Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  There was no doubt in her mind her recently revived and currently hotter-than-hot sex life was at risk.

  Claire Dumont wasn’t in town just for a birthday party.

  TWENTY-ONE

  SOME TIME LATER, THE THREE WOMEN WERE having drinks in the rare silence of play day, the children having been quieted with Blue Bunny ice-cream sandwiches and a DVD of Finding Nemo.

  “He looks as good as ever, doesn’t he?” Sarah brightly observed, smiling at her college roommate over her lemonade-laced vodka.

  “Better.” Claire’s smile was self-assured.

  “Better than your polo player?”

  “Augustin was so committed to the game.” Claire lifted her cashmere-covered shoulders in the merest of shrugs. “I don’t know why he thought I’d travel with him.”

  “Maybe because you did for a season,” Paige pointed out. She’d come to know Claire through Sarah and had followed Claire’s polo player romance with interest.

  “I couldn’t possibly continue doing that.” Claire lifted her glass of single malt scotch, neat, and squinted at it against the sun streaming in through the windows. “Anyway, it’s over, and I’ve decided Bobby and I really didn’t put enough effort into our marriage. I blame myself for being so involved in work.” She was offering the edited account of her motives. Good judgment deterred her from saying she might have made a mistake by having an extramarital affair. Pride restrained her from pointing out she’d been unable to find a suitable replacement since her divorce.

  “I’m not sure Bobby’s marriage material.” Sarah arched her brows. “From what I hear, he’s very much a bachelor. He might not be interested in working at a marriage.”

  “We’ll see.” A certain degree of confidence and certainty weighted Claire’s words. Bobby had been surprised to see her, but she’d detected something else as well. An imperceptible interest? He hadn’t been indifferent. Of that she was sure. “In any case, I’m pleased Arthur called to tell me Bobby was in town. How much simpler to bump into him here than in Montana or Budapest.”

  Sarah gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You mean you can’t suddenly appear at his ranch fifty miles from the nearest town by accident.”

  “Or run into him at his villa outside Budapest,” Claire remarked with a lifted brow.

  “So what are your plans?” Paige inquired with a smile. “Give us the juicy details.”

  “Marry him again, of course.”

  Sarah giggled with delight, an arch conspiratress at heart. When she’d inveigled her way into Arthur’s bed, it had been the greatest fun. Not that she didn’t feel a little guilty about it now that she and Paige were best friends. But everything had worked out for the best. And maybe it would for Claire, too. “Tell us how we can help,” she declared.

  “I’m not quite sure. I haven’t had time to calculate my best course of action. I just heard about Bobby from Arthur last night.”

  “How long can you stay?” Sarah was leaning forward slightly in her excitement. “I just love a seduction,” she added with a grin.

  “I’ll stay as long as it takes. But I’m really hopeful. Bobby and I always got along very, very well.”

  “In bed, you mean.”

  Claire’s violet eyes sparkled. “With Bobby, that’s the only way that matters. Speaking of hedonistic pleasures, have either of you found anyone of interest?”

  “Nothing permanent.” Sarah smiled. “But then, Arthur’s alimony has to be considered.”

  “There’s no point in getting married and losing that, I suppose.”

  “It wouldn’t be practical,” Paige noted. “And the children don’t need any more disruption in their lives. We date on occasion, but—”

  “Aren’t really seriously looking,” Sarah finished.

  “Do you actually get along with Arthur?” Claire knew him and his rudeness, temper, roving eye, and complete lack of concern for anyone but himself.

  “We manage,” Paige carefully said.

  “But his wife is a grade-A bitch,” Sarah irritably declared. “And we don’t manage all that well with Arthur, either. Paige is just being diplomatic. We don’t have to be diplomatic with Claire, Paige. She knows what a shit Arthur can be, especially about money. But he’s nothing compared to his mean-spirited wife. She never wants him to see the children, and if he does, she’s right there at his side. And if either of us ever calls the house and she answers the phone, she always says he’s not at home. Bitch. We’ve been thinking about taking a little revenge—you know, embarrass him and his spiteful wife. Make him sweat.”

  “Sarah’s just resentful because Arthur told us we’ve been spending too much money lately,” Paige murmured. “Aren’t you, Sarah?” she added, firmly. “We’ve been going over our quota, and he’s been grumbling.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Sarah reluctantly muttered. “I’m just mad. Still, it would be nice to ruin Arthur’s life a little.” She smiled at Claire. “Haven’t you wanted to get back at someone sometime in your life?”

  “Absolutely. Or get someone,” Claire added with a wink. “Like, for instance, Bobby Serre. And planning a seduction is even sweeter than planning a revenge. What do you say? I’m going to need some help.”

  “This is going to be so much fun,” Sarah exclaimed. “I think we need another round of drinks to spark our creative juices.”

  “Why not?” Claire replied, although just seeing Bobby again had sparked whatever needed sparking already.

