other night. But she’d come for closure. “Sure.”