“It cannot be disputed that the black family is in crisis,” Valen argued. The others in the room were struck by the escalating debate between the two and sat back quietly, watching the drama unfold.
“Mr. Bellamy, the entire American family is in crisis. And as you pander to the black vote by simply drawing more attention to our problems but with no plan of action or budget to help solve them, I find it difficult to see you as anything more than an opportunist. Without action and money behind it, ‘Respect Yourself, Be Respected’ will prove to be just as ineffective as that last Republican-backed slogan-only campaign, ‘Just Say No.’”
There’s that damn smirk again. He thinks I’m funny?
“It may not be perfect, Ms. Jamison, but it is a start at taking back the demeaning images and destructive lifestyle choices disguised as art. Because until we start respecting ourselves, we will never be respected as a people and never be given the opportunities and credit we deserve for being contributing world citizens.”
“That’s something for all Americans to be concerned about. When is the GOP going to stop trashing America’s image and its people so we can be respected by the rest of the world again, and not because we demanded it by pointing a gun in someone’s face, but because we earned it by doing the world good?” Pia countered angrily.
“That is an entirely different discussion, Ms. Jamison. One I will gladly debate at another time. But as we are here to discuss specifically images in the media, I’d respectfully ask you stay on topic.”
“It is clear, Mr. Bellamy, that you are here not to listen to our opinions but to merely give us yours. So, if you will excuse me, I must get back to work. Know that our discussion today has given me cause to think about how I can better do my part on this issue. So perhaps this afternoon was not a total waste of my time.”
Pia gathered her things and quickly exited the room. Damn. It was truly disappointing to meet such an attractive and intelligent man and watch him turn into a total asshole because of his political views. If Valen Bellamy was the personified cliché of sex and politics making strange bedfellows, thank goodness she was back to being celibate.
Chapter Eighteen
Just to be sure, Becca took another long glance in the mirror. She barely recognized herself. If not for the familiar though astonished green eyes staring back at her, she’d swear she was looking at a stranger—a very hot stranger.
Gone were the frizzy curls that more often looked like a hair-don’t than a hairdo. In its place were bone-straight locks cascading down her back, framing a more polished and dramatic face. All thanks to the wonder of the modern beauty industry—a transforming combo of relaxer and a ceramic flat iron; waxed and reshaped brows; and two hours spent at the Mac cosmetic counter, learning how to apply makeup like a pro.
Also abolished for the evening were her usual work clothes. Instead of the efficient receptionist uniform Rebecca donned each day—slacks and a top—Becca had her party clothes on. The outfit she’d chosen for her official WMS launch was a figure-skimming dress with a seductive twist shoulder and plunging neckline that attractively showcased her breasts and trademark starfish necklace, and a flirty, leg-enhancing asymmetrical flared skirt. It cost more than she could afford, but it was well worth the investment. Its color, that of Caribbean blue water, set off her natural golden tan, showcasing her exotic looks and burgeoning “sexual charisma.” Gone too were the matronly pumps, replaced by the Pia Jamison–sanctioned strappy high heels.
This new look had been a work in progress since Becca’s return from San Francisco. She’d come back to Chicago buoyed by her success at the dash-dating event and ready to put her new flirting skills to the test. Her first weekend home, she and her best friend, Cris Yang, had hit Crème de la Crème, the favorite see-and-be-seen spot of the young employees at the Bonaire Advertising Agency. She’d dressed in the same jeans and tight sweater ensemble she’d worn to Suede, but as usual, it was the Julie type hottie magnets who had commanded the place and the attention.
After that less-than-successful evening, Becca had decided to temporarily withdraw from the social scene. Largely fueling this decision was the need to recuperate financially. The workshop in San Francisco had drained her bank account, and she didn’t have the monetary resources to fund a proper social life. Not when drinks were upwards of ten dollars a pop and her initial foray into Crème had proven her wardrobe to be way less than effective. Now, several months later, and after working all the overtime hours she could manage, the monetary sinkhole she’d created by going out west had been reduced to a more manageable pothole. And after hours poring over fashion magazines, and with the help of Cris and his talented friends, Rebecca’s transformation was complete and Becca was ready to roll.