  He looked as good as ever. Maybe better.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A WHOLE LOT OF HIGH-VOLTAGE SPARKING of another kind was going on at the moment on a houseboat on the St. Croix with a view of the river—had anyone been inclined to notice. The boat lent to Bobby by a friend was very large, powered by twin diesel engines, and crewed by two men who knew how to be invisible. The bedroom was located on a flying deck twenty feet above the water, the bed large enough to sleep six. Or accommodate six more accurately, because Bobby’s newly divorced financial trader friend was making up for lost time and into group sex.

  That particular form of amusement had never been Bobby’s style, and when Cassie had remarked on the size of the bed, he’d only said, “I think it came with the boat.”

  They spent Friday and Saturday there, their only excursions ashore to nearby restaurants, a kind of single-minded search for sensation taking up the remainder of their time.

  Cassie was thinking she might as well enjoy Bobby Serre while she could, the specter of his ex-wife a disconcerting unease flitting around in the nether regions of her mind. He seemed distracted at times, as though he wasn’t quite sure who he was with. She thought about taking issue and decided that would be counterproductive in terms of her pleasure.

  Which was why she was here.

  Which was why her body had morphed into total insatiable mode, desire strumming through her senses full speed ahead.

  It was nice here with him.

  It was better than nice.

  It was a definite gold-medal adult-entertainment sport.

  And she was a winner any way you looked at it.

  * * *

  WHILE CASSIE WAS luxuriating in a very agreeable halcyon bliss, try as Bobby could, fuck as much as he could, that damnable image of Claire getting out of that cab was glued to the back of his retinas. Jesus Christ, she was the last person he wanted to see. The absolute last. Especially after the dreams he’d been having just before he left Budapest, the ones with them saying good-bye that last day in London, their room at the Savoy with the fabulous view of the Thames trashed from all the heavy objects Claire had thrown at him. Him gimlet-eyed and grim about his suspicions, her with tears streaming down her face, saying he was wrong, she was sorry. Him saying he didn’t care if she was sorry or not after she’d nearly killed him with that bronze sculpture.

  They might have had their good times, but they fought like cats and dogs. Claire was always on the make, and he’d decided that gray day in London that seemed to suit his sou
r mood, that he didn’t care to spend his life fighting with and wondering about his wife.

  He’d walked out that day and never looked back.

  Life was too fucking short.

  And now he was having goddamned flashbacks and—worse—some kind of nostalgia for a past that didn’t deserve nostalgia.

  But damn, she’d looked good today.

  You couldn’t fault her beauty even if she had a vile temper and ambiguous ethics about fidelity. He certainly hadn’t been a poster boy for abstinence, either before or after his marriage. Maybe things just happened. Maybe she had her reasons.

  But regardless of what Claire may or may not have done, what he may or may not think about it, he was having a helluva time shaking her image from his mind.

  He’d heard about the polo player. Who the hell hadn’t? It had been all over the U.S. and international gossip columns, their pictures everywhere when Augustin had taken his team to the championships last year.

  Could it be he was jealous?

  Did she intrigue him because some challenger had entered the scene?

  Or was his reaction purely physical and perfectly normal?

  “Hey.”

  He looked down. “I’m here.”

  “Just checking.”

  He smiled. “Sorry.”

  Her gaze was amused. “No problem. Even when you’re on automatic pilot, you’re good. Ex-wife?”

  “How did you know?” But he abruptly rolled off her, stared up at the ceiling, and sighed.

  “You always react to an ex,” she said, easing up on the pillows. “In my case, homicide comes to mind, but hey, it’s an emotion.”

  “Mine isn’t too far off.”

  “Bad memories?”

  He glanced over at her. “I guess.”

  “Divorce isn’t unique.” She smiled. “In fact, it’s common if you don’t mind being common.”

  “Do you want to see a movie?”

  “No.”

  He laughed. “My voice of reason. Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  “Let’s walk to that restaurant on the river this time. I need to clear my head.”

  “It’s seventy-five and sunny.”

  “There must be a breeze somewhere.”

  “I could distract you with my scintillating conversation.”

  He rolled back over and pulled her into his arms. “Distract me with a kiss instead.”

  “After we eat. I’m hungry.”

  “Before.”

  “After.”

  He was stronger and perhaps more persuasive when it came to matters of having sex.

  Or maybe Cassie was in the mood to be easily persuaded.

  The walked to the restaurant . . . afterward.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ON SUNDAY MORNING, MUCH TOO EARLY FOR good manners, Bobby’s cell phone rang.

  It was Arthur, with an invitation expressed in his usual fashion—as an order.

  His daughter Flora’s birthday party. Sarah’s house. One o’clock. Casual dress.

  Bobby flipped his phone shut with a grimace. “Why me?”

  “Because your ex-wife wants you there.”

  His gaze snapped in Cassie’s direction. “If that’s the case, I need a body shield. You come with me.”

  “And incur Arthur’s wrath? God, no. No one invited me.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  But he was already punching in the phone number, and when she lunged for the phone, he rolled out of bed and walked out on the balcony stark naked.

  She wasn’t about to go outside nude as well—in sight of all the other boaters in the marina—but before she could grab Bobby’s robe, he was coming back inside, his smile portending her doom. “Arthur would love to have you attend. In fact, I quote, ‘Bring Cassandra along. She has great tits.’ ”

  “Now I’m definitely not going.” She lay back against the pillows.

