Enchanted Heart

by Felicia Mason

  As Lance pulled Viv’s left shoe from under the bedsheets and held it out to her he wondered if jewelry or flowers would appease the woman with whom he was supposed to have had dinner at Cloud 9. Better send both, he thought, making a mental note to call his jeweler in the morning. And he’d call Rochelle just as soon as he got home—if he got home tonight. Lance was known for a lot of things with the ladies. Standing them up wasn’t one of them.

  Warily, Vivienne accepted her shoe. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t know what to make of first her tears and now the shy routine. She’d come on strong, hot and heavy that afternoon. Then at Cloud 9, she’d practically dragged him from the restaurant and to this hotel.

  Split personality?

  He didn’t think so. But she sure knew how to work a man in bed. Her lush body and full dark breasts made him hungry for more. Her hair had come undone and now tumbled to her shoulders in a wild mass of loose curls. Her legs went on forever, but it was those breasts that made him salivate. After their rushed but intense coupling, Lance was looking forward to a leisurely exploration of her body, one that would be to their mutual satisfaction. But in the time it had taken him to get his thoughts together . . . and for his body to recuperate and grow hard for her again, Viv was all but fully dressed.

  “Vivienne.”

  She didn’t meet his gaze. She propped one leg on the chair while she tied the ribbons of her ankle straps.

  Lance’s breath caught. He’d never met a woman so comfortable in her skin, so innately sensual that even the simple task of putting on shoes aroused him.

  “Come here.”

  He pushed the sheet off his bare thighs and swung his legs over the edge of the bed to stand tall, unabashedly naked and again ready for her. He held out his hand.

  Viv glanced up and her breath caught as she took in his reflection in the mirror. He was a bronzed warrior come to life. She’d fallen in bed so fast that she hadn’t taken a good look at him. But now everything stood out before her. Literally.

  A strangled cry escaped her and before Lance could react, she snatched up her little handbag and was at the door.

  “Viv. Wait a minute. Jesus, what’d I do?”

  She turned and looked him over.

  For Lance, time seemed to slow down or maybe even stand still in that moment when she assessed him, her eyes not missing a detail. He saw reflected in her gaze despair and loathing and something else that he’d never seen before.

  Everything that had happened here had been consensual. He’d never forced a woman and didn’t like the unspoken threat he sensed and saw in her eyes. She’d hardly been a virgin. And so he stood there waiting, vulnerable.

  The scene was her call.

  “This shouldn’t have happened,” she finally said.

  And then she was gone.

  Lance stood there stunned.

  Shouldn’t have happened? They’d just had some of the best sex he’d ever had. It took him a minute to absorb her words. What game was she playing? A moment later, he ran after her.

  “Vivienne!”

  But the timing gods weren’t with him. The elevator doors swooshed closed and Vivienne disappeared.

  Lance had been with a lot of women, but no one had ever run from him or his bed. If anything, he’d been the one doing the escaping. And now, the proverbial shoe was on the other foot. He didn’t like the fit one bit.

  A woman screamed. Lance whirled around spotting a middle-aged white woman. He scanned the hall looking for an intruder or attacker. But they were the only people there. Eyes wide and mouth trembling, she pointed at him, her other hand now clasped at her throat.

  That’s when Lance remembered. He stood buck naked in the middle of the seventh-floor hallway at the downtown Marriott.

  He swore. But he didn’t run or try to shield himself.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  As the woman cowered against a wall fumbling with her door key, Lance walked back to the room he and Viv had shared and faced a very closed and very locked hotel room door.

  Now he really had something to cuss about.

  4

  Viv didn’t stop running until she reached the parking lot where she’d left her car. It was almost midnight. All she wanted to do was get home and in a hot shower. If she stayed under the stinging water long enough she’d be able to wash away the humiliation she felt. Maybe. But she doubted it. It hadn’t worked before. Tonight held little probability of being any different.

