by Jody Gehrman
Man, I’m a sucker for a touch of scruff.
I pray my knees won’t give out as I cross the room. Though there are plenty of other guests in the lobby, it doesn’t even occur to me to look around.
His eyes drink me in, his dark, thick brows arching slightly, and suddenly I feel like the sexiest woman alive. He watches my every move from across the room, a slightly dazed smile playing on his lips. I find myself walking with an extra swing in my hips; my steps slow to a languid, sinuous pace, and I’m surprised at my own audacity. My body, a source of embarrassment for so long, suddenly feels like a powerful weapon, something capable of bringing grown men to their knees.
As I approach, one hand reaches up quickly to smooth his hair. The gesture’s somehow boyish, especially in combination with his slightly puzzled expression, and I feel a stab of tenderness. The emotion’s so strong and unexpected it takes my breath away.
“Hello.” He grins down at me. “You must be Wanda’s friend.”
“Hi. Yes.” I lick my lips. My mouth suddenly goes dry. “She, um, didn’t tell me your name. What should I call you?”
A delicious smile spreads across his face, slow as melting butter. “I guess we need code names, don’t we?” He has a very slight Irish accent, just a subtle musical lilt. His dark eyes sparkle with amusement.
“Right. I suppose we do.” I feel a blush creeping up my neck, but try to ignore it. If I think about it, it will only get worse, and soon I’ll be an attractive stewed-tomato color.
He thinks about it, tapping two fingers to his bottom lip. Inspiration strikes and his face lights up with a look of delight. “How about Lancer?”
I snort with laughter. Very attractive. Okay, here comes the blush for real. My cheeks feel like they’ll burst into flame. “Why Lancer?”
“That was JFK’s secret service codename, I’ll have you know.” He sounds indignant, but I can tell by the laughter in his eyes he’s only playing.
“Really?”
“I swear.”
“Okay then, Lancer. I’m Bettie. Nice to meet you.”
With one hand he takes my fingers and draws them to his lips. Most guys would make this look cheesy as hell, but somehow he pulls it off. His brown eyes move avidly over my face, flashing with humor and intelligence. The feel of his soft lips against my fingers sends a pulse of heat right through me.
“You hungry?” He imbues the question with just the slightest hint of obscenity.
My whole body buzzes with nerves. The very thought of food makes me cringe. “Not really.”
“Me either.” His sheepish grin turns it into a confession. “I’ve heard there’s a great little bar up the street, though. You fancy a drink?”
I can’t help my stupid delight at his use of the word fancy. So endearing! A giggle escapes before I can tamp it down.
“What’s so funny? Have I said something naff?”
“No! I just like your accent. And your phrasing.”
“Oh, right.” He chuckles. “I moved here twentysomething years ago, but I’ve never quite lost it.”
“It’s charming.”
There’s a weird little moment as we stand there, neither of us moving. It’s like we just have to drink each other in, feel the electricity crackling between us like a living thing. He smells clean and at the same time earthy—soap and sweat blending into a musky, heady blend.
“A drink sounds perfect,” I say at last, swaying slightly under the spell of his dark eyes.
He loops his arm through mine and leads me toward the door.
* * *
It’s a little tricky, when you’re on an anonymous fantasy date, figuring out the etiquette. Do you get to know each other, asking questions and making small talk? If so, do you invent fake lives to go with your fake names, or do you answer honestly? And if you’re not going to ask questions, how do you hold a conversation? Should you just go straight to bed, since that’s obviously what you’re both after?
My confusion must show, because the second we’ve ordered and are settled into a plush, candlelit booth at the bar “Lancer” has chosen, he addresses the issue head-on.
“You look as poleaxed as I feel,” he says. “You wondering what we’ll talk about?”
I laugh with relief. “Yes! I mean, do we pretend to be someone else? Is that how this works?”
“Oh, Wanda! Where are you when we need you?” He addresses the ceiling, as if appealing to a capricious god.
“She’s insane. Her schemes are consistently half-baked.”
“You know her pretty well then?”
I decide to go with the truth, at least for now. I don’t have the imagination to invent Bettie’s life history on the fly. “Yeah. We’re best friends.”
“She’s quite a girl.”
“I’m curious. How exactly did she talk you into this?” I ask.
He leans back in his chair, running his hand over his jaw. “I suspect she has a preternatural talent for digging up dirt. She should be a private eye.”
“What do you mean?” I fully agree, but I want to hear his take on Wanda’s maneuvers.
“I met her at a party, and within five minutes she had me confessing my most private fantasies. I realize you don’t know me, so that’s not as shocking as it would be otherwise.”
“You’re not normally so forthcoming?”
The waiter arrives with our drinks, but we barely notice. Our eyes remain locked on one another. I already feel drunk.
“Not at all!” He laughs. “Believe it or not, I’m very private. In fact, that’s why her suggestion appealed to me.”