“Rebecca, let’s go,” Cris prompted through the ladies’ room door. “Happy hour doesn’t last forever.”
“I told you, it’s Becca,” she corrected Cris as she stepped past him.
“My bad. Give the girl a little fresh air and it’s good-bye cornfields,” he teased.
“Not every Iowan grows corn, you idiot.”
“Touchy, touchy. Come on. If you’re finally going to unleash all that explosive weaponry across the Windy City, we’d better get a move on.”
Twenty minutes later they arrived at Crème de la Crème at the peak of Friday’s happy hour. As was the plan, both went their separate ways. Becca walked into the sea of big-city sophistication and for the first time ever, felt like she belonged. Her new look was attracting a lot of coveted attention—from men and women alike—and she felt her confidence level rising through the roof.
Smile, eyes, laugh, listen, she reminded herself, planting a slight smile on her face as she began her slow trek around the room on her way to the bar. The trail of eyes following her moving tail felt incredible, and for the first time in her life, Becca Vossel felt sexy, seductive, and powerful.
“You look like a girl who would like silk panties,” a male voice suggested. Becca turned to find a young Sean Penn look-alike smiling coyly in her face.
Okay, that’s real subtle, she thought, though she was oddly flattered. Preppy in a surfer dude kind of way, he wasn’t really her type, but he was cute enough for Becca to practice on, to work the kinks out of her flirt game until something more interesting came along.
“Whoa. That’s kinda personal, especially since I don’t even know your name,” Becca said, giving him Joey Clements’s suggested three-second glance and closed-lip smirk.
“Gil,” he said. “I didn’t realize cocktail preferences were so personal—silk panties is a drink. Wait, you didn’t think I would actually use such a cheesy pick-up line, did you?” he asked, his voice perfectly pitched between irony and sincerity.
Becca’s response was delayed by a laugh and an exaggerated shoulder shrug. “I’m Becca.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl. So what can I get you to drink, Becca?”
“I’ll have a ginger ale.”
“Ginger ale is for kids, not sexy women. Come on, let me buy you a real drink,” Gil pressed, winking at her.
“Okay,” Becca relented, not wanting him to think she was neither grown nor sexy.
“Jimmy, a pair of silk panties.”
Gil continued to stand beside her stool while they waited for their drinks. Becca could smell his woodsy cologne as she studied his one hand extended across the counter. He tapped his index finger, adorned with a thick sterling silver band, to the beat of the piped-in music.
“Whoa. I like your ring,” Becca said. “What is that design?”
“Flames. Here, take a look,” he said, putting his finger in his mouth and slowly removing the ring as he looked into her eyes. It was a move as seductive as it was sleazy, and Becca marveled at his audacity.
“Nice.” Becca was saved from making any further comments by the arrival of their cocktails. She was careful to sip her drink, but as had happened at Suede, within fifteen minutes the sweet drink of pure alcohol rushed straight to
her head, leaving Becca feeling tipsy.
“So, sexy Becky, it’s getting awfully noisy in here. I have access to the VIP lounge. Would you like to go upstairs so we can talk?” Gil asked, taking her right hand and running his left up her arm.
“Where?”
“Upstairs,” Gil cut in, taking advantage of the noise and Becca’s slightly altered state. “Now come on, sexy, let’s go upstairs and be VIPs.” Gil pulled her from the chair. “A hot girl like you shouldn’t be down here with all the regulars. You’re a superstar. You deserve special treatment.”
Gil had said the two magic words—hot and star—that bent Becca’s will and allowed her to acquiesce. The two climbed the stairs to the VIP lounge and were stopped by a velvet rope blocking entry. Gil flashed some kind of card and the bouncer pulled back the rope, giving them access to the dark and smoky private room. Scattered around the place were various conversation areas, occupied by couples and threesomes—some talking, others communicating in much more personal ways. Techno lounge music filled the space, and Becca could feel the pulse of the beat in her chest.