  What was the sense in trying to change, in trying to be a better person, if she fell into bed with the first man who came along? Lance was merely the latest in a long string of characters playing the role of Mr. Feel Good Right Now—playthings who for a few moments enabled her to believe she’d always be beautiful and wanted.

  The challenge from Vicki was one she obviously wasn’t up to. She’d failed miserably at this. Again.

  Why couldn’t she just admit defeat, settle the bet with Vicki and get on with her life?

  To make the situation even worse, she’d just up and walked out on Julian, without a backward glance, without even a wave. He deserved better than that.

  And you deserve more than being a whore.

  The sharp words came at her like they did so often. She’d prostituted herself enough over the years. While she didn’t take money for sex, she took and gave sex for the promise of something just as intoxicating, just as potent. And where was the difference? She’d slept with Lance because he was there, because he was good-looking, because he, at least for a moment, could ease the ache inside her. And maybe—and this was the part she well and truly hated about herself—most of all, she’d slept with him because she knew he’d be more inclined to give her what she wanted for Guilty Pleasures if he got what he wanted.

  Quid pro quo, right?

  On a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes, leaning back on the headrest of the leather seat. It wasn’t difficult to figure out a man like Lance. She’d dealt with his kind often over the years. So she knew which buttons to push, which steps to take to get to her ultimate goal. And wasn’t that what whores did? They whispered the promises and lies men wanted to hear. Students of human nature, true courtesans knew how to give as little of themselves as possible, while gaining the most in return. Viv had never given her heart or anything remotely close to sincere affection or consideration. She’d never given herself because no man had ever been worthy—a few didn’t even merit the gift of her temporary favor.

  A pragmatist would say she did nothing different than what men did every day. Wasn’t it all just a power game? Even if she played like one, Viv wasn’t a man.

  Viv wiped at her eyes and jammed the key in the ignition. She didn’t want to think about this anymore. As a matter of fact, she didn’t want to think about anything anymore.

  Dakota would open the store in the morning. That was a good thing since Viv figured images of Lance might linger there for a while, intruding on her work. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough. Right now she needed something to get her mind off how low she’d allowed herself to fall. She knew just the thing, too. The solution had always been there waiting for her to acknowledge it.

  Her thoughts gelled as she drove along the interstate and then took the exit that would lead not to the house she shared with Vicki, but to the waterfront one Julian leased in the Sandbridge section of Virginia Beach. Julian knew how to make her feel better. And she knew just how to apologize for abandoning him at the restaurant.

  “Mr. Heart, we have standards here. Our guests expect . . .”

  “I know,” Lance said. “And again, I apologize.” He gave his best “these things happen” smile, and wished that the general manager had been female. Things would be going a lot better for him if F. Milhouse had turned out to be a Felicia, a Fran or a Fay.

  Instead, he sat across from a not very amused Floyd Milhouse, the hotel’s general manager. The office, decorated in contemporary corporate, was a pleasant enough place, just large enough to avoid
a latent sense of claustrophobia. Based on the floor layout, Lance figured a second door near a tall filing cabinet led to either a conference room or the front desk. A few tidy green plants at the window gave the place a touch of personality, and a photograph, the front of which Lance couldn’t see, faced the man. A brass nameplate announced to any and all who sat before him that F. Milhouse was, indeed, the general manager of the Norfolk Waterside Marriott. In his late-forties, hair thinning in front, F. Milhouse looked as if he took his job very, very seriously. The thick handlebar moustache he sported apparently compensated for the deficiency at the top.

  Lance, again immaculately dressed in the gray three-button Yves Saint Laurent suit he’d checked into the hotel wearing, sat before him with one leg propped on a knee, arms loose, trying his best to look like a harried CEO who had to deal with a little bit of unfortunate business before again turning his attention to corporate mergers and hostile takeovers.

  “Mrs. Tanner is very upset,” F. Milhouse said. “Encountering a nude man in the hallway is not good for her heart. And she assures me she has a heart condition.”