  “Fine, stay here. I don’t think I feel like having sex anymore.” He sat down on a chair across the room and stretched out in a sprawl.

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “We’ll just stay a half-hour, give the little tyke a present, say hello to Arthur and the rest of them, and get the hell out of there.”

  “That’s not fair. I hardly know any of them.”

  “You know Arthur, and you’ve met his wives.”

  “What if I don’t go?”

  He shrugged. “It’s your decision.”

  “That’s cruel and unusual,” she said with a pout.

  “So is my having to see Claire with Arthur watching every move.”

  Now that was an ambiguous statement possible to read either way. Did he not want to see Claire—which would be a definite yippee!—or did he just not want to see her in Arthur’s presence—a less-cheerful supposition.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “Do me a favor.”

  He sounded more like an impatient little boy than an international sex symbol, making her melt inside when she should have remained resolute and determined. She sighed, silently chided herself for being a pushover, and asked, “What will you do for me if I go?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  He laughed. “Just so long as no animals are involved.”

  “Okay.”

  He sat up. “No negotiation?”

  “I trust you. You said anything.” She smiled. “I’m real happy with an expansive concept like that. We have to stop at my place for clothes, though.” She glanced at the clock shaped like a ship’s wheel and stretched lazily. “Which gives us a couple hours for a start on that ‘anything.’ ”

  “Did we agree to some time limits on this?”

  Her smile was pure sunshine. “Not as I recall.”

  Lounging back in the chair, he spread his legs and looked at her from under his dark lashes. “Then you come here, babe,” he murmured. “I’m not doing all the work.”

  She should hold firm and make him come to her.

  After all, he was the one who had offered her anything.

  Why should she have to make concessions?

  But he lifted his hand, crooked his index finger, and looked at her like he might eat her alive if she did what she was told.

  There was really no point in being obstructive when one’s pleasure was at stake. To be obstinate just on principle was not only immature but impractical with his erection luring her like some pagan virility symbol. “Ask me again,” she said, as a conciliatory concession to her newly acquired female power.

  He ran his finger up the astonishing length. “Pretty please.”

  So call her easy.

  Against that very sizeable temptation, what was a girl to do?

  She went and not even reluctantly, although she supposed she should have shown a modicum of restraint. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

  He lifted her on his lap when she reached him and kissed her for a very long time. It was really sweet and nice and remarkably considerate if she hadn’t been focused on more selfish ends. She debated exactly how to broach the subject.

  Finally, pushing away a little, she said, “I really need more.”

  He not only seemed to know what she meant by more, but he didn’t take offense. He immediately stood up—with her in his arms . . . how strong and cool is that—and carried her to the bed. He lay down—again with her still in his arms . . . really she would have to start lifting weights so she could have that lithe, effortless power.

  He was sprawled on his back, his eyes half shut. “Why don’t we say this is your turn. I need a rest.”

  What exactly did “your turn” mean? Did he require something in particular, or could she indulge herself first? It was really astonishing how selfish she’d become about needing orgasms when she’d almost forgotten what they were until Bobby Serre arrived in town. “Do you have anything special in mind?” Even as she asked, she was dearly hoping he didn’t. She didn’t want to look ungrateful and certain
ly he’d been super-indulgent, but the truth was—

  “Why don’t you use me.”

  Was he the most wonderful man in the world or what? Or perhaps he was clairvoyant. Either way, she had what she wanted. And she really didn’t have time for debate anyway, what with Arthur’s command performance at Sarah’s looming.

  Climbing over him as he lay quiescent, she sat on his thighs. His erection was splendid. He was eminently, superlatively useable. Really, his testosterone levels must be out of this world.

  He smiled faintly. “Everything all right?”

  How casual he was about sex, about nonstop sex. No wonder he ate like a horse. “It will be soon,” she said, thinking if casual worked for him it could work for her. And rising slightly, she levered his stiff cock up, guided the swollen head to her insatiable G-spot and C-spot and a dozen other clamoring spots, and slowly eased back down.

  Her blissful sigh matched the blissful sensations inundating her brain and body and glowing nerve endings. In fact, she felt so good, she didn’t know whether she wanted to move or not. Maybe she’d try a stationary orgasm.

  But then he moved in a restrained yet forceful way.

  She immediately felt even better.

  Then he opened his eyes fully and grinned. “Want some help?”

  “I want anything you have,” she purred, when she rarely purred, when she hardly ever had reason to purr. Until Bobby Serre had entered her life.

  He proceeded to give her everything he had in the most delightful way—several times and several different ways—until the ship’s wheel clock ruined everything by ringing the hour. He looked up, blew out a breath, and murmured, “Time out, babe. Duty calls.”

  “But what about me?” she almost wailed, not even caring he might think her the most selfish of women.

  “You’ve got my IOU. I’m good for it. It won’t take long,” he gently said.

  “Do I have to go?”

  He gave her a look even she couldn’t misinterpret. “I’d say I’ve been holding up my end of the bargain. It’s your turn. Now get your clothes on or I’ll carry you out of here naked.”