“You mean living out your fantasy?” I lean over slightly, aware of my body in a way that’s entirely new to me. No doubt I’m giving him an excellent view down the front of my dress. I can’t believe I’m being so bold, but something about the night, the bluesy piano tinkling in the background, the private booth, the candlelight, has me feeling decidedly not myself.
His gaze travels over my cleavage, and his voice goes hoarse. “Yes. Living out my fantasy.”
I love his mouth. His lips are full, sensual, without being the slightest bit girly. I recall the feel of them against my knuckles, their warmth. And his eyebrows! They’re hands down the most expressive eyebrows in the history of facial hair. It’s as if they have their own language, moving infinitesimally to express bashfulness, then insolence, then vulnerability, a kaleidoscope of emotions.
I clear my throat and try to focus. “Is it too personal to ask why you’re usually so guarded?”
“Not at all. Ask me anything you like.” He considers a moment before addressing my question. His expression darkens, and I get the feeling he’s reliving an ugly memory. “Unfortunately, there are predators out there who will eat you alive if you give them a chance. It’s made me a little gun-shy.”
“You got burned by a femme fatale?” I suggest, my tone light.
“Something like that.” He sips his Scotch. “What’s your excuse? How did she rope you into this crazy venture?”
I bite my lip, afraid my answer might sound pathetic if I’m not careful. He must see something in my face, because he hurries to add, “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No! Um, let’s see...” I stir my martini, watching the skewered olives swirl in lazy circles through the clear, cold gin. “I guess I’ve been feeling pretty stuck, professionally and romantically. Wanda convinced me a night away from my normal boring self might do me good.”
“Come on, Bettie.” His voice dips low. “I find it hard to believe you could ever be boring.”
As I meet his eyes, I feel a pleasant rush of confidence. His expression is so sincere. Images of the things I’d like to do to him flash through my mind like grainy black-and-white film reels. Under normal circumstances, I’d never be this flirtatious
on a first date. Somehow, though, knowing it’s not only our first date but our only date, time has become too precious to waste. Wicked, wicked Wanda! Maybe she’s really onto something here.
“It’s funny,” I say softly. “I already kind of feel like I know you. Do you suppose that’s because we have permission to be ourselves? I mean, not our normal selves, but our secret selves? God, that’s confusing...”
“You have a secret self?”
“Yes.” It comes out barely more than a whisper.
He reaches across the small table and runs his finger very gently along the inside of my wrist. Every nerve in my body feels raw and exposed. Heat spreads through my belly and pools between my legs, a hot, pulsing ache.
“Tell me about her,” he purrs in a low, coaxing tone.
“Maybe I’ll show you later.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t smile. “I’d like that.”
His finger moves from my wrist to my palm, and though only our hands touch, it’s intoxicating.
“I’m going to ask you something else,” I warn him. “Something kind of personal.”
He leans back, his hand leaving mine. The second we break contact I ache for his touch. “Do your worst.”
“Wanda told me your fantasy involves a 1950s pinup girl. Why?”
“Why?” he echoes, a little mystified.
“Why that and not a thousand other things—a geisha or a French maid or, I don’t know, Cyndi Lauper?”
He throws back his head and laughs like a little kid. “Cyndi Lauper?”
“It’s a valid question.”
“Why you? Is that what you’re asking?”
“Okay.” I raise my chin in a challenge. “Why me?”
He hesitates; his smile fades, and his eyes go distant, remembering. “When I was very young, twelve or thirteen, I found a stack of magazines in my grandfather’s attic.”
“Go on,” I prompt, my curiosity piqued.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this!” He looks embarrassed. “Do you and Wanda have some sort of spell you work?”
“Black magic. Keep talking.” I kick his foot under the table. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“It was a collection of girly mags from 1958. Very innocent by today’s standards, but man, did they make an impression. High-waisted bathing suits and baby-doll nighties...those, you know, curls...” He gestures at his forehead.
“Victory rolls?” I suggest.
“Is that what you call them? I guess. Red lipstick and pearls, coy little kittenish smiles.” He squints at the ceiling with a wistful half smile. “Maybe it was just the timing, you know? Caught me at a tender age. Whatever the reason, that look, the Vargas girl thing? That’s always been my ideal woman.”
“I’m glad,” I whisper.
He stares at me with a question in his eyes. Whatever he’s asking, he must find the answer in my face, because he tosses back the rest of his Scotch decisively. “What do you say we get out of here?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” My pulse quickens as I down the last of my martini and get to my feet.
Chapter Eight
In His Lair
Lancer’s booked a seriously badass penthouse suite. The place is incredible. It takes up the entire top floor of the hotel, and I can’t help letting out a low whistle at the view. From here you can see the whole city. I stand there, my fingers pressed lightly against the cool glass, taking it all in. I love seeing San Francisco from new angles. There are rooftop gardens lit by tiny lanterns; the Transamerica Pyramid standing tall and proud, its triangular peak wreathed in fog; the ferry building crouching low, its clock tower glowing; the Bay Bridge arches across the dark water, sparkling with headlights.