  “I assure you,” Lance said with a confidence that exuded sincerity, “I was as stunned as she. Nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

  F. Milhouse sent an inscrutable look Lance’s way before consulting a folder on his desk. Then, his gaze slowly lifted and met Lance’s head-on. “I do believe there was an incident in the pool two years ago.”

  Shit. Had that been here?

  Lance smiled, self-effacing. He admitted nothing. Unfolding his legs and leaning forward, he presented his most winning comrade-in-arms let’s-just-keep-this-between-us-boys expression. If he’d carried cigars, he’d have offered one to Milhouse. “What can I do to rectify this situation?”

  If nothing else, Lance had learned that money had a way of smoothing out a lot of life’s speed bumps and other snags. He wondered how much he’d have to pony up to make this situation disappear.

  F. Milhouse stared at him, remaining silent for so long that Lance thought he’d made a tactical error with the subtle attempt at a bribe. How had that pool thing been resolved? He couldn’t remember. But he did recollect Ginger, a phenomenal woman with big hips and an incredible mouth. Or had that been Jennifer? No, definitely Ginger, he decided. She’d been through many husbands but . . .

  A ghost of a smile appeared at Lance’s mouth as he recalled that earlier enchantment. Maybe he’d look her up if things didn’t work out with Viv. Then he remembered his current predicament. He cleared his throat.

  After another long moment, the manager sighed. “Customer satisfaction is my only concern, Mr. Heart.”

  Lance wasn’t a satisfied customer. Vivienne la Fontaine had darted from his room in tears. But he didn’t think F. Milhouse had that sort of customer satisfaction in mind.

  “Tell you what,” Lance said. “I’ll pay for Mrs. Tanner’s stay and send her some flowers and a note that you can deliver.”

  The hotel manager stroked his moustache, considering the offer.

  Absently, Lance wondered if his grandmother would end up hearing about this latest disgrace. She lived in Hampton, on the other side of Hampton Roads, a tunnel and a bridge away, and was probably closer to seventy than sixty, yet she still seemed to have her finger on the pulse of everything Heart related, his infractions in particular. It had taken F. Milhouse all of about twenty seconds to make the connection with Lance’s name. He’d checked in as Lance Smith, but the American Express card he’d used had his full name, a name that didn’t go unnoticed in certain circles.

  And there was that file on the desk.

  F. Milhouse had called him Mr. Heart, indicating quite succinctly that he knew exactly who Lance was. Lance was used to it though. Few people who knew his family called him by his true last name, Smith. Even his secretary at Heart Federated had called him Mr. Heart.

  “I think a personal apology would be in order,” the manager said before ringing for an assistant. “Maybe we can all make the most of this.”

  A few minutes later, a still shaken Mrs. Tanner was escorted into the general manager’s office.

  Her hair, done in tight pin curls at the temples, matched the blue-and-gray polyester pantsuit she wore. With a white patent leather purse clutched on one arm she looked like Queen Elizabeth’s body double headed to Atlantic City for a weekend at the nickel slots.

  She spied Lance standing against the file cabinet, clutched her throat and muttered an indignant, “Well, I never.”

  Milhouse offered her a seat and a cup of coffee. She refused both, never taking her eyes off Lance.

  “My sister, Thelma, told me the city was full of perverts and crazy people. I didn’t believe her. Now I see for myself.”

  Lance bit back a groan and turned on the charm.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was patting his arm, offering grandmotherly advice. “Now, don’t you worry, son. I’m sure you’ll be able to patch things up with your lady friend.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I sure hope so.”

  She wagged a liver-spotted finger at him. “Just don’t forget your pants next time.”

  “I won’t,” Lance told her with an easy smile. “I promise.”

  He reached for her hand and bestowed a courtly kiss on it. Mrs. Tanner giggled like a woman forty years younger.

  “Bye now,” she said with a finger-waggle wave at him.