Gil led her over to a vacant love seat and ordered two more drinks. “Come closer so we can talk,” he insisted. Becca smiled and scooted over until their hips were touching.
“Mmm, you smell good, like vanilla and chocolate,” he said, brushing the hair off her shoulder and nuzzling her neck. “Makes me want to lick you,” he buzzed in her ear. The pleasurable sensations that ran through Becca’s body were also unsettling—as if her body shouldn’t feel like this with someone she didn’t know. “What kind of perfume is that?”
“I thought we came up to talk,” she insisted in a soft voice, and accompanying her words with a gentle push.
“We are talking. I asked you a question.”
“It’s from Jessica Simpson’s Desserts.”
“Yummy,” Gil said as he fiddled with the starfish dangling in her cleavage. His fingers made light contact with her breasts, sending more logic-blocking waves to her head.
“So, Gil, what do you like to do?” Becca asked, fighting to stay in control.
“Kiss pretty girls,” he said as he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his. Becca was initially shocked by his action, but the part of her coaxing her to pull away was being out muscled by another insisting that she enjoy the moment. Her resistance soused, Becca had no choice but to relax and soak in the experience.
Uninvited but not spurned, a drunk Gil continued to explore Becca’s mouth with a heavy tongue. His kiss was penetrating and very wet, and Becca found herself wanting to reach for a cocktail napkin. She tried to discreetly wipe the saliva from her chin with her hand as Gil began to kiss her neck and nibble her earlobe.
“You’ve got me so fucking turned on, Becky. Check it out,” he suggested as he took her hand and placed it on his crotch. Becca felt Gil’s erection through the denim and quickly removed her hand.
“I think I’d better go home now,” she told him as she tried to will herself sober.
“Oh, Becky, please, no. I am so fucking hot right now. You did this to me,” he said, cupping his hard dick. “You have to stay, please. Let’s have a little fun. You are so amazing. Please. Don’t leave now.” There was a desperation in his voice that intrigued her. As she had all evening, Becca felt two disparate emotions—annoyed because he kept getting her name wrong but assumed she wanted to touch his crotch, and powerful because she had managed to excite a man to the point of begging. The idea had her curious, and she leaned in to Gil’s body and delivered a long, passionate kiss, feeling him melt under her influence. Becca practiced kissing, experimenting with depth and intensity, judging their effectiveness by Gil’s reactions. She allowed him to fondle her breasts through the fabric of her dress, thrilled not only by the arousal rising between her legs but the power blooming there as well.
It was as if she were having an out-of-body experience. As Becca sat on the couch in a public place, making out with a man she didn’t know, Rebecca looked down, studying her technique, her body’s reactions, and her basic state of mind.
“I gotta go,” she insisted, pushing away after Gil’s hand migrated beneath her dress.
Becca had had enough practical weapons training for today. It was time to go home. She’d come tonight to test her WMS skills, but through her encounter with Gil had found a new part of herself. This part was sexy and daring. This part could make a man beg. This part of her deserved further inspection, but with a man she wanted to kiss, not with one who simply took the liberty. Someone special.
Chapter Nineteen
“Flo, hi. It’s Pia.”
“Mornin’, darlin’. What a great surprise.”
“I wanted to call and say thanks for the pictures and see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine, though goin’ crazy right now. It’s Dan’s birthday and I’m doin’ my red hot number tonight.”
“Really?” Pia replied, her surprise evident. “I thought Dan wouldn’t go for such a thing. What did you call him? A romantic Neanderthal?”
“I’m takin’ a chance for sure, but I took Joey’s advice and planned things more to his tastes, and there is nothing he finds more tasty than the Dallas Stars.”
“Are they like the Cowboy cheerleaders?”
“No, darlin’, the Stars is our pro hockey team.”
“Red hot seduction and ice cold hockey. This just gets more interesting by the minute! All right, girl, let’s break it down.”