“Nice digs.” I try not to sound as awed as I feel. Extravagant wealth may not impress me as much as it does some girls, but I’m not completely immune to its power. Then again, for all I know, Lancer is a janitor who saved all year to blow his money on this place.
He ambles across the room to a recessed liquor cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure.” Somehow, sitting in that bar, following him to his room seemed perfectly natural. Now that I’m here, though, my old timid self makes an appearance, her voice shrill with panic. You don’t know this guy! You don’t even know his real name. You could end up a smear of blood and guts across the cushy white carpet!
I see his reflection in the window, coming up behind me. Yet still, when he puts his hand on my shoulder, I flinch.
“You okay?” His eyebrows pull together with concern. Those eyebrows! They’ll be the death of me.
I choke out a small, unnatural sounding, “Fine, thanks.”
He hands me a martini. I take a sip; the gin is cold, the vermouth subtle, and he’s added just enough olive juice. For a second we stare at one another, tension buzzing between us like static electricity. I turn back to face the view, feeling a little breathless, and take another pull from my drink. For a second I’m acutely aware that the floor-to-ceiling glass is the only thing between me and the twenty-story drop below.
“It’s a great town,” he says. “You’re lucky to live here.”
I consider asking him where he’s from, but think better of it. That’s the stuff of blind dates—what did Wanda call it? “An audition for domestic life.” Earlier, talking about his grandfather’s girlie mags, I’d felt a real connection with him, an intimate view into his boyhood self, his private memories. Yet now I won’t even ask him the most basic question, the first thing you share with a stranger on an airplane. It’s as though we’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole, where secrets can be shared, but mundane small talk is taboo.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” he says gently.
I cast a sideways glance at him. “Anything like what?”
“I never let people fix me up. It’s always a disaster. Though, of course, this isn’t your usual...” He trails off.
“Your usual blind date?”
“Right.”
Silence.
“I’ve never done this either,” I murmur, still looking out the window. I could swear his body’s giving off heat. I can feel him radiating warmth from my right, contrasting sharply with the window’s chill. My nipples grow taut, pushing against the fabric of my dress.
“What do you think so far?” His voice is husky, a challenge, but at the same time a little vulnerable, as if he’s afraid of what I’ll say.
I turn to him, closing the distance between us a little more with a tiny step in his direction. My heart’s racing, and I sway slightly, the gin, my empty stomach and my new high heels teaming up to make me unsteady.
“So far, so good,” I purr, surprised at how Lauren Bacall I sound.
His hand reaches for my waist, but I stop him. A look of hurt skitters across his features.
I give him a slow reassuring smile. “This fantasy pinup girl of your boyhood...what does she do exactly?”
He swallows, his gaze moving from my eyes down to the deep V between my breasts. “What does she do?”
“Yes. How does she begin?”
He peeks at me from under his lashes like a naughty boy. “She undresses. Slowly.”
“While you watch?” I suggest.
“Yes. While I watch.”
“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. President?” I have no idea where this shit’s coming from, but I like it. The freaked-out voice screaming inside my head just moments ago has fallen abruptly silent.
He sits on the couch, his Scotch cradled between his knees. Slowly, I let the mink stole slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor. His brows arch in appreciation as I run my hands down the length of my body. He clears his throat and sips his drink as my fingers slide over my breasts, my waist, spread out along the span of my h
ips. I caress my thighs like a lover.
“That’s quite a dress,” he breathes.
“Thank you. It belonged to my grandmother, a notorious nightclub singer.”
His gaze takes in every inch of my body. “I love the way it fits.”
“Do you? Should I keep it on?”
“No!” he says, adding quickly, “Not on my account.”
I slip the straps down over my shoulders, exposing a little more cleavage. “I want everything to be just the way you imagined.”
“It is. You are. Better, in fact.” There’s a slight hitch to his voice, a glassy hunger in his eyes. He puts his drink down.
I can’t believe how powerful I feel, watching his gaze roam across my skin. Sometimes, at work, I catch Dylan or Luke shooting furtive glances at my chest, but with them it always feels dirty, invasive. Now, inviting the attention, willfully courting it, I feel a visceral excitement, a fizzy tonic bubbling through my veins. This man wants me. He has to have me. The simple truth of it goes straight to my head, just like the dirty martini. I can sense the effort it takes for him to stay seated, the internal struggle between the gentleman’s polite restraint and the animal’s urge to lunge. It’s delicious, watching him strain against his own desire. For the moment, I’m completely in charge. I decide when he can touch me and in what way. There’s a power in that, an exhilarating rush.
Slowly, a teasing smile on my lips, I turn my back to him and unzip my dress. I take my time easing the zipper down. Finally my dress hangs open, exposing my back. I stare out the window, wondering what people can see from the street, from other windows. There could be men all over the city watching my naughty performance. I hesitate, letting my dress dangle a moment, still clinging to my curves.