  After she left, Floyd Milhouse looked at Lance and shook his head in bemusement. “I don’t know how the hell you just pulled that off. An hour ago she was screaming the roof down.”

  “It’s a gift.” Lance winked and shook Milhouse’s hand. “Now that everything’s resolved, I’d appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

  The hotel manager eyed him with equal parts amusement and consternation. When he finally nodded, Lance made for the door.

  “Mr. Heart.”

  Lance turned around, brows lifted in question. “The next time you and your ‘lady friends’ decide to engage in either recreation or confrontation . . .”

  Lance waited.

  “Do it around the corner at the Sheraton.”

  As Viv pulled into the space in front of the first-floor garage her cell phone rang. Her gaze darted to the dashboard clock: 12:47 A.M.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t even bother coming in.”

  Viv closed her eyes. This was going to require some diplomacy. He was a man and she’d stomped on his male ego in a pretty extreme way tonight. “I’m sorry, Julian. I was very upset. The glass . . .”

  “Was that the man you said you met? He looked familiar.”

  Viv glanced up at the third floor of the beach house on Sand Piper Road. She could hear the surf pounding just beyond the landscaped front yard. The oceanside community was filled with million-dollar homes that frequently teetered on the brink of destruction with every nor’easter or hurricane that blew through. Julian had been renting this place for close to a year while the owners took an around-the-world cruise. The lights on this side of the house were out so she couldn’t see him, but she knew he was up there somewhere staring out at her, hurt and fuming. She, however, knew how to make him feel better. Much better.

  “I left because I needed to talk with him about Guilty Pleasures. There are some things in the works. That’s what I mentioned earlier when I told you I had some news.”

  “You could have called, Vivienne. I was worried about you.”

  She gave a little pout, one she knew he couldn’t see but would come across the phone line. “I didn’t mean to do that, Jule. Forgive me?”

  She knew he was loosening up. Had he not been reconsidering he would have told her to take a hike. “Julian.” She put into her voice the purr he’d never been able to resist.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Julian?” Her eyes widened and she looked at her phone. Had he hung up on her?

  Just then, the garage door began to lever up. Viv smiled.

  Giving not one thou
ght to her resolution to change or her earlier upset, she pulled her car into the spot next to his little red BMW.

  “What you said hurt me,” Coleman Heart III told his wife.

  Sonja wasn’t in the mood to be charitable or to pull any punches. “It was meant to.”

  Cole bowed his head for a moment, then he turned to face her. Sonja folded her arms across the cotton top she wore.

  “Do you remember the day of the vote?”

  Sonja nodded. There was just one day of voting that mattered to Cole, and it wasn’t an election to choose political representation in Richmond or in Washington, DC.

  “I was so nervous that day.”

  “It didn’t show.”

  The edge of his mouth quirked up. “My secretary had a cup full of antacid at the ready. It’s what I was drinking while everyone else worked on cappuccino and espresso.”

  “What’s the point of this conversation, Cole? You’re not in charge of Heart Federated anymore. There is no Heart Federated.”

  The smile vanished. “That day, my future was on the line. Everything I’d ever hoped for or dreamed for hinged on the capricious whims of people who didn’t share my values or convictions. When I walked into that meeting I didn’t know how it would all turn out. I just knew it was going to be a mess.”

  Sonja bit back a sigh. How many times did they have to tread this particular path? Tired and sporting a headache, she didn’t feel like hearing all of this again.

  He settled on the bed, sitting on top of the burnt sienna comforter, another recommendation of the designer who’d helped them create a peaceful haven in the bedroom. All of the elements were supposed to work together forming a tranquil retreat for two people who didn’t know how to relax.

  “But I also knew,” Cole went on, “that it had the potential to be either the best day of my life. Or the worst.”

  They both knew it had turned out to be the worst. “And what does that have to do with now?”

  “Don’t you see,” Cole said, trying to make her understand. “This is the same thing except on an even larger scale. The same things are at stake in what I do in Salvador da Bahia. The difference is a global stage.”