“Like I said, Dan loves the Stars. So for his birthday I rented out an entire suite at the American Airlines Center. It’ll be just me and him and his favorite eats—or should I say, a more upscale version of them.”
“Sounds like a perfect setup for a little one-on-one pucking—pun absolutely intended.”
“Sugar, let’s hope so.”
“My, my, Ms. Flo. I thought Becca was the monster Joey created.”
“It’s like I told you in my letter: I’m gettin’ a kick out of all this sensuality stuff. Joey was right, it’s fun. It’s like every day you wake up to a scavenger hunt, just lookin’ for all the goodies the Lord and Mother Nature left for you to find. And what about you? You been spreadin’ some of that cool charisma around the Big Apple?”
“In a manner of speaking. I did meet one interesting guy—a politician, but, well, nothing there. He’s a bit of an asshole.”
“Darlin’, I thought you’d go back home hotter than a honeymoon hotel.”
“Funny you should mention ‘hot’ and ‘hotel,’” Pia hinted.
“Uh-oh.”
“I wanted to wait until I was sure, but, well, I’m almost three months pregnant.” Pia went on to tell Flo about Grand and their evening together and agreement to become parents. “At first I was a little freaked when I found out, but now I’m really happy.”
“Well, pregnancy will do that. So what does this Grand fella think?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone while Pia played with her necklace and tried to figure out how to break the news to Florence.
“He doesn’t know. And you don’t plan to tell him,” Flo answered for her.
“Correct. But it’s not like I tricked him or anything. We made an agreement that includes no contact until the first birthday, and then every birthday after, I’ll send him an update. He can opt in at any time, but right now he’s opting out, which is fine by me.”
“This newfangled kinda parenthood takes some gettin’ used to.”
“I think it worked out in the best possible way.”
“Darlin’, this is a lot to digest in one day—particularly when I’m supposed to be fillin’ my head and belly up with sensual and seductive things. How about I call you tomorrow and we’ll discuss all angles of this then. But right now, I got a load of work to do to get ready for tonight.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. But Flo, I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?” Pia asked, anxious for some positive maternal feedback, even if it was from a friend.
; “Sugar, only you can decide that. But if this is what you want, I’ll back you a hundred and fifty percent.”
“Thanks, Flo. That’s all I needed to hear. We’ll talk soon. Enjoy tonight. Don’t hurt Dan too bad.”
Flo hung up the phone feeling as through Pia had gotten herself in one big mess. But there was no time to dwell on that now. She had to focus on herself and Dan and cleaning up her own muddle of a marriage.
Happy Birthday, Sugar!
Please Join Me For a Starry Evening of
Sweets on Ice
To Celebrate 56 Years of Living, Laughing, and Loving
Friday, May 19 Location to Be Announced
“Is the blindfold really necessary, Florence?” Dan asked for the umpteenth time.
“It’s a surprise. Just go with the flow, man.”
“I look like a jackass walking around the streets wearin’ this thing.”
“Darlin’, you can’t see how you look, so how would you know? Now, I can gag you too if you’d prefer,” Flo suggested with a laugh. Even though her husband had complained since leaving the house, they were both enjoying her mysterious behavior.
“So I’m bein’ kidnapped on my birthday?” Dan asked as he unknowingly walked through the private concourse of the American Airlines Center toward their suite.
“Yep.”
“Can you at least give me a hint where you’re takin’ me?”
“Oh, absolutely I can, but I won’t,” Flo replied, continuing her playful torment. “I would suggest that if you stop complainin’ and live in the moment, you might be able to deduce a few things for yourself.”
Florence made the statement knowing it would be nearly impossible for Dan to figure things out. She’d arranged to have dinner served ninety minutes before the start of the hockey game so there would be few noises, smells, and other obvious signs pinpointing their location.
“Oh, there you go with that flower power talk again. I still don’t get who’s puttin’ all that new age stuff in your head. Always talkin’ about enjoyin’ the world through your eyes and nose.”
Weapons of Mass Seduction Page 14
